A Shot in the Dark (Prologue Crime) by Richard Powell

Author:Richard Powell [Powell, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781440555640
Publisher: F+W Media, Inc.
Published: 2012-08-01T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

Johnny went to the rear of the black Border Patrol sedan, unslung the whip aerial and raised it. Inside the car Tim stepped on the accelerator to power the battery, flipped down the lid of the glove compartment to reach the sending key. His fingers jerked a few times on the key. Signal 82. The Fort Myers unit was going into service. No orders came from WWMI. Tim waved a hand, Johnny telescoped the fifteen-foot sending aerial and locked it into place, climbed into the front seat and they were off for another day.

“Join the Border Patrol,” Johnny said, yawning, “and see Lee County, Florida.”

A month in Fort Myers with nothing happening was telling on him. Things had looked promising that first night, but apparently the boys in the racket had changed their minds and everybody had run for cover like fiddler crabs scuttling into holes. The new party line was to bore him to death instead of shooting him. It was working well, too.

At first Tim had been very worried by the shooting. But Tim hadn’t been able to figure why it had happened and had worked around to deciding it was an accident: a guy was doing some illegal gigging along the shore and saw a uniform and thought a conservation agent was after him and threw a couple of 30-30 bullets in his direction as a hint to lay off. Just as a precaution, though, Tim insisted that Johnny continue living in the McCarter house.

Johnny sighed. They had been together, all right. Morning, noon and night, ten days a week. The only trouble they had found was strictly homegrown; they got along together like a couple of Florida real estate salesmen working on the same prospect.

“What,” he said, “is the breath-taking program for today?”

“We’ll visit Fort Myers Beach,” Tim said. “And on the way we can drop in at Punta Rassa.”

Punta Rassa was a tiny fishing village at the mouth of the Caloosahatchee, where the ferry connected with Sanibel Island. “Don’t tell me what we’re going to do there,” Johnny said. “Let me guess. We’re going to make some more friends.”

“You don’t like making friends, do you, Edwards?”

“I need a good enemy to bring out the best in me. Bob Tate would do nicely if you’d let me at him. Why your sister wastes time on him I don’t know. She was out with him twice last week.”

“Three times,” Tim said. “Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday.”

“Thursday he just ran her into town for a book. Why do you want to count that?”

“Why do you want it not to count?”

“We’d better quit this,” Johnny said. “I’m not getting in the right mood to make a lot of friends today. Let me practice thinking nice thoughts. Let’s see now, in Punta Rassa I will make a lot of friends by talking about fishing and tourists. At Fort Myers Beach I will make more friends by talking about real estate and tourists. Maybe as a treat we can stop at Iona on the way back and talk about crops.

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