Angel With a Bullet by M. C. Grant

Author:M. C. Grant [Grant, M. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Mystery, Dixie Flynn, M.C. Grant, Grant, medium-boiled, Bay Area, San Francisco
ISBN: 9780738734156
Google: _zqei_wVsb0C
Amazon: 0738734152
Publisher: Midnight Ink
Published: 2012-09-08T04:00:00+00:00

Nineteen

Northern Station has seen better days.

A recent attack of skinhead graffiti greets me with racist slurs and obscene gestures. A painter, his white overalls splattered in a rainbow of color, works busily with a giant roller and a bucket of industrial steel-gray. He is whistling, happy for the work, and nods to me as I walk by.

The morning mist has burned away and the first prickle of perspiration salts my wounds during the short walk from bus stop to station. Once inside, I take off my coat, drape it over my arm to hide the worst parts, and approach the desk sergeant.

The weary officer ignores me as I study the front of his desk. The wood panels are splintered as though a steel-toed boot has recently smashed through. The hole is patched from the inside with cardboard from a case of Budweiser.

I flash a cheerful smile. “Rough night?”

The name on his badge reads Sgt. Robert Woods.

Woods glances at me grimly before returning his attention to the computer on top of his desk. Its pale blue glow makes him look sickly.

“I’m looking for information,” I try.

Woods grunts without looking up.

“Perhaps you can help?”

He sighs.

Woods is around fifty, maybe older, going bald from the crown down—like a monk, but without the serenity. He has a cheese sandwich look to him: plain, unassuming, and soft in the middle.

I hold out my laminated press card that, in truth, looks about as professional as anything an eight-year-old can create on his home computer.

“I need to find out about a painting that was claimed from evidence yesterday.”

“Uh-huh.” He glances up, skims the ID, tries to peek at my bosom, appears disappointed, and turns back to his computer.

My teeth grind together noisily. “Look, sergeant. Detective Sergeant Frank Fury tells me you’re an upstanding guy and that you wouldn’t mind helping me out.”

That’s a lie, but what the hell.

Woods’s eyes flicker back to me. They are small and the whites have turned a pale yellow streaked with tiny rivers of red: the sign of a nicotine junkie who washes each cigarette down with a swig from a flask.

“You know Fury?”

I nod.

“Tell him he still owes me ten bucks.”

He turns back to the computer before I can reach over the desk and strangle him.

I take a moment to compose myself, then fish into my pocket and pull out a twenty. My jaws ache as I hand it over.

It vanishes into Woods’s puffy hand with barely a crinkle. He flashes me an ugly grin.

“What do you want again?” he asks.

“Somebody picked up a painting that originally belonged to a dead man named Diego Chino. I want to know who.”

Woods punches a few keys and moves his lips silently. Finally, he says, “The chief OK’d it.”

“OK’d it for whom?”

“Doesn’t say.”

“Give me a break. You’re not going to release evidence to an unknown.”

Woods shrugs. “The chief OK’d it. Who am I to argue?”

“Can I see the chief?”

Woods laughs and white spittle sprays from the side of his mouth as though laughter is something he doesn’t have much experience with.

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