Deathscape (Broslin Creek series Book 2) by Dana Marton

Author:Dana Marton [Marton, Dana]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Dana Marton
Published: 2014-01-01T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

The Broslin flea market flourished every Sunday in an old airplane hangar that had been once part of the county airport. The utilitarian space was now divided into about a hundred “shops” that vendors rented on a permanent basis. In the middle, several rows of folding tables lined up neatly. Those could be rented by anyone just for the day.

Jack stalked around for half an hour, observing the sellers, the buyers, the gawkers, the complete lack of security, before finally heading back to the last row of stalls to the man he’d come to see. He weaved in and out of the crowd. The place was packed, the usual Sunday crowd of gleaners.

As colorful as a gypsy caravan, he thought, and wondered if Ashley Price had ever painted it. He had Ashley on his mind entirely too much lately. She was a puzzle, and he was a cop. Cops liked puzzles. And yet, deep down, he knew there was more to it. Another time, another place…if he wasn’t what he was. He forced his focus back on his surroundings.

He couldn’t imagine the place brought much money to its owners, but then again, the upkeep too looked minimal. Conveniences were slim to none, save the two single-stall bathrooms at the end. A questionable-looking hot-dog cart that stood right by the entrance provided the only place to eat.

He stopped at the stall he’d come for, neat in comparison with some of the others, offering an impressive array of unrelated goods, anything from corn medication to old TVs and even a few used kitchen sinks, right next to a dozen brand-new, in-factory-packaging, luxury, touch-activated faucets.

“Cold enough out there for you?” the old guy behind the counter, Lenny, according to the beaten-up sign behind him asked with a friendly smile. He wore a KISS ME, I’M POLISH T-shirt that had seen better days. “You know what they say, in like a lamb, out like a lion.”

Jack rifled through a selection of bootlegged DVDs.

“Looking for anything particular?”

He didn’t want to bust the guy for the handful of movies. For the moment, he needed to keep the good will between them going. “Actually”—he looked up—“I’m looking for a good shovel.”

The smile slid off the old man’s face. “No more shovels.”

“You sold them all?”

“No sell, no more shovels.” When the smile came back, it has become decidedly artificial. “I got very good socks.”

He didn’t have time for socks. Jack flashed his badge. “I’d like to know how many of those shovels you sold before you ran out.

The man gave up pretending to smile. “I talk to other police officer already.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I don’t like poor man was buried with one of my shovels. I think he wouldn’t want me sell more.”

Okay, so Mike had told the guy when he’d picked up his own shovel and questioned him. The trouble with rookies was they talked too much. They screwed up a couple of times, that was how they learned, Jack thought without heat. He’d done the same, more than once, before he’d learned better.

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