Game of Tarts by Wendy Meadows

Author:Wendy Meadows [Meadows, Wendy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Majestic Owl Publishing LLC
Published: 2020-02-23T05:00:00+00:00

11

David drives out of town. A few miles down the highway, he veers off to a tiny building with a sign out front, Peterborough County Police. He parks the cruiser by the building and we both get out.

He waves to one side. “This way.”

I don’t see anything until we walk around the building to a parking lot surrounded by a chain-link fence. A single car sits behind it. I look around again. “Is this it?”

David unlocks the gate. “Not much ever happens around here. In all the time I’ve worked for this department, I’ve never seen more than one car in the impound at a time.”

We approach the car. “What are we looking for?”

“Anything out of the ordinary. You found that print. Just take a look and see if you notice anything. I imagine Scott Freeman had a boring life.”

“His wife says he worked around the clock,” I remind him. “You wouldn’t think a man like that could get into enough trouble to get himself killed.”

“Not unless it was his business practices that got him killed,” David counters.

I nod. Of course. Scott wasn’t a Boy Scout. We know that much already.

I look at the car. It’s a gleaming black BMW X5, a regular gorilla that radiates power and domination to the world. I shield my eyes to look through the tinted window. A bunch of control buttons cover the steering wheel, and an onboard computer screen sticks out of the dashboard. I don’t understand half the stuff on the console around the gearshift.

“You can get in,” David tells me. “It’s unlocked, and we already dusted it for prints.”

“If you already went over it, what do you think you’ll find a second time?”

“You never know.” He pops the passenger door and sits down in the seat.

I don’t hardly dare touch a car like that, even if the rightful owner is dead. I drift to the back seat and open the door. I don’t want to just plop down like I own this car, though. I stick my head into the back and take a good look around.

The car looks and smells brand new. Scott kept it immaculately clean—either that, or he let nobody ride in it. I’m used to the old jalopies I used to drive when Zack was a little boy. They always had Cheerios molding under the seat and broken toys all over the floor.

This car gives me the impression Scott just drove it off the lot. Even when I bend close to the floor, I don’t see one tuft of lint on the carpet.

I peer from right to left. When I turn my head, I see under the front seat to David’s shoes resting on the passenger compartment floor. A spring and a lever extend under the seat to slide it back and forth. There’s nothing unusual about that.

Just then, I notice a piece of plastic dangling under the seat. I slide my hand into the space. When I touch it, a larger portion of plastic falls into view.

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