Wasp Canyon by Danielle McCrory

Author:Danielle McCrory [McCrory, Danielle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Danielle McCrory
Published: 2021-08-09T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 35

Carl Moser leaned against the hood of his car, wishing badly for a smoke even though he had quit fourteen years ago. His police cruiser was one of many parked in the large, circular driveway of 1639 North Wasp Canyon Road. There was also a fire truck, an ambulance, a coroner's van, and one goddamn news helicopter that had just materialized overhead. He expected quite a few news vehicles were already at the gated entrance to the Cuthbertson residence back on Wasp Canyon Road, but thankfully the long driveway that led from the road to the house kept them a blissful half-mile away. Can’t do anything about the damn chopper, though, he thought. I sure as hell hope they got the body covered up by now.

Moser patted the perspiration from his brow with a handkerchief he drudged up from his pocket. Hotter than Satan’s asshole out here, he thought. The summer sun beat down on his shoulders, and the humidity felt like a suffocating hug. Fucking monsoons. I moved here to get away from the damn humidity. It feels like Florida out here.

The officer that answered the call to check on the Cuthbertson woman was a rookie. Good lad, happy to be on board and eager to please. Jimmy Contrell, that’s his name. Ol’ Jimmy had answered the call that morning to check on an elderly woman that hadn’t shown for some doctor appointment. Easy gig really. Drive up to the mega mansions, ring the doorbell, make sure the old woman hadn't broken a hip. Call the paramedics if she had broken a hip. The end. Bada bing bada boom.

Instead, poor ol’ Jimmy stumbled into a goddamn slasher movie—one of the ones that care more about gore than plot line or acting skills. When he got no answer at the front door Jimmy went around to the back of the house to try the patio door. That’s where he found the old broad, spread out in the sun and torn up like a dog’s chew toy. Poor woman was in her bathrobe, her blood-splattered slippers found in a bush on the other side of the patio.

Jimmy hadn’t taken it all too well. He was practically blubbering when he called in for backup. And now he was just sitting in one of the cruisers and staring straight ahead, sweat standing out on his forehead and dripping down his cheeks. As far as Moser was concerned it was sweat that was running down Jimmy’s cheeks—not tears—and no one would ever convince him to say otherwise.

Moser surveyed the driveway, filled with cars and people in uniform. It seemed like the whole damn department had come out. Men walked to and from their vehicles in hushed silence, no one wanting to talk about what had been discovered by poor Jimmy Contrell. In fact, the only real noise was from the motor of that damn news chopper overhead.

Fucking vultures have no respect for the dead, he thought as he looked up at the helicopter. Channel 8 News Now was printed on the side.

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