Bad To The Bone by Katy Munger Page B

uglier. And, somehow, we're in the
middle of it."
    "You're pissed at the blond," Bobby guessed.
"You never like natural blonds."
    "Don't be so sure her collar matches her
cuff. Besides, it's not her hair color, it's her I don't like. And
I didn't like her boyfriend much, either. Dead or alive."
    "What about Robert Price?" Bobby asked
reasonably. "You like him all of a sudden? Look what he did to his
wife." He paused. "If he was the one who did it."
    "I don't like anyone but the kid," I said,
chewing on another Krispy Kreme. "And she'll probably get dragged
into this soon enough."
    "It can't be easy having dear old Dad
arrested for murder," Bobby agreed. "And I think that's what'll
happen."
    "Who's your source?" I asked.
    Bobby adopted his Mona Lisa grin. "Sorry.
Her identity is confidential."
    "But you call her Deep Throat?" I suggested
wryly. "Or wish you could?"
    "Go talk to the cops," Bobby reminded me.
"Do it before they come to you."
    I sighed. He was right. An afternoon at the
Raleigh Police Department was not my idea of weekend fun. But it
would be worse if I didn't go right away.
    They know me pretty well down at the RPD,
some of them better than others. I saw a couple of ex-boyfriends on
my way upstairs and one guy I'd had my eye on just before I met
Burly. I flirted with him for a few minutes because I like to keep
my options open, then headed for the interview room where a
detective working the Cockshutt murder was waiting to see me.
    They'd definitely sent in the B-Team. The
infamous Detective Roland Dick was waiting for me. Everyone I know
calls him Dick-Dick because, well, because he acts like a dick.
He'd become a cop for all the wrong reasons and couldn't be trusted
alone with a suspect since he managed to violate an average of one
constitutional right per minute. At least three cases had been
thrown out of court because of him, and there wasn't a person on
the force who even wanted to be seen with Dick-Dick, much less work
with him. But he couldn't be fired because he claimed to be
one-eighth American Indian and had joined all the minority-officer
clubs he could find. Consequently, he was tolerated but frequently
assigned to backup tasks, well away from the front line.
    The fact that he was sitting across from me
stuffing his face with cheese straws and slurping Pepsi was proof
that the Cockshutt murder team didn't think I had much to offer
them.
    "Don't I know you?" Dick-Dick asked in a
vaguely snide tone of voice.
    "No, you don't," I said flatly, not adding
that I fervently hoped to keep it that way. Orange flour from the
cheese straws coated his liver lips. His mouth seemed to float in
his face like some grotesque species of puff fish. I couldn't take
my eyes off those lips. They were as gruesomely fascinating as a
traffic accident.
    "I don't have all day," he barked, annoyed
at my rebuff. "What's so important about the Cockshutt murder that
you had to pull me away from my real work?"
    I forced a smile on my face, then proceeded
to give the fat-ass scumbag a summary of what I had seen at the
beach involving Robert Price and Boomer Cockshutt. He perked up
when I gave him a couple of the blurrier photos I'd taken of a
badly beaten Tawny Bledsoe and provided the lurid details on their
purported domestic problems. Unfortunately, this inspired Dick-Dick
to take notes at the speed of a drugged snail, forcing me to repeat
myself endlessly. He made me miserable for over an hour. When I was
done, he didn't even bother to thank me for coming in and I made a
vow that this would be the last time I went out of my way to
perform my civic duty.
    "You can go now," he said, slamming his
notebook shut. "We'll be in touch."
    In your dreams, I thought as I sulked from
the room. I was pissed that I had wasted my time trying to do the
right thing.
    But, as it turned out, the day was not an
entire waste. Guess who I ran into in the lobby? Yup. Good old Bill
Butler. My favorite man in blue. Suddenly we were nose-to-nose for
the