seat. Michael eyed her
suspiciously.
“Good morning,” the detective said. His voice was pleasant
enough, but for some reason she suspected he hadn’t
volunteered for this job. And she noticed his tie was as bad
as yesterday’s. Christ, the man must be color-blind.
“I want to tel you a few things you can do to minimize
your chances of becoming a victim,” he said, his voice
almost too big for the room. “First, don’t look like a victim.
Always be aware of your surroundings. Try to buddy up
when you walk to your cars, or ask for a security escort.”
He continued with a litany of Safety 101 tips, but Carlotta
found herself tuning out, distracted by the man himself,
trying to ascertain something about him from his body
language. He moved with athletic ease as he addressed
the crowd, making eye contact and gesturing for
emphasis. She wondered what would make someone
choose law enforcement as a career. Maybe it was a family
legacy. Or perhaps it was a career choice born of his size. A
man with such a powerful build would naturally be drawn
to a physical occupation. When he lifted his large hands in
the air to make a point, she squirmed, remembering him
touching her arm yesterday, as if to comfort her. She
smirked, glad that she hadn’t fallen for his act.
His left hand was bare of rings—no surprise there. Jack
Terry seemed to fancy himself some kind of ladies’ man, so
a wife would probably cramp his style. No doubt he had a
girlfriend or three, all of them working jobs that mandated
a midriff-baring uniform. His nose and forehead were
ruddy from a sunburn—he seemed like the kind of guy
who played touch football with his back-slapping buddies
on the weekends while consuming enormous amounts of
beer.
“Any questions?” the detective asked, al smiles.
Carlotta raised her hand.
His mouth twitched. “Yes?”
“Detective Terry, doesn’t the police department have
better things to do than to go around scaring store clerks
to death?”
Michael elbowed her. “That was rude,” he hissed.
Everyone in the room shifted uncomfortably and Lindy
rose to save the detective from answering, but he looked
at Carlotta, smiled and said, “As a matter of fact, yes, we
do have better things to do than to go around scaring
store clerks to death. But we get a sick kind of pleasure out
of it. Any other questions?”
Chuckles sounded around the room. She gave him ten
points for being witty, then took them back because it was
at her expense. Lindy glared at her, even more so when
her cel phone’s ringtone started its rendition of
“Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”
“Uh-oh,” Michael muttered. “The boss lady is going to slay
you.”
But Carlotta didn’t care at the moment because the caller
ID said it was her home number. Wesley could be in
trouble again. She scrambled out of the row and dashed
out of the meeting room, pushing the Incoming Call button
as soon as she cleared the door. “Hel o?”
“Is this Carlotta?” a deep, sandpapery voice asked.
“Yes,” she said, frowning. “Who is this?”
“I work for Father Thom, and he wanted me to tel you
that your brother stil owes him a shitload of money. He
wants a payment, pronto.”
Carlotta gripped the phone. “Wh-where’s Wesley?”
“Right here,” the man said pleasantly. “He didn’t want me
to call you, but I convinced him it was the right thing to
do.”
“Don’t worry, sis,” Wesley said in the background. “I got it
covered.”
The man guffawed into the phone. “Yeah, right. You have
a week to come up with a grand. See ya soon, sis.”
The call was disconnected and Carlotta felt dizzy from the
air being squeezed out of her lungs. Wesley must have
squandered his “emergency fund” in the tennis-ball can in
the garage. Otherwise he surely would have given it to the
thug. Desperation clawed at her. How could she get a
thousand dol ars together in a week? A small cry
suspiciously.
“Good morning,” the detective said. His voice was pleasant
enough, but for some reason she suspected he hadn’t
volunteered for this job. And she noticed his tie was as bad
as yesterday’s. Christ, the man must be color-blind.
“I want to tel you a few things you can do to minimize
your chances of becoming a victim,” he said, his voice
almost too big for the room. “First, don’t look like a victim.
Always be aware of your surroundings. Try to buddy up
when you walk to your cars, or ask for a security escort.”
He continued with a litany of Safety 101 tips, but Carlotta
found herself tuning out, distracted by the man himself,
trying to ascertain something about him from his body
language. He moved with athletic ease as he addressed
the crowd, making eye contact and gesturing for
emphasis. She wondered what would make someone
choose law enforcement as a career. Maybe it was a family
legacy. Or perhaps it was a career choice born of his size. A
man with such a powerful build would naturally be drawn
to a physical occupation. When he lifted his large hands in
the air to make a point, she squirmed, remembering him
touching her arm yesterday, as if to comfort her. She
smirked, glad that she hadn’t fallen for his act.
His left hand was bare of rings—no surprise there. Jack
Terry seemed to fancy himself some kind of ladies’ man, so
a wife would probably cramp his style. No doubt he had a
girlfriend or three, all of them working jobs that mandated
a midriff-baring uniform. His nose and forehead were
ruddy from a sunburn—he seemed like the kind of guy
who played touch football with his back-slapping buddies
on the weekends while consuming enormous amounts of
beer.
“Any questions?” the detective asked, al smiles.
Carlotta raised her hand.
His mouth twitched. “Yes?”
“Detective Terry, doesn’t the police department have
better things to do than to go around scaring store clerks
to death?”
Michael elbowed her. “That was rude,” he hissed.
Everyone in the room shifted uncomfortably and Lindy
rose to save the detective from answering, but he looked
at Carlotta, smiled and said, “As a matter of fact, yes, we
do have better things to do than to go around scaring
store clerks to death. But we get a sick kind of pleasure out
of it. Any other questions?”
Chuckles sounded around the room. She gave him ten
points for being witty, then took them back because it was
at her expense. Lindy glared at her, even more so when
her cel phone’s ringtone started its rendition of
“Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”
“Uh-oh,” Michael muttered. “The boss lady is going to slay
you.”
But Carlotta didn’t care at the moment because the caller
ID said it was her home number. Wesley could be in
trouble again. She scrambled out of the row and dashed
out of the meeting room, pushing the Incoming Call button
as soon as she cleared the door. “Hel o?”
“Is this Carlotta?” a deep, sandpapery voice asked.
“Yes,” she said, frowning. “Who is this?”
“I work for Father Thom, and he wanted me to tel you
that your brother stil owes him a shitload of money. He
wants a payment, pronto.”
Carlotta gripped the phone. “Wh-where’s Wesley?”
“Right here,” the man said pleasantly. “He didn’t want me
to call you, but I convinced him it was the right thing to
do.”
“Don’t worry, sis,” Wesley said in the background. “I got it
covered.”
The man guffawed into the phone. “Yeah, right. You have
a week to come up with a grand. See ya soon, sis.”
The call was disconnected and Carlotta felt dizzy from the
air being squeezed out of her lungs. Wesley must have
squandered his “emergency fund” in the tennis-ball can in
the garage. Otherwise he surely would have given it to the
thug. Desperation clawed at her. How could she get a
thousand dol ars together in a week? A small cry
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