Death at the Wheel by Kate Flora

instead of being Thea the Fix-it Lady, just as Suzanne had predicted. Wasn't I breaking my promise to her? And why was she so grouchy lately? All questions for another time. He was waiting impatiently for an answer. Stick close to the truth, that's my motto. Especially since I don't lie well. "I'm a friend of Julie's," I said. "She asked me to come by and see that the house was secure."
    "What were you doing just now, as we drove up?"
    "Putting the key back under the plant pot."
    "She keeps a key under a plant pot and she's worried about the house being secure?" he said to his companions. They grinned obligingly.
    I wanted to say "Yeah, the broad is much too dumb to have killed her husband," but I refrained. Experience has shown that most cops don't appreciate my sense of humor.
    "You've been in the house?" I nodded. "Did you take anything?"
    "She said she didn't need me to pick up anything."
    "That's not what I asked. Did you take anything?"
    I lied. "No."
    He jerked his chin toward the Saab. "That your car?"
    So far, he'd asked perfectly reasonable questions, but I could feel my temper rise. Partly because of the way they'd treated Julie, so they already had one strike against them. Partly because except for Andre and my friend Dom Florio, I don't like cops, so that was two. And partly because I don't like men who only stare at my chest and never at my face. And that's what he'd been doing. So he'd had his three strikes and he was out.
    "The Saab?" I said demurely, though it was the only car besides his in sight.
    "That's right. The Saab."
    "It's mine," I said cheerfully. "I love it!"
    "Save the testimonials for someone who cares," he growled. He must have taken lessons, to have cultivated such an indifferent tone.
    I wanted to stick out my tongue and wave my hands beside my ears and say, "Nya, nya, you're a real big man when you have your stooges behind you," but I didn't. My mother taught me to curb such impulses. This was one case where she was right.
    "Why don't we step over there, find that identification of yours, and take a look inside the car?" he said. It wasn't an invitation.
    My heart sank. I knew my rights. Growing up a lawyer's daughter has given me that. One of them was that they had no right to search my car without probable cause; and probable cause didn't arise from finding me putting a key under a flower pot more than a hundred feet from the car. But knowing your rights and knowing what to do aren't the same thing. I was in a tight situation without a lawyer in my pocket. My dad was across town. If I opened the car to get my license, would that be inviting them in? Then there was the downside, which was that if I didn't cooperate, they might arrest me on some pretext and then get a warrant to search the car. If I let them search now, I might get lucky and they'd miss the letters.
    Keeping my pose of good girl scout, I said, "Certainly, Officer. I'm afraid it's an awful mess," in my best demure and innocent way, and led the parade over to my car. They all shifted nervously when I stuck my hand in my pocket and hauled out my keys. I'm sure I don't look like the gun-toting type but we live in uncertain times. I unlocked the car, got out my briefcase, fished out my license, and handed it to my inquisitor. All the while, the stooges kept their hands near their guns, waiting for me to pull my own gun out of the case and blow Mr. Hot Eyes away. They seemed a little disappointed when I didn't.
    It must be hard to live on the edge all the time. Like being half aroused. Irrationally, the idea of pale blue balls floated through my mind. I almost couldn't keep the smile off my face. Lately my irreverent side had been working overtime.
    I apologized for the Dunkin' Donuts bags and the Burger King bags and the empty Styrofoam coffee cups, the empty plastic salad containers with bits of dead lettuce swimming in murky dressing, the three empty boxes of Bridge Mix and the apple core and the old newspapers. Usually I clean