Death Come Quickly by Susan Wittig Albert

“Hey, chicken.” He frowned at it. “That isn’t—”
    â€œNo.” The timer buzzed and I went to the stove. “A thousand times no.” I took the rolls out of the oven. “Why is everybody so concerned about the source of that chicken? You don’t really think I would—”
    â€œI’ll go see what Brian and Caitlin are up to,” Jake offered diplomatically and headed for the door.
    McQuaid lounged against the counter. He was wearing jeans and my favorite blue plaid shirt, the same color as his eyes, and his dark hair was rumpled, as usual, where he’d been running his fingers through it. He has a jagged scar across his forehead—a knife-fight trophy from his days as a Houston detective—and his nose has been broken more than once. His features are too rugged to be called handsome, but he’s certainly tall, dark, and sexy, every inch an alpha male. After he left the police force, he served for several months as Pecan Springs’ acting police chief; on another occasion, he took an undercover assignment with the Texas Rangers. He got badly shot up on that case, though, and I don’t mind telling you that I was nervous when he hung out his shingle as a private detective. But most of his cases have been of the seek-and-find variety, more of an intellectual challenge than a physical one—at least so far. I’m not as uneasy about his work as I used to be, especially since Blackie came on board. Blackie Blackwell is the quintessential lawman’s lawman, smart, cool, and utterly dependable. I worry less, knowing he has McQuaid’s back.
    McQuaid sipped his wine. “How was your day?”
    â€œThe usual,” I said. “Until Ruby told me that Karen Prior was mugged last night.”
    â€œMugged!” That caught his attention and he straightened up. “Karen? Where? Is she going to be okay?”
    â€œYes, mugged. At the mall. And no, not okay. The docs repaired a brain hemorrhage, but it doesn’t sound good. She’s in a coma, on life support—or she was, late this afternoon.”
    â€œAw, hell.” McQuaid groaned. “Life support. Did they get the s.o.b. who did it?”
    â€œNot yet. A couple of girls spotted the getaway vehicle. A late-model four-door.”
    â€œSay
what
?” McQuaid pulled his dark brows together. “Since when are muggers driving late-model cars?” He paused, frowning. “Is there more to this than a simple mugging?”
    I began chopping a cucumber. “There might be. Sheila told Ruby and me that Felicity—she’s Karen’s daughter—reported that her mother got a phone call before she went to the mall last night. Felicity had the impression that the call might have had something to do with a documentary that a couple of Karen’s students are working on. Coincidentally, one of the girls happens to be Jake’s sister.”
    â€œOh, yeah? Gretchen? Good student. She took a couple of courses from me—Enforcement Systems and Practices and Criminal Investigations, as I remember. Got an A in both. She’s thinking about a career in law enforcement. Or at least she was.”
    I nodded. “Felicity seems to think that her mom might have been planning to meet the caller. Which doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the assault, of course.” In fact, when the phone call was checked out, the caller would probably turn out to be one of the students working on the film.
    â€œNevertheless.” McQuaid swirled the wine in his glass. “The cops are looking into it with that in mind, I suppose.” He pushed his lips in and out. “You talked to Sheila today, huh? Did she mention . . . ?” He eyed me quizzically, leaving the sentence hanging.
    â€œYes and yes.” I finished chopping the second cucumber and added it to the purslane and Malabar spinach in the salad bowl. “Sheila said Blackie