Evelyn David - Sullivan Investigations 01 - Murder Off the Books by Evelyn David Page B
Authors: Evelyn David
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angrily.
“Excuse me, there was a murder? And with all the homecoming stuff I haven’t seen you since–”
“Give me the details of the complaints right now,” Adams demanded, reaching for a file on her desk. “Mr. Sullivan, is there anything else you need from me? Apparently I have some problems of my own to troubleshoot.”
***
Mac noticed immediately that either Whiskey had learned to unlock truck doors and let herself out, or someone had broken into the truck and let her out. Now he was willing to consider that his dog was smarter than he’d been giving her credit for, but the wild look in her eyes and the scrap of fabric hanging from her mouth, a scrap that looked suspiciously like the khaki back pocket of a pair of coveralls, tipped the scales in his mind towards the break-in option.
“Hey, girl,” he whispered, slowly approaching the back of the truck where she was standing.
Whiskey spit out the soggy fabric scrap as though tossing it on the ground in front of him was explanation enough.
He knelt down in front of her and gently ran his hands over her head and down her quivering sides, checking for injuries. She didn’t flinch from his touch so he gathered that her agitated state was due to anger not pain.
“Looks like you did a good job guarding the truck, girl.” He stroked her head and smiled when she visibly relaxed. “Let’s take a look at the damage.”
Mac straightened up and walked around the truck to the open driver’s door. The glass had been knocked out, the safety glass doing what it was designed to do; shattering into thousands of tiny cubes. No other damage was apparent. The ignition was still intact. The wires still connected. A man’s leather wallet lay on the floorboard. It wasn’t his.
He opened it. Forty-seven dollars, a gas card, a Visa, and a driver’s license, all in the name of Frank Flynn. “Hey, girl. That was the bugman. According to the info on the license, you’re taller than Frankie-boy. Hope you didn’t hurt him too bad. Course at 175 he’s got more than 50 pounds on you.”
Whiskey leaned against his leg.
He looked down and rested his hand on her head, his fingers scratching behind her ears. “Jeff’s gonna buy you a big steak–with Frank Flynn’s money–for saving his truck.”
Chapter 7
“Where do you want this desk, Mr. Sullivan?” A sweating Ray Kozlowski, dressed from head to toe in black, his long hair tucked behind his ears, asked as he and sixteen-year-old Sean O’Herlihy struggled to maneuver the battered junk store treasure through the office doorway.
“In the back room,” Mac grumbled from his seat on the orange shag carpet that covered the floors of the two-room office. He was busy trying to figure out why the perfectly good office chair he’d purchased, along with several other World War II-era government surplus chairs and tables, tilted dramatically to one side.
“This place is a dump,” Sean, ever his father’s son, exclaimed upon seeing the two-room office.
“Yeah, but what it lacks in ambiance, it more than makes up for in affordability.” Mac gave up on the chair. He’d save it as an interrogation tool. Keep his suspects off-balance.
“Huh?” Sean used the edge of his faded Bass Pro Shop t-shirt to wipe his sweaty forehead.
Ray sighed. “He means it’s cheap.”
“Are you gonna paint it at least?” Sean asked, staring at the dingy walls. “I don’t think your customers are going to think you’re any good if you don’t fix it up.”
“I thought you wanted to be a fisherman not an interior decorator,” Mac joked, getting to his feet, surprised the young man would even notice the office’s condition.
Sean blushed, his fair skin hiding nothing. “I’m just saying that unless your clients are bums, they’re not going to be impressed.”
“Well guys, I don’t have time to impress anyone right now. I’m going to have to get back to work on an insurance case that I’m investigating.
“Excuse me, there was a murder? And with all the homecoming stuff I haven’t seen you since–”
“Give me the details of the complaints right now,” Adams demanded, reaching for a file on her desk. “Mr. Sullivan, is there anything else you need from me? Apparently I have some problems of my own to troubleshoot.”
***
Mac noticed immediately that either Whiskey had learned to unlock truck doors and let herself out, or someone had broken into the truck and let her out. Now he was willing to consider that his dog was smarter than he’d been giving her credit for, but the wild look in her eyes and the scrap of fabric hanging from her mouth, a scrap that looked suspiciously like the khaki back pocket of a pair of coveralls, tipped the scales in his mind towards the break-in option.
“Hey, girl,” he whispered, slowly approaching the back of the truck where she was standing.
Whiskey spit out the soggy fabric scrap as though tossing it on the ground in front of him was explanation enough.
He knelt down in front of her and gently ran his hands over her head and down her quivering sides, checking for injuries. She didn’t flinch from his touch so he gathered that her agitated state was due to anger not pain.
“Looks like you did a good job guarding the truck, girl.” He stroked her head and smiled when she visibly relaxed. “Let’s take a look at the damage.”
Mac straightened up and walked around the truck to the open driver’s door. The glass had been knocked out, the safety glass doing what it was designed to do; shattering into thousands of tiny cubes. No other damage was apparent. The ignition was still intact. The wires still connected. A man’s leather wallet lay on the floorboard. It wasn’t his.
He opened it. Forty-seven dollars, a gas card, a Visa, and a driver’s license, all in the name of Frank Flynn. “Hey, girl. That was the bugman. According to the info on the license, you’re taller than Frankie-boy. Hope you didn’t hurt him too bad. Course at 175 he’s got more than 50 pounds on you.”
Whiskey leaned against his leg.
He looked down and rested his hand on her head, his fingers scratching behind her ears. “Jeff’s gonna buy you a big steak–with Frank Flynn’s money–for saving his truck.”
Chapter 7
“Where do you want this desk, Mr. Sullivan?” A sweating Ray Kozlowski, dressed from head to toe in black, his long hair tucked behind his ears, asked as he and sixteen-year-old Sean O’Herlihy struggled to maneuver the battered junk store treasure through the office doorway.
“In the back room,” Mac grumbled from his seat on the orange shag carpet that covered the floors of the two-room office. He was busy trying to figure out why the perfectly good office chair he’d purchased, along with several other World War II-era government surplus chairs and tables, tilted dramatically to one side.
“This place is a dump,” Sean, ever his father’s son, exclaimed upon seeing the two-room office.
“Yeah, but what it lacks in ambiance, it more than makes up for in affordability.” Mac gave up on the chair. He’d save it as an interrogation tool. Keep his suspects off-balance.
“Huh?” Sean used the edge of his faded Bass Pro Shop t-shirt to wipe his sweaty forehead.
Ray sighed. “He means it’s cheap.”
“Are you gonna paint it at least?” Sean asked, staring at the dingy walls. “I don’t think your customers are going to think you’re any good if you don’t fix it up.”
“I thought you wanted to be a fisherman not an interior decorator,” Mac joked, getting to his feet, surprised the young man would even notice the office’s condition.
Sean blushed, his fair skin hiding nothing. “I’m just saying that unless your clients are bums, they’re not going to be impressed.”
“Well guys, I don’t have time to impress anyone right now. I’m going to have to get back to work on an insurance case that I’m investigating.
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