lazy and stupid.” Her dog started to growl. “It’s okay, Smack,” she said, patting his head. “Just because I’m pissed off doesn’t mean you have to bite someone.”
“Is he dangerous?” I asked nervously.
“She. She’s a retired narcotics dog. Her partner couldn’t keep her when she got too old for duty because the partner had to get a new dog, so I took her in. But old Smack here could do some damage if I told her to, and if you’d come in with pot in your pocket, you’d have seen some action.”
“How fortunate that I don’t use illegal drugs,” I murmured weakly.
“Right. She jumped a kid at a high school the other day. I was there giving a talk. Kid was dealing coke and had a couple of ounces on him. Smack held him up against the wall, while I called in the troops. Of course, they had a cop undercover there who had enough to arrest him, so the dealer just got caught a little early. Any more questions?”
“I guess not,” I said.
“And what are you going to do with the information?”
“Well, since you don’t seem to think Sergeant Guevara is going to catch the killer, I guess I’ll ask around about any enemies Vladik might have had. I’d hate to see people harassed by the police when a real criminal actually killed him.”
Luz Vallejo laughed. “You’re going to investigate this yourself? Well, that’s a hoot.”
I could have told her that I wasn’t inexperienced when it came to investigation, but I didn’t. She’d hurt my feelings, and I didn’t care to be laughed at again.
9
Indignant Ladies Unite
Carolyn
I drove home to think about my next move, if, in fact, I wanted to make a next move. Lieutenant Vallejo had thought the idea “a hoot,” and Jason would be upset if he thought I was getting involved in another murder investigation. On the other hand, my life had been much more exciting of late, much more interesting. Writing about food is all very well, but one doesn’t really use one’s powers of logical thinking, and one doesn’t really make a difference in the world, only in a meal or two somewhere in the country.
Not that I’m ungrateful for the syndicated newspaper column on eating out that I more or less fell into and the book on eating out in New Orleans that I recently sent off to the publisher. I pulled into the driveway and started toward the front door, thinking of whom I might interview if I decided to look for the person who held the pillow over Vladislav Gubenko’s face. Before I could even sit down to make a list, I noticed that my answering machine was blinking. I pressed the Play button and heard the following:
“Carolyn, this is Vivian Brockman. I’m getting the women who made refreshments for the party together. I think we should protest this ridiculous harassment by the police. Lunch at the Magic Pan on Doniphan at twelve-thirty. I’m reserving a table on the patio. If you get this message in time, please come.”
I glanced at my watch and left the house, calculating that I’d only be five or ten minutes late, which would leave me time for their wonderful tortilla soup and a half sandwich. What did Vivian have in mind as a protest? Letters to the editor of the Times? Picketing the police station? Confronting Sergeant Guevara? Hiring a lawyer? One of the women who had provided food was married to a lawyer, so maybe we could get pro bono representation. And what would our suit against the police allege? Interfering with our civil rights? Slander? I’ve never sued anyone, so I had no idea.
Five women had preceded me, ordered, and were sipping iced tea. I sat down after greeting them and took in the ambiance. I’m very fond of the Magic Pan. Their patio has vines, greenery, ceiling fans, and a mister, so you can eat outside, even in hot weather—although not during high winds and dust storms, or when it turns cold. On those less frequent occasions, you eat inside where they sell interesting “antique” doodads and jewelry. I love
“Is he dangerous?” I asked nervously.
“She. She’s a retired narcotics dog. Her partner couldn’t keep her when she got too old for duty because the partner had to get a new dog, so I took her in. But old Smack here could do some damage if I told her to, and if you’d come in with pot in your pocket, you’d have seen some action.”
“How fortunate that I don’t use illegal drugs,” I murmured weakly.
“Right. She jumped a kid at a high school the other day. I was there giving a talk. Kid was dealing coke and had a couple of ounces on him. Smack held him up against the wall, while I called in the troops. Of course, they had a cop undercover there who had enough to arrest him, so the dealer just got caught a little early. Any more questions?”
“I guess not,” I said.
“And what are you going to do with the information?”
“Well, since you don’t seem to think Sergeant Guevara is going to catch the killer, I guess I’ll ask around about any enemies Vladik might have had. I’d hate to see people harassed by the police when a real criminal actually killed him.”
Luz Vallejo laughed. “You’re going to investigate this yourself? Well, that’s a hoot.”
I could have told her that I wasn’t inexperienced when it came to investigation, but I didn’t. She’d hurt my feelings, and I didn’t care to be laughed at again.
9
Indignant Ladies Unite
Carolyn
I drove home to think about my next move, if, in fact, I wanted to make a next move. Lieutenant Vallejo had thought the idea “a hoot,” and Jason would be upset if he thought I was getting involved in another murder investigation. On the other hand, my life had been much more exciting of late, much more interesting. Writing about food is all very well, but one doesn’t really use one’s powers of logical thinking, and one doesn’t really make a difference in the world, only in a meal or two somewhere in the country.
Not that I’m ungrateful for the syndicated newspaper column on eating out that I more or less fell into and the book on eating out in New Orleans that I recently sent off to the publisher. I pulled into the driveway and started toward the front door, thinking of whom I might interview if I decided to look for the person who held the pillow over Vladislav Gubenko’s face. Before I could even sit down to make a list, I noticed that my answering machine was blinking. I pressed the Play button and heard the following:
“Carolyn, this is Vivian Brockman. I’m getting the women who made refreshments for the party together. I think we should protest this ridiculous harassment by the police. Lunch at the Magic Pan on Doniphan at twelve-thirty. I’m reserving a table on the patio. If you get this message in time, please come.”
I glanced at my watch and left the house, calculating that I’d only be five or ten minutes late, which would leave me time for their wonderful tortilla soup and a half sandwich. What did Vivian have in mind as a protest? Letters to the editor of the Times? Picketing the police station? Confronting Sergeant Guevara? Hiring a lawyer? One of the women who had provided food was married to a lawyer, so maybe we could get pro bono representation. And what would our suit against the police allege? Interfering with our civil rights? Slander? I’ve never sued anyone, so I had no idea.
Five women had preceded me, ordered, and were sipping iced tea. I sat down after greeting them and took in the ambiance. I’m very fond of the Magic Pan. Their patio has vines, greenery, ceiling fans, and a mister, so you can eat outside, even in hot weather—although not during high winds and dust storms, or when it turns cold. On those less frequent occasions, you eat inside where they sell interesting “antique” doodads and jewelry. I love
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