Silenced by the Yams (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #3) by Karen Cantwell Page B

curb, but the sound of a car’s revving engine and squealing tires stopped me dead in my tracks. The next thing I knew, Colt was shouting, “Curly!” and tackling me to the ground. Gunfire sounded around us. Screams mingled with the deafening pops that seemed to go on and on and on while Colt held my head down, shielding me with his own body. Moments after the gunfire stopped, the shrill sound of a thousand sirens filled the air. We were one block from the White House—I nearly expected an Air Force fighter to swoop by.
    When I was finally able to lift my head, I realized that my Jackie O sunglasses had been crushed, my face was covered in tears and I was trembling uncontrollably.
    Certain that we had just witnessed a terrorist attack firsthand, I gasped when my eyes finally landed on the hot dog stand where I had been headed. The mobile van was full of holes. The vendor inside was sprawled facedown over the counter and two bodies lay lifeless on the sidewalk. One of them, I was pretty sure, was Guy Mertz.
    And when I turned my head away because it was too awful to watch, I caught sight of Clarence again, running for real this time, fast from the scene.
     

Chapter Seven
    The FBI and Secret Service descended upon the scene like locusts onto a ripe summer crop. No Air Force fighters showed up, but two mean-looking, armed helicopters circled closely overhead, blowing dirt and stray pieces of trash around.
    We were instructed to stay put by an officious and curt man with a badge; no potential witness could leave until interviewed by an agent. When I asked if we could leave briefly to buy some bottled water, he said only if we wanted to be arrested on the spot. So there we sat, baking and steaming as the sun glared in a high, cloudless sky. If we’d been shrimp, we’d already be cooked and ready for cocktail sauce.
    Constitution Avenue is six lanes wide, so between the distance and the sheer number of emergency vehicles on the scene, it was nearly impossible to see what was transpiring at the toasted hot dog stand. Guy Mertz may have smeared my name badly in his report, but I didn’t wish him dead. I hoped dearly that he wasn’t one of the bodies splayed on the sidewalk.
     It was summer in Washington, DC, which meant there were easily two hundred tourists on or around Constitution Avenue at the time of the shooting. They all milled around now, waiting. Or rather, drooping.
    Immediately after the shooting, people had bristled with a sort of excitement, actively sharing their experiences—“Did you see that car?” “It was black.” “No, it was dark green.” “There were two cars.” “There was a red car with three men and they all had guns and ski masks.” “It was a blue SUV and I think it was a female shooter with an assault rifle.” “Someone said they saw a man with a bomb strapped to his body and he was heading for the White House.” It was all a load of bull doo-doo. Colt was trained to make quick and accurate observations and he said the drive-by shooting was committed by two men, one caucasion, one Latino, driving a navy blue Lexus with Maryland plates. He couldn’t see the firearm, but from the sound, he suspected a 12 gauge semi-auto shotgun.
    But ten minutes later, people were tired of talking or were too parched to open their mouths comfortably. Many started sitting and even laying down. When a nursing mother fainted, the FBI brought in a van full of water bottles which a PR crew distributed faster than a sexually twisted politician checking himself into “rehab.”
     Colt and I were draining our bottles when an agent finally approached us. She was tall, slim, dressed in black pants and a white t-shirt and I knew her only too well. So did Colt.
    “Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Marr.” She managed to crack half a wry smile while wiping sweat from her dripping brow. My head hurt just looking at how tightly she had her thin black hair pulled into that pony tail.
    I acknowledged her in return.