Hazardous Duty by Christy Barritt Read Free Book Online Page A

reality.
    “Come in,” Parker said, his back to me
as he walked to the desk. He plopped into a beat-up swivel chair, complete with
duct tape on both of the top corners. He looked at me with so much skepticism
that I felt like a conspiracy theorist for a moment. “What can I help you with,
Ms. St. Claire?”
    I stood in the doorway, contemplating
what approach I should take. Coming on too strong would irritate him. Being too
nice would make me easy to ignore. Middle of the road, Gabby. Middle of the
road. “Did you find out anything about the gun?”
    “It’s being tested now.”
    “So you haven’t confirmed it’s the
murder weapon?”
    “Not yet.”
    The middle of the road was getting me
nowhere. I needed to zip into the fast lane. “On the news they said that the
suspect is behind bars. This gun makes it clear that there could be another
suspect, that the wrong person has been arrested.”
    “We won’t know anything until we test
the gun.”
    I pushed away from the doorway and
lowered myself into the driver’s seat—er, chair—in front of Parker. I still had
my trump card to play. I put my mouth in gear and charged full speed ahead.
    “I found out something that shines new
light on the case.”
    An eyebrow quirked. “Did you?”
    “A witness places Mr. Cunningham at the
scene of the crime right before the fire started last night. Our political
superstar in the making set the fire in order to conceal the evidence.”
    Detective Parker leaned forward and
sighed. “Ms. St. Claire, Mr. Cunningham was in the hospital last night. He’s
not being discharged until this afternoon.”

 
     
     
    Chapter Seven
    “What?” The neighbor said she
saw Cunningham. He was a guilty man. No questions. No doubts.
    No evidence to prove it.
    He waved a folder. “I have the paperwork
to prove it.”
    “That’s not possible.”
    The detective nodded curtly. “You heard
me correctly—Michael Cunningham is a victim here, plain and simple. Don’t try
to twist it any other way.”
    “But—”
    “No, buts, Ms. St. Claire. Just let us
do our job, and you . . . you go clean houses. There’s no need
of you worrying over this.”
    “But, Detective—”
    “Trust that the evidence is being
handled by professionals, and let it go. We’ve got it from here.” He rose and
drew in a deep breath. His gaze tried to put me in my place, which was no easy
task. “Thank you for your help and concern. I’ll let you see yourself out.”
    I opened my mouth, but found myself
speechless for one of the first times in my life. The next thing I knew I was
on the sidewalk, staring at the one-story red brick building.
    What just happened?
    I turned around, about to march back
inside, but dropped my hand from the doorknob. I needed time to think this
over. I needed to talk things through with someone else.
    But who?
    Not Harold, he’d only worry. Not Sierra,
she’d find a way to turn it into a save-the-animals campaign. My dad wasn’t an
option. He had his own problems.
    I drew in a deep breath and resigned
myself to ponder it. With one last glance at the police station, I went back to
the car.
    ***
    I parked in the lot of my apartment
building, got out, and slammed the car door, channeling my frustration by
abusing Sierra’s innocent car. I was too upset to go home. Instead, I hurried
across the street to The Grounds, my favorite coffeehouse and hangout. The
converted old Victorian housed a coffeehouse on the first floor and an Internet
café upstairs. It was a hodgepodge of tables and chairs, accented by brightly
colored walls with abstract art slashing through them. On Friday and Saturday
evenings acoustic music filled the shop, and on Tuesdays poetry readings.
    I walked into the dimly lit structure,
immediately surrounded by the rich smell of Columbian coffee and the quiet
rumble of chatting java addicts munching on Italian biscotti and French
pastries. Latin music drifted through the overhead, and Swedish oak chairs
scratched