AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“It’s called multi-tasking,” I tease. “I’ll catch you in a couple of hours. That way we can talk dead people, then we can head home together and grab some dinner on the way.”
“Alright,” she sighs, not entirely impressed with my response. But she accepts it. Grudgingly. “Fine. Our autopsy is likely to be complete in about two hours, now that we have the bullet out. I’ll have my preliminary findings ready for when you get here.”
“And don’t forget three o’clock rounds,” Aubs adds. “Since you’re trying to be consistent with that stuff.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Minka turns from wherever she’s standing, her movements a gentle shuffle on tiles that paints a picture in my mind. “Talk to you later, Detective Malone. Tell Fletch to be careful.”
“I will.” I draw the phone from my ear and kill our call, then I look at my partner and smile. “See? She doesn’t hate you.”
He pushes away from the wall, rolling his eyes, and grabs the shop’s front door instead. “She’s emotional because we have a dead cop on our desks. She’ll go back to plotting my murder just as soon as this case is tied up.”
“Maybe, but until then…” I stride through the door and make sure I shoulder-check him as I pass. “You have a truce.” I scan the seamstress’s shop. The mannequin thingies they use to sew outfits around. The wall of rolled fabrics in an assortment of colors and patterns. Shiny silks and muted cotton. Measuring tapes drape all over, and bins of instruments overflow on every surface.
Finally, I catch the movement of an exceptionally tiny, unbelievably old woman who hunkers behind a desk and a mound of fabric. I’m not sure if she’s hiding or if she’s simply too small to compete. “Mrs. Morris?” I take out my badge and slowly make my way through the dimly lit shop. I’m not sure how the woman can create in such bad lighting. But her glasses, damn near thicker than the base of an old-style Coke bottle, might be a clue. “My name is Detective Archer Malone.” I stop just a few feet from her desk and hook a thumb over my shoulder. “My partner, Detective Charlie Fletcher. We’re here to talk to you about that call you made to 9-1-1 today.”
“I didn’t see anything.” She steps to her left and reveals her itty-bitty self in an oversized muumuu-esque dress with a lacy collar and pockets with frills at the openings. I’m not sure if her job is tocreatefashion or simply mend it. But if her outfit is anything to go by, I’m partial to thinking sheappeals to the fifties crowd…as in, the eighteen-fifties. “I stayed right here inside my shop and saw nothing at all.”
“Why don’t we start with what you heard?” Fletch, our sweet, charming half, steps around me and tugs out a chair, overflowing with fabric. Carefully setting the pile on the woman’s desk, he gestures for her to sit down. “You obviously heard something, Mrs. Morris, because you made that call.”
“I heard a gun.” Hesitantly, she comes around her desk and lowers onto the chair, warming under the approving gleam in Fletch’s honeycomb eyes. “It was just a really loudbang-bang. So, of course, I made the call.”
“Only two bangs?” I take out my notebook and scribble notes for later. “Did you hear only two, Glenda?”
“Or maybe three?” She says it like a question, shrugging and preening when Fletch parks his ass on the edge of the desk and his leg brushes hers. She’s old enough to be his great grandma.But sure, let’s charm the oldies. “I-I’m not sure. It was really fast. Startled me, so I put a pin in my finger.” Whether intentional or pure coincidence, the old lady flashes her middle finger, the tip wrapped in a Band-Aid, and her lips wrinkle as though to mask a cheeky grin.
Fletch brings his hand up to hide his humor as she flips me the bird.
“I poked myself. Cussed about it and set my needle down. It was all in the same second. So I’m not really sure how many shots there were. Definitely more than one.”
“I can see the street from here.” Fletch glances through the store and out the dirty windows. The glass panes are dusty and marked, but they’re functional. Translucent. “If I heard a couple of gunshots, I reckon the first thing I’d do, even before my brain registered the thought, is to look out there. Did you see anyone running? Or a car speeding past? Did you see?—”
“My to-do pile is larger than I am.” She gestures to the overflowing desk, her eyes dropping to the Band-Aid once more. “I looked up, but all I saw was more work. I was focusing on the needle. And my finger. If I get blood on someone’s garment, there would be hell to pay. So yeah, I looked up momentarily. Then down again while I ensured I wasn’t bleeding on anyone’s clothes. I didn’t come around my desk for another minute. Maybe two. That’s when I grabbed the phone and called the police.”
“Okay.”One minute, maybe two, from when the shots rang out until the call was made.“Once you did come around your desk.” I turn from the pair, extending my fingers in the shape kids make to create a pretend phone. Then I bring it to my ear and meander toward the glass. “I know I can be kinda nosey sometimes. Adrenaline is up. A gun was just discharged. Youknew it was serious enough to make the call…” I stop by the window and turn back. “Did you move over here while on the phone with dispatch?”
She shakes her head.
“I know they would have talked you through things. They would have probably told you to stay safe. Ensure your wellbeing first. But I’m confident they would have asked if someone else was hurt.”
“They did. They asked if someone was shot. I said yes.”
“So for you to know someone was shot, as opposed to, say, someone was playing target practice with tin cans, then you had to have come somewhat near the windows to confirm a man was, in fact, hurt.”
“I don’t…” She shakes her head and links her fingers together. Massaging each other in what I can only assume is a decades-long habit that has seen the elderly woman through a lifetime of working with her hands. “I suppose, yes. They told me to see what I could see.”
“And what could you see, Mrs. Morris?” Fletch pats her hands and smiles when she glances up. “You walked to the windows. You were probably scared. You’ve lived around here your whole life, so you know danger walks these streets. In fact, I doubt today was the first time you’ve heard a gun fire.”
Swallowing, she shakes her head to confirm what he says.
“You have a lifetime of surviving under your belt. You know how to do it, and how to do it well. So it’s not like you’re screaming like a banshee and running into the street. But I bet you were brave enough to walk to the windows. You were certainly brave enough to make the call when no one else did.”
“I saw the man lying in the street.” She gulps and stares into his eyes. Smitten and completely comfortable with the Lothario’s attention. “Like I said, it took me a minute or two to get to the phone. So it was probably another minute or two after that before I was looking out there. I didn’t open the door. But I took a peek and told the lady on the phone what I could see.”
“Which was what?” I press. Though when the pair looks my way, Fletch’s lips pressed in that way he does to communicate, I soften my expression. My words. “Please, Mrs. Morris. You looked out the window. You looked that,” I point in the direction Lucas Mercer laid out not so long ago, “way. You saw him on the road?”
She drops her chin in a gentle acceptance. “I saw the ends of his boots. His head was up on the other end, so all I saw were the soles of his shoesand the shadow of what I guessed was a man. Not a teenager, and not an old, rounded man ready for retirement.”
“You did great,” Fletch coaches. “So while you were looking, did you see anybody else? Anyone running toward him? Anyone running away?”
