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“Just imagine what a triumph it would be for you,” Pilar said to Mimi. “Bruce promises Billy Brenton, only you’re the one who delivers him!”
The Babes all began talking at once. More margaritas were passed around and Bunco was abandoned. The last thing Mimi remembered was Pilar’s voice telling her it was up to her to save the Spring Into Summer festival.
*~*~*
One of the advantages of being police chief was that it had been over two years since Zeke had last pulled a night tour. He’d been a cop for nearly seventeen years so he was no stranger to shift work, but it still sucked. One of his patrolmen had called in sick and instead of looking for a replacement, he’d covered the shift himself. After all, it wasn’t like he had a family or a home or even a comfortable bed to go to. He’d turned down the offer of Rusty’s cousin’s fishing cabin, but he was beginning to think he’d been too hasty. The couch in his office had springs and his lower back was beginning to feel like he’d been kicked by a mule.
He took a left on Beach Street and cruised down the almost empty road at a leisurely pace. It was nearly ten o’clock on a Thursday night in Whispering Bay. Which meant things were duller than dirt. The summers could be busy, but it was February and there wouldn’t be tourists till spring break when they got some residual overflow from the nearby towns of Destin and Panama City. Then, things could get dicey. Not that he liked dicey. Dull was just fine as far as Zeke was concerned.
He’d just driven by the construction site for the new town rec center when his radio went off. Ellie, the night dispatcher’s voice came over loud and clear. “Chief, there’s a call requesting your presence specifically.”
Jesus. Not again. Since he’d opened up his big mouth the day of the city council meeting there had been nearly a dozen calls requiring his “specific presence.” Absolutely none of them had been legit.
The best one had involved a key-lime pie. Not as good as Mimi’s, but pie was pie and it was homemade, so although it had been a time suck, at least he’d gotten something out of it. Mrs. O’Leary (sixty-something and widowed) had wanted him to know she was on “Team Zeke.” The pie had been her way of “making him feel better” about the current state of his marriage.
The worst had been a call from Sandy Lubook (thirty and recently divorced) claiming someone was trying to break into her house. Zeke had arrived (with back-up) only to find a very naked Sandy waiting for him in her bathtub. At least, Zeke had assumed she’d been naked. There had been so many bubbles in the tub it had been hard to tell. It had also been hard to tell whose face had gone redder—his, or Sandy’s when she realized there no less than four cops crowding her bathroom. Later, wrapped up in her bathrobe, Sandy had admitted she’d been hoping to “cheer him up” after she’d heard the news of his marriage falling apart. Zeke could only imagine what kind of cheering up Sandy had in mind.
News of his “special 911” calls had traveled through the nearby law enforcement agencies faster than a ricocheting bullet. One of his friends in the Santa Rosa County Sheriff’s department had called, faking a female voice saying “she” needed her fire put out and he was the only man with the equipment to do it.
Yeah, all of northwest Florida law enforcement was having a good laugh at his expense, all right.
He picked up the radio. “Tell whoever’s calling I’m busy and send another car.”
“She said it had to be you specifically,” Ellie said, giggling. “Plus, according to your location, you’re just a minute away. It seems like an awful lot of trouble for another car to come all the way across town.”
Zeke could feel the steam build between his ears.
Ellie had a point, however. There were only two cars on patrol duty tonight—his and Mike Stanley’s. He hated to pull Mike away from his side of town for some bogus bullshit.
“What’s the address?” he snapped, knowing he shouldn’t kill the messenger, but his dispatcher was having way too much fun at his expense.
“130 St. Joseph Drive.”
Zeke frowned. He knew that address. It belonged to Moose and Shea Masterson.
“And the situation?”
“She said it had something to do with drunk and disorderly conduct, but that no one was hurt and that only you should be called. Otherwise, they would call a taxi.”
What the? “I’m on my way.”
It took him less than a minute to get to the Masterson’s home—a swanky Mediterranean ranch that took up almost half a block. Moose was some kind of financial planner and the guy did all right for himself. The porch light was on and there were cars parked along the street. Mimi’s blue minivan sat in the driveway. He parked behind it and got out of the cruiser.
The front door burst open and Shea and Pilar came out. They both had an arm around Mimi, which was a good thing, because from the way his wife was staggering she would have probably fallen flat on her ass otherwise.
“You came!” Shea said. She jabbed her elbow in Pilar’s side. “I told you he would!”
Mimi looked at him with glazed eyes. Recognition set in. “You called him?” She turned to Shea. “I thought you were my friend!”
Moose Masterson stepped forward to shake Zeke’s hand. He was a big, likeable guy. Knew his football pretty well. “Hey, man, sorry about the call, but as you can see Bunco got a little out of control tonight.”
“No problem.” Zeke glanced through the open door and into the living room where it appeared that the rest of the women were in various stages of their “drunken and disorderly conduct.”
“I’m calling all the husbands to come do pick up duty.” Moose looked uncertain. “I wasn’t sure if we should call you or—”
“Shea was right to call me.”
Moose looked relieved. “Okay, glad to hear that.”
