Brit tapped his knuckles against the desk. “Wonder how many members he has in his band? Want to bet it’s four?”
“Wouldn’t that be great!” Enthusiasm widened Quarles’ grin, and a little of the emotion leaked into Brit.
“I’d love to close this case.” Brit grabbed a phone book from his desk drawer and looked up Loren McKay. “Got it,” Brit said. “Here’s an address on her mother. She might not answer her phone, but she might answer the door.”
Standing, Brit reached back for his leather coat. His hand hadn’t hit the back of his chair when he remembered the soft swaying hips that had walked out with his jacket. He glanced at the sweater that now hung on the back of his door. He would hold it for ransom until she handed over his jacket. Right then, the anticipation of seeing Cali McKay surged back to life.
~
They went by her apartment first. The window had been fixed. No one answered the door. Then, they drove to the address listed for Cali’s mom. The house, a nice white brick, one-story home, sat far back on a manicured acre lawn with an abundance of trees. Brit pulled into the driveway.
“The whole neighborhood seems to be tucked into bed,” Quarles said when Brit cut off his engine. The night’s silence seeped into the car.
“Yeah.” Brit stepped out of his car. There wasn’t a light on in the house. Hesitation about waking up an old woman stirred in his gut.
“Look.” Quarles nudged Brit’s elbow.
Brit turned his head just in time to see a round orb of light dance across one of the front windows. Someone inside the house had a flashlight. Both he and Quarles reached for their guns at the same time.
“The lady could just use a flashlight to get to the bathroom,” Brit whispered, using logic.
“Yup,” Quarles said, but he didn’t put his Glock away.
Neither did Brit. “I’m going around back. Give me about two minutes, then, ring the doorbell.”
Quarles nodded, and they both froze as a car rolled by, its headlights casting two sprays of light over the tree-lined lawn. The sound of the car’s engine faded, and the dark silence returned. Brit started moving toward the fence.
The gate to the backyard was locked. He found a place to climb over. Falling to the other side, he barely escaped a rose bush. The darkness grew denser. Thick clouds held even the moonlight back. Gun in his hand, he moved toward the back patio.
Brit cut around the corner of the house. A noise brought his gaze up. But too late. Even in the dark, he saw the large object being hurtled at his head. He swung, saved his skull, but took the blow to the shoulder. The impact knocked him to the ground. His gun, jarred from his grasp, hit the concrete.A barbeque grill came slamming down beside him. Charcoal and ashes rained on his face, and he blinked the soot from his eyes. Unsure if he’d be shot in the process, but refusing to go down easily, he lunged for his Glock. He wrapped his hand around the solidness of his weapon and leapt to his feet. Blinking, still half blind, he tried to see his attacker.
No attacker, but he heard footfalls. The bitter taste of charcoal filled his mouth. His eyes, full of grit, stung like hell, but he scanned the shadows of the deep backyard.
Noise clattered behind him. Turning, Brit spotted a dark figure climb over the front fence. He tightened his hold on his gun, but recognized Quarles.
Another noise echoed from deep in the yard. Brit saw someone scrambling over the back fence. “He’s running,” Brit called and took off. Gritting his teeth, he fled after the grill-slinging bastard.
Heart pumping adrenaline into his chest, he hurdled the fence, and landed in another backyard and obviously in a big pile of dog shit if his nose was working right. He gaze darted around. Nothing. Then, he heard Quarles make the fence behind him.
“What we got?” Quarles’ voice stabbed at the dark silence.
“One man. I didn’t see a weapon.” He pointed. “Go that way.” He raced around one side of the house, Quarles the other.
Brit bolted through the open gate just in time to see a white truck, fitting the description of Humphrey’s vehicle, hauling ass down the street. “Crap.” He spit the bitter taste from his mouth, scrubbed a hand over his eyes, and wiped his shoe on the grass, trying to remove the crap. He smelled like last week’s grilled pork chop and dog shit. Lights flickered on in the house of the fence they’d just climbed. “Damn.”
“Who’s there?” a voice called out from a window.
Quarles walked toward the front porch. “It’s okay. We’re police.”
Brit left Quarles to explain while he ran back the way he’d come. He didn’t think Cali was there, but Humphrey could have hurt Cali’s mother.
He made the fence, landing with a thud. His shoulder ached, but he kept a firm grip on the Glock. He heard Quarles behind him again.
“Let me call for backup,” Quarles said, breathing hard.