“There’s a story.” She slid inside, reached across to unlock his door. “Maybe I’ll tell you someday.”
“Waiting for that day, Mick.” She looked at him, eyebrow cocked. He smiled. “No, seriously.”
“I suggest you buckle up. I’m not that good a driver.”
That wasn’t true, he discovered. She handled the vehicle skillfully. But recklessly, weaving in and out of traffic, jackrabbit starts and sharp stops.
“How many miles to a gallon you get?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“My driving.” She laughed and floored it. “Right now, maybe six.”
She took a curve too fast and he braced himself. “So, I’ll drive next time.”
“Chip in for gas and we’re good.” She glanced his way. “What did you drive, back in your real life?”
His real life. As if this was a whim. A diversion.
Wasn’t it? he asked himself.
“BMW.”
“Convertible,” she guessed. “Less than a year old. Maybe silver. A 300 series.”
“And they call me psychic,” he said lightly and grabbed the door handle as she executed a perfect U-turn, then slid to a stop in front of a rundown, shotgun-style double.
“Here we are.”
He let out a relieved breath. “And who taught you to drive that way?”
“That, Hollywood, is another story.”
He snorted. “Those stories are starting to stack up, partner.”
“Something for you to look forward to. Knight’s is the unit on the left.”
Zach peered at the house. Light glowed from a single, front window. “Looks like nobody’s home.”
“Let’s find out.”
They climbed out of the vehicle, crossed to Knight’s unit. Sagging front porch. Stairs he wasn’t confident would take his weight. An X spray-painted on the front door.
He remembered seeing those Xs on a documentary about Hurricane Katrina. Search and Rescue teams left them as a record they’d been there.
“This neighborhood got slammed by Katrina,” Mick said, then rapped loudly on the door. “Ms. Knight,” she called. “NOPD.”
Nothing. No light or movement from within. No sound.
“Brite Knight,” she called again, “police!”
Still nothing.
“What now,” he asked.
“I say we wait.”
“I’m cool with that.”
She moved the Nova, parking across the street from the duplex. Clear view, but discreet. If anyone could be in this vehicle.
Zach indicated the store on the corner. “I’m going to grab something to nosh on. Want anything?”
“A Mountain Dew.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m a country girl. Oh, and something salty.”
He shook his head and alighted the Nova.
A classic corner grocery. Like something out of a movie set in the old south, shelves stocked with a mish-mash of items: canned goods and snacks, diapers, batteries and boiled peanuts. A cooler with soft drinks, waters and a chocolate drink called Yoo-hoo. And one of those old-fashioned freezer boxes with ice cream bars.
The woman behind the counter eyed him suspiciously. Zach nodded in her direction, then crossed back to the storefront window. He peered out, could see the Nova, Mick inside.
He unclipped his phone, dialed Parker. “It’s me,” he said when the man answered. “Where are you?”
“Washington. Until Saturday.”
“Got an update. That energy we labeled not-so-friendly, it’s made another appearance.”
Zach sensed Parker’s interest peak.
“Here’s the thing,” he went on, “seems Mr. not-so-nice on steroids kicked my ass. Literally.”
“Where?”
“Missing coed’s apartment. Left something interesting behind. The number seven, hacked into the bathroom door.”
For a long moment, Parker was silent. Long enough that Zach wondered if the call had dropped. “You there, P?”
“I’ve got to go. Get me a full report, ASAP.”
And he hung up. Typical Parker. No time to waste on pleasantries. Zach re-holstered his phone and peered out the storefront window. Mick at the wheel, nothing had changed.
He grabbed a basket and hit the snack aisle, tossing in chips, cookies—anything that caught his eye or fancy, including a PowerBar for him and the Dew for her.
He took the loaded basket to the counter. The woman behind it cocked an eyebrow. “Eating disorder?”
He laughed. “Just like having options.”
Tall and skinny, with the lined face of a sun worshipper and kind eyes, she fixed that gaze on him a moment, then began to scan each item. “You new? I haven’t seen you around before.”
“I haven’t been around before.”
“Mysterious.”
“I’m a cop.”
“Well, that explains everything.”
He smiled and eyed her name badge. “I like you, Millie. I’m Detective Harris. You can call me Zach.”
Her mouth twitched. “All righty, Zach. That’ll be twenty-six twelve.”
He extracted bills from his wallet, handed them to her. “You know a fortune-teller named Brite Knight?”
She nodded and handed him his change. “She’s odd, that one is. Caught her shoplifting once.”