Flash Point. Metsy Hingle
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at ten o’clock, the paper was already there. Figured I’d leave it in case somebody wanted to read it. But if it’s in your way, I can toss it.”
“That’s all right,” she said, while in truth she wished to God she’d never touched the thing. She didn’t want to get involved. All she wanted was to see the Mother Superior at the convent and satisfy herself that Sister Grace’s death had been a peaceful one, sign any paperwork the attorneys had for her regarding the nun’s bequest and go back to New York. But how could she ignore what she’d just seen in the vision? What if the murder hadn’t happened yet? If she did nothing, that man was going to be killed.
And what if he’s already dead? Do you really want to be the butt of all those jokes and whispers again?
Oh, God, she didn’t want to get involved. But what choice did she have? As unpleasant as it would be to open herself to the speculation and talk, she couldn’t honestly live with herself if he died because she’d done nothing. She had to do it. She had to go to the police.
“Ma’am, are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes,” she replied, already feeling the weight of her decision settle upon her. She pushed the six dollars across the table at the waiter. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks,” he said, and shoved the money into his pocket.
When he started to leave, she said, “One more thing. The police station, is it still on North Rampart Street?”
He shrugged. “No idea. I’ve only been in town a couple of months.”
“It’s still there,” a scruffy-looking fellow nursing a coffee at the next table told her.
“Thanks,” Kelly told him. Using a napkin, she picked up the newspaper and shoved it into her camera bag. She stood and slid the strap of the bag onto her shoulder.
“Ain’t you going to eat those doughnuts?” the old guy asked.
“No. My stomach’s not feeling all that well,” she said honestly. “But it would be a sin to let them go to waste. Maybe you’d do me a favor and eat them?”
“Well, seeing as how it’s a favor, I guess I could do that,” the fellow said, his eyes lighting up as she placed the plate of beignets in front of him. “And no point in letting that coffee go to waste, either.”
“You’re right.” After setting her untouched coffee on the guy’s table, she hurried out of the café and prayed she wouldn’t be too late.
Two
Police Sergeant Max Russo did his best to ignore the chaos surrounding him in the precinct. Eying the clock on his desk, he willed the next twenty minutes to pass quickly so that his shift would finally be over and he could head home.
“Yo, Guthrie, this is a police station—not a dog pound,” Detective Sal Nuccio called out when an officer came through the precinct doors with a six-footer wearing a bedraggled brown fur costume and a pair of handcuffs.
“You’re a real funny guy, Nuccio,” Guthrie fired back.
“I’s a werewolf,” the culprit replied, his speech slurred from too much hootch or drugs or both.
“And I’m Little Red Riding Hood,” Guthrie replied. “Come on.”
“It’s true,” the shaggy fellow insisted. And as though to prove his point, he began to howl like a wolf.
“Knock it off,” Guthrie commanded, and smacked the fellow on the back of the head while the rest of the station laughed.
Max shook his head. Halloween certainly brought out the weirdos, he thought as the new rookie, Palmisano, marched in with three dames wearing black leather and carrying whips. Make that two dames, he amended when he noted the tall blonde had an Adam’s apple.
“Officer, you’re making a terrible mistake. I told you that we were only trick-or-treating. There’s no law against trick-or-treating in New Orleans, is there?” the flashy brunette asked.
“No, ma’am. But there is a law against offering to do the kind of tricks you were suggesting in exchange for money.”
The wolfman howled again.
“I told you to knock that shit off,” Guthrie ordered.
“Maybe you ought to get him a leash, Guthrie,” Nuccio chided.
“Up yours, Nuccio. Come on, wolfman. Let’s go get those paws of yours printed.”
The wolfman shuffled a few steps, then stopped dead in his tracks. “Say, man, I’s not feeling so good.”
Max looked at the man’s face, recognized the shade of green. “Guthrie, if I were you, I’d get him to the can first. And I’d be quick about it.”
“The can? But what—” Guthrie swore. “Listen to me, you dirtbag. You puke on me and your ass is going to rot in this jail,” the officer promised as he hauled his collar down the hall.
Max chuckled, as did the rest of the precinct, when moments later they heard Guthrie let loose with a string of four-letter words. He sure was glad he was behind a desk now and no longer walking a beat. Max stole another glance at the clock. Another fifteen minutes and he’d be heading home to his Rosie. He could already see himself kicking back in his favorite chair to watch that Indianapolis Colts game he’d set to tape before leaving home this afternoon. While he remained a die-hard Saints football fan he had a soft spot for that Peyton Manning, since the kid was from New Orleans. ’Course, he’d also watched the boy’s daddy quarterback the Saints a couple decades ago. Yep, he thought. Having Rosie serve him an ice-cold one with some of that gumbo that she’d had simmering on the stove while he watched the game was the perfect way to end this crazy day.
Whatever you do, Lord. Don’t let me get stuck with some pain-in-the-ass case that’s going to make me work late.
But Max no sooner sent up the silent prayer when he saw her walk in. A fresh-faced blonde dressed all in black and white, lugging a bag on one shoulder that was almost as big as she was. Nuccio, who thought himself a ladies’ man, wasted no time in making a beeline over to her. Not that he blamed the guy, Max admitted. The lady was a looker, even if she was a bit young for the likes of an old geezer like him. For a minute Max wrote her off as one of them college kids, then he got a better look at her face as she brushed off Nuccio and headed toward him.
Nope. The lady might be young, but those eyes were way too serious to belong to some wet-behind-the-ears kid, he decided. And he didn’t imagine any college girl would ignore the scuffle going on only a few feet from her the way she did. Nor did he suspect any college kid would appear so unconcerned by the four-letter words coming from the foul-mouthed drunk, or the way the half-naked perp was leering at her. A cool one, Max thought as she approached the desk.
“Are you the person in charge?” she asked.
“I’m the desk sergeant on duty. Max Russo. What can I do for you, ma’am?”
“I’m here to report a murder.”
It was the last thing he’d expected her to say, Max admitted silently. “Why don’t you have a seat, Miss…?”
“Santos,” she replied as she sat down. “Kelly Santos.”
“All right, Miss Santos. Now, why don’t we start by you telling me who it is that was murdered and your relationship to the victim.”
“I don’t know who he is. I mean, I never met him. And I don’t know his name. But I saw…I saw him sitting inside of a car and he…he was shot.”
Max looked up from the pad he was writing on and asked, “Do you know who shot him?”
Kelly shook her head. “No. But it was a woman.”
“All right.” He jotted down the shooter was