Murder mile, p.34
Murder Mile, page 34
“So why call you then?” I ask, the cool night wind buffeting my face while my headlights cut through the dark of night. “You’re an evil cop too. According to the Washington DC swamp anyway.”
“I went to high school with her mother before I got drafted for Viet Nam,” he says. “I even dated her a few times.”
“So, Wing is her maiden name?” I ask.
“Yup,” he says. “Family owned a hardware store on Broadway a whole bunch of years ago.”
“Oh, those Wings,” I say. “Little bit of dough rei me running around that family. You should have stuck the relationship out or else you wouldn’t be working in your golden years.”
“It’s fucking two o’clock in the morning, Moonlight,” he says, aggravated. “Can you tell me what else you need to know about the situation up in Saratoga?”
“Well, if you must know,” I say, “I’ve been in this business for a lot of years and never once have I been called out on a case because of vultures.”
“It happens,” he said. “I once got called in a case where vultures were perched on a rooftop. Turned out the old man and his wife who lived in the joint were dead in bed after pulling off a murder/suicide pact.”
I picture the tall, short, white haired, Clint Eastwood look-alike lying in his bed, probably wearing a pair of pressed blue pajamas like my dad would have worn.
“So why not send a uniform?” I say.
“Because, once again, Julia doesn’t trust real cops and I figured you could use the money,” he says. “Satisfied?”
“But I was sleeping off a hangover, Miller,” I say “You know what I’m like when I don’t get my ten hours. Why not call in Jobz or Marconi?”
“Because Jobz’s hangovers are ten X what yours are and he won’t even answer the phone if it’s his dying mother,” he says. “And jobs like this are way below Marconi’s pay grade.”
I see a sign for a McDonalds that’s located off the highway. A large black coffee would taste pretty damned good right about now.
“Oh, now that hurts,” I say. “I’m just as good as Marconi.”
“Marconi’s not a nut job,” Miller says. “Oh, and there’s one more reason you’re it.”
“Is it a good reason?” I ask.
“You’re a notorious asshole,” he says, “and Julia ain’t gonna be easy to deal with. Trust me on that. She’d devour Jobzy just by breathing in his general direction.”
“Notorious asshole,” I repeat. “Why do I feel more or less honored at you calling me that?”
“You just answered your own query,” the Chief Homicide Detective says. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get three more hours of shuteye before I get up and run a five K before work.”
“I’d say goodnight, Miller, but there’s nothing good about it.”
He hangs up without a goodbye. I pull off the exit for a large coffee…
…Oh, and maybe an egg McMuffin.
Click here to learn more about Notorious Moonlight by Vincent Zandri.
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Tony Black, Murder Mile
