Page 7 of Road Queens
“There’s no need because—”
Amanda cut her off. “And they’ve only got—what? Fourteen more hours to do it?”
Sidney turned to the detective around whose desk they were gathered and tapped her wrist. “Tick-tock, Clarice.”
Cassandra laughed. “That loses some of the drama if you aren’t wearing a watch, Sidney.” Cassandra Rivers: six feet tall, crocheter extraordinaire, maaaaybe didn’t murder anyone.
“Watches are extinct, Cassandra, you stately dumbass. Except Apple Watches. Maybe.”
Funny how they (well, Sidney) had been soooo worried about Cassandra, only to find her leaning against a desk, long legs crossed at the ankles, sipping Cup-a-Soup and listening to whatever the hell the cop was saying. The look of amazed happiness on Cassandra’s face when she spotted them was, it had to be said, pretty satisfying.
And speaking of pretty satisfying, the cop upon whose desk Cassandra’s rump was parked wasn’t bad to look at inanyway. Tan jacket over a sky-blue button-down that matched his eyes. Chiseled jaw and stubble, right out of central casting for Brooding Hero. Or Brooding Psychopath No One Knows Is the Killer Until It’s Too Late. Either way: yum.
Aw, the dark circles under his eyes are the exact color of a Godiva salted-caramel truffle! If he’s tall, I’m done for. Might have to overlook the whole arresting-a-former-friend-for-murder thing.
“I’m waiting on some paperwork from the DA,” Detective Chisel McJaw volunteered in response to Sid’s reference to a cannibalistic serial killer. “Processing’s a little backed up.”
“Then it’s back to the hoosegow,” Cassandra said. “Only not really.”
Waiting on paperwork? How delightfully vague. And processing could be “backed up” to last Tuesday; it didn’t mean the arrestee gets to slurp soup while hanging in the bullpen.
“Thanks for your patience,” Detective Jawman added, like he was a waiter instead of a homicide detective.
He wasn’t surprised to see us either. Cassandra was, but not this guy. Were we expected? Why? And why is he treating Cassandra more like a guest than a suspect? I’ve seen her get ruder treatment at a Burger King drive-through.
“Well, Cassandra, we’ve got your back,” Amanda announced, which might not have been entirely true, depending. “Or whatever hackneyed cliché you want to pick.”
Cassandra nearly choked. “Why?”
“What d’you mean, why?”
“I mean—” Flustered, Cassandra tried again. “You didn’t have to come. Is all I meant.”
Sidney let out a snort. “Believe me, we’re aware.”
“What did I tell you?” Amanda asked, stretching her arms in a vindication V. “We’re super superfluous.” She would have kept rubbing it in but was distracted when Detective Jawman stood. “Yay, you’re tall!”
He stared at her. “I’m sorry?”
“She has a thing for storks and stubble,” Sidney explained, which was all kinds of aggravating.
“Anyway. You guys should go.” Cassandra straightened; Jawman was only an inch or so taller. “Please don’t misunderstand.”
“Too late,” Sidney grumped.
“I’m grateful you went to the trouble to come see me ...”
“First, we just got here,” Amanda pointed out. The cop was still staring at her. Was he challenging her for dominance? Because if so, he should have been glaring at Sidney. If they had a pack leader, she was it. “Second, there’s usually a ‘but’ after a lead-in like that.”
“Not this time. Grateful and goodbye.” At their silence, Cassandra added, “Should we, um, shake hands?”
“Jesus Christ.” From Sidney’s expression, one would assume Cassandra had tried to hand her a dead possum. “No.”
“You haven’t heard all the news,” Amanda said, wondering why she was prolonging this. Cassandra didn’t want them. Going by the heavy eye contact, the cop didn’t either. The obligatory check-in could be over. Whatever trouble this was, it didn’t seem to implicate her or Sidney. If they left right that minute, they could hit Muddy Waters before the lunch rush. “Our news, I mean. We, um, know what you’ve been up to.” Kind of.
“Yeah, well.” Cassandra turned to look out the agreeably large windows, unconsciously rubbing the scar over her eye. “Nice day for a ride.” Her smile was wistful, or the onset of acid reflux.
“Gorgeous,” Sidney agreed. Then: “Really? We’re gonna talk about the fucking weather?”
