“How did this happen?” Chase asked when she fell into step beside him.
“How did what happen?”
“How did we get out here just when the Commissioner and Malka Putin were holed up in there?” He eyed her suspiciously. “Are you with the NSA? CIA? FBI? Did you put a tracking device on Vernon’s car or something?”
She laughed as they reached the clearing and descended the few steps to the parking lot. “Yes, I used a tracker, but no, I’m not with any agency.”
“How did you plant a tracker on Vernon’s car?”
She wondered how much to tell him, then decided the less he knew the better. He’d never believe her, and would probably think she was nuts.
“I put a tracker on Max, as he has a habit to wander off and get lost. A tracker and a panic button, actually. So when he triggered the alarm I knew we better come out here and get him before he started to panic.”
He stared at her. “So you had no idea Vernon would be here?”
“Nope,” she said, trying her darndest to keep a straight face. “Complete coincidence. Pretty amazing, huh?”
He shook his head. “You’re something else, Odelia Poole, has anyone ever told you that?”
“Yes, they have, but I don’t mind hearing it again.”
“Well, you are,” he said, leaning against the truck while he studied her intently. “So you’re saying your cat just so happened to be out here when Vernon and Malka Putin were going at it, and he just so happened to trigger the alarm, putting you in the perfect position to snap those shots?”
“Yep,” she said blithely. “That’s cats or you. They will amaze you.”
“They sure will.” He stared at her, and she noticed for the first time that his brown eyes were flecked with gold. He was pretty amazing himself. Then he shook his head and smiled, flashing those dimples at her. “You should have been a cop, Odelia. Are you sure you don’t want to join the force? I bet we’d make one hell of a team.”
“What would Dan do without me? I’m the only reporter he’s got.”
“He’ll find someone else.”
“Why don’t I stay a reporter and we can still be one hell of a team?”
He grinned. “Teaming up with the world’s nosiest reporter, huh?”
“Why not? This is Hampton Cove, Detective. We do things—”
“—a little differently out here. Yeah, I got the memo.”
He was leaning in now, and for a moment she thought he might kiss her. But then a sharp voice sounded from behind them. “How long do I have to sit here in this stinking truck?! I have rights! I demand to see my lawyer!”
Chase patted the truck and moved away. “Duty calls, Poole.”
“If I’m not mistaken it’s the black widow calling.”
He cocked his index finger at her and lithely rounded the truck and slid behind the wheel. “This time you follow me, Poole. No more surprises.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, tipping an imaginary cap.
She climbed into her own pickup and let the four cats in behind her. They jumped up onto the backseat and she slammed the door shut, then put the car in gear and drove off in Chase’s wake.
“You guys did great,” she told the fearsome feline foursome.
“Is Chase staying?” asked Harriet eagerly.
“He is.”
“Oh, thank God,” said Brutus.
“Thank Max,” said Odelia. “He’s the one who got us out here.”
“Thank you, Max,” said Harriet.
“Yeah, thanks, Maxie, baby,” grunted Brutus, then held up his paw. “Hit me, bro.”
“Oh, God,” muttered Max, rolling his eyes, but then he did as instructed and gave Brutus a high five.
Odelia, watching the cats through the rearview mirror, noticed that Dooley was the only one who wasn’t smiling. “What’s wrong, Dooley? Cat got your tongue?”
“Ha ha. Very funny. Max scratched my nose. It hurts.”
“All for a good cause, Dooley,” said Max.
“Yes, you’ll get over it, Dooley,” said Harriet.
“It’s called taking one for the team, Dooley, baby,” said Brutus.
“I’m not a baby!”
“Oh, yes, you are, you big baby,” Harriet cooed, and gave Dooley a peck on the whiskers. It perked him up considerably and he touched the spot reverently.
“We make a great team, you guys,” said Brutus. “A great team with a great leader.” He thumped his chest. “Yours truly. Bruce is back!”
“Oh, God,” muttered both Dooley and Max.
Odelia smiled. The four cats had accomplished the seemingly impossible: expose the Commissioner’s affair and exonerate Chase. And as she turned on the radio, a song of John Paul George came on.
“I’m Your Bi-ba-boy,” the singer crooned. “Your bi-ba-bad bad boy.”
Soon, they were all singing along, four cats and one human giving John Paul George a run for his money. Pop music had never sounded so bi-ba-bad.
THE END
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Excerpt from Between a Ghost and a Spooky Place
Chapter One
“I didn’t think you’d show up,” the gruff voice announced.
Harry looked up from her perusal of the latest James Patterson. She quickly closed the book and shoved it into her backpack, then rose from her perch on the low wall of the underpass. She shrugged as she approached the hulking figure. “I’m always true to my word,” she told the man, doing her best not to look or sound intimidated.
He really was a giant of a man, though she’d been told he wasn’t as dangerous as he looked. He could have fooled her, though. He had no neck to speak of, his arms alone were probably as thick as her waist, and she could have fitted several times in the long black overcoat he was wearing, she herself being rather on the petite side.
She pushed her blond tresses from her brow and fixed her golden eyes on the stranger, rubbing her hands to keep warm. She’d removed her gloves and knitted cap and now thought perhaps she shouldn’t have. The cold drizzle that had started overnight had turned into a real downpour, and even though they were protected from the brunt of the autumn weather by the underpass, the wet cold still crept in Harry’s clothes and chilled her to the bone.
“Let’s do this,” the man grumbled. “I haven’t got all day.”
The watery sun that had tried to pierce the dark deck of clouds that afternoon had finally given up its struggle, giving free rein to the driving rain. But then this was London, a city that for some reason had collectively decided the sun had no business here, except on those very rare occasions.
She quickly unzipped the main compartment of her backpack and took out the package, then handed it to the client. Through the clear plastic protective cover it was easy to make out its contents, but the burly man insisted on taking the book out nonetheless.
“You’re going to get it all smudged,” Harry murmured, though she knew this was none of her business. Once the transaction was made, the book belonged to the client, to do with as they pleased, whether she liked it or not.
“Looking good,” the man muttered, flipping through the pages of the voluminous tome. “How do I know it’s the real deal?”
“You have Sir Buckley’s word,” she said with a light shrug.
The client scrutinized her carefully, shoving the book back into its plastic covering. Then he nodded once. “Good enough for me,” he announced. He handed her a small black briefcase. “One million. As agreed,” he told her.
She balanced the briefcase on her knee and clicked it open. Two thousand 500 pound notes should be there and as far as she could determine they were all present and accounted for. But then again, she didn’t think the client was going to cheat her. And even if he did, Buckley would handle it.