The would-haves and could-haves. I knew about those, too. "I thank you so much for your help, Mr. Washington. Guess I need to find out about these friends from Lawrence's group."
I walked to the door with Thaddeus Washington wheeling behind me.
When I opened the door, his chair suddenly rammed into me and Mr. Washington shouted, "Get down!"
I fell forward onto the threshold, instant pain blasting through both knees. I squeezed my eyes shut. That's why I didn't see who was shooting at us, though I did hear glass breaking. That's all I heard, because Mr. Washington's return fire deafened me.
"Some idiot in a hotdog red car," he yelled once I was on my feet and my assaulted eardrums began to function again.
Damn. I missed getting that plate number again.
17
I've been shot at before, and it's not something you get used to. My hands were shaking when I called Jeff and explained what had happened. He said to sit tight, he was on his way.
Meanwhile, Mr. Washington called 9-1-1, but someone else must have done the same, because a few seconds after I disconnected from Jeff, two HPD squad cars came to a screeching halt in front of the house.
Fortunately we avoided a SWAT team appearance or helicopters descending on us when a neighbor woman came out and explained what she'd seen to the patrol officers and assured them that Mr. Washington and I were not the threat. The threat had sped away in a red car.
Then it was all happy reunion time with the four officers who'd responded. Seems Mr. Washington and his gun were well known to these guys. Meanwhile I had two blue-red indentations across both knees and an attitude that matched the pain. I'd missed that Lexus-driving jerk again.
By the time Jeff arrived, I'd shown my PI license to every smirking, uniformed face, tried to explain why I was here and listened to their skepticism about this assailant being the person who'd followed me yesterday. There were a million red cars in Houston, I was told, and since Mr. Washington had a history of firing at drive-by shooters, perhaps one of his old enemies had returned for payback.
When Jeff and DeShay showed up, the atmosphere changed. Jeff made sure Mr. Washington and I were unhurt before turning his attention to senior Officer Smirk—okay, it said SCHMIDT on his uniform. Jeff said, "You call out a crime scene unit?"
"It's a broken window, Sarge. We—"
"Call one. Now. And get the other officers out of here. You can stay." The icicles in Jeff's tone must have pierced Schmidt's Kevlar vest, because Schmidt sent the three officers back to their patrol units with a "Yes, sir." Then he called on his walkie-talkie for a crime scene unit.
Meanwhile a gloved DeShay was pointing with a pencil at a bullet lodged in the wall right above the sofa—oh so close to the place I'd been sitting not thirty minutes ago. "We need this bullet," he said.
"You think this incident is related to the case the woman was telling us about?" Schmidt asked.
"Tried to tell you about," I piped in.
"The woman's name is Ms. Rose and she's working with us," Jeff said, looking at the bullet hole, his head tilting right then left.
"Guess that's a yes," Schmidt said quietly.
"I think you'd be right, Schmitty," Mr. Washington said from his spot at the kitchen entry. He'd already apologized several times for knocking me down and now held a bright blue plastic ice pack. "This might help, Ms. Rose."
I hobbled over and took it from him. "Thanks. I think what just went down puts us on a first-name basis. I'm Abby."
"Thaddeus. Just so you know, he wasn't aiming for neither of us."
This observation got Jeff's attention. "What's that, Mr. Washington?"
"From what I could tell—'course these things happen in a split second, so I could be wrong—he hit what he wanted to. The window. I mean, he was a damn twenty feet away and missed us by ten."
"A warning shot," Jeff said, nodding in agreement. "Get a look at the shooter?"
Thaddeus shook his head no. "Black glove and shiny gun through the driver's side window, that's all. I did hit a taillight, though. You might want your crime scene folks to take a look in the street."
Jeff smiled. "You got off a shot?"
"You betcha."
Jeff glanced down at me. I was sitting on the floor next to Thaddeus, holding the frozen gel pack across both knees.
He said, "Seems Miss Abby Rose is one of the lucky ones. She makes friends willing to defend her wherever she goes."
After I gave Schmitty a formal statement, I left at Jeff's insistence, even though I wanted to see what the crime scene people came up with. He told me the house was so small I'd be in the way, so I tried not to pout when I said good-bye. There is nothing more unattractive than a pouting girlfriend unless she happens to be a Playboy centerfold candidate. Those types could chew tobacco and men wouldn't care.
But if I thought the excitement was over, I was milking the wrong cow. My cell phone rang about halfway home.
"This is Blinks Security. Vega here," said the caller.
Yes, Blinks. I still wonder when Brinks will file suit.
"What is it, Mr. Vega?" I had a sick feeling in my stomach. Your security company does not call to say, "Everything's fine at your place, if you're wondering."
"You've had a break-in, Ms. Rose. West U. police are already on the scene. We arrived first, by the way."
I sighed. "Of course you did, and I'm so proud. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
I'd hired the security company and had a system installed after a suspect in another case walked right into my screened-in porch with her trusty gun in hand. A lot of good it did me today. I felt like I'd had my clothes stolen while I was skinny-dipping. Embarrassed, angry and foolish about summed it up. See, I was now certain that someone had gotten someone's license plate number even if I hadn't. Mr. Red Lexus got mine, probably when he ran out of Verna Mae's house the other night. The bastard had been on my tail ever since, and apparently following me had been as easy as catching fish with dynamite.
I returned home to meet with Vega and the West U. police, a visit that didn't last long. Vega said he'd have my broken lock replaced before nightfall. Then when the police and I did an inventory and discovered the only thing missing was the Washington file, they left as happy as blowflies on manure. Who cares about a pile of paper?
I sat at my kitchen table, fists supporting my chin. I didn't want to call Jeff and tell him what had happened. I was too upset. The Washington files were gone, the files I had promised Joelle Simpson I'd take care of, stolen while I'd been giving a statement, stolen no doubt by Mr. Red Lexus. Had he shot at and missed us for just this purpose? To delay me across town? Probably. After seeing me with Thaddeus Washington, he put two and two together, created a diversion and headed straight here to find out what I had that led me to Lawrence's father. At least he hadn't hacked into my computer. That would have required time considering how well-protected it was. No, my computer wasn't important to the thief, anyway. I'd left what he wanted in plain sight.
I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling a headache coming on. Damn. First Verna Mae's scrapbooks and now the files. Someone did not want the old case and Verna Mae's death connected—and that meant bigger secrets were out there somewhere.
I had to tell Jeff. Despite the disinterest by the local police, the thief could have left evidence in my kitchen. Yeah. Big fat fingerprints all over the place. Probably even spit on the table to make sure we had DNA. Right. Like he'd never seen CSI or Forensic Files or any other crime show that offers crooks recipes for success.