A Beeline to Murder Read Free

button, and dispatch answered. “We’ve got a DOA at number three Lemon Lane. Notify the coroner and get me backup.”
    “Need help documenting this?” Abby asked.
    “I ain’t sayin’ no. Just me and Otto working the streets this week.”
    “I thought Chief Bob Allen had hired some new recruits.”
    “Yeah, but three are in San Francisco for defensive tactics training, two are getting recertified at the firearm range, and our crime-scene photographer is in L.A. all week.”
    Abby winced. She knew working short staffed could be grueling, what with patrol work, traffic stops, ticket and report writing, court appearances, and the like. God forbid anything more serious, like a robbery or a murder, should happen. When she and Kat had worked together, their beat was the downtown district. They had worked mostly petty crimes, which ranged from the occasional burglary to high school pranks and shoplifting.
    Las Flores was ethnically mixed, mirroring Northern California’s Bay Area and wine country towns, and without much crime. The outskirts and rural areas were populated by farmers, ranchers, and young, upwardly mobile urbanites who favored family-friendly businesses and all things organic. Like any other town in America, Las Flores had its share of hotheads, rednecks, gangbangers, and retirees. But the vast majority of folks were decent and hardworking. Abby knew that the largest number of traffic tickets went mainly to nonresidents of Las Flores who used Main Street as a shortcut from the cities in the valley to the beach towns on the other side of the coastal mountains. But with a state prison only twenty-five miles to the north of town, just outside the county, Las Flores also got its share of shady characters passing through—convicted felons, parolees, and gang members, who frequented the local watering hole, the Black Witch Bar. Anything could happen on any day, but especially over the weekends, when out-of-towners cruised through.
    Abby and Kat had witnessed plenty of public drunkenness and brawls at the bar, a favorite of bikers, who frequently stopped in for one last cool drink after a long day of riding in the mountains or visiting wineries. The bar and the dead chef’s pastry shop shared space in the same building that also housed Cineflicks, the local theater. Occasionally, the business owners along Main Street would complain of the stench of urine, sure that the culprits were bar patrons. Having worked the streets for years, Abby had seen many crimes and criminals during her tenure in the downtown, but homicides—those were few and far between in Las Flores.
    Abby sighed, “What about the county sheriff? Couldn’t Chief Bob Allen request some extra officers from him?”
    Kat shot an incredulous look at her. “Are you kidding? Chief Bob Allen threatened to withhold our uniform-cleaning allowance to reduce departmental spending. That is, until the comptroller told him he couldn’t do that. Ask for outside help? No way.”
    Abby frowned. “Well, what if I take the crime-scene pictures for you . . . ? I’ve got my camera in the Jeep.”
    Kat rubbed an earlobe between her thumb and finger as she weighed Abby’s offer. “You know the rules. I’m supposed to say no. But seeing as how it’s you, I don’t think the chief could get too flipped out.”
    “Just trying to help,” Abby said. “I’ve got to deliver a file to the DA’s office by noon and head back to the farmette. If I don’t rescue my bee swarm, they’ll take off for parts unknown. So if you want pictures, speak up, or I’m out of here.”
    “Oh, what the heck! Let me grab the crime-scene tape from my cruiser.” Kat turned and walked to the back door.
    Following her to the parking lot, Abby opened the door of her Jeep and rummaged through the glove compartment until she located her digital camera. She slammed shut the door and, with camera in hand, said, “Just like old times.”
    “Yep,” Kat replied. “Let’s start inside and