Death Come Quickly Read Free Page A

us in the firm volunteered for pro bono work. I had dealt with people like Karen’s attacker—dopers, drifters, desperate for any cash they could beg, borrow, or steal. I have a certain tolerance, even a sympathy for them, since I’m naturally inclined to people who are trying to survive outside the system.
    But there’s a limit. My stomach knotted as I thought of Karen, energetic, intelligent, dedicated to her students and her work, now in the hospital, in a coma. Between gritted teeth, I added, “When they get the creep, I hope they sock it to him.” Aggravated robbery, aggravated assault—first- and second-degree felonies, five to life on the first, two to twenty on the second, and a $10,000 fine on both. And there would likely be additional charges, since muggers were usually on parole or on the lam, with outstanding warrants from a half-dozen jurisdictions. I hoped they would hit the creep with everything in the book.
    Ruby leaned against the doorjamb, twisting a curl of carrot-orange hair between her fingers. “Funny thing, though. Well, not
funny
, of course. Odd, I mean. Weird. The guy didn’t grab her purse, which was on the seat of her car, in plain sight. Felicity said it looks like he just hit her and took off. Hit her more than once, too.”
    Well, attempted robbery, then. He probably got interrupted before he could grab her purse and run.
    â€œWitnesses?” I took out my Deposit Only stamp and began stamping the checks, fiercely, as if I were stamping the mugger’s face and could disfigure him with one hard whack. “How about surveillance video?” The mall is on I-35, on the east side of Pecan Springs. There had been trouble in that same parking lot a couple of weeks before, and I had read in the
Enterprise
that the mall management was planning to install additional video cameras.
    â€œFelicity didn’t say anything about witnesses. Or video.” Ruby looked up as the bell over the front door tinkled and the door opened. In my surprise at the news about Karen, I had neglected to lock it. “But we could ask Sheila.”
    â€œAsk me what?”
    The woman who came into the shop was wearing a trim, sharply creased navy blue cop uniform, a neat navy tie, and a duty belt loaded with a gun, a radio, a flashlight, a baton, and an assortment of additional cop-shop gear. How Sheila Dawson can run with all that stuff slung around her hips is beyond me, but she can definitely do it. I’ve seen her sprint fifty yards, vault a waist-high stone wall, and bring down a two-hundred-pounder with a flying tackle. She is one tough gal
,
even when—or maybe
especially
when—she’s loaded down with cop gear.
    Still, despite her obvious professional qualifications, the first couple of years after she was named chief of the Pecan Springs Police Department were pretty rough. Some of the good old boys had a hard time adjusting to the idea that a woman was in command. But she did what she had to do, the guys got over it (most of them, anyway—there are still a few holdouts), and things are easier now. Not easy, of course. Just easier.
    â€œAsk me what?” Sheila repeated, taking off her cop cap and smoothing back her sleek blond hair. “What could I possibly know that you two don’t?”
    Next to Sheila I always feel rumpled, disheveled, and dumpy, especially when it’s the middle of July, I skipped this morning’s shampoo, and I’m wearing jeans and my old green Thyme and Seasons T-shirt. Smart Cookie—Ruby’s and my nickname for Sheila—has the impeccably groomed good looks of a Dallas debutante. If you haven’t seen her doing her job, you might think she was a candidate for Miss Texas.
    Mrs. Texas, rather. Sheila and Blackie Blackwell, the former sheriff of Adams County, got married last year, after long, uncertain months of back-and-forth, yes and no, then yes and maybe until they finally got to
yes
and
I