Read Valentine's Day Is Killing Me for Free Online Page B

in her bag. “Ah!”
    “You want some milk with that? That’s all we’ve got. Well, there’s some orange juice that looks questionable, but—”
    “Milk’s fine.”
    “Scott, for crying out loud! Why don’t you just go lie down in the back of her car and put the cuffs on yourself?”
    “That’s okay,” Hobbes said cheerfully. “I had my date earlier.”
    Scott brought her a glass of milk and she gulped it down with three Advils. “Okay,” she said, setting down the empty glass. “Like I was saying. I tried to call you earlier but couldn’t get through, so I thought I’d stop by in person—I’m sorry for the late hour, but I didn’t think you’d want to wait to hear—”
    “He’s too tall to be the killer!” Julie Kay blurted.
    “Julie Kay, will you let the woman get a complete sentence out?”
    “Scott, shut up and let me handle this. Detective, check his shirt! Check the dead guy’s wound! They won’t match. He’s innocent!”
    “Yes,” Hobbes said, rubbing her temples. “We know. That’s why I’m here. We got the guy. Once we figured out the stains didn’t match up, we went out with our handy-dandy, police-issue tape measures and figured out how tall the killer was, then questioned him at the restaurant. He confessed. We got him. Stop screaming.”
    “You got him?” she yelled, completely taken by surprise.
    Hobbes rolled her eyes. “Yes, that’s what we do: catch bad guys.”
    “Did my lawyer get ahold of you?” Scott asked excitedly.
    “No, Mr. Wythe, we figured it out all by our lonesome. It’s not like the movies, you know. An amateur sleuth doesn’t figure everything out and eventually enlighten the cops, who then gratefully see that justice is done and put the bad guy in jail. We enlighten you.”
    “There’s no need to be snotty about it,” she muttered.
    “There’s all kinds of need,” Hobbes retorted. She stood and slung her bag over her shoulder. “Anyway, since you were never charged, you don’t have to come back for an arraignment or anything. Just wanted you to know you can skip your one o’clock appointment.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Yeah, uh, thanks, Detective.”
    “Don’t mention it.” Hobbes stepped to the door. “Or, if you do, mention it quietly.”
    “Wait!”
    Hobbes groaned.
    “Sorry,” Julie Kay continued, softly. “But who did it?”
    “Oh. Gerald McDougal the Third. He—”
    “—was the manager, right? Oh, I knew it! He was totally trying to cover it up. And he’s completely wrecked your crime scene,” Julie Kay added in a self-righteous tone.
    “No. The manager is Gerald McDougal the Second. The killer—”
    “Was his son?” Scott asked, an amazed expression on his face.
    “Yes—second in line to take over the restaurant.”
    “Why’d he kill Charley?”
    “Charley was a regular at Tables; they’ve known each other for a year. Tables is a real family operation—the coat-check girl is McDougal the Third’s wife. Apparently Charley was having an affair with her.”
    “Oh, ouch,” Scott said respectfully. “That’s harsh.”
    “To put it mildly,” Julie Kay added.
    “Harsher: she picked tonight, of all nights, to confess. McDougal the Third took it badly.”
    “That sucks.”
    “And,” Julie Kay added, “that would explain why he—McDougal the Second—was trying to cover everything up. Protecting the family name, or whatever.”
    “We arrested his son earlier, so I’m not sure what you’re talking about when you said he’s wrecked the—”
    “He had cleaners and vacuums in there. Took down all your crime-scene tape. Like that.”
    “Oh.” Hobbes looked unsurprised. “Well, I’ll go back down there and book him for that, then. But I’ve seen it before. The mindset of the cover-up. He couldn’t stop his kid from being arrested, or his daughter-in-law from screwing around, but he could protect the restaurant’s reputation. Try, anyway. It never works. I don’t know why they bother.”
    “That