Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle by Pauline Jones (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

were built too much alike to be photographed together, but she couldn’t tell that to Donald. He loved that bear.

In honor of the occasion, Donald shook the first two beers and sprayed her with one. She sprayed him, then they fell on the bed, laughing like a couple of kids until Donald got jabbed in the privates with the Uzi.

“Disney World here we come!” He staggered over to the sorry TV and fumbled with the dials until a fuzzy picture formed on the screen. “I want to see them haul her outta there in one of them black body bags.”

“News won’t be on for awhile.”

“Someone’s liable to have one of them news break things soon.” He turned through the three channels until a plastic newsman highlighting the top stories filled the screen.

“Violence again broke out in the streets of New Orleans this afternoon. An auto parts store in downtown New Orleans was the target of a drive-by shooting. Police have no motive for the incident which left two people, one an NOPD detective, with minor injuries—”

Whatever else the newscaster had to say was drowned in Donald’s howl of rage as he kicked in the TV screen, pulling his hernia in the process.

Dante was studying his Persephone when Max slid into the room.

“Yes, what is it?”

“I think we got something solid on Miss Cloris’ husband, Mr. Dante.”

Dante wheeled to look at his assistant. “Tell me, Max.”

“Found a snitch that thinks he recognizes him from prison. Seems he’s a con artist, name of Arthur “Artie” Maxwell. Has a string of aka’s—and a penchant for preying on older ladies with cash.”

There was a long pause as Dante assimilated this information. “Your snitch know where he is?”

“I got everyone looking, but word is, he’s gone to ground. I don’t think you’re the only one looking for him.”

“I want to be the one who finds him.”

“Yes, Mr. Dante.”

Dante resumed contemplation of his masterpiece.

“I like the boobs the same.”

“So do I, Mr. Dante.”

The fire department came. And more police cars. The bomb squad, paramedics and the news media, both print and electronic.

And Captain Henry Pryce—looking especially grim.

“Can we be cashiered or are we gonna be shot at dawn?” Mickey watched the determined approach of the Captain, the clusters of official humanity falling back for their stern-faced leader.

“If we’re lucky we’ll only be shot,” Delaney said. He examined the series of neat plaster strips the EMT had applied to his arm, voiced his thanks, and stood up. Rolling down his sleeves, he waited for Pryce while the same EMT as before turned his attention to Mickey.

“You got a death wish, man?”

There was no time to answer as Pryce stopped in front of them.

“Gentlemen.” Pryce’s hooded gaze was as cold and green as his stare, long and unnerving. “Care to explain what happened here?”

They didn’t, but had to anyway. When they finished, there was another nerve-wracking silence until Pryce said, “This has gotten completely out of hand. What’s the motive?”

“No clue,” Delaney admitted. “Does seem like they have to be related to the murders, though.”

“Thank you for stating the obvious, detective,” Pryce said.

A distraction seemed in order, so Mickey jumped into the fray. “Speaking of the murders,” he asked, “has our autopsy come in yet on the John Doe from the freezer?”

Pryce’s gaze swiveled to Mickey like big guns homing in on a small target. “Funny you should ask about the Coroner. He’s been asking about you.”

“Really?” Mickey tugged at his tie.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t expect any—favors—from them for quite a while. At least until they’ve had time to forget the riot. Always assuming that’s possible.”

“Riot?” Mickey and Delaney looked at each other.

“It seems a pair of our detectives gave a picture of the frozen corpse to some crazy psychic. Who made copies and handed them out for all her friends to show around. Which helped the TV people get hold of one and run it on the noon news. Seems like everyone in town thought it was a picture of someone they knew and came down to make sure it wasn’t. Now which detectives do you think would do something so stupid?”

“I’ll check around, sir.” Mickey avoided looking at his Captain, but it didn’t help. He wished looks could kill so he’d be out of his misery, but knowing Pryce, he’d just set his eyes to maim.

“You do that. In the meantime, your autopsy is at the bottom of the priority list.”

“So—are we suspended?” Maybe it wasn’t a total loss.

“Not—yet.”

“The Seymours—” Delaney started to protest.

Pryce cut him off at the knees. “…are the only reason I haven’t suspended you. I know, none better, how—difficult they can be. But if you keep your head, your perspective, you can handle a few eccentric old ladies.

“Yes, sir.”

Mickey noticed a uniform approaching and turned to him with relief at the distraction he hoped he would provide.

“Ross, Delaney, Miss Seymour said she was going to change, but she’d meet you in the garden—oh, sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He looked like he meant it, if the jump of his Adam’s apple and the white showing around his eyes were any indication.

“You have a message for these two?”

He didn’t add “bozos,” but Mickey felt it was implied.

The uniform, instead of delivering his message, stared at the Captain, a frown furrowing his young brow. “Are you...is she...?”

“Spit it out. Is she what?”

“A...relative, sir. She could be, well, your daughter.”

Pryce stared at the uniform long enough to almost wither him where he stood. “Who could be my daugh—” He stopped, the color draining from his lean cheeks.

Mickey felt the internal earthquake that comes when pieces fall into place. It was so obvious, he couldn’t believe he’d missed it. The line of the jaw, Pryce’s and Luci’s straight mouths. Blinded by the legs. And the eccentricity, he told himself as he braced for the sky of his Captain’s wrath to fall. Though it was kind of a relief to know that even the Captain hadn’t handled one particular Seymour woman