Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4) by Nick Pirog (warren buffett book recommendations .txt) 📕

Droopy.

Well, if Droopy had fallen asleep in the sun for thirty hours.

Anyhow, I wasn’t sure if Droopy was responsible for the threat Officer Tiny—aka Officer Matt Miller, aka Officer Dumped Twice by the Same Girl—had delivered, but there was only one way to find out.

“I’m interested in the Save-More murders, and I was hoping I could have a look at your case files.”

My request fell somewhere between downright absurd and utterly ridiculous. Closer to the latter.

The Chief’s forehead creased, sending a flurry of dried skin into the air.

“Who exactly are you?” he asked flatly.

I smirked.

Late last night, I received a text message from an old acquaintance in Seattle, Erica Frost. She was an ex-girlfriend, and we parted on semi-decent terms. Semi-decent because I broke up with her by text which, according to my sister, should be on my permanent record. Anyhow, she was a homicide detective at the Seattle Police Department. Her text simply said: Heard your name today. Some police chief in Missouri asking about you. Just a heads-up.

“Cut the shit. You know who I am.”

His facade broke. “You’re right, I do.”

“Which begs the question: why exactly are you doing background checks on me?”

“Just doing my due diligence on the newest member of our community.”

“Bullshit.”

He glared at me, then said, “As for your request, that’s not gonna happen.”

I held his gaze.

“And just out of curiosity,” he asked, “what is your interest in the Save-More murders?”

“Just doing my due diligence on my new community.”

He didn’t respond to this, and I said, “You know, there’s probably a video on YouTube that will show you how to apply sunblock properly.”

If he found this amusing, he didn’t show it.

He said, “You think that just because you were some hotshot homicide detective, that because you were on the cover of Time, that because you come from the city, you think you can just waltz in here and demand to see our files. You got some nerve.”

“First, I was on the cover of Time and People. Second, I have no idea how to waltz. And third, I didn’t demand anything, I asked to see your files.”

He stared at me for a long second, then said, “Your old boss said you were a prick.”

“That might be the case. But if you did your proper homework on me, then you would know I’ve put a shitload of bad guys away, that I helped track down four serial killers when I was working with the Feds, and that I broke open several cold cases that were considered not cold, but frozen in ice.”

He put his hand up to speak, but I wasn’t finished.

“I’ve seen more murders, more depraved shit, more death, and closed more cases than everyone in your little podunk police department combined. You should feel blessed that the gods have looked down upon you that I might offer my services and take a look at your case files.”

He stood. He was taller than I would have thought, at least six-three. He said, “Forgive me if I don’t bow down and wash your feet. And for the record, I was a homicide detective for nine years in St. Louis before I came here, so I can assure you, I have seen just as much depraved shit, and I can guarantee I solved more cases than you. And if Sherlock Holmes himself walked through those doors, I would tell him the same exact thing I’m gonna tell you: it will be a cold day in hell when I let anyone outside of this department look at a sensitive case file.”

If I were a dog, my tail would be between my legs hiding my genitalia. If this were a rap battle, I would have just been booed off stage. If this were Hell’s Kitchen, Gordon Ramsay would have just told me to “get out of his fucking kitchen.”

After a few recovery breaths, not to mention a couple Stuart Smalley self-affirmations that I wasn’t a complete loser, I asked, “St. Louis?”

St. Louis was routinely ranked as one of the most dangerous cities in the United States.

He nodded, his jowls hiccupping up and down.

“I guess I had you all wrong,” I said. “But just so you know, Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character. I think you might be confused about that.”

“I know, I was just making a point.”

“It’s just you made it sound like he was a real person who could come walking through the door, but he can’t.”

“I kno—”

“He’s not real.”

It would seem I’d officially worn out my welcome, and he pointed to the door. “I think it’s time for you to go.”

When I was halfway through the doorway, I turned and said, “They sell it at most grocery stores. Heck, they probably even sold it at the Save-More. You know, before the murders.”

“What?”

“Sunblock.”

I winked at him, then made my way back to the entrance. I hit the reception desk, and the woman called out, “Mr. Prescott. Your ID.” She held up my license.

I took it.

I could feel the piece of paper taped to the back of my license the moment I took it from her, but I didn’t dare look at it until I’d driven from the parking lot and down a few blocks. Peeling the small white piece of paper off the back of my license, I unfolded it and read the message:

Talk to Mike Zernan.

Then there was an address.

And so it began.

Chapter Nine

There were seven churches within the town limits, and I was invited to three of their summer revivals.

Two Lutheran.

And one Baptist.

Walk into a bar.

Just kidding.

Apparently, the festivities lasted all day Saturday and most of Sunday. I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings and I decided to make a pit stop at all three. My plan was to hit a couple today, then one tomorrow.

I contemplated dressing May and Harold up and taking them with me, but I wasn’t sure what the rules were with pigs and churches. Deities? Dinner? It was a slippery slope.

Anyhow, I put them in the pigpen. When I walked