BooksBarbecue
Back Fire Sale Save as PDF
Chapters (57)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise for the novels of Sara Paretsky
  3. ALSO BY SARA PARETSKY
  4. FIRE SALE
  5. Copyright
  6. THANKS
  7. CHAPTERS
  8. PROLOGUE
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. 19
  28. 20
  29. 21
  30. 22
  31. 23
  32. 24
  33. 25
  34. 26
  35. 27
  36. 28
  37. 29
  38. 30
  39. 31
  40. 32
  41. 33
  42. 34
  43. 35
  44. 36
  45. 37
  46. 38
  47. 39
  48. 40
  49. 41
  50. 42
  51. 43
  52. 44
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Morrell had been with me on Saturday when Buffalo Bill thumped in, demanding his grandson, but even if Morrell were the kind of guy who would go looking for Billy without telling me, he wasn’t physically up to the job. And he wasn’t much of a drinker.

I opened my phone and pressed the speed-dial key for Morrell, then shut the cover again: it was past two-thirty. I didn’t need to wake him up for something I could ask him in the morning. Anyway, I had the two thugs who’d pried open the trunk. They could answer a few questions.

As if on cue, a commotion erupted behind me: Mr. Contreras shouted, Mitch barked full throttle, and then I heard gravel spitting as our captives started running. I backed out of the bracken as fast as I could, dropping the two books in my haste. The youths were running headlong up Ewing. Mitch broke free of Mr. Contreras and tore after them.

I screamed at Mitch to come, but he didn’t even break his stride. I pelted after him. I heard Mr. Contreras’s lumbering tread for a few yards, but the traffic overhead soon swallowed the sound. At 100th Street, the youths turned west, toward the river, Mitch hot on their heels. I’d gone a block before admitting I’d lost them. I stood still, trying to hear where they’d gone, but couldn’t make out anything except the thunking of trucks on the Skyway and the lapping of the river somewhere on my left.

I turned back to Ewing. If Mitch caught them, I’d hear the uproar. But I would be in way over my head if I left the main road and tried to thread my way on foot through the dead-end streets and marshy lots that these guys called home.

27

Death in the Swamp

Behind me, a set of headlights picked me out like a deer on a country road. I ducked behind a Dumpster. The car stopped. I huddled in the dark for a moment until I realized it was my own car, that Mr. Contreras, with more sense than I possessed right now, had brought it up from where I’d abandoned it.

“Where are you, doll?” The old man had climbed out of the driver’s seat and was scanning the empty street. “I seen you a minute ago. Oh—where’s Mitch? I’m sorry, he just suddenly jumped and took after them punks. They go down the road there?”

“Yeah. But they could be anywhere by now, including the middle of the swamp.”

“I’m so sorry, doll, I see why you don’t want me butting in when you’re working, can’t even hold on to the damn dog.” He hung his head.