Hostile Witness (Sanctuary, Inc. #1)

Chapter 11

11

V ince wiped the oil and vinegar from his chin with a wad of brown napkins. This sub was the best food he’d eaten since arriving from New York to pay Lieutenant Plante a little visit. Most of the food sucked down here. All the menus boasted superlative seafood added to eggs and dips and sandwiches. Ugh. These people loved their crab. They even put the crustacean on pizza. Every food had something called Old Bay on it, in it, or served on the side with it. They even put it in the mayonnaise and on their French fries. Disgusting. What a relief to find this dinky sub shop offering just one variety of fish and that being a tuna sub.

He’d opted for the Italian cold cut with oil and vinegar. It reminded him of home. But the bread was commercially prepared white fluff. It was nothing like fresh-from-the-oven bread in New York, made by artisans who’d passed their recipes down for generations.

Oh, the memories. He used to love delivering predawn newspapers in the Bronx neighborhood where he’d grown up. The scent of fresh bagels, real kaiser rolls, and Italian loaves with rosemary and olive oil had wafted in the air. He’d looked forward to delivering old lady Simon’s newspaper to the back door of her bakery. Rarely mumbling a word to him, she’d snatch the paper from his hand and hand him a hot bagel in return. Those had been the good days.

But that was back then. He’d carried his dream of being a cop right through high school. He’d never wanted to date the head cheerleader. He’d wanted to be a cop. And dammit, he’d be one now if it weren’t for that bitch Marjorie Plante. She’d been so high-and-mighty during his cadet interview, recommending he get counseling and reapply for the cadet program the next year. She’d even offered to take him to the shrink herself.

He should’ve never answered the questions about his mother and father the way he had.

Writing that his dad’s name was Jim Beam and his mother’s was Tia Maria had cost him dearly. He’d written it on the questionnaire as a damn joke, but Marjorie Plante didn’t have a sense of humor. No, by-the-book Lieutenant Plante had acted all concerned about him. She hadn’t understood humor even when it had hit her square in the face. Well, he’d kept his rage from her and had told her “yes ma’am” and had waited the year and had gone to counseling. But he never could obtain the clean bill of mental health the department requested.

Vince balled the paper sub wrapper in his fist and pounded the table. He’d be a real cop right now if it weren’t for Margie Plante, and he’d done his best to look sincere when she’d opened the door to her house and he had pleaded for her help. There she was, looking all tan and fit and unarmed and concerned. She glanced behind her and said, “Just a minute,” and shut the door without locking it. He let himself in and took over five steps later. To the credit of his inner genius, she’d attached her dog to that weird contraption in the corner.

Taking Plante down from behind was no problem. He had a foot and at least fifty pounds on her. That big old bust of some musician on the grand piano came in real handy. One pop to the head and she went down. The second and third blows were for sport.

But the most fun that day was hurting that dog. Oh, he’d considered just killing the thing after he’d found Plante’s gun, but it was more fun to tease and kick him, dancing around just out of the animal’s reach. “Whatcha gonna do, Toto, bite me?” That dog barked and snarled and pawed at the air like he’d tear him a new aorta if it only could.

The cops would never find him. He’d noted every touched surface before and after he’d offed her and had wiped everything clean. Carrying his shoes, he’d pranced out of the house wearing Lieutenant Plante’s Nikes and strolled through her garden and through the cornfield beyond to his car a quarter mile away.

He smirked, tossing the sub wrapper in the garbage can just as the door opened and a patron entered the little shop. It was that dumber-than-dirt redheaded lady cop he’d seen in his binoculars trying to pee in Plante’s backyard. Their eyes caught, and he gave her a little nod. See how harmless I am?

She ignored him, walked to the counter, and called out, “I’m here to pick up that ten-inch veggie sub with oil and vinegar, Pete.”

“You got it, Tia. I’ll be right out.”

Pretty name. Vince’s eyes wandered the shapely length of her body. She might lack brains but sure made up for it in looks. His fingers itched. What would it feel like to fist that curly hair and show her he was the boss? Licking his lips, he rose and headed out as the door chime announced his departure.

He glanced into the shop one last time. It wouldn’t hurt a bit to take out one more lady cop. But you know, with that pretty redhead? He’d have to make her beg first. He knocked his fists together like a boxer. This little seashore town was starting to look like a lot more fun.