2 Sisters Detective Agency(36)

Summerly scratched his blond, neatly shorn hair. He put his cap back on and breathed in deeply.

“Lady,” he said. “That’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I know, right?” I laughed. “Lucky no one was injured.”

“No, I don’t mean incredible like amazing.” Summerly put a hand up. “I mean incredible like incredible. You say that’s a stunt car? It had an ejector seat that accidentally exploded? You expect me to believe that?”

Summerly waited. I didn’t respond. He turned and pointed to the officers milling around behind him.

“See that officer over there? Name badge says Hammond?”

“I see her,” I said.

“She says you told her you ran over a can of gasoline.”

“It’s possible I said that.” I nodded.

“That officer over there by the tree says you told him your car was possessed by a malevolent spirit.” Summerly pointed.

“Mmm-hmm.” I nodded again. Baby was listening carefully from the curbside.

“That officer tells me you stated to him that you’d accidentally filled the steering fluid valve with plant fertilizer,” Summerly said.

“Yes,” I said.

“And for me”—he gave a frustrated laugh, tapped his chest—“you come up with this…this ejector seat tale?”

“I saved the best for last,” I said.

“What really happened here, Miss…” He jutted his chin at me.

“Bird. Rhonda.”

“Bird.” He clicked the top of a shiny black pen, slipped a notebook from his chest pocket. He set the pen to the page. “From the beginning.”

“No comment,” I said.

Summerly lifted his eyes from the notebook. I noticed that they were the color of dark chocolate.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No,” I said, putting my hands in the pockets of my tattered jeans. “I have no comment for you. I don’t have to make a statement on what happened here today. I wasn’t even legally obliged to give you my name. But I did, because I’m nice.”

“Oh, God.” Summerly sighed. His whole body deflated slightly. “A lawyer.”

“That’s right.”

“Your car exploded in a school parking lot, Miss Bird,” Summerly said. “You have to tell us what happened.”

“No, I don’t,” I said.

“Yes, you—”

“Are you going to charge me with a crime?”

“Hell yeah, I am.” He laughed again. He took a pair of gleaming handcuffs off his belt.





Chapter 44



Summerly brandished the cuffs in one hand. “Unless you tell me who blew up your car, then, yes, I’ll charge you. This is…uh. Well, it’s public endangerment, at least. Child endangerment. It’s probably a misuse of explosives. It’s lying to police.”

“I haven’t lied to the police.”

“All of your stories are conflicting!”

“Well, how do you know I don’t believe they’re all true at the same time?” I shrugged. “I might be crazy. Traumatized. Concussed. You would have to prove my intent to purposefully deceive you in a court of law to make that charge stick, Officer Summerly.”

Summerly opened his mouth and closed it again, glancing around the parking lot as though looking for help. He shook his head and laughed again. I liked the sound of his laughter. It was heavy and husky and strong.

“You’ve caused a lot of damage here to other vehicles, to that building over there,” he said.

“An accident on private property,” I said. “Not a criminal act. My compensation of the Stanford-West Academy for the damages I may’ve caused is between me and them.”

“Miss Bird, when I examine this car—”

“You don’t get to examine my car,” I said.

“What?” Summerly squinted.

“I don’t give you permission. And under the search and seizure laws of this state—”

“You can’t be serious. It’s a piece of evidence.”

“Only if there’s a crime,” I said. “So I’ll ask you again. Are you going to charge me with a crime?”

Officer Summerly’s eyes wandered over my face. I could see his mind whirling, trying to find an out. I’d cornered him. He took a step closer and lowered his voice, beckoned me into a two-man huddle. I went willingly.

“You know what I think happened here?” he asked.

“Please tell me.” I smiled.

“A couple of months ago,” he murmured, “Danny Trejo and Benicio Del Toro, I think it was, were in this action movie where they played Mexican cartel guys. Their signature move was to rig explosives under the driver’s seat in people’s cars. I saw the movie. Good movie.”

I waited, listening. I could smell Summerly’s sweat after a long day spent rounding up the bad and the ugly in Los Angeles.

“Bombs in cars haven’t ever been a cartel thing in real life,” Summerly said. “The IRA used to do it, across the pond. And the Italian mob used to do it back in the sixties. But ever since that movie came out, there’s been a rash of copycat car bombings all over the southwest, as far east as Arkansas.”