Not So Model Home - By David James Page 0,62
karate?”
“I think there’s a great segue from your story to mine.”
“Barely, Regina. As my nicer Lithuanian grandmother used to say, you can’t put a Polish foot into a French shoe.”
“I think I’ve just been insulted. But I don’t speak Polish. Or French. Well, a little French . . . just the filthy words.”
I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “So what happened here?”
“You tell me, Amanda.”
“Well, I was taking this box of brochures into the house, when a guy in a ski mask ran up behind me and threw a rope around my neck and started strangling me.”
“How did you know it was a guy?”
“I heard his voice, well, his grunting as he was trying to choke me. So you fired off a couple of shots at him?”
“Damn right!”
“You didn’t hit him by any chance, did you?”
“They’re blanks.”
“They’re loud enough. It’s a wonder that the police haven’t . . .” I tried to say, but was cut off by the sound of police sirens wailing in the distance, coming closer.
“Blanks or not, Regina, I’d put that gun away just for now. I don’t think the cops would look too kindly on you firing that thing off in a city neighborhood.”
“They do it all the time in Desert Hot Springs.”
“That’s because they kill people there. It’s called drug gangs, Regina.”
“Fine, have it your way.”
Regina turned and tossed the handgun over the fence into her backyard, where it went off again with an impressively loud bang.
“Remind me not to do that again,” she said.
“No argument there,” I replied.
CHAPTER 26
You Have the Right to Remain Horny
The police arrived, guns drawn until we held up our hands and showed we were no threat. I gave a quick explanation of what just happened, minus the gunshots, so they would not only trust us, but so they wouldn’t mess up the clear footprints left by my assailant in my garbage-covered garage floor, courtesy of the late-summer desert winds. As I looked over at Knucklehead, who was calmly taking everything in, I noticed he was standing on a piece of cloth that he must have torn from the leg of my attacker. That would explain the tearing sound I heard while Knucklehead was growling. I looked at it carefully while the police were calling for more units to arrive. Eureka! The cloth was very fine. I mean, very fine. It should be easy to trace this piece of fabric. I got my iPhone out of my purse and took a picture of the cloth since I would have to give it up for evidence. Knucklehead took a good chunk out the assailant’s pant leg, because the piece was about three by four inches. Good boy! I called the policeman over and pointed to the piece of cloth. There must be samples of DNA on the cloth. The police came, took down our stories (Regina’s being much more dramatic than mine, even though I was the one being strangled), photographed the scene, and to my delight, made two casts of the footprint. Jerry called and said he had two homicides tonight and could he please see me in the morning? He offered police protection, but I said I had another place to stay for the night. I had plans.
If you didn’t count the dented garbage cans or the cop stationed out front for the night, no one would ever know that a life-and-death struggle had gone on right in my carport. Except for a few nosy neighbors, who occasionally peeped out of their curtained windows.
I called Ken first and told him all the details, having left out my meeting with Jerry earlier. He was worried about my safety, but I convinced him I could take care of myself. I told him I would stay at Alex’s house since it was alarmed to the teeth and nearly impregnable. Plus, I would take my suddenly protective Knucklehead as my guardian. Then I called Alex, who was out of town climbing Thunderbolt Peak in the Sierras. I laid my trap and he fell right into it.
“Why don’t you stay at my place for the time being?”
“Alex, that’s so sweet. I hadn’t even thought of that. It’s been a long day, discovering Aleksei’s corpse, investigating the potting shed, talking with Aurora, grocery shopping, and getting almost killed. I’m ready to pack it in for the day.”
“You’ve got a key and you know the alarm . . . turn it on tonight. On another note, you’re a smart woman, Amanda. Obviously someone