Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 02 - Crash Course by Kathy Hogan Trocheck

talk to the driver of a car and take his parking fee, he saw that the tan was all over, and what with the light from the colorful strings of bulbs around Bondurant Motors and the dancing spotlights of the Candy Store, he could see very well indeed.
    He was trying to decide if the girl was Japanese, or maybe Polynesian, when his reverie was broken by the shrill blaring of a police siren. Two cruisers came speeding down U.S. 19. Ollie saw the girl look up with alarm. When she spotted the cars with their flashing blue lights, she seemed to disappear right before his eyes. Like a frightened doe, vanished into the mist, Ollie thought sadly.
    Jackie came bustling out of the Taste of Saigon.
    “Thank God,” she said. “Come on. We’ve got to go over there and give them a statement.”
    “A statement?” Ollie was alarmed. “Why do I have to give them a statement? Can’t I just be an anonymous bystander? I didn’t see anything.”
    “You saw what was going on over there,” Jackie said, beginning to lose patience with him. “There’s a dead man over there, you know.”
    Ronnie Bondurant was standing outside talking to the officers by the time Jackie walked up, trailing the reluctant bystander.
    “You again,” Bondurant said when he saw her. “What the hell is this woman doing here, officers?”
    Just then, the Gran Torino came screeching into the parking lot. The driver, who had been gnawing on a drumstick from Kentucky Fried Chicken, put the half-eaten leg back in the bucket with the rest of his supper.
    “Uh-oh,” the driver told his partner. “We’re screwed.”
    Jackie was taking deep breaths, trying hard not to sound like a hysterical female. It was difficult—she could feel the hysteria welling up inside her, like those Fizzies you put on your tongue when you were a kid. The panic and fear were there, fizzing just below the surface.
    “There’s a man inside that garage back there,” she said, pointing toward the metal hangar. “He’s dead. I think he was shot in the face. He’s inside a red Corvette.”
    She glared at Ronnie Bondurant. “My red Corvette. They stole it from me last night. I called the cops and filed a report. You can check the records.”
    “Dead man inside a Corvette.” One of the cops, a heavyset black man with thick glasses, was writing in a notepad. He acted like he was in charge. “Any idea who the deceased was?”
    “His name is Jeff,” Jackie said. “He works here. He’s the one who sold me the Corvette. On Saturday. He ripped me off. Sold me a lemon. I told him and Mr. Bondurant here that I was gonna get a lawyer, call the police, and maybe get a story in the newspaper. Mr. Bondurant has a gun,” she said, pointing to Bondurant’s jacket.
    “What?” Ronnie Bondurant sputtered. He threw open his sport coat. The only thing beneath it was his knit sport shirt, the fabric strained against his thickened waist. “This girl is crazy. A troublemaker. I don’t know what she’s talking about.”
    “Look in the garage,” Jackie repeated. “You’ll see.”
    The two test-driving cops drifted up to the knot of people standing around outside the office.
    “What I see,” Bondurant said, turning to the cops, “was that we had a break-in here earlier. A car alarm went off, and these two alert officers were here right away. Ask them. They’ll tell you there’s no murder here. Just a break-in.” He glared right back at Jackie and at Ollie, who was wishing intensely that he could be somewhere else. Maybe across the street, discussing Oriental belief systems with the parking lot attendant.
    The tall cop, the test driver, had the grace to blush. “Uh, actually, we didn’t check inside, Mr. Bondurant. Remember? We got to discussing cars.”
    “Well, you can check it now,” Ronnie said quickly. “This girl and her partner here—I think they may have broken in earlier. I heard a noise back in the garage, but I didn’t see anybody. They must have jumped the