Romano and Albright 01 - Catch Me If You Can (MM) by L.B. Gregg Page A

get some art supplies. If you want to talk, climb in, we can have a powwow in the truck. I have things to do.”
    That took the wind right out of his sails. He shook his head in confusion. “Art supplies? Are you a painter? It’s Saturday night. Don’t you have a…date or a club or something to go to?”
    “Me? Obviously you haven’t been following me long, Detective. Other than the gallery and Rocco’s with my Nan on Saturday night, I have no life. And no, I’m no artist.”
    He dropped his cigarette, crushing it under his boot. “That’s a shame. Sure. Supplies. Maybe I can pick up a video game.”
    I unlocked the truck. “Hop in.”
    “Wait. Don’t you even see that there’s something on your windshield?” I looked and sure enough, there was a small white envelope tucked beneath the windshield wiper on the passenger side. It was rumpled.
    I glared at him. “You put that there.”
    “I didn’t. I followed you, but I was inside until five minutes ago.”
    “Inside Rocco’s? Not possible. I would have seen you.” I yanked the envelope; the wiper hit the glass with a snap.
    “Yeah. In the bar. Your family seems nice. Paulie said that he and Donna are trying to have a family. You know, that thing could have been on the truck all day. Look at it.”
    “You were speaking with my family ? What the hell are you doing nosing into my life?” I climbed in and slammed the door. He climbed cautiously into the passenger seat. I took a deep breath and stuck the key in the ignition.
    Then I wheezed. Realization hit. Could he be— “Oh my God. It’s you, isn’t it? You stole the bust. You’re the one who fucked Shep—”
    He held his hands up in some mockery of innocence. “No. Calm down. No.”
    “ You were in the clown room .”
    I’ll remember this part forever because, in my race toward the wrong conclusion, I turned to face him, both my hands flying with typical Romano flair. I let go of the clutch a hair quicker than I should have and the truck jerked. I fell abruptly off the seat, sideways. He must have gotten the wrong impression. He reacted as if I were on the attack. I mean, the man was about six-foot-four, and I’m five-ten in my best shoes. Why in the world would I attack? I swear it was an innocent move, but as I lurched over the seat, he grabbed my flailing fist, swinging me around and twisting my arm painfully behind my back. It must be a cop reflex—man, he was fast.
    I thrashed. “Ow! What the hell? Let me go.” My leg came down on the gear shift, and like that I was tangled. I shook my pant leg, trying to get free. In the process, I knocked the shifter into neutral. The truck rocked briefly, and then it lurched down the sloped pavement. I was wrestling with the detective, all but sitting on his lap, when I noticed we were picking up speed.
    “Would you just calm down, Romano?” He grappled with my wrist.
    “Shit! Let me go. We’re moving.”
    He looked out the window. “Why isn’t the parking brake on?”
    “I don’t know. I’m not much of a driver. I’m a New Yorker.” I straddled his leg the wrong way and managed to grab the wheel as he let go of my arm. We coasted through the intersection. Cutting hard to the right, I scrambled to reach the brake, but my pant leg was caught and I couldn’t get back into my seat. I was sitting on his knee when we hit the curb, bumping onto the sidewalk.
    “What the hell are you doing? Get off me.”
    “I’m stuck.”
    Poppy’s top-heavy milk truck bumbled down the tiny incline. Pedestrians jumped out of the way. I wailed on the horn. Dan pushed and prodded and finally squirmed out from under me, calling me rude names and swearing.
    “My leg is trapped on the gearshift, asshole.” It was tunneled up my pant leg and I had somehow twisted around. My other cuff appeared to be trapped on a hook under the seat. I was too busy steering to free my damn pants.
    Dan slammed on the brake, and I flew into the windshield. My temple slapped the