Shot Off The Presses: An Avery Shaw Mystery Book 4 Read online

  Once I was done, I called Eliot to see if he was coming to family dinner tonight. When he didn’t pick up, I had a sneaking suspicion that he was screening my calls – which both infuriated me and filled me with a sense of empowerment at the same time. He could run but he couldn’t hide.

  Once I was done at the office, I headed towards Oakland County and collected my thoughts for the duration of the ride. What did we know? Two dead people, two freeway shootings, one gun. That was pretty much the gist of it. Oh, and there was that air base commander acting all squirrely. That was an added distraction that I hadn’t been prepared for, but I was no less focused on.

  When I got to the family restaurant I was relieved to see a lot of vehicles I recognized. At least I wouldn’t be the first one there. It was always a good thing when random family members served as a buffer between my mother’s wrath and me. I had no doubt that, one look at my Thundercats shoes, and my mother’s eyebrows would be lodged at her hairline for the rest of the evening in a mark of silent protest.

  My family’s restaurant is a throwback to the 1950s – maybe even the 1940s, who knows – and it has a real world nostalgia that has been built up over years and years of family snarkiness. The restaurant itself is separated into two sections, a dining room area with a full salad bar and a smaller coffee shop section with vinyl booths and a stretched counter.

  The restaurant had been through two generations of family ownership – although my uncle Tim was currently running it under my grandfather’s ever watchful eye, of course – and very little had changed over the years.

  At the far side of the coffee shop section was the family table, a long rectangular booth with three tables interspersed through the seating. There was no sign to designate that it was a family booth but everyone in town just seemed to know. That’s one of the joys of small towns – or so I’ve been told.

  The first person I saw when I entered the restaurant was my cousin, Mario. He’s eight years younger than me and he’s got the general attitude of most nineteen-year-olds these days: He thinks he knows everything. “What’s up?”

  “I’m trying to decide what classes to take next semester.” Mario was studying a brochure from Oakland Community College as he spoke.

  “I thought you were going to take over the restaurant from your dad when he was ready to retire? Shouldn’t you be taking restaurant and business classes?”

  “That won’t be for like twenty years,” Mario grumbled. “Business classes are boring.”

  “Yeah, but I thought you were working here in the interim.” I slid into the booth next to him and glanced over his shoulder as he perused the brochure.

  “Have you ever worked with your mother?” Mario asked suddenly.

  “When I worked here as a teenager she was here, too,” I said ruefully.

  “Yeah, but you got out of that as soon as you could,” Mario said. “I remember you doing a little dance when you got that job at the resort when you were eighteen. I think it was to Born Free.”

  “That was fun,” I laughed at the memory.

  “Yeah, you twerked before it was an actual thing,” Mario agreed.

  “Yeah, my mom didn’t think it was so funny.”

  “Everyone else did, though,” Mario laughed.

  I pointed to one of the entries on Mario’s brochure. “Interpretive dance sounds fun and just nutty enough to make your dad’s head implode.”

  “Sold,” Mario put a check next to it. “He’s driving me crazy.”

  “That’s a parent’s prerogative.”

  “What’s a parent’s prerogative?”

  I cringed when I heard the voice. There was a certain edge of disapproval that only a mother can properly convey – and she hadn’t even seen my shoes yet. “Hi, mom.”

  “Avery, you look well.”

  “I am well.”

  “Did you have the day off?”

  “No.”

  “You went to work dressed like that?”

  “Yup.”

  “Do you think that’s appropriate?”

  “Hey, guess what? Mario is going to take an interpretive dance class next semester.”

  My mom turned her frown from me to Mario. “That sounds like a big waste of money.”

  Mario slid an angry glance in my direction. “Thanks.”

  “I’ve got a well-defined self-preservation instinct.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “It’s the family way,” I agreed.

  My mom glanced between the two of us and shook her head dubiously. “I don’t understand the younger generation today.”

  “Join the club,” Mario said with a sly smile.

  “What?” My mom looked confused.

  “Stop toying with her, Mario,” I admonished him. “It won’t end well for either of us if you do.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “Where’s Eliot?”

  My mom can change a topic faster than a Kardashian can grab for unnecessary media attention.

  “He had other things to do,” I replied evasively. What? He could have other things to do.

  “Did you two break up?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe you’re broken up and you don’t know it?”

  “I think I would know it.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I think it would have come up between the time we got up this morning and the time I left for dinner.”

  Mario sucked in a breath as my mom’s favorite frown came out to play again. She used to warn me my face would freeze that way when I was a kid. She didn’t seem to think that little platitude applied to her, though. “That was ballsy,” Mario whispered under his breath.

  “It’s been a long day,” I conceded.

  I was surprised when I felt the booth dip down next to me as Eliot slipped into the seat next to me. He gave me a perfunctory kiss. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “I thought you had things to do,” my mom interjected.

  “What?” Eliot furrowed his brow.

  “Avery said you had things to do.”

  He glanced over at me curiously. “Why did you tell her that?”

  “Because you didn’t answer the phone when I called earlier.”

  “I was with a customer. You knew I was coming.”

  “I wasn’t actually sure,” I said carefully.

  “Why?” Eliot leaned back in the booth, shifting uncomfortably.

  “Yes, why?” My mom pressed. “Are you two fighting?”

  “We’re not fighting,” I shot back irritably.

  “Who’s fighting?”

  I had never been so happy to see Derrick enter a room – even if he did have Devon with him. “No one’s fighting,” I said quickly.

  My mom greeted Devon with a warm smile and a quick hug – a gesture that irked me for some reason. “You look wonderful,” my mom said happily. “See, Avery, this is how a reporter should dress for a day of work.”

  I glanced at Devon’s black pencil skirt and matching blazer and blew out a very ladylike raspberry. I felt Eliot shake with silent laughter next to me, slipping an arm around me as he did. The crisis – at least temporarily – seemed to have passed. Crisis probably isn’t the right word. It’s more like a feeling of dread more than anything else.

  “Well,” my mom pursed her lips. “I can see where this conversation is going.”

  I was relieved when she slipped into the booth behind the center table and started talking to my Uncle Tim about some news item she had read in the paper today. Everyone ordered and chattered away. Derrick didn’t seem to think Mario’s interpretive dance plan was as good of an idea as I did.

  “That sounds like a great big waste of money,” Derrick said.

  “I think it sounds fun,” I argued.

  “You would.”

  “You’re just jealous because you have no rhythm.”

  “You have rhythm?” Derrick didn’t look convinced.

  Not so much. I changed the subject. “So,
are you on the new task force?”

  “What task force?”

  My mom has ears like a cat. A really twitchy and judgmental cat.

  “The task force for the freeway shootings,” I supplied.

  Derrick shot me a dirty look. “I am on the task force.”

  “Freeway shootings? Plural? I thought there was only one?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Derrick told my mom about the ties between the two shootings with a cool detachment that I think must be taught in cop school. She handled it well.

  “We’re all going to die!”

  “Who’s going to die?” My grandfather plopped down at the far end of the booth, a plate full of onions and chili in front of him.

  “There’s a freeway shooter on the loose,” my mom said, her tone now bordering on shrill.

  “I saw it on the news,” my grandfather said blandly, forking a mouthful of his dinner concoction into his mouth dubiously. “Why are you freaking out?”

  “Because I don’t want to get shot.”

  “You’re not going to get shot,” I scoffed.

  “How do you know?” My mom narrowed her eyes dangerously. “Do you know who this maniac is targeting?”

  “No,” I said blithely. “I just think the odds are astronomical that you would be one of the victims.”

  “I’m sure that woman in the car with her kids thought the same thing,” my mom said.

  I hate it when she has a point. I opted to ignore the moment.

  “This is why we need gun control,” my mom blurted out suddenly.

  Every eye at the table swung to her in surprise. My family is known for political arguments, but my mom usually tries to keep the harmony – at least until dessert. This was a possible powder keg of anger.

  “It’s our second amendment right to bear arms,” Derrick said stiffly.

  “Not guns that can kill people,” my mom replied primly.

  “All guns can kill people,” Derrick replied.

  “Then maybe all guns should be banned,” Mario supplied.

  I glanced at him questioningly.

  “That is ridiculous,” my Uncle Tim exploded next to him.

  Ah, I get it now. Mario is all about driving his dad crazy. I recognized the gesture – and I applaud it.

  “Why is it ridiculous?”

  “Because it’s part of the U.S. Constitution that we, as citizens of the United States of America, have the right to bear arms,” Tim shot back.

  “Well, if there were no guns then there would be no gun violence,” Mario countered.

  “That’s so much crap,” Derrick grumbled. “If good people stopped carrying guns that would just leave the criminals carrying guns. You think the criminals are going to follow the law? They’re criminals. They’re all about breaking the law.”

  “Maybe we should just arm everyone with tasers,” Mario suggested. He looked like he was having a good time.

  “That sounds dangerous,” Eliot chimed in.

  “Why?” Mario asked.

  “Tasers aren’t deadly, at least not in most cases. If everyone carried a taser, then there would be tasered people all over the place whenever an argument got out of hand.”

  Mario laughed. “You’re just worried Avery will get mad at you and taser your balls.

  “That would be unpleasant,” Eliot agreed.

  “I have a taser and it’s a weapon, not a toy,” Derrick interjected.

  “You ever taser anyone?” Mario asked curiously.

  “I haven’t had the privilege yet,” Derrick replied dryly. “It’s still early, though, and you’re more annoying than Avery tonight so, I guess, we’ll have to wait and see.”

  “Let’s change the subject,” I said suddenly. “Let’s talk about something happy.”

  “Like what?” My mom asked dubiously. “Although I do agree that any conversation about Eliot’s balls is inappropriate.”

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged. “What’s new with you grandpa?”

  “I’m not going to jury duty,” he boldly announced.

  Huh.

  “What do you mean you’re not going to jury duty?” Derrick asked, his disappointment shifting from Mario to our grandfather.

  “They summoned me for jury duty and I ignored the summons and now they’re threatening to arrest me.”

  I glanced over to see Derrick swallow hard. If my grandfather got arrested for blowing off jury duty that would be a personal affront to him. “Why don’t you want to go to jury duty?”

  “It’s stupid and I have better things to do,” my grandpa said.

  “It’s not stupid,” Derrick countered. “It’s your civic duty.”

  “Well, I don’t want to,” my grandpa countered. “It will take up too much of my time.”

  “Just show up and tell them that you hate all cops,” I suggested. “That’s how I got out of jury duty a couple years ago.”

  “That’s not true,” Derrick corrected. “You got out of jury duty because of your bumper sticker.”

  I shushed him quickly.

  “What bumper sticker?” My mom asked suspiciously.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said evasively. “I don’t even have it anymore.”

  “What bumper sticker?” My mom turned to Derrick questioningly.

  “I think it said Mean People Kick Ass,” Derrick said smugly.

  “Why would you have a sticker like that?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I replied. “It just appealed to me.”

  “Why would that even come up at jury duty?” Mario asked.

  “It was federal court,” I said. “I have no idea. Let’s go back to talking about gun control.”

  “It’s our right as citizens!” My Uncle Tim was getting animated again.

  Eliot turned to me with a small smile on his face. “Your family is never a disappointment.”

  “You don’t share a gene pool with them.”

  Ten

  The next morning was supposed to be a lackadaisical mixture of pajamas and Saturday morning cartoons. The minute I heard the annoying R2D2 beep of my cell phone – the one that signified an incoming text message – I knew that wasn’t going to happen, though.

  I groaned as I rolled over, reaching across Eliot to his nightstand, and grabbing my phone irritably. “I just know this is going to suck.”

  “Don’t look at it,” Eliot suggested, never opening his eyes but trailing his hand down my back lazily. “I have a few ideas of other things we could do.”

  I glanced at the readout on my phone screen and scowled. “Crap.”

  “What?” Eliot asked, resigned.

  “Fish just texted me the name of the Oakland County victim and he wants me to do some legwork on him today. He’s authorized overtime.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “I don’t know,” I blew out a sigh. “I could use the extra money. Converse just released some Black Sabbath shoes I really, really want.”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “I hate working on my day off, though.” The truth was, I sometimes wasn’t thrilled working on my scheduled days.

  “Tell him no,” Eliot replied, sliding his hand under the covers and pinching my ass suggestively.

  “All I have to do is run over to some insurance office in Birmingham,” I said. “I’ll get paid for eight hours and it will probably only take me three. If I don’t, that would mean I’m really lazy.”

  Eliot considered my statement for a second. “I’m not sure where I’m supposed to land on this, so I’m just going to let it go.”

  “That’s probably wise.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “To interview secretaries at an insurance office? I don’t think I’m going to be in any danger.”

  “Do you only want me around when you’re going to be in danger?” Eliot asked.

  “No,” I said hurriedly, I shoved him, though, when I saw the smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You’re teasing me
.”

  “It’s easy in the mornings,” Eliot agreed. “It takes you a good hour to be at your sarcastic best.”

  “Good to know.

  AFTER a shower, a big breakfast at the local Coney Island, and a promise that Eliot could continue feeling me up in a couple of hours, I set out for Birmingham.

  A lot of people picture all of Southeastern Michigan as one large appendage of Detroit. They would be wrong. The city has its problems, sure, but the suburbs are actually pretty nice.

  While Macomb County is blessed with Lake St. Clair and quaintly idealistic northern communities, Oakland County is the money county. And Birmingham? That’s the supreme money town – of many money towns.

  It took me about a half an hour to get to Birmingham – and another ten minutes to find the insurance company once I got there. I pulled into the mostly empty parking lot, it was a Saturday and they had limited hours, and I switched off the ignition of my car and sat and watched the business for a few minutes. I was trying to get a feel for it. If I thought I was going to get some magical insight into Malcolm Hopper, 55, though, I was sadly mistaken. It looked like any other insurance business – although the clientele was extremely well dressed. I shouldn’t have been surprised, I guess, this was Birmingham, after all.

  When I entered the building, I couldn’t help but be a little impressed. Everything was in its place and ridiculously clean. I glanced around the office quietly. It was a weekend, so I didn’t expect there to be many workers. It didn’t take me long to realize that all of the workers in the office were women and – with the exception of the secretary at the front desk – unbelievably attractive. It looked like a model bomb had gone off here, with five tall, willowy blondes working at various stations across the office. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

  One of the blondes glanced in my direction, frowning when she saw my baggy canvas pants and Kiss My Sass sparkly Nike T-shirt. “Are you lost?”

  “Not last time I checked,” I said carefully. I wasn’t a fan of the snotty attitude, but I needed information. I clearly wasn’t going to get it from this woman, but if I threw her down on the ground and started pulling out her obviously fake hair tracks that probably wouldn’t endear me to the rest of the office workers.

  “What do you want then?” The woman’s voice was impressively snooty.