Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder Read Online Free Page A

marveling at the
thought of someone waiting at home for him and with dinner planned, to boot.
    ***
    After
his hot shower, shave and a cup of weak coffee brewed in his room, Chip was
ready to face the day. He checked out of the hotel and headed to the hotel’s
parking ramp.
    The
parking ramp was dim and damp. Chip got turned around and it took some
searching to locate his car. He spotted a huge black Escalade with dark-tinted
windows idling not far from his car. He noticed a car rental sticker on the
bumper. For some inexplicable reason it gave him an eerie feeling; he increased
his pace to the Ford and used his remote key to unlock the door as he neared.
It beeped and the running lights came on. He quickly opened the door, and as he
slid into the front seat, he heard a roar from the Escalade as it started to
move toward him, the engine’s sound echoing throughout the ramp. Chip
instinctively ducked down and a split second later the driver’s side window
exploded, sending shattered pieces of glass cascading down on him like a meteor
shower.
    He
froze, unable to move out of fear. He strained to hear the vehicle’s engine
fade as it exited the ramp. From his cramped position he slipped his cell phone
out of his pocket. His finger fumbled and he misdialed, tried again and finally
reached a 911 operator.
    ***
    By
some divine intervention, he was taken to the Emergency Room of Hennepin County
Medical Center rather than to his eternal resting place.
    Hours
later he sat in Franco’s office. He watched the detective open the bottom
drawer of his desk and extract a bottle of bourbon and a not-too-clean looking
lowball glass. The detective poured a generous amount of the amber liquid
before handing it to him.
      “Here drink this. Think of it as medicine.
It’ll do you good.”
    He
gingerly took a sip and felt the heat slide down his throat, closed his eyes
and took another. “Holy crap, that’s the second time I’ve been shot at in the
past year. At least this time, I only got a couple of nicks.” The ER doctor had
extracted a few shards of glass, doused the cuts with antiseptic and applied
butterfly bandages. Then she had sent him off with prescriptions for an
antibiotic and a pain killer, telling him he might experience some discomfort
in the next few days.
    “If
you wouldn’t have ducked, your brains would have been splattered all over the
inside of your car. What made you sense danger?”
    The
thought made his stomach lurch, and he felt faint. Franco’s face wavered in
front of him, and he was forced to put his head between his knees. Jeez, I can’t believe what a wimp I am.
    “Honest
to God, I don’t really know.” His voice was muffled by his pants. “There was
just something ominous about that SUV idling in the empty parking ramp. It made
my skin crawl.”
    “Can
you describe the driver or the vehicle?”
    Chip
raised his head slowly. “It was an Escalade, big and black with tinted windows.
I couldn’t see the driver at all. I do recall a rental sticker on the bumper,
green and white. National, I think.”
    “We’ll
run a trace on it. Shouldn’t be too hard to track down. The bigger question is
why would someone be shooting at you?”
    Chip
finished the bourbon and was indeed feeling better. He tried to conjure up
potential enemies, but came up empty. “I haven’t got a clue.”
    “Could
be a random drive-by shooting. They’re a pretty common gang initiation around
here lately, although not usually in upscale hotel ramps,” said Franco as he
opened the bourbon again and took a swig, replaced the cap and returned the
bottle and glass to his bottom drawer.
    Franco
opened a file on his desk and scanned it. “You know a writer named Margaret
Murphy?”
    “I
never met her or read her stuff. Isn’t she that true crime writer who committed
suicide about two weeks ago, self-infected gun shot?”
    “Yup,
she’s the one. The newspapers said it was a suicide; Forensics wasn’t sure.
Homicide is still