“In the trunk.”
I asked her to pop the trunk, then I moved around. She did, and the lid lifted.
The sounds of sirens drew near.
Traffic crawled by, people gawking and taking pictures and video.
I snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves, unzipped the small roller case, and rummaged through it, looking for anything unusual.
It contained clothes and toiletries.
Patrol units screeched to the scene, lights flashing. The patter of rotor blades filled the sky as Tango One circled overhead. Paris Delaney and her news crew weren’t too far behind the squad cars.
The sheriff arrived, followed by the medical examiner and EMTs. Brenda and her crew went to work, examining the body.
The sheriff approached with an annoyed face. “You want to tell me what the hell’s going on?”
We stepped away from Paisley, and I gave him an overview.
“Who’s the passenger?”
“ID in his wallet says Steve Davidson. He just got into town, according to her,” I said, nodding to Paisley.
“He sure got a warm welcome.” The sheriff frowned.
“This looks like a hit, but I’m not sure why they kept going after the girl.”
Forensic investigators went over the car, documenting bullet holes and slugs.
The EMTs evaluated Paisley. She was traumatized, but unharmed. I waved her over and introduced her to the sheriff.
I asked, “Had you ever met the passenger before?”
“No.”
“No connection whatsoever?”
She shook her head.
“Did he have any other baggage besides the suitcase in the trunk?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t do anything to antagonize these people?”
Her brow knitted. “No! I’m just trying to pay my rent, and this crap happens.”
“How long have you been driving?”
“Just a few months. And just during the day. I don’t like picking up people at night.” Then she muttered, “I don’t like picking up people during the day, either.”
“Maybe you should find another job.”
“After today, count on it.” She looked at the Lambo and cringed. “Sorry about your car.”
“You got insurance?” JD asked.
Paisley nodded.
