Page 1 of Demo
Chapter 1
LYZBETH
Ihaveonefootheavily pressing on the gas pedal and one hand grasping the belt loop of Monty’s pants as he hangs his upper body out the passenger side window. With the other hand, I steer us down a narrow alley at sixty-five miles per hour in his Honda Civic. We pass overflowing dumpsters and kids sitting on crooked porches as I follow the police through the city. We heard over the radio scanner they are in pursuit of a suspect vehicle involved in an armed robbery, and we are in pursuit of them.
“RIGHT! Right! They just took a right!” Monty yells, just in time for me to hit the brakes and crank the wheel to make a quick, wide turn.
As he snakes back into the car, Monty’s head hits the window frame hard, but he’s used to it. He’s been the staff photographer at ROC Record, a daily newspaper in western New York, for as long as anyone can remember. He’s a lifer. Monty’s shaggy, sandy-with-a-touch-of-gray hair flies around his eyes as he uses his pointer finger to push his glasses further up his nose, and he frantically searches the street for the cops. Lurching his body and his small gut back through the window, I grab hold of his pants again.
“It’s a good thing you’ve got those love handles, otherwise you might fall out!” I yell over the roar of the wind.
“Hey, I don’t think you’d be in danger either, sweet cheeks!” he hollers back.
Monty and I can talk to each other that way. I’m what you might call his work wife, even though he is a good fifteen years my senior.
The wind has my dark hair flying all around my face, and I release my hold on Monty to bat it away.
“Dang it!” he yells as he looks from side to side, and I come to a stop at an intersection. “I don’t know where they went.” I pick up the scanner—a large walkie-talkie-looking thing—and change frequencies. Nothing but static.
“Well, maybe we should just head back to the office,” I suggest as Monty slithers back into the car. He looks at me like I have the wordpsychostamped across my forehead.
“You care to explain that to Cherice?” he asks.
’Nuff said.
The sound of sirens has both Monty and I cocking our heads to the left to see three patrol cars barreling down the street. They fly right through the intersection, and we follow their paths until our heads are facing right. I peel onto the street, making an illegal right on red, and accelerate to an equally illegal rate of speed.
I can see police cars stopped in front of an apartment building just past a run-down Italian bistro. I slow down, reach over and grab the sign that reads “PRESS” on it and fling it into the back seat, going for inconspicuous.
I pass the police cars and pull up in front of the next apartment building, and Monty and I slouch in our seats. I angle the rearview mirror so I can see what’s going on behind us.
“What’s happening?” asks Monty.
“Nothing yet. But I can see the van they were after parked a few cars behind us, in front of the building.”
“Is there anyone in it?”
“I don’t know. Can’t see.”
“Are the police surrounding the place?”
“Don’t know.”
“Do they have their weapons drawn?”
“I. Don’t. Know,” I growl through gritted teeth, while giving him a sideways glare.
We are quiet for a beat before he starts in again. “Oh, forget this. Drive around back and I’ll climb up the fire escape. Get a better vantage point that way.”
I start the car again, still slouched, and drive around the block until we get close to the back of the building we’re looking for. There’s a construction site nearby and my heart sinks as I see a Mitchell & Sons truck parked on the street, but I refocus my attention on the task at hand.
We open our doors simultaneously as I hit the button for the trunk to pop open. Monty plucks his camera out, slings it over his shoulder, and hands me a scope lens to carry as he stashes batteries and some other paraphernalia in his so-ten-years-ago cargo pants.
“Here. Over here,” he orders, making his way to the fire escape. He jumps once, twice, three times before he grabs the bottom step of the ladder and pulls it down to the ground. It’s a little shaky, and the building is pretty old.
“Ladies first.” Monty gestures to the ladder.
“Gee, thanks,” I offer as I shrug out of my blazer and lay it on a nearby empty cardboard box. I scurry up the ladder, now in my jeans and flats.
