Drop Dead Gorgeous Read Online Free PDF Page B

general battering. Someone tried to run me down, but she's gone now."
    "Is this a domestic dispute?"
    "No, I'm heterosexual."
    "Ma'am?" For the first time, the operator's voice had some expression in it. Unfortunately, that expression was confusion.
    "I said, 'she's gone,' and you asked if it was a domestic dispute, so I said no, I'm heterosexual," I explained patiently, which, considering I was sitting on the nasty pavement bleeding, was an example of my self-control. I really try not to piss off people who might be coming to my rescue. I say "might" because so far the rescuing hadn't happened.
    "I see. Do you know the identity of this person?"
    "No." All I knew was that she was a psycho bitch who shouldn't be allowed to steer a wheelbarrow, much less a Buick.
    "I'll dispatch a patrol car and medics to your location," the operator said, having regained her professional distance. "I need more information, so please stay on the line."
    I stayed. When asked, I provided my name and address, my home phone number, and my cell number, which I think maybe she already had, because of enhanced 911, plus my cell phone is one of those with a GPS locator in it. I had probably been triangulated, located, and verified. Inwardly I winced. My name was already going across police radios, which meant one Lieutenant J. W. Bloodsworth would hear it and was probably already leaping into his car and turning on his blue lights. I really hoped the medics could get here before he arrived, and clean some of the blood off my face. He's seen me bloody before, but still… it's a vanity thing.
    The automatic door of the department store opened and two women came out, chatting happily as they carried out their booty and started up the aisle of parked cars. The first one to see me shrieked and stopped in her tracks.
    "Don't mind that noise," I told the operator. "Someone was startled."
    "Oh my God! Oh my God!" The second woman rushed toward me. "Were you attacked? Are you okay? What happened?"
    Let me tell you, it's really annoying when help shows up once you no longer need it.
    The parking lot was full of flashing lights, cars parked at odd angles, and uniformed men mostly standing around chatting. No one was dead, so there wasn't any sense of urgency. One of the vehicles with flashing lights belonged to the medics; their names were Dwight and Dwayne. You can't make this stuff up. I don't like the name "Dwayne" because that was the name of the man who had killed Nicole Goodwin, but I couldn't say that to this Dwayne because he was a really nice man who was calm and gentle as he wiped away blood and bandaged my scalp wound. My forehead was scraped, but my face wasn't cut, which I guess meant that I'd sort of had my head tucked down when I landed. Good news for my face, bad news for my head.
    They agreed with my diagnosis of concussion, which on one level was satisfying—I like being right—and on another disheartening, because a concussion would seriously interfere with my schedule, which was tight enough without having this kind of handicap thrown into the mix.
    One of the patrolmen was Officer Spangler—I knew him, from when Nicole was murdered. I was lying propped on a gurney and he was taking my statement while the medics efficiently wiped and bandaged and got me ready for transport when Wyatt drove up. Even without looking I knew it was him, because of the way his tires squealed, punctuated by a slamming car door.
    "There's Wyatt," I said to Officer Spangler. I didn't turn my head, because I was trying very hard not to move.
    He glanced in the direction of the new arrival, and pursed his lips a little so they wouldn't smile. "Yes, ma'am, it is," he said. "He's been in radio contact."
    There had been some conflict between Wyatt and some of the older guys in the police department, because he was promoted ahead of them. Officer Spangler was fairly new, and young, so he was free of that resentment. He stood and gave a respectful nod as Wyatt approached