Killing Kate: A Novel (Riley Spartz Book 4) Read Online Free PDF

report.
    “We have to get the truck open,” the woman insisted.
    The crowd pressed closer, even more curious for a glance at the death watch inside the pickup. Even Ed, from the liquor store, pushed his way through to the front of the action. But instead of remaining part of the audience, he raised his revolver.
    “Stand back.” His voice wavered. The crowd moved franticallyaway. The first shot merely put a bullet hole in the windshield; his second shattered the side window on the truck.
    I reached in, unlocked the pickup’s door, and pulled out the pooch. He lay in my arms, breathing noisily.
    Just then the cops arrived.
    So did a live truck from Channel 3.
    And everybody had a different mission.
    “Who called the police?” a uniformed officer asked.
    Again, no one answered.
    “Noreen heard about the dog and wants a live shot for the five,” the truck engineer whispered. “Something like Don’t Do This At Home.”
    It was twenty minutes until the top of the hour when the newscast opened. I wanted to use the woman who called the cops as a live guest, but she was already gone.
    And I was left holding the dog.
    A bakery employee a few storefronts down brought over a pan of water, held it under the animal’s chin, and we splashed its face. It took a few weak swallows, but that was all. We washed the foamy saliva from its mouth.
    I noticed a tag on the collar that read “Buddy” and appeared to list a contact number. “Hey, Buddy, you hang in there.”
    A shopper brought back some ice from a gas station, and laid the bag across the dog’s sweaty back. His eyes opened, but they looked bloodshot.
    “Let’s try to find the owner.” I pulled out my cell phone and dialed as she read the number off the dog tag for me. No answer.
    The cop motioned us over to his squad car, opened the back door and blew out some air-conditioning. I crawled in the backseat with Buddy, and he seemed to breathe easier. We got him to sip the water again.
    Just then a man in a suit, carrying a briefcase, started screaming, “Who smashed my pickup’s windows?”
    No one looked him in the eye, especially not Ed, who casually slipped back inside the liquor store to clean his gun.
    By then the man noticed his dog was missing. “Hey, Buddy,” he whistled. “Here, boy.”
    The ears on the animal seemed to twitch as the man got closer, and its eyes blinked rapidly.
    His shadow fell over us. “Give me my dog.” His voice was harsher than I expected from a man wearing a fancy tie. But the day was hot and so was his temper.
    Now it was fifteen minutes before the newscast started. Malik was setting up a tripod in the shade of a building for my live shot. Hanging on to the mutt was awkward, but I didn’t particularly want to hand him back to his owner.
    “You almost killed your dog,” I reminded him. I was careful to keep my voice matter-of-fact, not accusatory.
    “That was an accident,” he responded. “Some paperwork took longer than I expected at the bank.”
    More people gathered to watch the bustle, and several began to hoot when they heard his lame explanation. Classic mob mentality. The police officer waved them off, telling them animal control was en route. Then he asked the man if the pickup belonged to him.
    “Yes, and I want someone charged with vandalism,” he said. “Look at this mess.” He waved his arms.
    “May I see your vehicle registration?” the officer asked.
    The man gave a snort of exasperation, then reached into the glove compartment for a piece of paper, shoving it at the officer.
    “And your license, Mr. Avise?”
    He flipped open his wallet, pulling out the plastic. Then he pointed to me and suggested I be held accountable for the damage.
    “Some old man shot the windows out,” said a member of the crowd, trying to be a helpful witness and probably hoping to get on TV. “It wasn’t her fault.”
    I considered joining the verbal tussle, but airtime was now only ten minutes away, and I was organizing the