Little Lamb Lost Read Online Free PDF Page B

to Dazzle and left for
my ten o’clock home visit. As I descended the concrete steps in front of the
house, I noticed something was wrong with my Civic.
    She was sitting lower than she should
have been. I crept forward, scanning the street left and right. No one around.
A dog barked in the distance, but that was the only sound from the wide,
tree-lined street.
    I crouched to look at each of the tires.
All four of them bore a two-inch wide slit, near the rim.
    “Damn it,” I swore out loud. “Son of a
—”
    “You awright?” Dazzle called from the
stoop.
    “Somebody slashed my tires.”
    “Oh Lawd, Lawd. What next?”
    No kidding. What had I done to deserve
this? I had trouble believing it was a random thing. In my experience, these
types of attacks were deliberate. I’d been the victim of vandalism before,
three years ago, when one of my clients spray painted “bitch” in orange on the
side of my car. At the time, I’d had a pretty good idea who’d sent the message.
Not this time. The thought scared me.
      “You want to call the police?”
    I debated. Whoever had done this was
long gone, and it was doubtful that anyone would be caught. Dazzle’s neighbors
were mostly widows and retirees, and it was unlikely any of them saw anything.
Still, I’d probably need the police report to file the insurance.
      I
pulled out my cell. “Yeah, I’ll do it.”
    Dazzle went in to watch the kids, and I
waited until an officerarrived. I gave a quick statement to a young policeman
who said I could pick up a copy tomorrow at his precinct. I called my client to
cancel our meeting. Then I called a tow truck, and a chatty old guy transported
me and my vehicle to the Tire Warehouse. An hour, and two hundred and twelve
painful dollars later, I was on my way.
    I picked up a late lunch on the go, went
to Family Court for a hearing that was continued, then on two more home visits.
By four o’ clock the stress and the lack of sleep were catching up to me.
    I was back at my desk, yawning and
writing case notes, when my cell phone sang its little tune. Nona, from St.
Monica’s. She spoke low. “That detective just called looking for Ashley. I
think he’s on his way over. I got a bad feeling about this.”
    “I’m on my way.” I slapped the phone
shut, snatched my stuff, and bolted for the car. Traffic creeped and the
stoplights seemed in some giant electronic conspiracy against me. By the time I
got to St. Monica’s, a white Ford Taurus and a Birmingham police car were in
the alley beside the house. The lime green Charger was parked across the
street.
    I left the Civic behind the patrol car
and was halfway up the steps to the porch when Detective Brighton came through
the door, followed by a uniformed officer and Ashley, in handcuffs. Nona was
behind Ashley, wringing her hands.
    “Miss Conover.” Detective Brighton
nodded once to me and shot Nona a look. “Imagine finding you here.”
    Ashley’s head was down, her long,
straight hair hiding her face like a curtain.
    “What’s she under arrest for?”
    “Right now she’s charged with negligent
homicide, child endangerment, and possession of a controlled substance. That’s
to start with.”
    Then he said the words I’d been dreading
for almost two days. “Michael died of a drug overdose.” He paused to consult
the small spiral notebook in his pocket. “Gama hydroxybutyrate.”

 
 
 
 
    Chapter Four
    As we stood on the steps of St. Monica’s,
Brighton continued reading from his notebook. “GHB was found in significant
quantities in the victim, in a sippy cup, and in a pitcher of frozen
concentrate orange juice taken from the refrigerator at the residence of Ashley
Hennessy.” He closed the notebook with a triumphant look. It pissed me off.
      “Ashley?” I said. Her head bent lower and she
wouldn’t look at me. “Ashley?” I turned to Brighton. “I can visit her in jail,
right?”
    “Tomorrow. Now, you gonna move that car
or am I gonna radio to