The Last Blue Plate Special Read Online Free PDF Page A

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     separating front and back seats are dead giveaways? A fortyish guy with a sandy, graying crew cut, sunglasses, and a blue
     nylon windbreaker with SDPD across the chest unfolded his skinny six feet from the car and scowled at the sunset, then at
     us.
    Brontë growled from her seat on Roxie’s lap, clearly wishing she didn’t look so lapdoggy.
    “Looking for Dr. Emily McCarron. Police business. You her?” “She,” I countered. “It’s a nominative of address. Are you she.
     And yes, I am.”
    “Emily” is legally my name, but I never use it except on tax forms and other official paperwork. It sounded like an alias.
    “I hate it when this happens,” Roxie grumbled. “Next he’s going to show a badge, and there goes dinner.”
    “We have a package of ground turkey in this vehicle,” she addressed the cop, who I was certain was going to turn out to be
     a detective. “Excessive delays between here and the refrigerator could be life-threatening. Salmonella, E. coli, botulism,
     anthrax. Surely I don’t need to go on.”
    “Detective Rathbone.” He identified himself as if his surname had been a lifelong burden. Then he held up a badge in a leather
     wallet and lit a cigarette. Unfiltered. “Dr. McCarron, did you phone police headquarters earlier today with some information
     about the deaths of Senator Mary Harriet Grossinger and Assemblywoman Dixie Ross?”
    “Yes. I said these deaths could not have happened by chance. You drove all the way out here to confirm a statement you have
     on tape? And my calculations, as I said to your desk clerk, are based on the assumption that Ross also died of cerebral hemorrhage.
     We won’t know whether that’s true or not until Monday, after the autopsy.”
    “Oh, we know it’s true. The autopsy was performed this morning.” He pushed his Ray•Bans to rest across the top of his bristly
     hair, then pulled them to rest on his nose again. I suspected the gesture meant something coplike, maybe even threatening,
     but since I wasn’t sure, it seemed merely indecisive.
    “What we’d like to know,” he went on, trying for a knowledgeable sneer, “is how
you
knew it was true before anybody else did.” Here his tanned brow grew furrows as he gazed at the cigarette between his fingers.
     “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come down into San Diego, to headquarters, answer a few questions. We’ve already got your
     ex-con friend, Berryman. Says he doesn’t know anything. They never do.”
    “You’ve got BB?” Rox and I said in unison.
    “Yup.” Bad John Wayne imitation.
    “He was at a fundraiser where Ross was expected yesterday evening, except she died before she got there. Apparently he got
     some kind of job at this fundraiser through some guy who calls himself a psychiatrist. Somebody named Bushy he met in prison.
     And you were at this fundraiser, McCarron. Since you seem to know more than anyone about what happened to Dixie Ross, we’d
     like to talk to you. Another detective is out looking for this so-called Dr. Bushy. We need to get to the bottom of this,
     fast. So why don’t you just turn around and head down to San Diego. I’ll meet you at—”
    “Wait a minute, Rathbone,” I began. “There’s more to this than an autopsy. You guys wouldn’t be running around harassing innocent
     citizens on a Saturday if—”
    “And I’m Dr. Roxanne Bouchie,” Rox snarled from beneath Brontë, who also was snarling, showing teeth. “That’s Boo-she, not
     Bushy. It sounds as though you’re detaining Mr. Berryman illegally, and you have no business detaining Dr. McCarron or me.
     You’re out of your jurisdiction here and you know it, so stop grandstanding. This is San Diego County Sheriff’s Department’s
     turf, not the city police department’s. What’s going on?”
    “You’re this bogus shrink Berryman met in prison?” Rathbone said, nodding over what was trying to be a snide grin. “Sure.
     Except Berryman was at Donovan. No