The hamburger and french fries were out of this world. The vanilla/ chocolate mixed shake was smooth and creamy deliciousness. Stuffed to the gills. I sat in my booth and slurped on the rest of my shake. Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I caught the news anchorman flashing a picture on screen. I did a double-take. What the hell? Was that me on the screen? It can’t be.

  I'm trying to read the captions on the bottom, scrolling by. Something about looking for this person of interest in the murder of an elderly woman: a detective, Dwayne Dawson, was speaking about pursuing any information on this person: ‘They had no details but were interested in speaking with the person on the screen about the murder of an eighty-four-year-old widower, Gladys Dietree. The person in white was caught on the house camera two days ago. The body was found this morning when paramedics made a wellness check on a scheduled visit. No information was available on the cause of death or any living relatives yet. If anyone has information, please contact the local precinct.’

  What the holy fuck happened? I don’t know who that person is or where they live—never seen anyone before at a house, well, except that one time. But that was a while ago, and she wasn’t eighty-four. I’ll need to keep tabs on this story until they solve it. And thanks to today. Thank my lucky stars. I don’t have to pirate any goods for the rest of this month.

  The waiter came over and asked, “Did you leave room for dessert, honey?”

  “No, thanks. Stuffed,” as I pat my full tummy. “I couldn’t consume another bite. Just the check, please,” I said while gazing at the television from the corner of my eye. There was no way I wanted to look interested in the story.

  After paying the bill and leaving a nice tip, I went home, pondering what to do. I turned on the late-night news channel, hoping to hear the entire story. But the only thing mentioned was exactly what I had already heard. There is no way they are looking for me as a murderer. They just want to question me about what I witnessed, if anything. Waiting is the best policy. Do nothing, and it will alleviate itself.

  Convinced the issue was solved, I slept blissfully all night.

  Smelling coffee, shit, I forgot to turn it off since there was no snatch-and-grab today—no sleeping in now.

  Hauling my ass out of bed, I languish in the hot shower, determining a plan of action for my day off. There is always laundry and cleaning; put an ad in for the KitchenAid mixer and see if I can make more cash. Write my memoirs, ha-ha; no one would want to read them. Too bad it was Wednesday. Meagan was at work, or we could hang out for the day. Maybe she would like to go to lunch? What excuse will I give for having a long lunchtime??? Forget that; it will cause issues. I know, I’ll go job hunting.

  When I turned on my laptop, the news ads popped on the screen. I hate that shit. I wish I could turn the stupid things off permanently. Clicking the X in the right-hand corner, there was a news frame with her house cam shot. Well, shit. Resolving to find the article, I scroll through the news feeds for any information. Not much was available; there were more questions than answers and no leads other than my non-face. At least I was called a professional by Detective Dwayne Dawson. The bad news is that my career has been detected.

  Fuck! More effort will be critical in procuring an actual position to cover the bills. It’s not that lying around in jail wouldn’t be fun. It’s the bitches that come with the territory. Everyone will be on the lookout for the Porch Pirate now. It’s not like I can move to another town; my bestie is here, and she is all I have in this world. Damn, this sucks. Why did the lady have to die?

  Rationalizing what to do, I come up with a brilliant plan. Follow the detective around to become well-informed on the case. And if that doesn’t work, then a cute meet is in order, and I’ll get him to blab all the details. The first thing I do is call the precinct and see if he is there. Then, I can uncover what he knows. As luck would have it, he is in today—time to dress like a mousy kid.

  Arriving at the gray brick police station, I wasn’t sure where to park. I didn’t know the kind of car our good detective drove or where he parked. What to do? What to do? I glanced at the front door, thinking this was a stupid idea. I am definitely not a detective, and I was going to get myself into trouble. Out walks Dwayne Dawson with another person. I watch as he escorts a lady to her car. I don’t recognize her. After he says goodbye, he strolls to his car down the block. Excellent! Now I know what he drives. I took a picture of his vehicle and license plate with my phone as he traveled down Sunrise Blvd.

  Oh my God, following him all day was the most significant waste of time. He had two different murder scenes where he went and did his thing. Stood around and yacked while drinking coffee. I don’t believe Mr. Dawson slept very well with all that caffeine in his system. I thought police eating donuts was a myth. Nope, he eats enough donuts to keep the city filled with pastry shops. The whole lot of them are standing around eating, drinking, and chatting while we, the taxpayers, are footing the bill. I find myself getting angry over it all. Still, how does he stay so fit in his nice suit?

  I have had enough for the day and am ready to go home and take a long, hot shower. I figure once he leaves here, he will join his brothers in blue at the office, but no, he takes me on a tour of the suburbs. I'm hoping it will be to the house where the lady died so I can get the address. He pulls into the driveway, where crime tape is across the front door. Eureka! I hope this is what I have been trailing around all day for. I jot down the street address to reverse the address lookup and see what information I can glean. I never stopped in the neighborhood but continued to leave through the second entrance and travel home.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Damn it all to hell. There is no useful information on that address or the owner, Gladys Dietree. Thinking about throwing the laptop at the wall; I am so frustrated that there are no results. She has no family to speak of. She was widowed years ago, never remarried, had no kids, and always lived in the same house her parents left her. Talk about a boring life. Are the police sure it wasn’t a suicide? I’d off myself after a few years, and she was eighty-four. This is no help at all—a terrible idea. I will have to go to plan B. A cute meet and pick his brain. It means night surveillance to see where he hangs out after work. I wonder if he is married and has kids. That could throw a wrench in things. Since I’ve had enough for today, I’ll start tomorrow night after calling the precinct to find out when he leaves. Maybe a fake appointment, and when I don’t show, I’ll tail him when he leaves. Better find a payphone that still works.

  My spidey senses kick in when I see the detective leave his office the next night. Uh-no, he is walking past his parked car, which means probably the neighborhood police pub hangout. I am dressed to kill in case I develop the opportunity to meet the handsome man.

  I follow the detective into Mike’s Bar and Grill, half full of cops, where they seem to congregate on particularly rough days for a drink. Dwayne sat in one of the high chairs at the bar area for single people—good news for me. I don’t take the empty chair beside him, but I sit around the bend and observe him in his natural habitat. I was at least dressed to kill with skin-tight pants, a low-cut blouse that showed off my girls to perfection, and MC’s spiky heel booties. My redheaded wig was always a hit when I wore it with enhanced blue eyes. After fifteen minutes and not one look at me or a browse around the room, I had to move fast; he was done drinking his beer. What if he left?

  I wore my jeans with the lace across the whole butt, specially made by Meagan for me to look like a grown-ass woman. To be noticed. I moved to stand with my backside to him, hoping he would start a conversation, trying to make it a cute meet. Even though I already knew who he was, he obviously didn't know who I was. My claim to fame is the tattoo across my butt cheeks because my ex-boyfriend was a member of a motorcycle club. Being a biker chick had its perks until we broke up, and I got out of the game. During Octoberfest, my boyfriend wanted me to wear chaps with a thong so my tattoo would show, but we didn’t last that long. We didn’t last long enough for much of anything.

  When the detective finally noticed me standing there, I could see his thinking -nice ass- as I watched him in the bar’s mirror. The see-through lace on my jeans begged men to browse the goods, and he was caught trying to read it. Catching his gaze in the mirror, he literally blushed as his eyes met mine. I turned my head towards him and asked, “Like what you see?”

  He couldn’t apologize fast enough. “I'm sorry, I was trying to read what was inked.”

  “Well, I don't know you well enough, yet, to show you what it says.”

  “What can I do or say then to change that perception?”

  “Let your imagination run wild. I’m sure you can think of something.”

  Liking her fun personality, he probed, “I could take you to dinner.”

  “Is that you asking for a date?” Intrigued by the turn of events, I didn’t want to let him off the hook, but I couldn’t appear too eager either.

  He held out his hand and said, “My name is Dwayne. And yes, I am asking. Would you like to accompany me to dinner?”

  I reciprocated and shook his hand lightly, “Rochelle. Where would we go? I have standards, you know.” The energy radiating from him befuddled my mind, forgetting to let go.

  His eyes crinkled when he smiled, “Wherever you would enjoy beautiful.”

  Adjusting my hand out of his, guaranteeing the appropriate length was bypassed. I paused to think about a quiet but crowded place to frequent for intelligence gathering. “I'm particularly fond of sushi. Do you take pleasure in eating raw... seafood?”

  Dwayne grinned then. “ I do indeed receive pleasure from raw delights. Are you hungry now?”

  “Ravenous.” Smiling, I lick my lips, careful not to smudge the red lipstick.

  “Shall we?” he asked, covering my lower back with his large, strong hand.

  Outside the crowded bar, with a regulated voice, I asked, “Shall I follow you or meet you there?”

  “You could ride with me; I’m parked across the street,” he pointed to the non-descript four-door car.

  “Sorry, not in the mood to disappear with a stranger, never to be seen again except in small pieces.”

  He laughed at the comment. “I’d be in so much trouble.”

  “Explain.”

  “Might as well tell you, might change your mind about dinner, though. I’m a police detective, so it’s against the rules for me to slice and dice human flesh,” he snickered. “I’m the one who finds the bastards who do the deeds.”

  “Really? Can you prove it?” asking him is a smoke screen since I already know he is a detective.

  Fishing out his badge, he holds it up.

  “How do I know it’s real?”

  “Want to bite it with your teeth?” he laughs.

  At least the guy has a great sense of humor. I’m sure it helps when visuals all day long are gruesome. “Ok. You’ll have to bring me back to my car tonight.”

  “No problem. A quick bite, and I’ll have you back for the last dance.”