Читать книгу One-Night Alibi - Kara Lennox - Страница 9

PROLOGUE

HUDSON VALE LIKED to brag that he never got sick. All the vitamin C in the Mountain Dew he drank kept him healthy as a horse. But today, he’d been made a liar. After sneezing his head off yesterday, he’d cut his shift early and gone home. A handful of extra vitamin C hadn’t done the trick; he’d awakened with the mother of all colds. His head hurt. His chest hurt. His throat hurt. He couldn’t breathe. And he had nothing resembling cold medicine in the house.

Like it or not, he had to drag himself out to his car, drive to the nearest convenience store and buy some Alka-Seltzer Plus.

Although it was October, Hudson didn’t bother with a jacket. He shoved his badge in the pocket of a pair of disreputable jeans because he never went anywhere without it. Breaking his usual pattern, he didn’t arm himself. In his current state of debilitation, he’d be more danger to bystanders than to anything he aimed at.

It was a brilliant, clear day outside, one of those rare instances when the humidity was low, the air crisp and fresh. Football season was in full swing, and citizens of the greater Houston area were focused on fall barbecues and tailgate parties.

Hudson climbed into his Datsun 280Z and headed for the local convenience store.

At this hour of a Sunday morning, most people were still in bed, sleeping off a wild Saturday night, or in church repenting for the same. But in an hour or two, the store would be filled with fishermen stocking up on bait and beer and charcoal briquettes, intent on wringing every ounce of recreation from the outstanding weather.

Hudson wished he could get out on the water today. But after sneezing four times in a row on the way to the store, he couldn’t think fondly of anything except his bed and a box of tissues.

As he got out of his car, he noticed a familiar-looking woman in a red miniskirt and white patent-leather boots talking on the pay phone outside. On seeing him, she turned to face the wall.

It wasn’t until he was inside the store, paying for his purchases, that he recalled her name. Jazz was a prostitute he’d arrested last year. Conroe had quite a few working girls, but most of them plied their trade near the strip clubs, liquor stores and pawn shops downtown or near the railroad tracks. They didn’t normally trawl the Lake Conroe Stop ’n’ Shop parking lot on a Sunday morning.

He might have tried to chat her up, find out why she was so far from her usual stomping grounds, but he was off duty and sick, and for once he was just going to stifle his innate curiosity and go on about his business.

That plan worked fine, until after he’d paid for his purchase and was heading out the door.

The first things he noticed were raised voices. Jazz was no longer alone; she was arguing with a middle-aged man in a baseball cap and sunglasses, his jacket collar pulled up to hide as much of his face as possible.

Classic “john” disguise.

Even so, Hudson was inclined to let it slide. He wasn’t in Vice anymore. It was just an argument in a parking lot, no crime.

Still, he couldn’t help wandering closer.

“You better do what you’re told,” the man growled. He was shoving something into Jazz’s hands.

“What the hell are you doing? Not here.” She glanced over, saw Hudson and went pale, though her hand did reflexively close over what Hudson could now see was a thick wad of folded bills.

“Hey, look at me when I’m talking to you.” The man grabbed her chin and swiveled her head, forcing her to face him.

Hudson sighed. He set the bag with his cold medicine on the hood of his car and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. In a matter of seconds, he had summoned backup.

Acutely aware of the fact he was unarmed, he approached the confrontation. “Excuse me, is there a problem here?”

“Mind your own business,” the man barked. Then he saw the badge Hudson had casually slipped out of his pocket.

That was when Jazz cut and run. She let go of the money in her hand, and several twenties fluttered to the ground.

“Hey!” The man took a couple of steps in the direction Jazz was fleeing, sprinting faster than a girl in four-inch heels ought to be able to run, but Hudson snagged the man’s arm.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to put your hands on this wall, here.”

“What for?” he asked haughtily.

“I’m arresting you for solicitation of a prostitute.”

“Are you out of your mind? Do you know who I am?”

Great. Another entitled rich guy who thought he deserved a pass because he wore a suit and had a family.

“Don’t know, don’t care.” With that he pushed the uncooperative suspect against the wall. “Now put your hands against the wall and spread ’em. Unless you want me to add resisting arrest to the charges. You have the right to remain silent...”

As Hudson continued the Miranda warning, the man finally complied, but not silently. “You are going to be very sorry. I’ll have your badge.”

“No, you won’t,” Hudson said in a bored voice. “You’ll be too busy hiring a lawyer and trying to hide your little indiscretions from your wife and your boss and your golf buddies.”

“I was not paying that girl for sex!”

“Those twenty-dollar bills all over the ground say differently. Oh, and by the way, you’re overpaying. In addition to being a dirtbag, you’re a sap.”

Hudson probably shouldn’t have added that last part. Baiting a suspect who was not cuffed was on that list of things cops learned not to do. But Hudson was really sick and really annoyed that he was probably going to have to spend his morning filling out a report.

Without warning, the man swiveled around and took a swing at Hudson. It was a clumsy punch, but the man had some heft, and a strength born of outrage on his side. His fist landed in Hudson’s solar plexus.

Then the idiot made a break for his car.

Hudson didn’t think—he just reacted. He lit out after the man, tackling him in the parking lot before he’d got ten steps. They both went down, hard.

A Montgomery County Sheriff’s Department squad car pulled into the parking lot just then and came to a stop mere feet from Hudson and his suspect, who was still struggling. Deputy Allison Kramer got out, shook her head, then held out a pair of cuffs.

“Need some of these?”

Hudson took them without comment, flipped the man onto his stomach and cuffed him, then hauled him to his feet with Allison’s help. The man’s face was now scraped and bloody, his nose possibly broken. He’d lost his hat and sunglasses in the scuffle.

“Holy crap,” Allison said.

“He bolted,” Hudson said in his defense, thinking she was reacting to the suspect’s condition.

“No, it’s not that. Do you know who this guy is?”

“Franklin Mandalay III,” the suspect replied haughtily. “Young lady, I want to file a formal charge of assault. I was minding my own business when this scruffy, disreputable individual attacked me. I was committing no crime. I had no weapon—”

“Save it,” Hudson said impatiently. “Allison, I’ll meet you at the station.”

But despite his best attempt at indifference to the name Franklin Mandalay, Hudson’s stomach felt queasy. If he had to get into a scuffle with a suspect, why did it have to be one of the most influential attorneys in Houston? Especially since his only witness had flown the coop.