A Beautiful Corpse

‘Copy, Unit 364,’ the dispatcher replied, in the same flat tone she’d used earlier to acknowledge another officer’s refueling break.

The waitress was walking back now, a bag in her hand, that perfect, symmetrical smile already in place.

The dispatcher put out the call. ‘All available units to the 34000 block of Abercorn to assist Unit 364 with a fugitive arrest. Be aware: Suspect is wanted for homicide. Suspect is armed and dangerous. All units Code 30.’

Code 30: blue lights and sirens.

The dispatcher was so calm, only someone who listened to this radio every day of her life could hear the tension in her voice.

Pulling her keys from her pocket, Harper turned for the door.

The waitress stepped smoothly in her path, blocking her.

‘I’m sorry, I have to go,’ Harper said, trying to push past.

‘It’s already made.’ The waitress – her smile disappearing – pressed her back against the door handle so Harper couldn’t reach it. ‘You have to pay or I’ve got to call the cops. Eddie’s got rules.’

Harper had underestimated her. There was more to the perky girl than a smile.

She didn’t have time to argue. Frantically, she dug in her pocket, pulling out a disordered pile of bills. She shoved them in the woman’s neatly manicured hands without counting them.

‘If it isn’t enough, call the Daily News, ask for Harper,’ she told her. ‘But not for another hour. I’ve got to go.’

‘What do you want me to do with the food?’ The waitress still clutched the bag.

‘Keep it,’ Harper said.

As an afterthought, though, she grabbed the cup.

‘I’ll take the coffee.’

The waitress stepped aside. Harper ran through the door and jumped into the car, pulling out her phone.

Miles answered on the first ring.

‘I’m on my way to Abercorn,’ he said. She could hear his police scanners in the background. ‘You?’

‘Leaving now.’ She started the car. ‘I’ll call Baxter. See you there.’

As the phone speed-dialed Baxter’s direct line, she backed out into the road.

‘Emma Baxter,’ the editor answered.

Harper hated to admit it but there was something comforting about the way Baxter could always be reached when the shit hit the fan.

‘Traffic cops just pulled over Wilson Shepherd on Abercorn.’ Harper raised her voice to be heard above the scanner and the engine. ‘Sounds like he’s putting up a fight. Miles and I are en route.’

‘I’ll tell the copy desk,’ Baxter told her. ‘We’ll hold the front page. Don’t do anything stupid, McClain.’

‘Never,’ Harper said, hanging up.

Dropping the phone, she pulled out onto the parkway so fast her tires squealed.

She wasn’t tired anymore. Adrenaline raced into her system faster than caffeine possibly could.

A story like this was as good as eight hours’ sleep. Better even. No drug ever invented could match it.

Every cop in the city was going to the same place she was. There was no one to pull her over. The speed limit was forty-five but she hit a hundred and stayed there until she saw flashing blue lights ahead. Then she tagged along behind them.

Abercorn carved a curving path across the edge of the city before pouring into the flat, coastal countryside. At the speed she was going it only took minutes before the crowded city streets outside the Camaro’s windows dissolved into lush green suburbs, scarred by strip malls and big box stores.

The police standoff was easy to locate. A dozen patrol cars blocked the road, lights flashing.

Harper slammed the car into park and jumped out, running through the haphazardly parked vehicles.

Miles had positioned himself behind an empty squad car.

‘Have they got him?’ Harper asked, breathless.

‘They do.’ Miles squinted through the viewfinder. ‘He just doesn’t know it yet.’

With his Canon balanced on the roof, he was focused on a crowd gathered around a pickup truck in the distance. The patrol car that had pulled it over earlier was parked behind it, blue lights still swirling.

The doors of both vehicles gaped open.

In the flickering blue lights, Wilson Shepherd stood facing a line of police officers. He was sweating and panicked.

A silver, semi-automatic handgun glittered as he aimed it at the cops, all of whom were pointing their guns at him.

Everyone was yelling.

‘Drop your weapon! Put down the gun! Drop it! Drop it now!’

Wilson ignored their commands.

‘I didn’t do it!’ he screamed back. ‘I didn’t kill Naomi – do you hear me? Does anyone hear me?’

‘Drop your goddamn weapon! No one will hear you until you drop that weapon!’

Miles tilted the camera to look at the images on the display, a frown creasing his forehead.

‘I need to get closer.’

He looked around, his face tense. They both knew time was everything right now.

‘There.’ Harper pointed to an empty space to the left of the pickup – protected by two trees, but with what looked like a clear view.

Miles nodded, tucking his camera under his arm. ‘Let’s go.’