The Detective(18)

I rolled my eyes.

“I Googled her on the computer this afternoon,” Mom said. “She’s stunning.”

With that I couldn’t argue. “She is really pretty.”

Mom covered her mouth with her hands. “Don’t be mad at me.”

Uh-oh.

“Why?” I sat forward on my seat, recognizing my mother’s guilty tone. “What did you do?”

She sucked in a breath through her teeth. “I emailed her at the news station.”

My mouth fell open. “You what?”

She turned her palms over. “I couldn’t help myself.”

I looked to Dad for help. His lips were pinched together in an effort to not burst out laughing. Finally, he shook his head. “I couldn’t stop her.”

“When?” I grabbed Mom’s arm. “What did you say?” My mind was racing. I covered my face with my hands. “Oh god, Mom. What did you say to her?”

She shook her head and flattened her hands on the table. “Nothing bad, sweetheart.”

I dropped my face back toward the ceiling. “Of course not.”

“I just invited her to come to dinner soon,” she said.

I let out a heavy sigh. “Of course you did.”

She gently shoved me in the shoulder. “Well, if I didn’t, you never would! You never bring your girlfriends over to visit us!”

I held up my hands. “And this is why! I hardly even know this woman, Mom. I’m not ready for her to meet my parents.”

She sat back and folded her arms indignantly. “Well, you’d better get over it because she’s coming to dinner on Saturday.”

I dropped my forehead onto the table. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

She smacked the back of my head. “Language, Nathan!”

My phone was buzzing in my pocket. I angled sideways and wrenched it out. “That’s probably her now, calling to discuss baby names and china patterns.”

Dad’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.

It was the station.

I pressed the phone to my ear. “McNamara.”

“Nathan, you’ve got a 10-65 in progress that sounds like your guys,” Bernie Davis said quickly on the other end.

I stood up so fast, my chair toppled backwards. “Where?”

“Near Allen Creek Country Club.”

“On my way.” I disconnected the line. “Sorry, Mom. Gotta go.”

She pouted. “But I made your favorite pork chops.”

I kissed the top of her head. “Sorry. It’s that robbery case I’m working. I’ll call you later.”

She huffed. “OK. Fine.”

I pointed at her as I crossed the kitchen. “But this isn’t over. No more contacting Shannon or anyone else I might be dating.”

She followed me out of the kitchen. “Nathan Gabriel McNamara, you’d better not be dating anybody else! We raised you better than that!”

“Stay off Google, Mother!” I called to her from the front door as I grabbed my coat.

“Be careful, Nathan!” she replied as I slammed the door behind me.

Inside my truck, my police scanner was a flurry of activity. The scene of the robbery escalated with impressive speed and before I even got to the highway, someone had called in possible gunshots and a fire. The country club was normally only ten minutes away, but it was rush hour and I’d driven my personal truck instead of my unmarked SUV with lights and a siren. I cursed every red light I hit.

When I pulled up in front of the three-story stone house, the second floor windows were leaking black smoke and bright orange flames licked at the glass. The sun was setting and the smoke rising against the horizon created a ghostly fog in the fading sunlight. The fire department beat me there by five minutes.

A crowd had gathered on the front lawn and two other deputies, who had arrived just before I did, were trying to keep them out of the way of the firefighters as they toted hoses and gear at a sprint, to and from the house.

“Where are the homeowners?” I asked one of the deputies, whose name I couldn’t remember.

“We just got here, Detective,” he answered, holding a couple of teenage boys at bay with his arms.

I put my hands on my hips. “Who called it in?”

“I did!” An older woman—caucasian, early seventies, white hair—was standing beside him. “I live just over there.” She pointed to the house to our left. “I called 9-1-1 when I heard some glass breaking, and I saw two men with masks on their heads go in the side door over there. While I was on the phone, there were gunshots inside the house!”

I took a few steps toward her. “Ma’am, who owns this home?”

She looked around the yard. “Dr. Withers. He’s a cardiologist over at Duke.” She strained her eyes. “But I haven’t seen him.”