park.”
“Which means they drove,” Simpson said.
Jesse nodded.
“And if they drove, they’d park near where she parked and sit in
the car and wait for her to come out,” Jesse said.
“Peter, you and
Suit and Anthony get the license numbers of any cars that could see her car from where they were parked.”
“You think the killer could still be here?” Simpson
said.
“Don’t know,” Jesse said.
“Let’s see.”
He jabbed his forefinger toward the parked cars.
“You bet,” Perkins said.
Jesse went to his car and called Molly on the radio.
“Got a woman shot to death at the mall,”
he said. “Driver’s
license says she’s Barbara Carey, Sixteen Rose Ave. See if she’s
got a next of kin.”
“If there is, do I notify?” Molly said.
“I’ll do that,” Jesse said.
“No,” Molly said. “I can do
it.”
“Okay,” Jesse said. “Let me
know.”
Among the few people still watching, a husband and wife held hands and whispered together.
“Who’s that talking on the
radio?” she said.
“Chief of police, I think.”
“He’s cute,” she said.
“I didn’t notice,” he said.
“What are the other cops doing,” she said.
“Taking down license plates.”
“My God,” she said.
“They’ll find our names.”
“So,” he said.
“They’ll find a hundred other names
too.”
“Do you think they’ll question
us?”
“It’s a small-town force,” he
said. “I doubt they’ve got the
manpower.”
“Be kind of exciting if they did,” she said.
“Yes.”
“What would we say.”
“We’d say we came here to pick up some groceries,” he said.
“Which we did.”
“I thought I might have an orgasm right there,” she said,
“standing beside her putting grapes in a bag.”
He smiled and squeezed her hand.
