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Pet Tips from Christie Craig
Detective Chase Kel y stared into the nose of a .45
semiautomatic, his mind desperately seeking a way out. “Has
anyone ever told you that you have anger issues?”
Had it been a lowlife perp with his finger on the trigger, the
situation might have been easier to swal ow. But it wasn’t a
perp. He forced a calm that he didn’t feel into his voice. “You
should see someone about this.”
Zeke Duncun, his partner for the last two months, nudged
Chase with the gun. Chase bumped against the steel ledge of
the bridge. A good forty feet below, the slow ripples of the lake
splashed against shore. He stared in the direction of the ’61
Bel aire Chevy parked a half block down the street, which had
brought him to death’s door. Hip-hop music blared from the
souped-up Chevy’s stereo. Big Bruno, the driver, a known
street dealer and al -around bad guy, danced outside it, his feet
shuffling to the beat, his head bobbing in and out like a turtle.
Chase motioned toward Bruno, hoping to buy a few more
minutes to figure out how to get his ass out of this jam. “Such
talent and he’s wasting his life sel ing drugs. What gives?”
“Where’s the damn book?” Zeke asked, the sun glinting
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