One

I hung a right off Ming Avenue and found a parking spot near the entrance to Bernie’s B-Town Bistro. I twisted the rearview mirror and took a quick look. Carmine red lipstick: check. Bronze eye shadow: check. Auburn hair: wind-blown but perfect.

I’d named my 1959 Cadillac convertible after Patsy Cline. I loved that car nearly as much as I did family. She was long and wide and slicker than greased whale shit. The chances of her passing a gas station were about the same as me passing up a chocolate éclair. She shined pretty dang snazzy with her fire-engine-red coat and snow-white cap.

My bff, Alice Milner, had selected the bistro for our weekly lunch date. We’d never been there before, but recent reviews on Google and Yelp gave it an average rating of 4.7 out of 5. Everything, so far, held the promise of a terrific day. Hard to imagine anything could screw it up.

I stepped through the door and scanned the dining area for Alice. For an eatery in a strip mall in Bakersfield, California, it was nice—upscale casual was my take. The orange and black theme worked for me.

Several people sipped beer or mixed drinks at a small bar on the far side of the room. Almost every table was occupied. The diners’ chatter hummed much like a controlled electrical buzz with an occasional splash of static.

I spotted Alice as I navigated a faux ficus. Her back to the entrance, her cell phone occupied her full attention. When I tapped her on the shoulder, she bobbed from her chair like an over-wound jack-in-the-box.

She took a few seconds to catch her breath and settle herself. “One of these days I’m gonna get your ass for scaring me like that all the time.” She checked the readout on her phone before dropping it into her purse. “At least you’re on time.”

“That’s me. On-time Olivia.”

The waiter arrived and took our order. That gave us a few minutes for some chitchat. Some folks had commented, at one time or another, that she was full of chat and I was full of chit. We’d grown up together just a block apart on the east side of town. We were still in diapers the first time we met. It hardly seems that was twenty-nine years ago.

“So, how’s everything going?” I asked.

“Not too bad. At least I haven’t heard from Robert in a couple of months. He’s probably thinking of new ways to irritate me. I figured I’d be free of his harassment after I divorced his coniving little ass. Wrong!”

“I guess big-time lawyers just don’t take losing very good.”

“You got that right. It’s been almost a year and he ain’t quit bitchin’ about it yet. But I do take considerable satisfaction in knowing he’s that bent out of shape and can’t do much about it.”

“Seriously, what else can you expect from a certified shithead?”

“Yeah, really.” Alice paused for a second or two. “But, on a better note, my boss promoted me to project manager yesterday. That’s another five hundred bucks a month I can stash into savings. Of course, five hundred bucks ain’t even a drop in the bucket for a rich bitch like you.”

I laughed. Alice had called me Rich Bitch since I won over two million dollars on a progressive slot machine in Las Vegas a little over a year ago, a couple of months before her divorce. I took home close to a million-and-a-half after taxes—not a bad night’s work. I didn’t mind the moniker. I thought it was rather funny.

“That’s my recent history.” Alice planted her elbow on the table, arm extended upward, and fingers clenched into a tight fist—a good perch for her chin. “What about you? Everything okay?”

“I just picked up a new case with Butler Farms a couple days ago. They think they’re being sabotaged from inside.”

“Butler Farms, huh? Cool! They’re one of the biggest produce growers and processors in the area, ya know. Quarter-billion-a-year operation from what I hear. Congrats.”

“Thanks. It’s the biggest case I’ve taken on since I got in the business last year. I’m pretty stoked.”

“Tell me something, Olivia. After winning all that money, why in the hell are you still working? And as a private detective, of all things. If it were me, I’d be kicking back and enjoying the easy life like you ain’t never seen.”

“Just because I have a few bucks in the bank doesn’t mean I want to sit around and wither away. But I didn’t want an office job in a cubicle and some overpaid jerk breathing down my neck and checking for cleavage all the time. I had enough of that when I worked at that investment firm. Private detective seemed like the perfect job. I just have to keep my short fuse in check—you know, not overreact like I'm prone to do at times. Besides, a million bucks won’t last forever.”

“Yeah, that quick temper of yours has got your butt in trouble more than a few times. But, getting back to Vegas, maybe I should go there sometime.” Alice raised her eyebrows. “I could use an extra million or so.”

“I never want to see that damn place again—and I do mean never.”

Alice was the only person in the world aware of my addiction to gambling—cards, dice, slots—you name it and I was a sucker for it. If I went back to Vegas, I figured it would take me about half a day to gamble away the remainder of what I had from my winnings—almost a million bucks. I’d rather walk naked through Valley Plaza Mall with a news crew taking video than go back there.

Alice glanced over my shoulder. “Here comes our food.”

I hoisted my recalcitrant bra strap back onto my shoulder. They’re so damned annoying—and not just the straps.

Lunch was fabulous—Tri-tip steak, steamed broccoli, and a baked sweet potato. We’d both ordered the lunch special.

Alice reached for her glass of sweet tea. “Wish we’d known about this place a long time ago.”

She’d barely ushered the words from her mouth when I heard a disturbance at the entrance. A person with a black hood covering his head brutally stiff-armed a waitress. Food and drink crashed to the floor, along with the waitress.

The hood, similar to a pillowcase, covered the intruder’s entire head and neck with small cutouts for the eyes. His dark clothing hung loose, as though a couple of sizes too large. He fired off three rounds in quick succession. “Take that, bitch!” a voice shouted from under the mask after the final shot. It definitely sounded like a man’s voice, but odd in some way. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but it just didn’t sound natural.

Eyes dilated and stone-faced, Alice plopped facedown onto her plate. I tried to scream but nothing came out. I cringed, nearly threw up, when I saw the back of her head—split open and blood gurgling from the wound. My stomach clenched as cold adrenalin poured into my gut.

“Oh my God!” I whispered. Screams filled the room as everyone scrambled for cover. Some cowered behind overturned tables; others scrunched behind chairs and fake plants. I was too numb to move a muscle.

Stepping over the petrified waitress he’d shoved to the floor, I watched the shooter charge out the door. Everyone remained huddled in place—some crying, some shaking, others silently praying. Some doing all three.

I managed to stand, my legs barely able to support me, and looked around the room. “Oh my God! Is there a doctor or a nurse …? Oh my God! Someone call 9-1-1! Please! Can anyone help?”

A middle-aged man crawled from behind an overturned table and rushed to my side. “I’m a doctor. I’ll take a look.”

My emotions declared war on each other—stay with Alice or go after the shooter. Concluding there was nothing I could do to help Alice, I shifted gears and grabbed the Remington 1911-R1 from my purse and bolted for the door. Revenge mode claimed command of my thoughts—detective mode and demeanor be damned. This was personal.

Six lanes of heavy traffic on Ming Avenue went casually about its business, oblivious to the tragedy that had just happened. I looked left. No shooter. When I shifted my gaze to the right, he was untangling from several people twenty yards away. Two women lay on the concrete walkway, one moaning in pain from her fall. Breaking through the crowd, the shooter steadied himself and fled down the sidewalk, shoving more people aside. There were too many bystanders to fire my weapon.

Gucci sneakers on my feet, I chased after him as shoppers fled the area in a panic. The gunman wasn’t particularly tall but moved with graceful strides. With a big lead and fast pace, I knew I’d never catch him. Maybe he’d trip. Not likely, though. That only happens in books and movies. Regardless, I felt I had no choice but to push on.

I arrived at the corner of the building six or seven seconds after he’d disappeared around it. With a trace of trepidation, I hugged the side of the building as I peered around the corner. No perp, no getaway car, no suspicious sounds—nothing.

Thwak!

A bullet struck the wall too close for comfort. Several small pieces of tan stucco stung my cheek. I could almost hear my heart pounding. My breathing quickened as I moved back a step. I couldn’t determine exactly where the shot came from, just somewhere from my right.

I risked another peek. No shots this time. I scanned the area but, again, saw no sign of him. I continued to survey the parking lot and adjacent areas. I detected movement in my peripheral vision.

I pivoted ninety degrees and noticed the shooter running toward the back of the next building in the segmented strip mall. He crouched as low as he could without slowing himself. I released the safety on my Remington. No shoppers in sight, I fired off a round but missed, my hand still trembling from Alice’s shooting.

He changed direction and took cover behind a large oleander bush in one of the medians on the side parking lot.

I wasn’t able to get a visual on him so I fired blindly into the shrub. I heard a yelp and then watched him dash behind the next building, clutching his left arm just above the elbow.

Keeping the bush between him and myself, I followed after him as sirens howled in the distance. I reached the rear corner of the next building and took a quick glance behind it. No perp, but a splotchy trail of blood—just enough to confirm he’d climbed over the wooden fence bordering the back of the mall complex.

I reengaged the safety on my handgun and grabbed the top of the fence. As I topped the wooden barrier, my pant leg caught the tip of one of the wooden planks and I tumbled to the ground on the other side. I’d fallen onto a grassy area bordering the rear parking lot of a large apartment complex. I looked in all directions but saw no sign of the shooter.

The shrinking trail of blood disappeared a few feet onto the asphalt. I ran to the street fronting the complex and carefully scanned the area. No gunman.

Damn! He could have gone in any direction.

I scrambled back over the fence and hurried to the bistro. That horrifying expression on her face before she fell forward, and the blood oozing from the back of her head, told me I shouldn’t expect good news.

The cops arrived in the parking lot soon after I reentered the bistro—half a dozen units, red and blue lights flashing almost strobe-like. The only officer I recognized was Gary Bateman. We graduated high school together. He confirmed who I was to the other men in blue.

I approached our table as the doctor stood beside Alice. She wasn’t moving and blood had pooled on the tablecloth.  I used the back of my wrist to wipe the tears from my cheeks. “Is she …?”

The doctor shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am. She didn’t make it.”

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