Chapter Eight

I had Dena bring me back a cafeteria sandwich for lunch, (meat mush on whole wheat) and stayed at my desk plugging away.� By 3:30 p.m., I was feeling quite virtuous at all I had accomplished and was glad for break when Dena buzzed me for a call.

"Interrupting anything?" asked the person on the other end..

"Nothing that can't wait," I replied recognizing Rooney's distinctive voice.

"I'm on a stakeout tonight and wondered if you'd like to come along."

"Really?"� I was delighted at what sounded like adventure.

"It's not official," he admitted.� "If it were, I wouldn't be able to take you.� But a couple of the guys and I are spending some spare time checking out some things.� Tonight's my turn, and I'd enjoy company."

"Should I wear a trench coat?" I asked.

He laughed. "Jeans and a shirt would do nicely. � Shoes are also required.� Pick you up at six sharp."�

He rang off before I could reply.

I was mentally combing my wardrobe, when Dena appeared in the doorway, purse in hand.

"Time for nighty-night," she told me.

"See you tomorrow, " I said.

Dena generally remembers to remind me of lunch hour and quitting time.� Otherwise, if� I'm really deep in thought, I can forget everything else.� We instituted this practice after an evening when I emerged from a reflective state to find that it was nearly midnight, and everyone else had left long ago. � I'd never noticed, probably because it was so blissfully quiet with no phone calls or interruptions.

Now, I made one last sweep through my pending file. � I needed to dig further into the Spritzie problem.� Two of the ingredients were on back order, but that situation wouldn't change overnight.� Tomorrow was another day.

Genevra wasn't at the door to greet me, and I was pleased to find her curled up beside the pot that Derek had given her. Mercifully, none of the other pots seemed to be disturbed.� I picked up the loose leaf binder of instructions and flipped to the first page.� It called for tap water to sit for 24 hours before using it to water the plants.� I'd have to get some containers for that, tomorrow.

Glancing at my watch, I realized that I only had half an hour to prepare for the evening.� I'd feed Genevra and forgo the long soak in the tub for a a quick shower.� I didn't have time to search for just the right outfit. � I� pawed through my drawer for clean underwear. So I settled for my favorite jeans and a sports pullover that I'd gotten at our last company meeting.� The pale pink of� the shirt emphasized the flushed cheeks I'd gotten from my hurried bout with the blow dryer.� The word "staff" was embroidered over a non-definable logo designed by Piers the artist on the left chest.� I'd tried to talk them into using "distaff" for the female crew, but nobody else got the joke.

I was ready just on time for the doorbell to ring. � Cops were notoriously punctual - too early toilet training, no doubt.� A few minutes later, we were barreling down the main street of Middleton.

"Going to a fire?" I asked.

Rooney slowed down before he replied.� "Sorry, bad habit."�

Then at the next red light, he turned to stare at me as though seeing me for the first time, tonight.

"Did you know, Miss Deaux, that pink is your color?"� He brought up his hand to touch the logo on my shirt. "I'd be glad to have you on my staff."�

The back of his fingers brushed my breast beneath the logo.� There was a sharp intake of breath, but I wasn't certain if it was his, or mine.� Then the light changed to green, and he returned his attention to his driving.

When we pulled into the parking lot of the Main Street Mall, I gave him a questioning look.� "This is it?� The stakeout?"

"Yep," he replied, getting out of the car and going round to open my door.� He bowed low to indicate that I was to exit, and when I did, he tucked his hand under my arm and marched me off toward the entrance.

"We've had reports of harassment of the senior walking groups," he explained.� "So, we're doing an off-duty check up. � We dine, Madam, at the Mall Cuisine Cafeteria, and then we stroll the mall."

"How exciting," I responded, rolling my eyes.

But he pretended not to notice as he propelled me toward the waiting line of senior citizens at the Cafeteria door.� He steered me into line ahead of him, and I stumbled over something.� Looking down, I saw that it was the lace of one of his sport shoes.

"Better fix that," I warned.

He knelt to comply.� "It never stays tied," he said.

All in all, I had to admit that the food wasn't bad. � It wasn't exactly gourmet, but it did resemble home-style cooking.� From the number of pensioners queue-ing up, it seemed to have gained some standard of acceptance which I suspected included quantity and economy at a certain sacrifice of subtlety.

I was pushing my way through a slice of warm Dutch apple pie with French vanilla ice-cream, when Rooney glanced at his watch and rubbed his hands together, thoughtfully.

"Duty calls?" I asked.

"The seniors don't like to stay late.� They usually clear out of here by seven, take a few brisk turns around the mall and head for their calls by seven-thirty."

"Like clockwork, hmm?"

"That's the problem.� The purse snatchers have the schedule worked out, too.� This isn't a real busy mall, at least on Thursday nights, so I guess they're looking for easy targets."

"I presume you think we'll fit right in with the Geritol set?" I grinned.� "Or do you propose that we lurk about behind the fake greenery?"

"Other people join in the last walk," he answered.� "We won't seem a bit out of place."

"Just don't call it the last walk," I told him. � "That sounds too much like the truth." I watched as the parade of canes and three legged walkers headed for the door.� A scant ten minutes later, we were in their midst.� I amused myself by checking out the proper attire for the activity.

My frost job, jeans and sport shirt tended to peg me as one of the younger set, while Rooney's graying temples and sport coat put him in the intermediate age group.� His pale blue button-down shirt called attention to those luscious blue eyes, and the open neck revealed a tantalizing glimpse of the curling hairs on his chest.� A tweedy sports jacket topped off his well-fitting jeans. Among the senior set, however, various hues of white hair, matching velour jogging suits and high priced walking shoes seemed to be the order of the day.� Presumably, the couples were man and wife, or perhaps in this enlighten age, significant others.

Rooney was a rapid strolled, and I found myself straining a bit to keep up with him.

"Don't you think," I panted between breaths, "that we needn't set the pace for these folks?� Can't you be content in the back of the pack instead of leading?� It's a little obvious.

He slowed his steps to match mine, took my hand, and squeezed it.� "Sorry," he said, smiling.� "You're right."

For more than fifteen minutes, according to the mall clock that we kept circling, we kept up the left, right, left right.� But the ranks were thinning.� Finally, the last three couples made a bee-line for the outer doors. � Rooney and I swung into step behind them.� As we exited the mall, I glanced around the parking lot, and realized how eerie acres of deserted concrete could be. � Rooney hung back for a change, letting the others get far ahead of us.� His unmarked car was, I remembered, parked at the opposite entrance, a long walk around.

The three couples were apparently heading for two solitary cars.� Two of the couples piled into one old green Pinto, while the other couple made lengthy farewells through the open windows.� Probably planning their whole retirement, I mused with ill grace.� At last the Pinto pulled away, and the other couple toddled off to a rusty Cadillac.

Suddenly, from the shrubs in the median strip, an ominous figure darkly dressed popped out of the shadows, followed by another, shorter and squatter.� We were still concealed by the overhang of the entrance way, and the duo didn't see us as they began sprinting across the lot toward the oldsters.

Rooney slipped me his keys and reached under his jacket for what I supposed was his gun.

"Hang back until it's clear; then bring the car around," he whispered.� "I'm gonna get these bastards."

I watched until I saw Rooney's set face gleaming dusty rose beneath the orangey glow of the sodiu, vapor lights of the parking lot, and then I leaped over a bush and edged closer to the building as I headed off.� I glanced back only once, and the gritty little scene was imprinted on my eyeballs.� The old couple were frozen in place; the two dark figures were rushing toward them, and Rooney was bringing up the rear, shouting something I couldn't make out.

I didn't spare time for a second look as I rounded the corner and scanned the lot for his car.� Empty.� Rats, it wasn't parked on this side, either! I kept circling the outside of the mall, hugging close to the walls, until I was Rooney's car, a toast-colored Sable that had seen better days, nestled beside a trash barrel that proudly proclaimed "Clean up Middletown."

Amen, I thought.� I fumbled for the right key and rammed it home. Yanking open the door, I stuck the key in the ignition and started the motor.� I threw it into drive and tore off diagonally across the yellow parking stripes. The radio had come on automatically, and I heard a harsh but decidedly female voice ask for Rooney.� I paid no further attention, as I tried to steer the car over the quickest route back to the other side of the mall.

When I first drew up upon the old Caddy, there seemed to be no one around, but as I pulled to the other side, I saw one prone and two kneeling figures!� Rooney was on the ground!� I slammed on the brakes, pushing the gear shift to park,� and jumped out the door.� The old lady of the pair was holidng a gaily patterned bandanna to Rooney's forehead. Her husband was looking on, and Rooney was cursing.� When he saw me, he hopped to his feet, and he seemed to be favoring one ankle.

"What happened?" I asked, then quickly surmising what had occurred, gave a narrowed gaze in the direction of his once-again untied shoelace.

"Damn this parking lot, I tripped," Rooney continued in the cursing vein, ignoring the pursed lips of the old lady who apparently didn't approve of his language.

"And the two men?"

"Oh, they had a back up," the old man replied. � "A car waiting on the highway cam squealing in here and picked them up, as soon as the officer arrived."

"Did they take your purse?" I asked the old lady, noting that she had none with her.

"Keep everything tucked in my bra," she answered proudly, patting her flattened chest.

I took a deep breath. "So everything's all right, then?"

Rooney was didn't reply to my question and was noticeably terse as he picked up his sprawled gun from the pavement.� He made ntoes of the couple's comments in a little notebook. At last, he was ready to see them on their way.

"If you'll come down to the station sometime tomorrow, they'll show you some mujg shots," he told them.

"Won't do no good," the mister replied.

"Why not?" I butted in, curious.

"Didn't have my glasses on," he responded. "They was just a big blur, and the Missus don't see none too good herself."

Nodding her agreement, his wife got in while he held the door.� With a curt little wave, the old man pulled the aforementioned glasses from his pocket, plopped them on his nose, got in the car, and drove away.

Carefully, I waited for Rooney to speak.� When he didn't, I trailed him to the car.� It was still running, and again his name was spoken over the radio.� He picked up the microphone to reply.� The voice on the other end informed him of shots fired, gave a code, and an address.� Without a word, Rooney took a red light from beneath the front seat and slapped it on the dashboard, and we were off.� It was only a few minutes later that he realized I was in the car with him.

"Damn it," he score again.

"Don't swear at me," I said in a cross voice. "I didn't trip you."

He shook himself a little, and turned to look at me with a sheepish grin.� "Sorry, Jayne.� I'm not usually so careless.� Makes me look like a real horse's ass, doesn't it?"� He shrugged.

Then he tapped his fingers lightly on the steering wheel. � "Now, what am I going to do with you?� I can't respond to a car with you along, and I don't have time to run you across town."

"Just pretend that I'm one of those cop-groupies that do the 'ride-alongs," I suggested. "I promise to stay out of the way."

"You'd better," he warned me and then turned to totally concentrate on his driving.

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