Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle, Pauline Jones [top 100 novels of all time .txt] 📗

about. For me, it is like a time capsule to my past. I read it and I remember New Orleans and our own move to Houston ten years ago.

None of the people in the story have any resemblance to any of the people my daughter worked with, nor to anyone I know, though many of my author friends have said it is a cathartic read for them, having the murder victim be a nasty editor who enjoyed sending out cruel rejection letters.

I hope you enjoy reading this small collection of mystery stories!

Do Wah Diddy Dead

Three years after the events in Do Wah Diddy Die.

Mickey Ross looked morosely at his surroundings. Nobody should have to do anything when it was this hot, except maybe sit under an a/c vent with a long, cool drink. What he shouldn’t be doing is prepping for a take down in the airless hallway of this noxious New Orleans dive. August outside meant it was only a few degrees short of soul killing inside. And just in case the heat weren’t enough of a drain, there was also the stench of old, bad food and fifty varieties of urine.

It wasn’t as if Auggie Kronkmeyer and his freaking, stupid sidekick, Pringle, couldn’t afford something better and cooler. They were too cheap. What, Mickey wondered, was the point of a life of crime if a perp didn’t know what to do with the fruit of that illegal vine? It was not only sad to realize that prison was a step up for the parsimonious pair, it meant that prison wasn’t much of a deterrent.

The word on the street was, they were armed to the teeth, so the judge had signed off on a “no-knock” warrant and the captain had approved a tactical entry—and he’d done it without the usual whining about his budget. Heat must be getting to him, too. His recent marriage to long-time love, Lila Seymour, had mellowed him some, but not that much.

Warrant in hand, the team did their risk assessment with brisk efficiency, then they’d all moved into positions covering any possible exit points. While one member of the team monitored A/V, a breacher and two guys were stacked by the front door, careful to keep their distance from the wall—which was paper-thin.

The other two guys were on the fire escape. To avoid cross-fire with the entry team, they’d port—break the window—and cover the first team’s entrance into the microscopic apartment. After breaching, a flash bang would be “inserted,” the official term for tossing. Flash bangs tended to result in involuntary flight or bowel evacuation or both. Either was almost as good a distraction as the bang and flash. Even the most hardened of criminals didn’t like crapping their pants.

No matter how the two perps reacted to the flash bang, two minutes from now, they’d both be facing down some AR-15 rifles in the steady hands of the steely-eyed strike force.

Or they’d be dead.

When these boys assessed risk, they made sure they came out on the continued existence side. Mickey had to like their style, even if they did make him feel old and tired. Of course, it was possible he really was old and tired.

A draft of cool air preceded Delaney’s arrival at Mickey’s side, pushing back the muggy heat and rank smell of cabbage.

“Give ’em the go, Ross, before they pass out from the heat.”

The team commander looked at Mickey without impatience, which was remarkable, considering how hot he must be in all that gear. Mickey gave him the nod and through the headset he heard the signal go out to the rest of the team.

With the brisk efficiency of long practice, their breacher placed the serviceable end of his twelve gauge between the knob and the jam and pulled the trigger. The slug took out the latch and he kicked open the door. Before it quit swinging, the flash bang went in. They all plugged one ear, turned their heads away from the flash and opened their mouths to accommodate the pressure impact from the bang. Entry followed before the echo had died in the hallway, and then Mickey heard the all clear signal.

“Sweet,” Luci said into the headset. “I didn’t know you could jump that high from a sitting position.”

“Luci?” She’d better be monitoring from home, and not the tactical van because, as she liked to point out, she was fifty months pregnant and on maternity leave.

“Whoops.”

Great. And who was Captain Pryce going to blame for his daughter cozying up the A/V tech? Not Luci. No, it was Mickey’s butt that would get chewed on—even though Pryce couldn’t control his daughter any better than her husband could.

Inside the apartment, Auggie and Pringle were on their bellies in flex cuffs, their eyes still spinning in the sockets from the flash bang. Two guys who’d never learn. Based on the smell the two had chosen flight and evacuation. Through watering eyes, Mickey read them their rights and then some uniforms lifted them upright and started them on the first leg of their journey back to prison. Pringle shared a juicy fart as he passed Mickey. Thankfully his bare bum was angled away. Mickey arched a brow.

“He was on the throne when we breached,” one of the team told him with a shrug. “You think it stinks in here…”

After that, Mickey was more than happy to relinquish control to the crime scene boys and girls—who weren’t that happy to get it. Outside in the hall, the smell was an improvement, particularly when Delaney materialized next to him again.

“Days like this, I’m real glad I can’t smell.” His grin was familiar, if a bit more pale than before he became ectoplasm. His body faded until only his grin was left hanging in mid-air between them. Then it vanished, too.

Ghosts. Mickey sighed but didn’t say anything. Detectives who talk to themselves are referred to the department psychiatrist. He made his way downstairs and found Luci waiting for him in the tac