CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was noon and steel-gray clouds had rolled in. The sun made feeble attempts to show itself now and again, but rain was imminent. You could sense it, smell it, feel it. The air was thick, as if a giant aerosol can had sprayed its dense contents across the region.
We’d called Ald Ives about the rose found in the newspaper box and he’d ordered us to stay put until Sallo and Hammill arrived—and arrive they did, in not so record time. Both were dressed in jeans and blindingly loud Aloha shirts. Undercover?
“Ladies, you did good,” Hammill said with a trim smile as he carefully placed the crushed rose in a printed paper evidence bag.
Tilting back the signature hat, Sallo muttered under his breath and scanned the alley for the umpteenth time.
“We’re not just pretty faces,”
