51“FBI. Don’t touch it!”
Maggie yelled at the waitress standing over the takeout container. She held up her badge in one hand while the other stayed inside her jacket on the butt of her revolver. But she could see that someone had already opened the lid.
Still, the woman in the emerald green apron stepped back. Maggie could see she wasn’t the one who had screamed. A younger woman sitting close by—close enough to see the bloody glob inside the container—was now being helped away.
“Are you really FBI?” an older man asked from a nearby table. “Are you filming for a movie or something?”
Maggie saw the waitress’s nametag then locked eyes on her. “Rita, can you please make sure no one touches that?”
The woman nodded.
Maggie rushed back out into the courtyard then turned at the first corner
