CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Tooms held on for dear life in the front seat of the Mustang. McCall was driving as if she was in the Indie 500. The busy streets gave way to the weaving GT 500 as if she had dynamite strapped to the sides. The hidden police lights in the grill flashed to give a warning, and the horn did the rest. Over the roar of the engine, the sound of the car’s media system kicked it. The Bluetooth feature on the system had picked up an incoming call. McCall looked down quickly at the caller’s ID. It was Tina’s work number.
“Hi, Tina, sorry I didn’t make it down. What you got?” McCall said as she forced the Mustang past two other cars.
“Well, I just finished doing a DNA check on your Mr Crispy to see if it is John Doe, or whatever his name is now,” the ME told her.
“Nice. And is i
