28 MarianneAt two-thirty on Friday afternoon, Marianne strode briskly through the atrium lobby of an upscale Southcenter hotel. Dashing into the waiting elevator, she sent the car speeding to the top floor.
She was half an hour late. She hadn’t built in any cushion to compensate for her flight’s delayed departure from Sweet Home.
The regional airline serving her hometown was so unreliable, she’d sworn never to use it again.
But the exhumation problem had cropped up without notice. Flying had been the only way she could arrive in time to achieve both her goals.
Timothy Randall’s damn casket would stay in the ground at least until next Tuesday, and probably for eternity.
Nora Dockson would soon be off the Gustavo Ochoa case.
Marianne smiled, recalling her brilliant ambush of the death
