Hit 'N' Run (Under Suspicion #1) (2 page)

Chapter Two

Mitch slammed his foot hard on the brake and his cap fell over his eyes. “No way.” His fisted hands pounded the steering wheel before reaching up to fling the hat on the seat. “No effin’ way! I don’t have time for this.”

The long car staggered to the side of the road. Mitch shut down the motor, pushed his glasses up his nose, and finished the motion by running both hands over his hair down to the ponytail at the base of his neck. He picked his cap up off the floor where it had fallen, pulled it low over his brow, and straightened his tie. Quelling the rise in his temperature as the seconds ticked by, he swallowed and pulled a long breath through his nostrils.

He had to speed through this process and get to the burial grounds. He stole a quick glance at the time on his cell before ramming it in his front pocket and opening the car door. Where the hell had the truck come from?

Mitch bent and skimmed his fingers along the shiny black finish of the hearse while he inspected the crater left from the collision. The back passenger-side door took the majority of the impact. Stomach in knots, Mitch spit to the side of the road, his saliva glands working on overdrive. On the bright side—if he could focus on the positive while ignoring the passage of time—the truck hadn’t been going fast, so the damage was minimal. Just the same, he had to make sure no one was hurt in the other vehicle.

Shoulders squared, Mitch jogged across the street to the fire-engine-red vehicle, pulling his wallet out of his breast pocket. His vision focused on retrieving his license, he almost bumped into the door before glancing up just in time and bouncing back on his heels.

He adjusted his stance and glanced around the large piece of metal. Lovely calves, silky smooth, and ending in a pair of strappy, high-heeled shoes grabbed his attention. Curious, he wondered who drove a dually in a skirt and spikes. Mitch arched his gaze higher, travelling the length of the long legs, the blue-printed skirt, over the crisp, white blouse, enjoying the scene. Back turned to him, holding the door handle, the owner of the smooth pipes lifted one foot to adjust the strap, strands of her sandy-blonde hair escaping their entrapment to curl over her ears.

The sight of the matronly chignon pulled him up straight and brought him back to task. He shook his head. What a waste of a nice ass. The
helmet-headed mane was a dead giveaway for a stuck up personality. The type of bossy, control-freak woman Mitch strove to avoid at all costs. A do like that means she’s all work and no play, and he’d never had any luck with those types of women.

But if she ever let the knot out of her hair…
shit, I don’t have time to think like that right now
.

On the balls of his feet, he side-stepped the door. “Are you hurt?”

Her gasp startled him and he closed his mouth with a click of his teeth. When her hands flew for her throat and she teetered backward on her heels, he reached a hand towards her elbow to steady her.

Brows arched high above her sunglasses, her head turned towards the approach of his hand—watching—as one would a snake. With a shake of her head, she dropped her hands and flattened back to the side of the truck to avoid his touch.

With raised palms, he stepped back to give her space. If possible, her brows drew closer to her hairline creasing her forehead, a question written across her features. He should be prepared for this kind of reaction, given the fact he drove a hearse.

In a gesture of goodwill, he pulled off his hat to hold it in his right hand. “Are you hurt?” he repeated when she didn’t respond.

In a flash he took in her features. In contrast to her no-nonsense hair, the wraparound sunglasses did little to hide her eyes while the sun caressed her cheeks. The curve of her jaw gave him a sense of familiarity. He tried to place her, but drew a blank. He turned to close the door and a glint of sparkle caught his eye. A diamond stud, no bigger than a freckle decorated her nose, catching a ray of sunlight.

He almost laughed.
Maybe not so big a stick up her ass after all.
There could be a bit of a rebel buried under the fine linen
.
He strangled the urge to remove her glasses for a closer inspection.

“No, no, I’m okay,” she answered at last, keeping her hand on the door handle as she stretched her arm to look towards the front of the truck. “Better than my front end, anyway.”

Was it her voice or the pout of the delicate bottom lip? He couldn’t shake the sudden attraction and awareness that he knew her from somewhere.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had to focus. He needed to get to church. “Listen, I’m so sorry about the accident, but I must go.”

Confusion etched her features and he held up his other palm to stop whatever she was going to say. Lives would be in jeopardy if he were a no-show. “There’s an emergency. Kinda the nature of my job.” He waved his arm back towards the long, black vehicle and tried for a smile. “I’m so glad you’re okay. Here’s my license. When you file the accident, just leave it with them. They’ll mail it back to me.”

She removed her glasses and shook her head, brows plunged to furrow closer to her nose. “What?”

He started to turn and tossed her the license. “We can settle up on the insurance a bit later, okay?”

She caught the driver’s license with one swift movement and nailed him with a stern glare. “Where are you going?”

Mitch began to stride away. “I gotta to go. I’m sorry, but I’m glad you’re okay,” he called over his shoulder, racing back towards the banged-up hearse. The front right tire bent slightly towards the engine, but it would get him where he needed to go. Nerves like a coiled snake settled in his lower intestines, and he prayed nothing else would slow him down.

Ignoring her waved hand, Mitch started the car and squealed away. The injured tire thumped its protest with a loud rhythmic clank.

Caught at odds, Mitch pounded the wheel. “Goddamnit,” he ground through clenched teeth. “It’s my job to not let shit like this happen.”

The memory of her face filled the windshield of his mind and he blocked the sense of familiarity she had created. “I definitely don’t have time for this.”

***

She stared in mute fascination as the long hearse labored away.

Lorna slapped her palm against her forehead. “What’s wrong with me?” She gave herself a mental shake. Why hadn’t she gotten the license plate number? Blood pulsed in her ears, filling her with dread. “That was some scary-looking guy.”

When the bearded man ran over with shoulders the size of a linebacker, it was all she could do not to scream. The blackout, mirrored sunglasses were an absolute divergence to the black suit and chauffeur’s hat.

The dull thump of the rattled tire sounded a distant echo even if she could no longer see the vehicle itself. Had the grim reaper just paid a visit? What was she going to do?

The edge of the plastic driver’s license cut into her palm and she glanced down at the picture. An unkempt man with greasy hair and piercing eyes stared back. Thanking God she always purchased full insurance on her rentals, Lorna reached inside the cab for her purse and stowed the certificate in the side pouch.

She grasped the door handle. Approaching footfalls and a heavy wheeze caused her to turn around. Across a carpet of neatly trimmed grass, a portly man of about 70 rushed to her side.

“Saw the whole thing, Miss,” he said. He bent forward to catch his breath and removed his golfer’s cap to wipe his brow. “Are you okay? Did that fella just run off? You can use me as a witness.”

Distracted, Lorna nodded and turned back to where the hearse had disappeared from view. She lifted a hand and pointed. “He just drove off.”

The good Samaritan reached light fingers to rest on her elbow.

“He left me his license.”

The older man released her elbow to move to the front of the truck. He shook his head as he inspected her front end. “You’ll have to report it, Miss.” He hunched over to peer under the grill. His head popped up from inspecting the chrome, eyes squinted against the sun. He placed his hat back on his head. “Not much damage. A rig like this though must have done a number on his. Did you get the plate number?”

“No.” She brought her hand to her forehead and walked to the front of the truck where one of the headlights was broken, glass fanned from the blow like a shadow. “How many hearses can there be with a large dent on the passenger side?”

She needed to shake this fog and do something.

“Well, at least you remembered to get his driver’s license.”

She stepped back from the damage and replaced her glasses, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Yes. At least that’s something.” Adding a visit to the police station to her mental must-do list, she reached out a hand to the older man. “I’ll take you up on your offer as a witness. Mister…”

“Gordon.” The warmth of his hand engulfed hers. “Paul Gordon.”

“I’m grateful. Thank you, Mr. Gordon.” Lorna let the sound of his name float off her tongue. “It’s kind of you.”

“Oh, well.” He lowered his head as pink spots highlighted his ruddy cheeks. “Call me Paul. I was watering my flowers over there.” He pointed back towards a blue-trimmed house on the corner. “Don’t normally get much traffic in the neighborhood during the day, but there’s always a bit of excitement now and again, I guess. But when a hearse of all things flew right out there in front of you, I couldn’t believe my eyes. You know he ran the stop sign?”

Lorna peered down the street again, envisioning the driver’s return.

“Imagine a fella like that chauffeuring you to your final resting spot.”

There’s a happy thought
. “Mr. Gordon, ah, Paul. May I write down your contact information?”

***

Much later, having barely finished her appointments, Lorna sat outside the community police station contemplating her next move. She had no choice but to report the accident, but with the day’s drama subsided, she was left exhausted, and so procrastinated over this one last chore. Lost in thought, holding the driver’s license with the tips of her fingers, she rubbed her thumbs along the hard plastic edges, scrutinizing the picture.

She stared at a face she had hoped to never see again.

Mitchell Morgan. Could it really be him after all this time? What’s it been? Five years?

Merging the image of the thug-like funeral chauffeur, who drove out in front of her this morning, with the man who seared her to her core in her final year at university was not as hard as she would have supposed. What puzzled Lorna was not her lack of recognizing him—how could she, disguised as he was—but surely he would know her
.

Her bare toes fiddled aimlessly with the shoes she had kicked off to stretch her tired feet. Her procrastination had purpose, though resting weary feet was not on the list. The problem she faced, making her hesitate before going into the local detachment, was the driver’s license itself. It didn’t belong to Mitchell Morgan, though most certainly featured his picture, however much facial hair altered his image. Sunglasses hooked in her pinky finger, she ran the tip of her forefinger across the embossed name. “Your name is not Michael Ward.”

Whatever trouble caused him to use forged documents was not and sadly never would be her concern. Running nervous fingers along her chignon, she lowered the visor mirror to refresh her lipstick and check the rest of her makeup. Correcting a smudge, she widened her eyes at her reflection before flipping the shade back in place. She slipped the heeled shoes back over her aching feet, drew air in through her nostrils, straightened her spine, and squared her shoulders. Running a moist palm down her skirt, she grabbed her purse and opened the heavy truck door, taking the time to hold the handle and step on the running board before reaching another foot towards the pavement.

The two officers manning the long, green counter were absorbed with their computer monitors, uninterested in whatever action might walk through their door. She shrugged, straightened her blouse, and clipped across the tiles.

The one closest to her lifted his bespectacled gaze with obvious reluctance. “How can I help you, Miss?”

She coughed to clear her dry throat. “Lorna…” She croaked and started again. “Lorna Tymchuk.” She held out her hand in greeting, noted his unwavering stare, and retracted the motion. Were police stations intentionally designed to make people uncomfortable the moment they stepped over the threshold? She grabbed the handle of her purse. “Ah, yes. I’ve been involved in a hit and run.”

In need of grease, the wheels of the officer’s chair squeaked a protest when he bent out of sight below his monitor. The light from the screen reflected off his balding dome. A long arm, extended in her direction with a legal-sized form held in his hand, preceded the appearance of the rest of him. With a sniffled snort, he stood, causing the chair to sail a few feet away from its perch. He set the paper in front of her, groping, without looking, in the space below the counter for a pen. “Complete this form in full. You can sit over there.” He pointed across the long room. “Once you’re done, bring it back, and I will go through it with you.”