I pulled up to the pier in a cloud of tire smoke and several flattened cardboard boxes. The crime scene was crawling with cops. I stepped over the yellow tape, which was actually a giant piece of fettuccine left over from the Mayor’s luncheon.
I went to lean against my car, missed, and fell into a dumpster. It was just another day on the force. Quelli della pallottola spuntata 1x5
Back at the station, we found the motive. The cook was actually a disgraced ventriloquist who blamed mimes for the decline of variety theater. He’d been using the hot dog stand as a front for a global smuggling ring involving illegal clown shoes. I pulled up to the pier in a
The cook froze. He reached under the counter, but he wasn’t grabbing a bun. I dived over the counter, scattering relish like emerald rain. We tumbled into the kitchen, crashing through a wall of oversized mustard packets. I went to lean against my car, missed,
“A mime, Ed?” I asked, dodging a grandmother on a tricycle. “Was it a silent killing?” “We don’t know, Frank. He isn’t talking.”
I knelt down and looked at the body. “He’s dead, Ed. But look at his hands.” “What about them?” “He’s holding a white glove. And it’s not his.”