Page 27 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

The ambulance parks next to the Kia, followed by a cop car and a tow truck. They all block off access to the accident, which makes my job a lot easier. Then it gets even better when the second bell rings, and I am officially off duty.

I shrug out of my vest and join Claudia on the sidewalk, still awashin guilt. The cops are setting up cones around the sinkhole, which feels very too-little-too-late to me, and, since the kids are finally gone, the EMTs pull the guy from the car and plop him on a gurney. They’re a little slow to put a sheet over him, and I accidentally catch another glimpse of the body before I catch myself.The body. Ugh.

I am trying very hard not to be woozy, and only partly succeeding.

I turn my attention to the poodles, who seem sort of lost. They follow the EMTs from the car to the ambulance, try to hop in, and, after being nudged off, wait patiently after the door shuts and it drives away, no siren necessary. Then they straggle over to us, and for a moment, we all stand there like we’re at the most awkward cocktail party ever, until one of the dogs leaps at me. I flinch, preparing myself for an attack—after all, I’m responsible for the death of his person, plus dogs seem to like leaping on me these days. But all he does is headbutt my hip, pushing against my hand, while the other two dogs lie down on the grass, looking pathetic.

He likes me.

Somehow that destroys me even more.

Just then, one of the cops—a youngish white guy with a shaved head and an I-drink-more-High-Life-than-water look—walks up to us with a tiny spiral notebook.

“Did either of you see what happened?” he asks, flipping the notebook open.

We shake our heads.

“Not even you, crossing guard?”

“I got to work late,” I say, miserably.

He writes that down. Ugh, why didn’t I lie?

“Those your dogs?” he asks.

“These dogs? The dogs that just tried to get into the ambulance?” Claudia says. “No, you dipshit.”

I almost choke. “They belong—belonged—to the dead guy. Uh, sir.”

He glares at her and writes something in his notebook. “Watch your tone, young lady.”

“Me? What did I do?” I say.

He leans into his walkie-talkie. “Get Animal Control up here.”

“No!” Claudia blurts.

We both look at her.

“Animal Control will put them in a kill shelter. No way. I’ll take care of the dogs,” she says.

The cop raises an eyebrow. “And how are you related to the deceased?”

Claudia straightens up to her full height of approximately four feet. Her hair is short and gray and mashed against her head unflatteringly, and she’s got the sun hat all folded up behind her back so the cop can’t see the body fluids smeared all over it.RIP, hat, I think somberly.Thank you for your service.

“I’m a friend,” she says.

“Uh-huh,” the cop says. “So what was his name?”

“Cran Johnston,” she says, not skipping a beat.

Cran? That’s the best she could come up with?Cran?

But the cop checks his notes and nods. Okay then, Cran it is.

Claudia points at the poodles. “Look how fancy they are. They’d hate it in a shelter,” she says firmly. “That’s likepuppy prison. But then, you cops love prisons, don’t you?”

“Excuse me?” the cop says. They glare at each other again.