Dead on the Fourth of July (David Dean Mysteries)

When he'd slowed to the shoulder he was surprised to discover his error as a uniformed female emerged from the vehicle. She strode to the driver's side of the Jeep, hands on her hips, a no-nonsense look on her startlingly attractive face. She bent down and stared at him. A name plate identified her as "Larkin."

"I thought you were Jake Weller," Dean said with a smile.

The smile was not returned. "Do I look like Jake Weller?" She answered as Martha giggled, earning a stern look.

Larkin certainly didn't resemble the sheriff in any way. Short red hair crept from underneath her cap and even Dean's untrained eye could tell her makeup was carefully applied and her uniform cut to exhibit a knock-out figure. He guessed her to be nearly six feet tall. Vanna White in sheriff's duds, but with anything but a smiling attitude. When Dean didn't answer, she continued, professionally, but with a hint of sarcasm, sing-songing a rehearsed litany-present your driver's license and registration and something about exceeding a fifty-mile-an-hour speed limit. Dean quickly understood this was no social call.

"Look," he interrupted. "How fast was I going? I wasn't even doing sixty. What's the big deal?"

"The big deal is the speed limit is fifty. You exceeded fifty. End of case."

"Have you been doing this long?" Dean muttered, immediately regretting his big mouth when he saw the look on her face.

"Step out of the car, please."

"Oh, come on! Look, I'm sorry. I used to do this for a living- "

"What? Race automobiles?"

"No. I was a cop."

"Then you ought to know better. Out of the car."

"Look . . ."

"Now!" she shouted. Martha began to cry. Dean tried to comfort her while complying with the officer's request. "Put your hands on the roof," Larkin demanded.

"There isn't a roof-it's a convertible," he muttered, as he turned his back to her.

Larkin addressed Martha. "Is this your daddy?" she said, in a voice that showed little practice with children.

Martha shook her head. "No, he's just keeping me for now." Her lip began to tremble.

"Where are your parents?" she asked, as Dean continued to stand, hands on the roll bar that circled the Jeep.

"You're a storm trooper pig!" Martha spat with a viciousness that shocked Dean as much as the officer. She buried her face in her hands, sobbed and shrank down in her seat.

"Has this man hurt you?" Larkin asked, trying to look down at Martha and at the same time keeping a wary eye on Dean, who was ready to kill her.

"Will you cut out this shit and stop frightening this child to death? If you have to write up a damn ticket, do it, and let us get the hell out of here!"