outside onto the lawn?”
“Maybe it’s a sick joke,” Josie said. “Here’s the neighborhood slut, out sunning for the last time.”
“When we find the guy who did it, we can ask him,” I said.
Labeck glared at me. “There is no we. You are going to stay out of this, Mazie.”
“The hell I will. I’m already involved, remember?”
“This thing could get nasty. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Same old overprotective Labeck, treating me like a Fabergé egg. I opened mymouth to make a scathing reply, but Josie spoke first.
“Don’t fight, babies.” She pointed her pickle slice at Labeck. “You listen to me now, Bonaparte. I know how Trumbull thinks. He’s going to come after you tomorrow. He gets off on waking people at five in the morning, catching them asleep. You need to lawyer up. The second you’re busted, your lawyer steps in to handle things.”
Labeck nodded. “You’re right. I’ve already retained Maury Eisenberg.”
Josie whistled. “Lawyer to the stars. Pretty heavy hitter. Can you afford him?”
“He owes me a favor.”
The people who owed Labeck favors were coming out of the woodwork, and it struck me once again how little I actually knew about the guy.
Labeck looked at me. “You’re sure you want to get involved in this, Mazie?” I returned his gaze. My voice shook a little. “I’m sure.”
“All right. You are now my official fugitive advisor.” He glanced up at the beer poster above our table as he rose from the booth. “It’s time to grab my balls and strike.”
Chapter Fourteen
My cellphone video trumps your ten eyewitnesses.
—Maguire’s Maxims
It was six o’clock in the morning and a police officer named Melvin Stumpf was rapping his knuckles against the floorboards of my apartment, apparently on the theory that a secret underground hidey-hole lay beneath. His partner, a pinched-faced woman named Nadine Krumholz, was unscrewing the plates on the hot-air registers so she could peer inside.
When Stumpf finished rapping on the floor, he walked around opening closets, peeking under my sofa bed, and checking my kitchen cupboards. Krumholz opened my refrigerator. Maybe she came from a land where six-foot-two-inch males lived scrunched up among bottles of cranberry juice and doggie bags of moldy Panda Express, because I assumed they were hunting for Ben Labeck.
The officers had knocked on my door ten minutes ago, flashing a search warrant in front of my sleep-clogged eyes. Neither of them would answer my questions; they just kept repeating that they had legal permission to search the premises, and informed me that if my dog bit one of them I’d be charged with a misdemeanor for failure to restrain a pet.
Restraining my pet was not easy. Barking and growling, Muffin was squirming furiously in my grip, trying to get at the intruders so he could tear them to kibble. Muffin is a shih tzu–bichon frise about the size of a hairy jelly bean. He has soft, pale-gray fur, enormous black button eyes, and wiry white whiskers. He looks like a teddy bear who’s been demonically possessed by a wolverine. Technically, Muffin belongs to Vanessa Vonnerjohn, my ex-mother-in-law, but he’d switched his love and loyalty to me, and I was never giving him back.
If they were looking for Labeck here, that must mean he’d bugged out before they could arrest him. I smiled. They’d never find Bonaparte Labeck. He was too smart andwaaay too sneaky to get caught.
Melvin Stumpf lumbered into my bathroom. A minute later he called out, “Ma’am, could you come in here and open this for me?”
Keeping Muffin clamped tightly in my arms, I walked the few steps to my bathroom. The officer was staring at a wicker laundry hamper whose lid was closed. Really, this was ridiculous. Did he think Labeck was hidden in my dirty laundry?
“It’s not locked,” I said. “You just open it.”
“This is a real nice hamper,” Stumpf said. “My wife would like a hamper like this. Where’d you
“Maybe it’s a sick joke,” Josie said. “Here’s the neighborhood slut, out sunning for the last time.”
“When we find the guy who did it, we can ask him,” I said.
Labeck glared at me. “There is no we. You are going to stay out of this, Mazie.”
“The hell I will. I’m already involved, remember?”
“This thing could get nasty. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Same old overprotective Labeck, treating me like a Fabergé egg. I opened mymouth to make a scathing reply, but Josie spoke first.
“Don’t fight, babies.” She pointed her pickle slice at Labeck. “You listen to me now, Bonaparte. I know how Trumbull thinks. He’s going to come after you tomorrow. He gets off on waking people at five in the morning, catching them asleep. You need to lawyer up. The second you’re busted, your lawyer steps in to handle things.”
Labeck nodded. “You’re right. I’ve already retained Maury Eisenberg.”
Josie whistled. “Lawyer to the stars. Pretty heavy hitter. Can you afford him?”
“He owes me a favor.”
The people who owed Labeck favors were coming out of the woodwork, and it struck me once again how little I actually knew about the guy.
Labeck looked at me. “You’re sure you want to get involved in this, Mazie?” I returned his gaze. My voice shook a little. “I’m sure.”
“All right. You are now my official fugitive advisor.” He glanced up at the beer poster above our table as he rose from the booth. “It’s time to grab my balls and strike.”
Chapter Fourteen
My cellphone video trumps your ten eyewitnesses.
—Maguire’s Maxims
It was six o’clock in the morning and a police officer named Melvin Stumpf was rapping his knuckles against the floorboards of my apartment, apparently on the theory that a secret underground hidey-hole lay beneath. His partner, a pinched-faced woman named Nadine Krumholz, was unscrewing the plates on the hot-air registers so she could peer inside.
When Stumpf finished rapping on the floor, he walked around opening closets, peeking under my sofa bed, and checking my kitchen cupboards. Krumholz opened my refrigerator. Maybe she came from a land where six-foot-two-inch males lived scrunched up among bottles of cranberry juice and doggie bags of moldy Panda Express, because I assumed they were hunting for Ben Labeck.
The officers had knocked on my door ten minutes ago, flashing a search warrant in front of my sleep-clogged eyes. Neither of them would answer my questions; they just kept repeating that they had legal permission to search the premises, and informed me that if my dog bit one of them I’d be charged with a misdemeanor for failure to restrain a pet.
Restraining my pet was not easy. Barking and growling, Muffin was squirming furiously in my grip, trying to get at the intruders so he could tear them to kibble. Muffin is a shih tzu–bichon frise about the size of a hairy jelly bean. He has soft, pale-gray fur, enormous black button eyes, and wiry white whiskers. He looks like a teddy bear who’s been demonically possessed by a wolverine. Technically, Muffin belongs to Vanessa Vonnerjohn, my ex-mother-in-law, but he’d switched his love and loyalty to me, and I was never giving him back.
If they were looking for Labeck here, that must mean he’d bugged out before they could arrest him. I smiled. They’d never find Bonaparte Labeck. He was too smart andwaaay too sneaky to get caught.
Melvin Stumpf lumbered into my bathroom. A minute later he called out, “Ma’am, could you come in here and open this for me?”
Keeping Muffin clamped tightly in my arms, I walked the few steps to my bathroom. The officer was staring at a wicker laundry hamper whose lid was closed. Really, this was ridiculous. Did he think Labeck was hidden in my dirty laundry?
“It’s not locked,” I said. “You just open it.”
“This is a real nice hamper,” Stumpf said. “My wife would like a hamper like this. Where’d you
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