D is for Drunk by Rebecca Cantrell

road.

                                                                                                                                                                     

    CHAPTER 18
    S ofia was completely sober and more than a little bored, but she amused herself by looking at photos of Pankhurst and his wife Belinda. They had a bunch on their website. Belinda was tall, thin, and dark-haired. She looked a little like Annabelle Befort, but seemed more down-to-earth in her jeans and cowboy hats and sincere-looking smiles. Sofia looked up her obit. She’d died of breast cancer. No foul play from Pankhurst on that count.
    Aidan stared moodily up the road. She could practically see the gears turning in his head.
    “You know,” she said. “If Pankhurst came out, he’d spot us in a heartbeat. The Lemon Drop doesn’t blend into the background. We ought to get a rental for stakeouts.”
    Aidan grunted, which was as forthcoming as he’d been so far on this stakeout.
    “He’s not coming,” she said, for the twenty-second time.
    “You’re right,” Aidan said.
    She looked up from her phone in surprise. “What was that?”
    “We’ll head over to the Grigoryan’s property, try out the drone from there.”
    Her phone buzzed.
    “Who is it?” Aidan asked.
    She looked at it. It was a picture of an ice cream sundae. “Jaxon. He says there’s a hilly trail we can take on Tuesday. It ends up at a restaurant with great ice cream.”
    “Make sure you don’t drink wine before you leave.” Aidan started the car.
    “I don’t get horse sick. I get car sick.”
    “You get wine sick,” he said.
    She started to text Jaxon back.
    “You can’t do that,” Aidan said.
    “Why not?”
    “You have to wait at least ten minutes or you seem desperate.”
    “Really?” If there were rules to texting, Aidan would know them.
    “People want what they can’t have, so waiting builds up a sense of mystery and uncertainty which makes you seem more desirable. It’s been shown in rat studies.”
    “Rats text?”
    “There’s a button they press. Never mind.” Aidan turned up toward the Grigoryan’s castle.
    She pocketed her phone. Maybe Aidan was right.
    The castle looked the same as it had last time. Blue skies, blue pool, giant ostentatious building, angry Armenian approaching.
    “You have found proof already, haven’t you?” Narek Grigoryan puffed up to them.
    “Not yet, sir,” said Aidan. “We’re going to use a drone to check for leaks or anything suspicious.”
    “Good. Spy tech. That will help.”
    Aidan opened up the Porsche’s trunk and took out his drone. It had four rotors and a tiny body. It was blue on the bottom and white on the top, with a camera mounted under its belly. He pulled out a little remote control box that looked as if it would be used for video games. She sensed her afternoon was about to get more boring, if that was possible.
    “How high can it fly?” asked Mr. Grigoryan.
    “High enough.” Aidan set it on the ground and took it off. He looked about five years old with the remote control in his hand and a dopey grin on his face.
    “Do we have to wait for it to come back to see what it’s seeing?” Sofia asked.
    “There’s an app for that.” Aidan swiped his phone, and it displayed the drone’s eye view on his phone screen.
    The drone was looking down on them, their car, and the top of the castle. Sofia waved.
    “Camera hound,” Aidan said.
    “Can I fly it?” she asked. “Please. Pretty please.”
    “We’ll start with the Grigoryan’s property,” Aidan said. “I’ll pilot. You look out for anything that seems weird.”
    “Such as?” Mr. Grigoryan was watching Aidan’s screen as intently as they were.
    “Green where it shouldn’t be green, dark soil,” said Sofia. “Or maybe a hose running off