Harley, I warned you about—”
“So, he’s undercover, huh. Why didn’t you tell me? It would have saved me a lot of worry and you a lot of trouble, and you’d have probably saved yourself a few explanations, too.”
Silence answered her. She smiled. She could read Bobby so well at times. It was nice to be right. That probably shocked the shit out of him. Frankly, it did her, too.
“What the hell are you talking about,” Bobby said then, but she knew she had him. It was in his voice.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Bruno Jett’s in Federal custody. That means the new neighbor’s undercover. What I don’t know is how he figures into all this. Why don’t you enlighten me?”
“There are times, Harley Jean, that your imagination works overtime. What’s in that wine you’re drinking, or are you smoking Yogi’s funny cigarettes?”
“You’re so amusing and so transparent, Bobby Baroni. Any time you call me Harley Jean, I know I’ve got you. So come on. Tell me. What’s Jett up to? What’s his real name, anyway?”
“Look, you can screw everything up if you don’t watch your mouth. Even hinting that a man is undercover can get him killed.”
“Bobby, Bobby, you know me better than that. I won’t say anything to anyone. Other than Mister Jett, that is. You should have told me, you know. I would have stayed away from him if you had.”
A derisive snort indicated disbelief on Bobby’s part, but all he said was, “Keep away from Jett and your mouth shut, Harley. I mean it. Or I could always bring you in for questioning and forget you’re here for a while.”
She made a face at the cell phone, but couldn’t help saying in her slowest drawl, “Why Bobby dahlin’, you know I’d nevah let anyone find out you blabbed police business. Bye now.”
Quickly hanging up while he was still shouting something nasty at her, she smiled again. It was really nice the way some things clicked into place on occasion. Now she had to figure out just why Jett had moved next door to her parents, and if he was somehow involved in Mrs. Trumble’s murder. Was there some sort of connection? If so, what? He must be investigating the jewelry thefts, or he wouldn’t have had that big pile of stones on his table, but how did that mix with Mrs. Trumble? Maybe they weren’t connected. It could be two different cases. Possibly. Or not. And how were Yogi and Diva involved?
Oh, if only Diva were here. Sometimes she had an uncanny knack for putting things together, no matter how she claimed it happened. Too bad Rama and Ovid didn’t moonlight.
Within five minutes she’d poured out her second glass of wine, grabbed her backpack, and was straddling her bike. Time for a little visit with Bruno Jett, or whatever his name was. This should be good.
Sometimes, luck was really with her. Tooling down Highland Avenue on the way to Jett’s house she happened to pass a very familiar silver Jag parked in front of Newby’s. How absolutely fortuitous. There were times it was good to be alive.
She parked behind the bar next to a Dumpster overflowing with cardboard boxes, taking a spark plug with her to ensure the bike would still be there when she returned. It was pretty well lit back here where employees usually parked, so she wasn’t too worried, but still, some people had a rough time resisting temptation.
It was darker inside than it was in the back alley, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. It had the usual crowd of college kids, and not many empty tables. On one side, an English style red telephone box sat against the wall under a moose head. The moose looked rather glum. The long bar was backed with the usual mirrors and rows of liquor bottles. She nudged close and ordered a beer, looking casually around the packed room until she found him.
Bruno Jett sat alone in front of the low windows, watching the traffic and nursing a beer. If he’d seen her, he gave no indication of it. Was he waiting on someone?
“So, he’s undercover, huh. Why didn’t you tell me? It would have saved me a lot of worry and you a lot of trouble, and you’d have probably saved yourself a few explanations, too.”
Silence answered her. She smiled. She could read Bobby so well at times. It was nice to be right. That probably shocked the shit out of him. Frankly, it did her, too.
“What the hell are you talking about,” Bobby said then, but she knew she had him. It was in his voice.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Bruno Jett’s in Federal custody. That means the new neighbor’s undercover. What I don’t know is how he figures into all this. Why don’t you enlighten me?”
“There are times, Harley Jean, that your imagination works overtime. What’s in that wine you’re drinking, or are you smoking Yogi’s funny cigarettes?”
“You’re so amusing and so transparent, Bobby Baroni. Any time you call me Harley Jean, I know I’ve got you. So come on. Tell me. What’s Jett up to? What’s his real name, anyway?”
“Look, you can screw everything up if you don’t watch your mouth. Even hinting that a man is undercover can get him killed.”
“Bobby, Bobby, you know me better than that. I won’t say anything to anyone. Other than Mister Jett, that is. You should have told me, you know. I would have stayed away from him if you had.”
A derisive snort indicated disbelief on Bobby’s part, but all he said was, “Keep away from Jett and your mouth shut, Harley. I mean it. Or I could always bring you in for questioning and forget you’re here for a while.”
She made a face at the cell phone, but couldn’t help saying in her slowest drawl, “Why Bobby dahlin’, you know I’d nevah let anyone find out you blabbed police business. Bye now.”
Quickly hanging up while he was still shouting something nasty at her, she smiled again. It was really nice the way some things clicked into place on occasion. Now she had to figure out just why Jett had moved next door to her parents, and if he was somehow involved in Mrs. Trumble’s murder. Was there some sort of connection? If so, what? He must be investigating the jewelry thefts, or he wouldn’t have had that big pile of stones on his table, but how did that mix with Mrs. Trumble? Maybe they weren’t connected. It could be two different cases. Possibly. Or not. And how were Yogi and Diva involved?
Oh, if only Diva were here. Sometimes she had an uncanny knack for putting things together, no matter how she claimed it happened. Too bad Rama and Ovid didn’t moonlight.
Within five minutes she’d poured out her second glass of wine, grabbed her backpack, and was straddling her bike. Time for a little visit with Bruno Jett, or whatever his name was. This should be good.
Sometimes, luck was really with her. Tooling down Highland Avenue on the way to Jett’s house she happened to pass a very familiar silver Jag parked in front of Newby’s. How absolutely fortuitous. There were times it was good to be alive.
She parked behind the bar next to a Dumpster overflowing with cardboard boxes, taking a spark plug with her to ensure the bike would still be there when she returned. It was pretty well lit back here where employees usually parked, so she wasn’t too worried, but still, some people had a rough time resisting temptation.
It was darker inside than it was in the back alley, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. It had the usual crowd of college kids, and not many empty tables. On one side, an English style red telephone box sat against the wall under a moose head. The moose looked rather glum. The long bar was backed with the usual mirrors and rows of liquor bottles. She nudged close and ordered a beer, looking casually around the packed room until she found him.
Bruno Jett sat alone in front of the low windows, watching the traffic and nursing a beer. If he’d seen her, he gave no indication of it. Was he waiting on someone?
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