8
“Uh, I clean her pool,” Jett said.
“I’m sure you do,” JD muttered.
“We know there’s a little more to it than that,” I said. “Were you with her last night?”
He stammered, “Well, I was just?—“
“Save it. I’ve seen the text messages.”
A guilty look tensed his face. “So what? Is that illegal now?”
“What time did you leave her house last night?”
He didn’t want to answer, but he did anyway. “I don’t know. Maybe 1:30 AM. Why?”
“Tell me about the cocaine.”
His face wrinkled. “What cocaine?”
He knew damn good and well what cocaine.
“Did you give it to her?”
“No,” he said, his face twisted even more.
I didn’t buy it. “Was she coherent when you left?”
“She was passed out. I call her Sleeping Booty. As soon as that chick gets off, she’s always out.”
“So this was a frequent occurrence?”
Jett shrugged. “Like I said, is that illegal?”
“I don’t think her husband is too pleased.”
His face went long. “He doesn’t know, does he?”
“He does now.”
Jett’s face twisted. “Shit, man! How’d he find out? Did you guys tell him?”
I said nothing.
“That’s going to fuck my business.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have played hide the sausage with clients’ wives,” Jack muttered.
“Man, those people talk. I’m going to lose so many clients!”
“Whitney’s dead,” I said.
His eyes rounded in disbelief. “What!?”
I gave him limited details.
“She was alive when I left,” he said, raising his hands innocently.
