“Is Scot there?” Perhaps man to man, we can figure this out.
“No, no, no. Tell your husband I’m not irrational. I will double your fees if you speak to her one more time. Name your price, any price.”
“We can’t take your money, Mrs. Whitbread.” My wife shakes her head sadly and as much as I’d like the dough, I have to agree.
“Please Sam, please. If you don’t find anything, I promise I will drop it and never call again.”
There’s no doubt my sugar wants me to be the bad guy but I suck at being mean. Besides, a small selfish part of me is thinking about a down payment on a new apartment.
I shrug at Sam as she scowls and sighs. “Okay, I’ll go back and ask about the gender thing, but after, that’s it. We’re done.”
“Thank you so, so much.”
“Uh-huh. Buh-bye.”
“You owe me.” My lovely baby-momma kisses me on the cheek, snatches a hoodie off the couch, and dashes out the door. “See you later.”
After she’s gone, I drink my coffee, and grin.
Holy shit. I’m going to be a dad.
Chapter 9
Suds
When she swings her tail in my face, I gently push Catrina off my keyboard and research rules for pregnant women. First and foremost, my wife needs to eat healthier and reduce stress. Well, ain’t that a hoot. I’m no miracle worker.
Huh. I could talk to ol’ my pal, Lucky. His wife is an expert in super-secret microwave technology and they have three healthy kids. I bet he can share some advice on how to handle a brilliant, hormonal female.
Too early to call, I make a mental note to talk to him later, and review Sam’s notes on our open cases. The folder marked Joey catches my eye. No fucking way. She lied? Coffee goes down the wrong hole and I almost choke to death.
Well, well, well. It isn’t afriendwho lost a package. It’s the man, himself. Dammit all. Family or no family, he is dead meat. We all agreed. Our business does not get involved in her mom’s side of the family business.
Not now and not ever.
I give him a call but he doesn’t pick up. What a piece of shit. How dare he put my baby-mommy in the middle of his illegal transports? No wonder my spidey senses were tingling.
While I watch the blue screen, Cat jumps on the table and laps up my coffee. Eyeing me, she licks her lips and grins. Hopefully, the caffeine won’t make her crazy and by that, I mean more so than usual.
Unable to reach him and with a crazy cat chasing her tail, I decide to do something more productive with my morning. First off, I need to end this Whitbread case. Being a dad-to-be, I understand their dismay a whole lot better than I did. There’s got to be a compromise for them and I wish them well but their differences are a job for the courts not a PI company.
I write Sam a note, stop for a fur-free cup of joe, and jump in Patten’s borrowed SUV. Of course, the fuel gauge readsrunning on fumes.Now, if I was Fred Flintstone, I’d be fine. However, with no hole for my feet, I need gas. The engine sputters, drifts to a stop in front of the nearest pump, and I top up the tank.
Who the hell leaves a dry tank? I do believe some behavior modification is needed before we have a baby on board. Damn, my daddy-to-do list is growing and the day hasn’t begun.
With that in mind, once I’m out of traffic, I ring my pal, Lochlan. “Hey, you ugly bastard.”
“Hold on.” Plates clatter in the background, a door shuts, and the noises subside. “I thought you were stuck in La-la land? Did the kid fire you?”
He may be the only person on earth who missed the video on social media. Either that or he’s pulling my leg. “Someone came after the Russian’s kid so he cut my visit short.”
A few drops of rain appear on my windshield so I click on the wipers. A new and more responsible man, I slow down until the speedometer reads seventy-five.
“Why aren’t you and your sheila under the covers havin’ the naughty?”
Sam’s naked body comes to mind and how she screamed as she came. Adjusting the front of my jeans, I move to the lane marked Long Island Expressway sign. “No worries, pal. I got it covered. Say, you got a minute?”
“Shoot.” His muffled voice shouts to his wife.
