His shoulders relax as he heaves out a breath. “T’anks. I’ll tell the boys.”
“No problem-o. Bye now.” She starts up the engine, then calls him back. “Say, this wasn’t where the dead man washed up, was it?”
“Yeah.” He points over the marsh to the gravel-covered new road replacing the old. “Right over there.”
The PI shudders and opens her mouth. “Oh my God. I can’t imagine. I’d have nightmares for weeks.”
“It wasn’t so bad.” When he puffs up his chest, I open my eyes wide, scoot next to her, and lean out her window.
“Why do you supposed it washed up now?”
He points to a six-foot diameter cement cylinder, covered in mud. “The cops figure someone stashed him in the culvert we dug up.”
Like Dash, my friend can make her eyelashes tremble. Damn, she’s good. Perhaps, she’ll give me lessons. “Well, I hope you don’t find any more bodies.”
“Who knows? We may get lucky and dig up Jimmy Hoffa.” Chuckling, he waves at us and winks.
“Good luck with that. Bye now.” The Brooklyn bad-ass roars off in her eight-cylinder Chevy and after a couple miles, she says, “Ask the Google lady to direct us to the nearest police station.”
“Why would they tell us anything?” I picture a dimly lit interrogation room containing equally bright cops, and cringe.
“They’ll cooperate. I’ll simply tell them I’m with the FBI.” Underwhelmed by her confidence, I recall how her husband often refers to her as a danger magnet. I’m beginning to understand why.
“I thought you were a private investigator.”
“Who sometimes does contract work for the Federal Government.”
“Awesome.” I program her phone and place it in the holder.
Not long after, we stand at the front desk of a small station where she hands an ID to an officer in blue. “I’m Ms. Russo and she’s my assistant. I need to see your files on Raymond Chandler.”
Eyes under a shaved misshapen head stare at her card for the longest time. Nodding, he walks us to the door. Once we’re inside, he leads us down a narrow hall and sits us in an empty lunchroom. “Wait here.”
A few minutes later, a large chested man with a badge and three chevrons on his short-sleeved shirt enters. Placing a file on the table, he eases his huge butt into a chair. “Twelve years is a long time. We’ll take all the FBI help we can get. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure Chandler’s murder will end up in the cold case files.”
Sam opens the manilla folder and removes the first item. The autopsy report says he was shot at close range to the head. A skeleton in salt water, there wasn’t much of a story left to tell. His wallet held a couple of plastic cards.
I hold an Amex up in the air. “This one only has his first two initials.”
The sergeant nods. “Yeah, odd, right? He only used it at Angel’s. We spoke to everyone, but no one remembers seeing a man fitting his description.”
We study the stack of papers for an hour. Then, we shake his hand, thank him, and we say our goodbyes.
Back in the boat, she smiles. “What say you to a visit to the thrift store?”
“Count me in.” After living with Kade, I’m the Dior of biker babe apparel.
At the local Salvation Army, Sam tugs on the jeans I picked out for her. “Holy shit. They’re too small.”
“Hold your breath and they’ll be fine. Let’s go.” Outside, I rip off the sleeves of a man's white t-shirt, tie the tails at her waist, and cover it with a denim vest resewn into a bustier. “Perfect.”
For me, I choose daisy duke shorts, a black tube top that barely covers my boobs, and an ancient leather jacket. “We’ll need face paint, too.”
Thirty minutes later, she glances at the dark eyeliner in a drugstore bathroom. “You sure about this?”
“Trust me. I lived with a club member for over a year. We’ll be fine.” My forced smile holds a lot more confidence than I feel but I can’t back down now.
If Raymond’s death is related to my helicopter going down, I need to know. Not only that, but I also need the money. Otherwise, I may need to leave the country and take a job as a mercenary.
