Read Witch House for Free Online Page A
Authors: Dana Donovan
get
too analytical sometimes, you know that?”
“Yeah,” I said, and I thought he was right.
Sometimes I do get too analytical over things. I know it can bog
down an investigation if you let it, but it can also place the
proverbial nail in the coffin if it is sharp enough. The trick is
learning how to chew it up and spit it out without losing the
taste. “You’re probably right,” I told him. “That’s why I keep you
around, to keep me grounded.”
“And to remind you when it’s time to
eat.”
I looked at my watch. “It’s barely
eleven-thirty.”
“I know,” he said, as if that were late.
“Aren’t you glad I reminded you?”
“All right, fine.” I gestured a forward
course with the flip of my wrist. “I see you are already heading to
the Percolator anyway. Maybe we can interview Trish Rosado while we
are there.”
“Hey….” He turned his head to me. “That’s
good thinking. Then you could write lunch off as a business
expense.”
“No, Carlos, it doesn’t work that way.”
“Why not? You’ll be paying for two lunches.
Who would know?”
“Are you kidding?” I did not think he was,
but I thought I would give him the benefit of the doubt. “You know
what? I am going to pretend I did not hear that. I hope that’s not
what you’re teaching Spinelli.”
I watched his lips draw together tightly to
the point where prune lines gathered on his chin. He kept his focus
straight ahead, but from the way they narrowed, I could tell he
wanted desperately to say something about it. He waited until I
turned my head again before mumbling just loud enough for me to
hear. “Was only tryin` to help.”
I could not help smiling. I know he saw me
through the corner of his eye, and I think it pissed him off. Not
that pissing off Carlos is such a bad thing. It has its rewards.
For one, Carlos gets extremely quiet when he is pissed, which
leaves me with peace of mind to digest newly acquired information.
In this case, the information that just did not sit right with me
was something Adam said about Stephanie Stiles. He made no bones
about his feelings for her, calling her a slut bag. Clearly, he
knew something about her that René Landau did not know on the
morning of his release. At the risk of forfeiting what little quiet
time I had for the duration of the ride to the Percolator, I turned
and asked Carlos about her.
“Stiles?” he said, seemingly snapping out of
a distant train of thought. Although with Carlos, he may have only
been debating over what to eat for lunch: meatball sub or chicken
parmesan over linguini.
“Stephanie Stiles,” I repeated. “Did you call
Spinelli like I asked you to and request he send you her
picture?”
“Oh, yeah, I sent him a text form Landau’s
place while you were questioning him.”
“And?”
“He sent this.” Carlos pulled his phone from
his top pocket, thumbed the screen a few times and then handed it
to me. “It’s a picture from her driver’s license. Quite the
chassis, eh?”
“Chassis?”
“Sure, look at her.”
“Carlos, how do you know these things?”
“What things?”
“This lingo crap, like back there at
Landau’s. I thought I lost that interview and you stepped in with
your whale-tail badunk-a-dunk whatever and saved it.”
“Yeah? You think I saved the interview?”
“You know it. What is a badunk-a-dunk,
anyway?”
“Oh, that’s a….you know, a fine booty.”
“You mean like Lilith’s?”
He laughed. “No. hers is a badink-a-dink,
more petite.”
“You’re making that up.”
“Seriously! I wouldn’t punk you. You’re my
peeps.”
“Your peeps?” I shook my head. “Never mind.
Drive.”
FOUR
Carlos and I have been going to the
Percolator since long before we were detectives. It is the
quintessential diner for cops, offering free coffee and two-for-one
donuts for anyone in law enforcement. Besides that, they do have
one hell of a lunch menu. Carlos knows it by heart; the weekly
specials,
too analytical sometimes, you know that?”
“Yeah,” I said, and I thought he was right.
Sometimes I do get too analytical over things. I know it can bog
down an investigation if you let it, but it can also place the
proverbial nail in the coffin if it is sharp enough. The trick is
learning how to chew it up and spit it out without losing the
taste. “You’re probably right,” I told him. “That’s why I keep you
around, to keep me grounded.”
“And to remind you when it’s time to
eat.”
I looked at my watch. “It’s barely
eleven-thirty.”
“I know,” he said, as if that were late.
“Aren’t you glad I reminded you?”
“All right, fine.” I gestured a forward
course with the flip of my wrist. “I see you are already heading to
the Percolator anyway. Maybe we can interview Trish Rosado while we
are there.”
“Hey….” He turned his head to me. “That’s
good thinking. Then you could write lunch off as a business
expense.”
“No, Carlos, it doesn’t work that way.”
“Why not? You’ll be paying for two lunches.
Who would know?”
“Are you kidding?” I did not think he was,
but I thought I would give him the benefit of the doubt. “You know
what? I am going to pretend I did not hear that. I hope that’s not
what you’re teaching Spinelli.”
I watched his lips draw together tightly to
the point where prune lines gathered on his chin. He kept his focus
straight ahead, but from the way they narrowed, I could tell he
wanted desperately to say something about it. He waited until I
turned my head again before mumbling just loud enough for me to
hear. “Was only tryin` to help.”
I could not help smiling. I know he saw me
through the corner of his eye, and I think it pissed him off. Not
that pissing off Carlos is such a bad thing. It has its rewards.
For one, Carlos gets extremely quiet when he is pissed, which
leaves me with peace of mind to digest newly acquired information.
In this case, the information that just did not sit right with me
was something Adam said about Stephanie Stiles. He made no bones
about his feelings for her, calling her a slut bag. Clearly, he
knew something about her that René Landau did not know on the
morning of his release. At the risk of forfeiting what little quiet
time I had for the duration of the ride to the Percolator, I turned
and asked Carlos about her.
“Stiles?” he said, seemingly snapping out of
a distant train of thought. Although with Carlos, he may have only
been debating over what to eat for lunch: meatball sub or chicken
parmesan over linguini.
“Stephanie Stiles,” I repeated. “Did you call
Spinelli like I asked you to and request he send you her
picture?”
“Oh, yeah, I sent him a text form Landau’s
place while you were questioning him.”
“And?”
“He sent this.” Carlos pulled his phone from
his top pocket, thumbed the screen a few times and then handed it
to me. “It’s a picture from her driver’s license. Quite the
chassis, eh?”
“Chassis?”
“Sure, look at her.”
“Carlos, how do you know these things?”
“What things?”
“This lingo crap, like back there at
Landau’s. I thought I lost that interview and you stepped in with
your whale-tail badunk-a-dunk whatever and saved it.”
“Yeah? You think I saved the interview?”
“You know it. What is a badunk-a-dunk,
anyway?”
“Oh, that’s a….you know, a fine booty.”
“You mean like Lilith’s?”
He laughed. “No. hers is a badink-a-dink,
more petite.”
“You’re making that up.”
“Seriously! I wouldn’t punk you. You’re my
peeps.”
“Your peeps?” I shook my head. “Never mind.
Drive.”
FOUR
Carlos and I have been going to the
Percolator since long before we were detectives. It is the
quintessential diner for cops, offering free coffee and two-for-one
donuts for anyone in law enforcement. Besides that, they do have
one hell of a lunch menu. Carlos knows it by heart; the weekly
specials,