Read Online Dead, Undead, or Somewhere in Between by J. A. Saare - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. A. Saare
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body in a trunk in the Bronx a week or so later. I’ve been the liaison for his people since then.”
“Who was she?”
“Just a girl that was terribly unlucky. She was snatched somewhere between the campus and her house by several not so nice guys on a cocaine binge. She didn’t die quickly; they took their time. When it was over, they discarded her like a rag doll, wrapped in cellophane and garbage bags in the trunk of an abandoned vehicle. It didn’t take long for Disco’s crew to track them, and when they did, there wasn’t anyone left for the police to haul into jail.”
“Why did Disco and his people get involved?”
“I’m not at liberty to say Rhiannon,” Goose answered after a lengthy hesitation. “Maybe one day you can ask Disco.”
“Okay.” I didn’t pry, aware that I’d trespassed onto some private matter best left alone.
He changed the subject by formulating our plan. He would arrive at nine o’clock sharp at my place, bringing us fashionably late to the shindig in the hope that tardiness would excuse us from the early tasting, as well as keeping us below the radar.
Our plan was simple—mingle, observe, and listen. Anyone who raised a red flag would be marked as a suspect of interest. And we only had one rule that governed the entire stakeout.
If somehow we were caught—get the hell out of there.
Chapter Eight
Goose said I looked amazing, and I would have accepted his compliment with tact and grace if I didn’t feel like a bad Tammy Faye impersonator at a religious rally.
The woman he suggested for my makeover had put a mountain of cosmetics on my face—foundation, powder, concealer, blush, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara. The only part of me I did like was my hair, which I’d had blown out straight. The long pieces fell to my waist like a silk curtain, a few natural strands of red shimmering in the light thanks to her impeccable dye job.
My outfit came courtesy of Macy’s, and it was something I could live with—a black halter jumpsuit. I never knew such an amazing and smart piece of clothing existed. The back was open to the waist, which was foreign to me, but the legs were long and billowy and hid the new boots I’d purchased to match. Since I lived in shit kickers and Nike’s, I hoped I didn’t need to haul ass or jump obstacles. If so, I was bound to eat turf.
Goose looked outstanding. His suit was deep navy, almost black, and matched his coloring wonderfully. He wore a light blue shirt with a luxurious navy tie that matched the pants and jacket. His hair was neatly slicked back, and he smelled so good that I pretended to adjust his tie just to take another whiff.
Our driver stopped in front of our destination on Park Avenue, pulling to the empty curb, and my nervousness returned. I was out of my league and completely out of my zone. Whereas I could conform to an emo crowd easily enough, pretending to matriculate from upper crust ass-hats was too surreal. Goose insisted my stellar attitude and superb language skills had to be put on hold while we were inside the building, which meant I had to keep my big fat cow shut.
It was the equivalent of asking a little girl not to scream the first time she was personally introduced to Hannah Montana.
We walked into the building and signed under pseudo names. Hello, Mr. Receptionist. We’re Mr. And Mrs. Hamlin, visiting the Westhouses on the 74 th floor, if you please.
Goose kept his arm loosely at my waist, appearing much taller as he focused on his posture. He totally looked the part. As the door to the elevator slid closed, we both relaxed.
“Remember to watch your language, Janet.”
I turned toward him, brushing off his lapels and giving him the once over.
“Why ever would you say such a thing, Brad?” I smiled innocently and started to snicker. I loved our names, straight out of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. At any moment, I was going to ask Goose to do the “Time Warp”.
“Quiet,” he shushed me as he fought
“Who was she?”
“Just a girl that was terribly unlucky. She was snatched somewhere between the campus and her house by several not so nice guys on a cocaine binge. She didn’t die quickly; they took their time. When it was over, they discarded her like a rag doll, wrapped in cellophane and garbage bags in the trunk of an abandoned vehicle. It didn’t take long for Disco’s crew to track them, and when they did, there wasn’t anyone left for the police to haul into jail.”
“Why did Disco and his people get involved?”
“I’m not at liberty to say Rhiannon,” Goose answered after a lengthy hesitation. “Maybe one day you can ask Disco.”
“Okay.” I didn’t pry, aware that I’d trespassed onto some private matter best left alone.
He changed the subject by formulating our plan. He would arrive at nine o’clock sharp at my place, bringing us fashionably late to the shindig in the hope that tardiness would excuse us from the early tasting, as well as keeping us below the radar.
Our plan was simple—mingle, observe, and listen. Anyone who raised a red flag would be marked as a suspect of interest. And we only had one rule that governed the entire stakeout.
If somehow we were caught—get the hell out of there.
Chapter Eight
Goose said I looked amazing, and I would have accepted his compliment with tact and grace if I didn’t feel like a bad Tammy Faye impersonator at a religious rally.
The woman he suggested for my makeover had put a mountain of cosmetics on my face—foundation, powder, concealer, blush, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara. The only part of me I did like was my hair, which I’d had blown out straight. The long pieces fell to my waist like a silk curtain, a few natural strands of red shimmering in the light thanks to her impeccable dye job.
My outfit came courtesy of Macy’s, and it was something I could live with—a black halter jumpsuit. I never knew such an amazing and smart piece of clothing existed. The back was open to the waist, which was foreign to me, but the legs were long and billowy and hid the new boots I’d purchased to match. Since I lived in shit kickers and Nike’s, I hoped I didn’t need to haul ass or jump obstacles. If so, I was bound to eat turf.
Goose looked outstanding. His suit was deep navy, almost black, and matched his coloring wonderfully. He wore a light blue shirt with a luxurious navy tie that matched the pants and jacket. His hair was neatly slicked back, and he smelled so good that I pretended to adjust his tie just to take another whiff.
Our driver stopped in front of our destination on Park Avenue, pulling to the empty curb, and my nervousness returned. I was out of my league and completely out of my zone. Whereas I could conform to an emo crowd easily enough, pretending to matriculate from upper crust ass-hats was too surreal. Goose insisted my stellar attitude and superb language skills had to be put on hold while we were inside the building, which meant I had to keep my big fat cow shut.
It was the equivalent of asking a little girl not to scream the first time she was personally introduced to Hannah Montana.
We walked into the building and signed under pseudo names. Hello, Mr. Receptionist. We’re Mr. And Mrs. Hamlin, visiting the Westhouses on the 74 th floor, if you please.
Goose kept his arm loosely at my waist, appearing much taller as he focused on his posture. He totally looked the part. As the door to the elevator slid closed, we both relaxed.
“Remember to watch your language, Janet.”
I turned toward him, brushing off his lapels and giving him the once over.
“Why ever would you say such a thing, Brad?” I smiled innocently and started to snicker. I loved our names, straight out of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. At any moment, I was going to ask Goose to do the “Time Warp”.
“Quiet,” he shushed me as he fought
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