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Authors: Linda O. Johnston
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astute Althea gave me the answer herself. “You mean about that murder at The Clone Arranger? Was Jeff investigating that outfit?”
“How did you know . . . ? I mean, I have to check with someone before I can say anything, but—”
“Lois Terrone? You know I can’t give you any particulars, Kendra, but I used my usual resources and found out she was interrogated by the Glendale P.D. for that homicide. I’ve never met her, but know she’s a good friend of Jeff’s family. His cell phone records suggested they spoke recently. And I followed up on his credit card records and learned he flew back to Ontario Airport. I put two and two together—did I add it up correctly? You don’t have to say yes, but if you don’t say no, you won’t have revealed anything that might be confidential, right?”
I’d been the beneficiary of several of Althea’s adept online hackings—er, investigations.
“Four,” I said.
“For what . . . ? Oh, you mean my two and two is on target. Good!”
I heard a honk behind me. A different car sat there, apparently awaiting my departure. Well, I actually did have better things to do with my time than spend much more of it sitting in the Glendale Galleria parking garage. But I didn’t want to humor the ill-willed motorist in his attempt to move me prematurely. So, before I pulled out, I said into the phone, “I’m not saying anything affirmative, Althea. But if you happen to learn anything interesting about The Clone Arranger or any of its employees, it wouldn’t be out of line for you to pass it along to me. I can’t say that it might help locate Jeff, but I won’t say that it won’t, either.”
“Got it. Thanks, Kendra.”
“Thank you ,” I said, then turned the key in the ignition, ignoring the line of cars that had formed behind the bozo waiting for my space. Hey, that was his bad.
I didn’t even get to the 134 Freeway heading west before my phone rang. I glanced down at the caller ID, inevitably hoping for Jeff’s number. Nope, not his, but another familiar name appeared on my cell phone screen.
“Hi, Kendra,” said a sweet, senior female voice. I’d learned well that Esther Ickes might be a mite beyond middle age, but she was one heck of an attorney.
She’d helped me through a bankruptcy a while back, and then had been my choice for criminal defense when I was accused of a couple of murders.
After I caught the real killer, I wound up referring a number of friends and acquaintances to Esther during their dark hours as murder suspects.
And I’d just done the same with Lois Terrone.
“I owe you another dinner,” she said after I greeted her effusively.
“Lois called you?” Oops. I’d intended to warn Esther.
“She did. She’s another friend of yours?”
“Actually of Jeff’s.”
“Oh, yes, honey.” Her tone turned suddenly sad. “How are you getting along?”
I was fortunately—or unfortunately—making a merge onto the freeway, so I didn’t have time to sigh or sob or react in any other way to her obvious assumption of the worst about Jeff.
“I’m fine. Hold on just a second. . . . There. I’m in a lane. Anyway, I’d love to get together with you for lunch or dinner or whatever one of these days.” I kept my voice so perky I could puke, but I wasn’t about to go all maudlin. Not now. Hopefully, not ever—since I refused to assume there was a reason to mourn.
“Great,” she said, and we made tentative plans. And then, always-supportive Esther added, “And, Kendra, you know I’m always available if you need to talk.”
Good thing I didn’t anticipate another lane change for a couple of miles, since suddenly my vision blurred with tears.
IT WAS TIME to take back more of my own pet-sitting duties, so I hurried home to meet up with my assistant, Rachel, and retrieve a bunch of keys and instructions I’d left with her.
Idling briefly on the street, I pushed the control I’d put inside the rental car to open the wrought iron gate,
“How did you know . . . ? I mean, I have to check with someone before I can say anything, but—”
“Lois Terrone? You know I can’t give you any particulars, Kendra, but I used my usual resources and found out she was interrogated by the Glendale P.D. for that homicide. I’ve never met her, but know she’s a good friend of Jeff’s family. His cell phone records suggested they spoke recently. And I followed up on his credit card records and learned he flew back to Ontario Airport. I put two and two together—did I add it up correctly? You don’t have to say yes, but if you don’t say no, you won’t have revealed anything that might be confidential, right?”
I’d been the beneficiary of several of Althea’s adept online hackings—er, investigations.
“Four,” I said.
“For what . . . ? Oh, you mean my two and two is on target. Good!”
I heard a honk behind me. A different car sat there, apparently awaiting my departure. Well, I actually did have better things to do with my time than spend much more of it sitting in the Glendale Galleria parking garage. But I didn’t want to humor the ill-willed motorist in his attempt to move me prematurely. So, before I pulled out, I said into the phone, “I’m not saying anything affirmative, Althea. But if you happen to learn anything interesting about The Clone Arranger or any of its employees, it wouldn’t be out of line for you to pass it along to me. I can’t say that it might help locate Jeff, but I won’t say that it won’t, either.”
“Got it. Thanks, Kendra.”
“Thank you ,” I said, then turned the key in the ignition, ignoring the line of cars that had formed behind the bozo waiting for my space. Hey, that was his bad.
I didn’t even get to the 134 Freeway heading west before my phone rang. I glanced down at the caller ID, inevitably hoping for Jeff’s number. Nope, not his, but another familiar name appeared on my cell phone screen.
“Hi, Kendra,” said a sweet, senior female voice. I’d learned well that Esther Ickes might be a mite beyond middle age, but she was one heck of an attorney.
She’d helped me through a bankruptcy a while back, and then had been my choice for criminal defense when I was accused of a couple of murders.
After I caught the real killer, I wound up referring a number of friends and acquaintances to Esther during their dark hours as murder suspects.
And I’d just done the same with Lois Terrone.
“I owe you another dinner,” she said after I greeted her effusively.
“Lois called you?” Oops. I’d intended to warn Esther.
“She did. She’s another friend of yours?”
“Actually of Jeff’s.”
“Oh, yes, honey.” Her tone turned suddenly sad. “How are you getting along?”
I was fortunately—or unfortunately—making a merge onto the freeway, so I didn’t have time to sigh or sob or react in any other way to her obvious assumption of the worst about Jeff.
“I’m fine. Hold on just a second. . . . There. I’m in a lane. Anyway, I’d love to get together with you for lunch or dinner or whatever one of these days.” I kept my voice so perky I could puke, but I wasn’t about to go all maudlin. Not now. Hopefully, not ever—since I refused to assume there was a reason to mourn.
“Great,” she said, and we made tentative plans. And then, always-supportive Esther added, “And, Kendra, you know I’m always available if you need to talk.”
Good thing I didn’t anticipate another lane change for a couple of miles, since suddenly my vision blurred with tears.
IT WAS TIME to take back more of my own pet-sitting duties, so I hurried home to meet up with my assistant, Rachel, and retrieve a bunch of keys and instructions I’d left with her.
Idling briefly on the street, I pushed the control I’d put inside the rental car to open the wrought iron gate,
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