Read Online Drowning in Amber (A Marie Jenner Mystery Book 2) by E.C. Bell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: E.C. Bell
Tags: Urban Fantasy
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closet, and the other one led to another office. The chick wasn’t in either one.
There was a cot and a neat pile of men’s clothes in a suitcase in that second office. Somebody was living here. Man. These people were losers. And I needed their help. Help from losers. Again. Batting a thousand.
I was trying to decide whether to wait for the losers to come back or head to the park and figure out a way to get high, when the front door burst in, small bits of smashed-to-shit wood and glass flying everywhere.
I ducked behind the desk—force of habit, what can I say—and heard a couple of guys walk through the hole that used to be the door.
“What are we looking for?” one of them asked. My ears perked up at that voice. Man, I knew who it was.
It was Crank. A two-bit hood who would do anything for a buck, and also somebody I called a friend. Sort of. Why the hell was he here?
I glanced over the desk, saw who he was talking to, and shuddered. Full body shake. It was R. R for Rage. Or Ronald, or something. Ambrose Welch’s man. Big as fuck and twice as scary.
“What the hell?” I breathed. When did Crank move so far up the food chain? He never got to hang around with people like R before.
“I said, what are we looking for?” Crank asked again.
R turned on him, and Crank flinched, which was a smart thing to do with R. I’d seen him kick a guy raw just for breathing wrong. That was a butt ugly thing to watch.
“We need to find out what these people were really looking for,” R said. He held out a business card, and Crank squinted at it. So I did too.
“Jimmy Lavall, Private Detective.” It looked like the card Marie had given my mother. Man, whoever this Jimmy guy was, he sure knew how to kick a hornet’s nest. Handing out business cards to Ambrose Welch’s crew? What was he, nuts?
“Right,” Crank said. He glanced at the desk and frowned. “No computer.”
“Check around,” R replied. “There has to be one somewhere.”
He and Crank made short work of the room, then kicked in the two remaining doors. Guess they’d never heard of just turning the knob. I listened to them tear apart the inside office, tipping over file cabinets and the like.
“Son of a bitch!” R cried, when the smashing stopped. They came back out soon enough, and R went through the desk again, more thoroughly this time.
“There has to be something here,” he grunted, working his way through each drawer. He came up with nothing past pencils and paperclips.
Then he grunted, sounding almost pleased, when he focused on the daytimer, still sitting on the desk. He flipped pages and then stopped, pointing.
“Honoria Lowe,” he read, and turned to Crank. “Ever heard of her?”
“No,” Crank said, staring at the page as though hoping he could somehow read more into the name than R could. “Who is she?”
“How the hell would I know?” R said, instant anger tingeing his voice. “But they got a meeting with her, tonight. Somewhere.”
He looked through the rest of the pages, slammed the book shut, and then, for good measure, swept everything off the desk. The coffee cup smashed, joining the paper and glass and wood that littered the floor.
Then and only then did he look satisfied.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“But Ambrose is expecting us to find something,” Crank said, looking all jittery and scared, which is his usual M.O. “We can’t go back with nothing.”
“Did we find anything?” R asked.
“No. Well, we got the name of that chick. Honoria whatever.”
“Then that’s what we’ll take back to him.”
“Do you think it will be enough?”
R laughed. “If it isn’t, I’ll tell him it was your fault we couldn’t find more.”
“R, you wouldn’t do that,” Crank gasped, the fear that lived just under his skin all the time oozing from him like sweat. He looked like he was going to piss himself until R cuffed him and turned to the wrecked door.
“We got everything there is. If he wants us to
There was a cot and a neat pile of men’s clothes in a suitcase in that second office. Somebody was living here. Man. These people were losers. And I needed their help. Help from losers. Again. Batting a thousand.
I was trying to decide whether to wait for the losers to come back or head to the park and figure out a way to get high, when the front door burst in, small bits of smashed-to-shit wood and glass flying everywhere.
I ducked behind the desk—force of habit, what can I say—and heard a couple of guys walk through the hole that used to be the door.
“What are we looking for?” one of them asked. My ears perked up at that voice. Man, I knew who it was.
It was Crank. A two-bit hood who would do anything for a buck, and also somebody I called a friend. Sort of. Why the hell was he here?
I glanced over the desk, saw who he was talking to, and shuddered. Full body shake. It was R. R for Rage. Or Ronald, or something. Ambrose Welch’s man. Big as fuck and twice as scary.
“What the hell?” I breathed. When did Crank move so far up the food chain? He never got to hang around with people like R before.
“I said, what are we looking for?” Crank asked again.
R turned on him, and Crank flinched, which was a smart thing to do with R. I’d seen him kick a guy raw just for breathing wrong. That was a butt ugly thing to watch.
“We need to find out what these people were really looking for,” R said. He held out a business card, and Crank squinted at it. So I did too.
“Jimmy Lavall, Private Detective.” It looked like the card Marie had given my mother. Man, whoever this Jimmy guy was, he sure knew how to kick a hornet’s nest. Handing out business cards to Ambrose Welch’s crew? What was he, nuts?
“Right,” Crank said. He glanced at the desk and frowned. “No computer.”
“Check around,” R replied. “There has to be one somewhere.”
He and Crank made short work of the room, then kicked in the two remaining doors. Guess they’d never heard of just turning the knob. I listened to them tear apart the inside office, tipping over file cabinets and the like.
“Son of a bitch!” R cried, when the smashing stopped. They came back out soon enough, and R went through the desk again, more thoroughly this time.
“There has to be something here,” he grunted, working his way through each drawer. He came up with nothing past pencils and paperclips.
Then he grunted, sounding almost pleased, when he focused on the daytimer, still sitting on the desk. He flipped pages and then stopped, pointing.
“Honoria Lowe,” he read, and turned to Crank. “Ever heard of her?”
“No,” Crank said, staring at the page as though hoping he could somehow read more into the name than R could. “Who is she?”
“How the hell would I know?” R said, instant anger tingeing his voice. “But they got a meeting with her, tonight. Somewhere.”
He looked through the rest of the pages, slammed the book shut, and then, for good measure, swept everything off the desk. The coffee cup smashed, joining the paper and glass and wood that littered the floor.
Then and only then did he look satisfied.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“But Ambrose is expecting us to find something,” Crank said, looking all jittery and scared, which is his usual M.O. “We can’t go back with nothing.”
“Did we find anything?” R asked.
“No. Well, we got the name of that chick. Honoria whatever.”
“Then that’s what we’ll take back to him.”
“Do you think it will be enough?”
R laughed. “If it isn’t, I’ll tell him it was your fault we couldn’t find more.”
“R, you wouldn’t do that,” Crank gasped, the fear that lived just under his skin all the time oozing from him like sweat. He looked like he was going to piss himself until R cuffed him and turned to the wrecked door.
“We got everything there is. If he wants us to
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