Read Online Godsend 6: All Jokes Aside by K. Elliott - Free Book Online
Authors: K. Elliott
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Chapter 1
“WAIT A MINUTE. Am I understanding you correctly?” Don Loftner said while squatting closer to the paper license tag on his new Jaguar. He looked back at Echo and Kiandra Robertson. “You two are private eyes, and you have zero authority to make me answer your questions?” He was an average-sized white guy dressed in a sweater and slacks. He had a screwdriver in his right hand, about to replace the paper tag with the metal one that was near his loafers.
Echo looked to his left, right, and then directly at Don’s modest but comfortable home. He and Kiandra, a 26-year-old black woman who was one of three Godsend trainees, stood in Don’s driveway in a quiet neighborhood of Stockton, California.
Don said, “Three years ago, I answered every question in cops threw at me about Ramona’s disappearance. The cops obviously cleared me; so if you got any questions, why don’t you go ask the police?”
Echo rushed him, slamming a foot square-off in the middle of Don’s ass. When Don’s head banged against the truck of the Jaguar, Echo stepped on the hand that held the screwdriver, grinding it to the cement driveway and breaking two of Don’s knuckles.
Don let out a yelp and said, “Okay, okay!”
Echo said, “Release the screwdriver or get ready to use it in a gunfight.”
“I . . . I can’t because you’re standing on my hand.”
Kiandra scanned the neighborhood again. She was dressed in a pantsuit and wore loafers with soft bottoms.
Echo took a step back and watched the man abandon the tool. “Now get the fuck up and invite us inside.”
Less than two minutes later, the three of them were standing in Don’s kitchen. Echo and Kiandra slipped on some transparent latex gloves. Echo said, “Have a seat. This might take a while.”
Don sat at his kitchen table.
Kiandra removed a handgun from the shoulder holster beneath her sports coat. “Put your hands on top of the table and keep them there.”
Don followed orders. He stared at his right hand and the bruises. Damn thing was throbbing, or rather, the two broken fingers were.
Echo walked over to the refrigerator and opened it. “The lady got a few questions for you, not necessarily the same questions the cops asked three years ago.” He grabbed an unopened half-gallon carton of orange juice.
Kiandra said, “You told the cops that you dated Ramona Hartley for only three weeks and two days. How long did it take for you to get her in bed?”
“I’m . . . I’m thinking it was the fourth day.”
“And in those three weeks, how many times did you screw her?” He shrugged. “Two times.”
Kiandra saw Echo drinking straight from the orange juice carton.
Echo held the carton out for her. “You wanna hit this before I pour the rest out?”
She reached for the juice then drank a small amount. She gave the carton back to Echo then said to Don, “Two times in twenty-three days. Was that enough for you?’
“It was fine. I mean, the decision was hers.”
Echo poured the rest of the juice down the sink. He placed the empty carton in the sink and turned on the hot water.
Kiandra said, “Ramona was last seen on a Thursday night at her job, the Pharaoh’s Bar. At that point, how long had it been since you last screwed her?”
Echo was fixing a couple of sandwiches with luncheon meat and single cheese slices.
Don said, “We hadn’t had sex for about two weeks.”
Kiandra smiled at Don. “Okay. You dated her for twenty-three days before she went missing. Sex on the fourth day and . . . again on . . . the ninth day. Then she dries it up for the next two weeks. What did you think?”
“I thought she might be seeing some other guy, but it didn’t matter much to me because I was seeing someone else, too.”
Echo was now perfecting the sandwiches with Miracle Whip. “Why the fuck you ain’t got tomatoes in this muthafucka? You bought a new Jaguar but your refrigerator damn near on E.”
Kiandra sat at the table, across from Don.
“WAIT A MINUTE. Am I understanding you correctly?” Don Loftner said while squatting closer to the paper license tag on his new Jaguar. He looked back at Echo and Kiandra Robertson. “You two are private eyes, and you have zero authority to make me answer your questions?” He was an average-sized white guy dressed in a sweater and slacks. He had a screwdriver in his right hand, about to replace the paper tag with the metal one that was near his loafers.
Echo looked to his left, right, and then directly at Don’s modest but comfortable home. He and Kiandra, a 26-year-old black woman who was one of three Godsend trainees, stood in Don’s driveway in a quiet neighborhood of Stockton, California.
Don said, “Three years ago, I answered every question in cops threw at me about Ramona’s disappearance. The cops obviously cleared me; so if you got any questions, why don’t you go ask the police?”
Echo rushed him, slamming a foot square-off in the middle of Don’s ass. When Don’s head banged against the truck of the Jaguar, Echo stepped on the hand that held the screwdriver, grinding it to the cement driveway and breaking two of Don’s knuckles.
Don let out a yelp and said, “Okay, okay!”
Echo said, “Release the screwdriver or get ready to use it in a gunfight.”
“I . . . I can’t because you’re standing on my hand.”
Kiandra scanned the neighborhood again. She was dressed in a pantsuit and wore loafers with soft bottoms.
Echo took a step back and watched the man abandon the tool. “Now get the fuck up and invite us inside.”
Less than two minutes later, the three of them were standing in Don’s kitchen. Echo and Kiandra slipped on some transparent latex gloves. Echo said, “Have a seat. This might take a while.”
Don sat at his kitchen table.
Kiandra removed a handgun from the shoulder holster beneath her sports coat. “Put your hands on top of the table and keep them there.”
Don followed orders. He stared at his right hand and the bruises. Damn thing was throbbing, or rather, the two broken fingers were.
Echo walked over to the refrigerator and opened it. “The lady got a few questions for you, not necessarily the same questions the cops asked three years ago.” He grabbed an unopened half-gallon carton of orange juice.
Kiandra said, “You told the cops that you dated Ramona Hartley for only three weeks and two days. How long did it take for you to get her in bed?”
“I’m . . . I’m thinking it was the fourth day.”
“And in those three weeks, how many times did you screw her?” He shrugged. “Two times.”
Kiandra saw Echo drinking straight from the orange juice carton.
Echo held the carton out for her. “You wanna hit this before I pour the rest out?”
She reached for the juice then drank a small amount. She gave the carton back to Echo then said to Don, “Two times in twenty-three days. Was that enough for you?’
“It was fine. I mean, the decision was hers.”
Echo poured the rest of the juice down the sink. He placed the empty carton in the sink and turned on the hot water.
Kiandra said, “Ramona was last seen on a Thursday night at her job, the Pharaoh’s Bar. At that point, how long had it been since you last screwed her?”
Echo was fixing a couple of sandwiches with luncheon meat and single cheese slices.
Don said, “We hadn’t had sex for about two weeks.”
Kiandra smiled at Don. “Okay. You dated her for twenty-three days before she went missing. Sex on the fourth day and . . . again on . . . the ninth day. Then she dries it up for the next two weeks. What did you think?”
“I thought she might be seeing some other guy, but it didn’t matter much to me because I was seeing someone else, too.”
Echo was now perfecting the sandwiches with Miracle Whip. “Why the fuck you ain’t got tomatoes in this muthafucka? You bought a new Jaguar but your refrigerator damn near on E.”
Kiandra sat at the table, across from Don.
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