Read Online Grist 04 - Incinerator by Timothy Hallinan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Timothy Hallinan
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coming. Have you got anything for me?”
“You bet,” I said.
“This is Bobby Grant,” she said. Bobby Grant stuck out a tan paw, and I shook it briefly. His white linen safari shirt had enough pockets for a very long safari indeed, and his beige pleated trousers were accented with pencil-thin green and red stripes about two inches apart. He wore lizard-skin loafers with no socks. I’ve never trusted men who don’t wear socks.
“Bobby is the one who arranged the press conference,” Annabelle Winston said. “He handles all my West Coast PR.”
“Good job yesterday,” I said nastily.
“We had a real story,” Grant said in a higher voice than I’d expected. He obviously thought he was looking at me, but his eyes were focused about two inches above my head. “It’s easy when you’ve got real news,” he added, modestly minimizing his accomplishment. “A lot easier than product.” He also, I noted, sported a single gold earring, a modest loop that dangled from his left earlobe. He reached up and tugged on it, and Annabelle Winston looked on obliviously. The lesson of Harvey Melnick hadn’t taken.
“Product?” I asked. I didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about.
“We put Bobby in charge of introducing our new skinless franks a year ago,” Annabelle said. She was wearing a silk suit that could have been a twin of the one she’d worn yesterday except that it was gunmetal gray. It complemented the agate eyes very nicely. “There wasn’t much space from that one.”
“Well, wieners,” Bobby said. I wondered if he’d still call himself Bobby when he was sixty, and decided that he probably would.
“Franks,” Annabelle Winston said absently.
“Miss Winston,” I began.
“Call me Annabelle,” she said. She reached up and touched my cheek. “I feel I know you well enough for that.” She wasn’t making it easy. “You’re my main hope,” she said, making it even worse.
“I spoke to the cops today,” I said, by way of starting out.
“And they didn’t know what you were talking about,” she said.
“Well,” I admitted, “not at first.”
“Even after the papers this morning?” Bobby Grant sounded personally affronted. “My God, front page of the Times. What are these people, blind?”
“Do you see why I need you, Simeon?” Annabelle said.
This was not going right. By now I should have been back out in the parking lot, sweet-talking Alice into starting. I drew a breath.
“Listen,” I said, “I’m quitting.”
Annabelle Winston took a step back, and Bobby Grant put out a hand to steady her. Even at that moment, I’d never seen a woman less in need of steadying. Her eyes widened.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It means I’m off the job. Finished. Kaput.” The word brought Velez Caputo to mind, and I shrugged it away. “You told me I was the only person on the case.”
“You are,” Annabelle Winston said, her eyes fixed on mine.
“Yeah? What’s he?” I asked, nodding toward Bobby Grant. “A skinless wiener?”
Bobby Grant’s lower lip protruded even further. I wondered how much of it he was holding in reserve. Maybe he kept it curled up, like a butterfly’s tongue.
“He’s not a detective,” she said, as though that answered everything.
“He held a press conference,” I said. “He and you,” I amended. “You announced to the whole world that you’d retained me. You didn’t even have the courtesy to let me know. I wake up in the morning, and everybody except David Frost is calling me for an interview.”
“David Frost is in England,” Bobby Grant said professionally. “If he weren’t, this is his kind of story.”
“I don’t want to be part of anybody’s story. I’m a detective. I need a certain amount of anonymity in order to be able to do my job. Not to mention the fact that the guy who burned your father wrote me a letter and delivered it to my house.”
“He did?” It was the first time I’d seen
“You bet,” I said.
“This is Bobby Grant,” she said. Bobby Grant stuck out a tan paw, and I shook it briefly. His white linen safari shirt had enough pockets for a very long safari indeed, and his beige pleated trousers were accented with pencil-thin green and red stripes about two inches apart. He wore lizard-skin loafers with no socks. I’ve never trusted men who don’t wear socks.
“Bobby is the one who arranged the press conference,” Annabelle Winston said. “He handles all my West Coast PR.”
“Good job yesterday,” I said nastily.
“We had a real story,” Grant said in a higher voice than I’d expected. He obviously thought he was looking at me, but his eyes were focused about two inches above my head. “It’s easy when you’ve got real news,” he added, modestly minimizing his accomplishment. “A lot easier than product.” He also, I noted, sported a single gold earring, a modest loop that dangled from his left earlobe. He reached up and tugged on it, and Annabelle Winston looked on obliviously. The lesson of Harvey Melnick hadn’t taken.
“Product?” I asked. I didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about.
“We put Bobby in charge of introducing our new skinless franks a year ago,” Annabelle said. She was wearing a silk suit that could have been a twin of the one she’d worn yesterday except that it was gunmetal gray. It complemented the agate eyes very nicely. “There wasn’t much space from that one.”
“Well, wieners,” Bobby said. I wondered if he’d still call himself Bobby when he was sixty, and decided that he probably would.
“Franks,” Annabelle Winston said absently.
“Miss Winston,” I began.
“Call me Annabelle,” she said. She reached up and touched my cheek. “I feel I know you well enough for that.” She wasn’t making it easy. “You’re my main hope,” she said, making it even worse.
“I spoke to the cops today,” I said, by way of starting out.
“And they didn’t know what you were talking about,” she said.
“Well,” I admitted, “not at first.”
“Even after the papers this morning?” Bobby Grant sounded personally affronted. “My God, front page of the Times. What are these people, blind?”
“Do you see why I need you, Simeon?” Annabelle said.
This was not going right. By now I should have been back out in the parking lot, sweet-talking Alice into starting. I drew a breath.
“Listen,” I said, “I’m quitting.”
Annabelle Winston took a step back, and Bobby Grant put out a hand to steady her. Even at that moment, I’d never seen a woman less in need of steadying. Her eyes widened.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It means I’m off the job. Finished. Kaput.” The word brought Velez Caputo to mind, and I shrugged it away. “You told me I was the only person on the case.”
“You are,” Annabelle Winston said, her eyes fixed on mine.
“Yeah? What’s he?” I asked, nodding toward Bobby Grant. “A skinless wiener?”
Bobby Grant’s lower lip protruded even further. I wondered how much of it he was holding in reserve. Maybe he kept it curled up, like a butterfly’s tongue.
“He’s not a detective,” she said, as though that answered everything.
“He held a press conference,” I said. “He and you,” I amended. “You announced to the whole world that you’d retained me. You didn’t even have the courtesy to let me know. I wake up in the morning, and everybody except David Frost is calling me for an interview.”
“David Frost is in England,” Bobby Grant said professionally. “If he weren’t, this is his kind of story.”
“I don’t want to be part of anybody’s story. I’m a detective. I need a certain amount of anonymity in order to be able to do my job. Not to mention the fact that the guy who burned your father wrote me a letter and delivered it to my house.”
“He did?” It was the first time I’d seen
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