Read Online Loren D. Estleman - Amos Walker 16 - Poison Blonde by Loren D. Estleman - Free Book Online
Authors: Loren D. Estleman
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malice.
“Not a flake so far. I’m cooking out Valentine’s Day.” It was good to hear his voice, even if it did mean running a Chapstick around inside my ear afterward. Sid Corcoran employed five full-time investigators and a secretary and held a degree in criminal law. In addition he did security work for some of the local flour mills and advised law enforcement agencies on the state of the art in electronic listening devices. His operation was just big enough to attract the attention of a cruising shark like Millennium and just small enough to be swallowed whole. “I’ve got a missing-person case that just pointed your direction, maybe, but I can’t remember who owes who at this point.”
“Whom.” Other telephones purred on his end, a regular chorus of them, with a different tone for each agent. “Last time was that runaway from Mendota Heights you found hustling line workers in the parking lot at Chrysler,” he said. “So you’re in the black. What’s the ruckus?”
I gave him Jillian Rubio’s name—just that one, the one she used stateside—date and country of birth, height, weight, eyes and hair, citizenship status unknown, some other bits of slag from the notebook. “Minneapolis-St. Paul’s a hunch,” I added. “If it pans out, she has a car, or at least a driver’s license, so she
ought to be on file at the secretary of state’s office. No picture, sorry. Try the morgues and hospitals. She missed three important appointments in a row beginning the middle of November.”
“Department of Motor Vehicles issues licenses here, not the secretary of state.” It was the absent tone he used whenever he lectured someone on regional terminology or the rules of grammar; he was the first detective in a family of university professors. “There might be something in that bout with infantile paralysis. I don’t guess she gets around on crutches, or you’d have mentioned it. Maybe not, though. One time a police inspector described a missing witness for me, tattoos included, very detailed. Left out the fact the guy was a Siamese twin.”
“No help there. She was always sitting down when the contact arrived. It’s a lead if you can make a lead out of it. She might need a regular prescription. Any doctors or pharmacists on your snitch list?”
“Don’t need ’em. I’ll see what Bill Gates has to say. Not plugged in yet, are you?”
“Computers make me nervous. ‘Select any key to proceed.’ Too many choices.”
“The technology keeps changing. If you don’t hop on soon, it’ll leave you behind.”
“My first reaction to that is to say good-bye.”
He switched gears without pausing. “Want us to hang on to her?”
“No contact. Just let me know where she can be reached.” I breathed in and out, dreading what came next. “This one has a deadline. She has to be alive on the thirteenth.”
“Shit. Of February? Shit.” More telephones purred. Someone on the other side of a thin partition was arguing on a separate line. The sound got muffled—Corky’s big paw cupping the mouthpiece—the head of the firm yelled. When he came back on, his was the only voice I heard. “I’ll put Spitzer on it. He can make the Dalai Lama take a swing at him, but he goes through dead bolts and doormen like shit through a pigeon. This might tip you over into the red. His bailbondsman’s into me for twenty grand already.”
“How’s my credit history?”
“What the fuck’s that?” We swatted some more insults back and forth, and he said I’d hear from him. He didn’t say good-bye. His superstitions went back to the Inchon invasion.
I hung up with the snuggly feeling that Minneapolis-St. Paul was covered, for whatever it was worth, lit a cigarette, took two puffs, put it out, and got up to peer out through the film that covered the window on both sides. The dusty gold Corsica was parked across the street with both men inside. It reminded me of the day Frank Acardo took three in the belly, but
“Not a flake so far. I’m cooking out Valentine’s Day.” It was good to hear his voice, even if it did mean running a Chapstick around inside my ear afterward. Sid Corcoran employed five full-time investigators and a secretary and held a degree in criminal law. In addition he did security work for some of the local flour mills and advised law enforcement agencies on the state of the art in electronic listening devices. His operation was just big enough to attract the attention of a cruising shark like Millennium and just small enough to be swallowed whole. “I’ve got a missing-person case that just pointed your direction, maybe, but I can’t remember who owes who at this point.”
“Whom.” Other telephones purred on his end, a regular chorus of them, with a different tone for each agent. “Last time was that runaway from Mendota Heights you found hustling line workers in the parking lot at Chrysler,” he said. “So you’re in the black. What’s the ruckus?”
I gave him Jillian Rubio’s name—just that one, the one she used stateside—date and country of birth, height, weight, eyes and hair, citizenship status unknown, some other bits of slag from the notebook. “Minneapolis-St. Paul’s a hunch,” I added. “If it pans out, she has a car, or at least a driver’s license, so she
ought to be on file at the secretary of state’s office. No picture, sorry. Try the morgues and hospitals. She missed three important appointments in a row beginning the middle of November.”
“Department of Motor Vehicles issues licenses here, not the secretary of state.” It was the absent tone he used whenever he lectured someone on regional terminology or the rules of grammar; he was the first detective in a family of university professors. “There might be something in that bout with infantile paralysis. I don’t guess she gets around on crutches, or you’d have mentioned it. Maybe not, though. One time a police inspector described a missing witness for me, tattoos included, very detailed. Left out the fact the guy was a Siamese twin.”
“No help there. She was always sitting down when the contact arrived. It’s a lead if you can make a lead out of it. She might need a regular prescription. Any doctors or pharmacists on your snitch list?”
“Don’t need ’em. I’ll see what Bill Gates has to say. Not plugged in yet, are you?”
“Computers make me nervous. ‘Select any key to proceed.’ Too many choices.”
“The technology keeps changing. If you don’t hop on soon, it’ll leave you behind.”
“My first reaction to that is to say good-bye.”
He switched gears without pausing. “Want us to hang on to her?”
“No contact. Just let me know where she can be reached.” I breathed in and out, dreading what came next. “This one has a deadline. She has to be alive on the thirteenth.”
“Shit. Of February? Shit.” More telephones purred. Someone on the other side of a thin partition was arguing on a separate line. The sound got muffled—Corky’s big paw cupping the mouthpiece—the head of the firm yelled. When he came back on, his was the only voice I heard. “I’ll put Spitzer on it. He can make the Dalai Lama take a swing at him, but he goes through dead bolts and doormen like shit through a pigeon. This might tip you over into the red. His bailbondsman’s into me for twenty grand already.”
“How’s my credit history?”
“What the fuck’s that?” We swatted some more insults back and forth, and he said I’d hear from him. He didn’t say good-bye. His superstitions went back to the Inchon invasion.
I hung up with the snuggly feeling that Minneapolis-St. Paul was covered, for whatever it was worth, lit a cigarette, took two puffs, put it out, and got up to peer out through the film that covered the window on both sides. The dusty gold Corsica was parked across the street with both men inside. It reminded me of the day Frank Acardo took three in the belly, but
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