Read Online Swift Justice by Laura DiSilverio - Free Book Online
Authors: Laura DiSilverio
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homicide investigation now, Charlie, so you keep your cute nose out of it.”
The word “homicide” slammed into me as Montgomery hung up. My mind conjured lurid scenarios. Had she been mugged? Abducted and raped? Had she been collateral damage in a gang fight in the wrong part of town? Struck by a drunk driver? Or maybe it was personal, not random. Had her father caught up with her and inflicted a biblical punishment—stoning?—for the sin of fornication? Maybe she had a fight with Olivia’s father, whoever he was. Of course, suicide was a subcategory of homicide, so maybe she’d killed herself after all. I shook my head to dislodge the images and carefully pulled back onto the highway. I headed for the office. I’d have to put off my meeting with Melissa Lloyd until I had more concrete information.
The sight of Gigi’s Hummer hulking outside my office when I arrived in no way improved my mood. Nor did finding Albertine Dauphin, the owner of the bistro at the end of the shopping area, comparing nail jobs with Gigi.
“Hey, baby girl,” Albertine said when I entered. “Why didn’t you-all tell me you had yourself a new partner?”
A native of Haiti who had emigrated to Florida in the late seventies, then made her way to Colorado when she got tired of the hurricanes five years ago, Albertine was, as the politically correct put it, a “woman of size.” She was also black, with skin and hair as shiny and sleek as obsidian. She wore her hair in complicated loops and whorls and waves piledseveral inches above her head and shellacked into place. Her fingernails were at least an inch long and always painted to match her outfits. Today they were orange. Large gold hoops dangled from her earlobes, and a caftan of yellow and orange and metallic gold swathed her formidable bosom and drifted to her ankles. Her wide grin and merry laugh disguised the acute businesswoman beneath the surface. Albertine’s, three doors down, was only one of the three restaurants she currently owned and she was thinking of expanding to Denver. When my PI business was really slow in the early days, I’d once jokingly asked her for a job. She’d turned me down flat.
“Uh-uh, honey. No way. First time a customer complained to you, you’d dump a bowl of jambalaya on his head. You’re not cut out for the customer service business. Or for working for someone else, either. Think I don’t know what’d happen if I tried to boss you around?” She boomed a laugh that had early diners turning to stare.
As far as I was concerned, that response just proved her business savvy.
Seeing her now with Gigi, I felt a pang of jealousy. Albertine could’ve been any age between fifty and sixty-five, but any way you sliced it she was more Gigi’s contemporary than mine.
“I haven’t had a chance,” I said, crossing to my desk. I sniffed. “What’s that smell?”
“Butterscotch cake,” Gigi said, pointing to a platter on the file cabinet.
“This woman can bake!” Albertine wiped crumbs off her mouth with one beringed hand and stood. “If this private eye thing don’t work out for you, Georgia, you just wander down to Albertine’s and I’ll put you to work making desserts.”
She winked at me, and I glared, knowing she was remembering her refusal to hire me in any capacity.
“Thanks, Albertine,” Gigi said, clearly flattered, “but I’m just getting the hang of the PI business. Did you see me on TV last night?”
“I don’t get home from the restaurant until Letterman time,” Albertine said. “I’m sure you looked great.”
“She looked like a buffalo.”
“Charlie!” Albertine looked truly annoyed at what she took to be my mean-spirited crack.
I pointed to Bernie’s head, leaning drunkenly against the wall. “She was wearing that.”
Albertine’s delighted laughter trailed her out of the office. “Come on down for a drink after work,” she called over her shoulder. “On the house.”
I was going to need a
The word “homicide” slammed into me as Montgomery hung up. My mind conjured lurid scenarios. Had she been mugged? Abducted and raped? Had she been collateral damage in a gang fight in the wrong part of town? Struck by a drunk driver? Or maybe it was personal, not random. Had her father caught up with her and inflicted a biblical punishment—stoning?—for the sin of fornication? Maybe she had a fight with Olivia’s father, whoever he was. Of course, suicide was a subcategory of homicide, so maybe she’d killed herself after all. I shook my head to dislodge the images and carefully pulled back onto the highway. I headed for the office. I’d have to put off my meeting with Melissa Lloyd until I had more concrete information.
The sight of Gigi’s Hummer hulking outside my office when I arrived in no way improved my mood. Nor did finding Albertine Dauphin, the owner of the bistro at the end of the shopping area, comparing nail jobs with Gigi.
“Hey, baby girl,” Albertine said when I entered. “Why didn’t you-all tell me you had yourself a new partner?”
A native of Haiti who had emigrated to Florida in the late seventies, then made her way to Colorado when she got tired of the hurricanes five years ago, Albertine was, as the politically correct put it, a “woman of size.” She was also black, with skin and hair as shiny and sleek as obsidian. She wore her hair in complicated loops and whorls and waves piledseveral inches above her head and shellacked into place. Her fingernails were at least an inch long and always painted to match her outfits. Today they were orange. Large gold hoops dangled from her earlobes, and a caftan of yellow and orange and metallic gold swathed her formidable bosom and drifted to her ankles. Her wide grin and merry laugh disguised the acute businesswoman beneath the surface. Albertine’s, three doors down, was only one of the three restaurants she currently owned and she was thinking of expanding to Denver. When my PI business was really slow in the early days, I’d once jokingly asked her for a job. She’d turned me down flat.
“Uh-uh, honey. No way. First time a customer complained to you, you’d dump a bowl of jambalaya on his head. You’re not cut out for the customer service business. Or for working for someone else, either. Think I don’t know what’d happen if I tried to boss you around?” She boomed a laugh that had early diners turning to stare.
As far as I was concerned, that response just proved her business savvy.
Seeing her now with Gigi, I felt a pang of jealousy. Albertine could’ve been any age between fifty and sixty-five, but any way you sliced it she was more Gigi’s contemporary than mine.
“I haven’t had a chance,” I said, crossing to my desk. I sniffed. “What’s that smell?”
“Butterscotch cake,” Gigi said, pointing to a platter on the file cabinet.
“This woman can bake!” Albertine wiped crumbs off her mouth with one beringed hand and stood. “If this private eye thing don’t work out for you, Georgia, you just wander down to Albertine’s and I’ll put you to work making desserts.”
She winked at me, and I glared, knowing she was remembering her refusal to hire me in any capacity.
“Thanks, Albertine,” Gigi said, clearly flattered, “but I’m just getting the hang of the PI business. Did you see me on TV last night?”
“I don’t get home from the restaurant until Letterman time,” Albertine said. “I’m sure you looked great.”
“She looked like a buffalo.”
“Charlie!” Albertine looked truly annoyed at what she took to be my mean-spirited crack.
I pointed to Bernie’s head, leaning drunkenly against the wall. “She was wearing that.”
Albertine’s delighted laughter trailed her out of the office. “Come on down for a drink after work,” she called over her shoulder. “On the house.”
I was going to need a
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