Eats to Die For! Read Free Page B

something was abrading the wall. Lifting the frame off its hook, I turned it over and saw a tiny black box affixed to the backing. While I’m certainly no expert on high-tech spy gear, I can recognize a bug when I see one.
    So while I was out enjoying a hamburger, someone had entered my office, listened to a phone message, and planted a bug. I’m sure if I looked around more I would find even more evidence of their presence. But what were they looking for?
    And who were “they” in the first place?
    Amateurs, obviously , said New Jersey-flavored voice that I recognized it immediately as belonging to Sheldon Leonard.
    All right, Sheldon, I’ll bite: why amateurs?
    It came to me a second later, prompting Sheldon and I to answer in unison: Because a pro would have noticed the picture was askew and re-hung it that way. Actually, Sheldon had said dat way , but I knew what we meant.
    I peeled the device off of the backing, where it had been attached with a strip of medical adhesive tape, and fumbled with it until the back popped off. Inside was a SIM card like the one my cell phone used, so I presumed that removing it would deactivate the bug.
    I knew I should call the police and report this, but there was one problem: I had no actual verifiable proof that someone had broken in. Sure, I was holding a bug, but I’m a private investigator, so it would be perfectly logical for me to have such equipment lying around. It would only be my word that I’d discovered it, having been planted by someone else.
    And as for the phone message clue, it was my word against my phone’s, and given my past experience with the police, they would be more likely to believe my phone.
    Speaking of my phone, I realized I had not yet listened to the message. While I doubted it would reveal a voice saying something like, “Oh, hi, I broke into your office earlier and planted a listening device, and now my keys are missing, so could you look around for them and call me back?” it might reveal something.
    Stepping to my desk I jabbed the playback and was told the call came in at 2:47 p.m., which was maybe ten minutes after I’d left.
    David, it’s J.D., a familiar voice said from the box. You are out ridding the streets of miscreants, I imagine, or else looking through the sale DVD bin at Best Buy. In any event, when you return, call me. Cheers.
    While “J.D.” sounded like an old time Hollywood studio executive, it was short for Jack Daniels—yes, that’s his real name—a friend of mine who was a mystery writer. He wrote under a pseudonym, one you would immediately recognize if you’ve browsed through an airport newsstand in recent years, but off the page he was always Jack, or else “J.D.”
    A Brit by birth, Jack lived in Santa Monica, Raymond Chandler’s “Bay City” and currently home to a large English émigré population, and he called every so often to grill me about investigative procedure for one of his stories. I in turn called upon him during my last case and asked him to use his writers’ imagination on an overabundance of facts, leads and clues that I could not conform into one solitary picture.
    So it was his turn.
    I dialed his number back and when he answered, said: “Jack, it’s Dave Beauchamp.”
    â€œDavid, m’lad!”
    He sounded soberish, so I went on. “Are you in need of someone to help you spend all that cash you’re making again?”
    â€œOh, yes, right!” he laughed. “These days most publishers think an advance check is a chess move. No, I called with a question. You have a second?”
    I knew this was going to take longer than a second, but said yes anyway.
    â€œYou have a mobile phone, right?” Jack asked.
    â€œA cell phone? Sure. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t.”
    â€œRight, so here’s my problem. I need to get Tory into a situation where he’s abducted and he