Matryoshka Blues (The Average Joe Mysteries Book 1) Read Free

you’re not paying me to look inside, then I’m not looking inside.” Sandecker nods, and I continue. “How many people are aware of it?”
    “At my end, just the three of us. And my administrative assis-tant, Loretta.”
    “How much does she know?”
    “Right now, more than you. But not everything.”
    Snark. Nice. That means he’s getting comfortable around me, and that will help greatly. “Have you told her about this little tête-à-tête?”
    Yes, I know that’s literally French for head-to-head , and that it specifically refers to two people. I get that. Now shut up.
    Sandecker shakes his head. “I was going to after I left.”
    “Don’t. Keep it to yourself. The fewer people who know I’m involved, the better.”
    “Done. No problem.”
    He doesn’t even put up a fight, which tells me he just straight-up lied to me. See? This is why I put provisions on liking people.
    “And on the other end?” I ask.
    “Excuse me?”
    “You told me about your end—who knows about this on the other end?”
    His eyes flick up and to the right, which indicates he’s trying to recall something, instead of preparing to spout off another lie.
    “Six, maybe seven people.”
    Allowing for ignorance and/or deception, intentional or otherwise, that means at least ten others probably know about it. I don’t like those odds.
    “Where was it last seen?” I ask.
    Sandecker hesitates, casting a quick look to Tully, and I instantly hate where this is going. “There’s going to be an ex-change tonight,” he says.
    Fuck me. Of course there is. I see Tully in my peripheral, flashing me the same shit-eating grin I used on her.
    “Details?” I ask.
    He scoots in his chair and clears his throat. “Still being ironed out.”
    Right. Sure they are. “Make sure you call Tully the second you hear.”
    I can’t get a read on Sandecker, but Tully is uncharacteristically diplomatic. Normally when she brings clients to me, she’s more upbeat, more loquacious. Right now she’s quiet, and with her that’s never good. If she was in charge and uncomfortable with the case, she’d have politely recommended Sandecker to someone else. Since the two of them are sitting at my dining table, however, I’m guessing her doubts were overruled by her employers, much to her chilly chagrin.
    Not much I can do about that, but I can help calm her fears by taking the job. That way she’ll have someone on this she trusts, in case shit goes south.
    I’m already planning my moves. I won’t be on the exchange’s approved guest list, so I’ll get to dust off my interloper skills. Goodie. I’ve been looking for a chance to play wedding crasher again.
    Yes, just like Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn. Only, with far more stunted emotional development and far less Rachel McAdams and Isla Fisher.
    “Anything else I need to know?” I ask to wrap things up.
    Sandecker shrugs and looks to Tully for verification. She nods and Sandecker looks back to me.
    “I think we’re good,” he tells me. “But I’ll keep you updated as things change.”
    I stand to refill the mugs, thrilled to have a job right now, but confident in no way what-so-fucking-ever that I’ll be updated of anything.

 
    2
    I ’m in the autumn of my forties; Tully’s in the summer of hers. That’s apropos of nothing, really. Simply making small talk while Jeff Sandecker walks to his car. I suppose I could have led with the weather, or maybe sports highlights, but this felt like a natural time to bring you up to speed.
    Sandecker’s brand new Audi Whogivesashit is parked across the street behind Tully’s ’69 Boss 302, but I ignore that marvel of German engineering to once again admire a bit of American muscle.
    I helped Tully rebuild that Mustang from scratch, way back when. She bought it for four hundred bucks off a junkyard owner when she was fourteen, after talking him down from a grand. It took the two of us and Scotty two years to turn that thing into a proper beast, and we