Pocket-47 (A Nicholas Colt Thriller) Read Free

me a check. I wrote my cell phone number on the back of a business card and handed it to her. “As of today, my cell still works. I leave it turned off most of the time, so leave voice mail and I’ll get back to you. Call me right away if you hear from Brittney or if she comes home.”
    Leitha nodded. She rose and offered her hand again, then moved toward the door.
    “Will you be home later?” I said.
    “I have to work tonight. Why?”
    “I’d like to take a look at Brittney’s room.”
    “I’ll be home from work around eight tomorrow morning, if you want to come then.”
    “I’ll be there,” I said. “Any questions?”
    “Just one. How—”
    She hesitated, but her eyes and facial expression spoke volumes. I finished the thought for her. “How does a world-renowned blues guitarist with homes on both coasts end up as a PI working out of a camper? I ask myself the same question every day.”
    She stepped out into the August heat, avoiding further eye contact. I stood in the doorway and watched her drive off in the Bic.
    Bud barked and chased her a quarter mile down Lake Barkley Road. He finally stopped and sneezed a couple of times, from all the dust she had stirred.

CHAPTER TWO
    After Leitha drove away, I shuffled through the pile of bills on my desk, putting them in severity-of-delinquency order.
    My answering machine had one message on it, from yesterday before Ma Bell shut down my landline. It said, “Hey sweetie. Don’t forget to meet me for lunch at Lyon’s Den tomorrow. Love you.” It was from Juliet Dakila, my girlfriend. I’d saved the message so I wouldn’t forget our date.
    I have an amazing memory, but I’m absentminded as hell. Juliet knows this about me, so I’m sure that’s why my cell phone rang shortly after I played the message.
    “What’s wrong with your home phone?” Juliet asked.
    “I was a little late paying the bill. I’ll get it turned back on today or tomorrow.”
    “You need money?”
    I skip-traced a guy one time who made his living sponging off girlfriends. Loser. I’d borrowed from Juliet before, always paid back every penny. Didn’t like to make a habit of it.
    “I’m all right,” I said. “We still doing lunch today?”
    “Of course. Among other things.”
    “Other things like what?” I asked. I had a feeling I might be in for one of her famous shopping trips. Juliet would live at the mall if they let her. She has to stop at every store, look around, try ten things on, and finally remember what she really wants is on sale at Penney’s. Here’s my idea of shopping: You know you need something, some paint for example. You know the type, color, and quantity before you ever leave the house. You walk into the paint store,tell them what you want, pay for it, leave. Shopping done. Juliet, on the other hand, will spend two hours picking out a pair of shoes. It’s not one of the things I love about her, and I don’t know why she ever asks me to tag along. I get grouchy after about ten minutes.
    I was trying to think of excuses not to go shopping with her when she said, “You’re going to meet my mother today.”
    “Sure,” I said. “We’ll just hop on a plane to the Philippines and—”
    “No, silly. She’s here. I told you she was coming to stay with my sister for a while, remember? To help with the kids.”
    “Oh, yeah. How could I forget that?” Joy. I suddenly wished for that shopping trip I’d been dreading only seconds earlier. Misery is always relative, and relatives are always misery.
    “She flew in late last night,” Juliet said. “I haven’t even seen her myself yet. We’ll go over to Abby’s place right after lunch. Unless you have other plans.”
    Juliet’s sister Abby didn’t have any kids until she turned thirty, and then started cranking them out once a year, sure as the first pitch in the World Series. She had three boys and one girl, and was pregnant with the fifth—another girl, according to the sonogram. I loved hanging