The Iggy Chronicles, Volume 2 Read Free

“What the hell?” she said. “I didn’t mean her.”
    â€œHuh?” said Bernie.
    Sherry pointed to the woman who’d been gardening outside Teitelbaum’s house. “That’s Annika. How can he be cheating with her?”
    â€œSometimes there’s no explaining what a guy sees in—”
    Sherry raised her voice. “Annika Teitelbaum, for Christ sake. She’s his wife.”
    â€œAh,” Bernie said. And then, “uh” followed by “um.” That was the moment I began to have doubts about the case. I moved closer to Bernie, leaned some of my weight against his leg, just to remind him of who had his back. The table got a bit unsteady for some reason, but Bernie caught it before it flipped right over and soon had all the photos nicely lined up in place again. “Your meaning being,” he said, “that you suspect there’s a third woman?”
    â€œOh my God!” said Sherry. “Isn’t it obvious? Have you forgotten about the motel receipt already?”
    â€œNot quite yet.”
    â€œBernie? Do you want this job or not?”
    â€œI actually do.”
    â€œWhat does actually mean?”
    â€œNothing,” Bernie said. “Can I ask what line of work you’re in?”
    â€œI’m an event planner. Here’s my card, in case you’re the entertaining type.”
    Bernie the entertaining type? Yes, and big-time. There’s no one more entertaining than Bernie.
    â€¢ • •
    â€œGeronimo camped right here in Ocotillo Springs,” Bernie said. “Sometimes I wish he’d won.”
    Geronimo? A new one on me. A loser of some kind, possibly wearing an orange jumpsuit, but it was clear that Bernie liked him. No surprise there: we liked a lot of the perps we’d put away, me and Bernie. I made what Bernie calls a mental note to give Geronimo a nice big lick if we ever met. But mental notes can be tricky. For example, although I’d made many mental notes in my career, none was coming to me just now. Whoa! Not even the one I’d just made! I was on fire, in a way.
    We drove through the little town—a town like lots of little towns down near the border, with one main street, a few bars, a few art galleries, and the rest empty storefronts—and came to a motel with a wagon wheel out front. Bernie turned into the lot.
    â€œNow we just need some cock-and-bull story to feed the manager.” I was hoping I hadn’t heard that right when Bernie said, “How about Ric and I are old college buddies and . . . no, that’s no good.” He went silent. We parked under a big eucalyptus, sat in a world of minty smell, a smell that made me relaxed and alert at the same time. What a nice feeling! Cocks were roosters, if I was getting this right, and bulls were bulls, neither one a personal favorite of mine, the combo making it worse. But I forgot all about that in the lovely little eucalyptus world.
    There were a few cars in the lot, but no people around. Then a small red car came zipping in and parked at the far end of the motel. A young woman hopped out and headed right to the nearest door.
    â€œWhoa,” Bernie said. “Is that Sherry?” He took off his shades, squinted at her. “Nope,” he said. “But an awful lot like her, especially how Sherry must have looked ten or twelve years ago.” The woman took out a key, let herself into the motel room, Bernie snapping a picture just before the door closed.
    Bernie put his shades back on. I really wished he wouldn’t, shades on humans bothered me in general, and in particular on Bernie. “How about we call her Sherry Three Point O if you see where I’m going with this, big guy.”
    I did not. Did that frustrate me? Not a bit!
    A breeze rose up, blew a tumbleweed ball across the lot. I’ve chased after tumbleweed in the past, always successfully. But then what? That’s the problem with