The Kissing Game Read Free Page B

name was something like Lynn or Lana, and he had a son with some kind of slangy nickname. Biff or Buzz or—”
    “Jazz?” Frankie asked.
    Simon had to laugh. Didn't it figure? Maybe the notion of Frankie Paresky being a private investigator wasn't such an absurd one. After all, she knew everyone on the island—and apparently everyone who had ever visited the island too.
    “I knew a boy named Jazz who vacationed hereevery spring for a number of years,” Frankie continued. “I think I first met him when I was, I don't know, maybe twelve. The last time I saw him was the year I turned eighteen. He was on spring break from college—Boston University, I think it was. His family always rented one of the houses on Pelican Street.”
    “I can't believe you can remember some kid who was here only two weeks out of the year,” Simon said.
    Frankie flashed him a look. “Jazz was …. memorable. I don't recall his last name, but I'm sure I've got it written down somewhere.”
    Jazz. The name—and the expression on Frankie's face—suddenly brought forward memories of an uncommonly good-looking teenage boy with sun-streaked brown hair and the wiry phy sique of a marathon runner. In fact, Simon could picture Jazz running along the beach, hand in hand with Frankie, laughing and gasping and collapsing on the sand to kiss her—long, slow, deep kisses that were heart-stopping even to watch. And God knows Simon
had
watched. That was the summer Frankie had turned eighteen— the summer Simon had realized that his little sister'sbest friend had grown from a scruffy kid into a dazzlingly beautiful woman. He couldn't keep his eyes off Frankie—even when she was with Jazz.
    Simon had actually asked Frankie out that summer, but she didn't seem to notice him. She was totally wrapped up in that bastard Jazz— despite the fact that the kid had been gone for nearly two months.
    “Is that where you intend to start the search?” Quinn asked. “By tracking down the son?”
    “I think we're going to have to,” Frankie told him. “If I remember correctly, Jazz was living with his mother and his stepfather. Jazz and John—if Jazz's stepdad really is the man we're looking for—wouldn't have the same last name.” She took a manila file folder out from a drawer and wrote “Quinn” on the tab. “I'll also check with a friend of mine who works at the real estate office. Ten or twelve years is a long time ago, but she just might have rental records that go back that far for the houses on Pelican Street. Maybe we can find John's last name that way.”
    Quinn nodded. “I'll be staying at the SeaholmResort until my flight out tomorrow evening. Let me know if you find anything.”
    “You're leaving so soon?”
    He smiled ruefully. “I could stand a good vacation, but unfortunately, I've got business back home that won't wait. I didn't even have time to call you before I left Michigan. I apologize for showing up unannounced.”
    Frankie put her notes into the file and closed it. “Not a problem.”
    Clay Quinn glanced at his Rolex watch. “Would you mind calling a cab for me?”
    Frankie froze. “Umm.”
    Simon knew what she was thinking. She was thinking that the island's one cab was parked over on the next block. She was thinking that even if she ran upstairs and changed back into her T-shirt and shorts and baseball cap, there was no way that Quinn wasn't going to recognize her as the cabdriver this time.
    Simon came to her rescue. “I've got my Jeep right outside. Why don't you let me give you a lift up to the resort?”
    “Well, thank you, I'd appreciate that.” Quinn stood up, gathering his luggage and overcoat. Heturned back to Frankie. “I forgot to mention— I'm going over to the house on Pelican Street tomorrow morning, if you'd like to come along. I'm not sure if there'll be any clues inside, but who knows?”
    “What time?” Frankie asked.
    “Nine o'clock?”
    “I'll meet you over there.”
    “I'll be there too,” Simon