You Don't Know Jack Read Free

sure I should mention Bruce's possible involvement in the Black Boutonniere Murders . Apollo had friends in the gay community and was constantly updating the Clip and Flip with the latest rumors regarding the investigation. Lars' interest would only pique Apollo's hyper curiosity.
    "He said he wanted to hire me."
    Silence. "Why?"
    "Why indeed." I'm not a licensed PI. I offer a service I call CHEATIN' HEARTS. If I decide a woman could be right that the man in her life is cheating on her, I look into it... for a fee. As to Apollo, I decided to keep my speculations to myself for now. "He lied. Said Bruce was cheating on him, then danced around the real truth. When I figure it out what that is, I'll let you know."
    "I hoped you were calling to tell me you'd heard from NYC." Apollo switched subjects like my mother switched hair color. He referred to the manuscript I had on a New York editor's desk, an editor who liked it enough to have passed it, with a recommendation, to a senior editor.
    "Not yet." I sighed. Though the thought of getting "the call" made me giddy, waiting ate at my confidence, gave weight to the doubters and naysayers. Including Lars. Had I been too quick to turn down his offer? No. Damn it. I refused to waffle. I didn't need Lars' money or his line edit. I'd publish without him.
    Besides, I couldn't risk being around Stone.
    "Oh, oh, my two o'clock's here," Apollo said. "TTYL."
    I exited I-5 at Tukwila, and stopped at Kinko's. As the photos I had taken that morning were printed my neck began to ache. Nerves and dread joined the queue. The sooner I could shed all connection with Dinah Edger — and everything and everyone even remotely linked to the Black Boutonniere Murder case — the better. Just show her the photos, collect my fee, and split. Done and done.
    Not that I was eager to get to the meeting. I hated this part of the process: confirming a clients' worst suspicions. Being shown the proof of your man's infidelity was like slamming into a glass door. I knew. I'd been there. The blow could knock the wind from you, then buckle your knees, while inside the pain reverberated through every cell until you felt as though your organs were snapping like ice crystals in hell.
    Within the hour, Dinah would be another miserable, yet convinced Cheatin' Hearts customer. So, why did I put myself through this, time and again? I did it because I had been there, because I knew it was better to get the news from someone who'd already strode the depth and breadth of Heartbreak Highway than to find out from a well-meaning friend, or worse, an enemy. If I didn't believe with all my heart that I was giving my clients the power to control the situation, to handle the outcome whichever way they chose, then I'd turn in my imaginary license and make dog walking my full time, part time job until my whodunit manuscripts started selling.
    Dinah's turf was downtown Seattle, but today she'd chosen to meet near the Southcenter Shopping Mall, the first big mall built in the Pacific Northwest. I'd suggested meeting in the food court; she'd stressed the need for privacy. Dinah insisted on the bar in a nearby restaurant that had seen better days. State law had rendered smoking illegal indoors, but a faint stench lingered in the carpets, drapes and wallpaper.
    This late in the afternoon the lounge was nearly empty and dark as night. As my eyes strove to adjust, I scanned the room trying to pick out a recognizable form at one of the three occupied tables. Finally, I decided Dinah had to be the lone figure at the table farthest into the room, and I set out for it. Even up close, she was all but unrecognizable in a floppy hat and huge sunglasses that hid most of her face. I couldn't imagine she could see anything behind those lenses.
    Nor had I realized she wanted this degree of privacy. Maybe I should have come in disguise too. Actually, all this cloak and dagger stuff really rubbed me wrong, smacking too much of the real P.I. thing. Reminding