So, what the hell, I laid it out. Hired by my ex, Dallas, Gregory Rudd had gone out to check out Sjorgen’s properties and businesses and had been decapitated. The top portion of said decapitation had been returned to the desk in his office. A grim tale, but not lengthy or overly complicated.
Jeri held my gaze. “And you want to follow up, try to find who did it.”
I nodded. “That, and who killed Jonnie and Dave.”
“Find one, you’ll find them all.”
“Probably.”
“You don’t trust the police to do their job?”
“I do, yes. Absolutely. Dallas doesn’t, though, and it’s her money, her call.”
“So here you are.”
“You wanted the story, there it is.”
“So, not being a, uh, qualified investigator yourself, you want to hire one.” In the depths of her eyes I detected a hidden spark of amusement. Not hidden enough.
“No. What I want is to get out of here.” I got to my feet.
“Sit.”
I sat. Voice like that, she would’ve made a terrific drill instructor or IRS field agent.
“You need an investigator,” she repeated.
I nodded reluctantly.
“And you’d prefer that investigator to be a man?” Her eyes bored into mine.
“It’s not that,” I said, forced into an outright lie. “It’s just…you know, whatever Greg ran into—”
“You’re still assuming things, Mort.”
“What?”
“That I can’t handle it. Or myself.” The look she gave me was neutral, except for a flickery little light way down deep, something you had to look for.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Great. So, I’ve got the job, right? At least on a trial basis. Say, for a couple of days to start?”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
She gazed at me for a moment. “Okay, what do you say?”
“I think…this isn’t a real good idea, that’s all.”
“Suppose I were six-six and weighed two-eighty?”
A little on the light side, but she had the right idea. “C’mon, Jeri.”
“What if?”
“I’d say your chances of meeting a guy and having kids would go down quite a bit.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s a pretty damn sexist remark. Who said I want to meet a guy?”
Just what I needed: a pissing match with one Miss Geraldine DiFrazzia at—what?—10:47 in the morning.
I was assuming the Miss, of course. She didn’t have a ring on her left hand. Or her right. No earrings or bracelets. In fact, other than her attire and the color of her nails, she looked reasonably ready for action, find a missing pooch by noon.
But Greg had run marathons, and he was dead.
“Look, Jeri, I’m real sorry, but—”
“But I’m a woman and there’s no way I could dump a big huge guy like you on your butt, right?”
“Aw, jeez—” The day was turning into one of those. Best thing was, just throw a switch and pop straight into tomorrow or back to yesterday, then turn north instead of south.
“Right?” she asked.
“What? Me?”
“Right on your butt, Mort.”
“Christ, Jeri. What d’you weigh?” And that, by the way, wasn’t the swiftest thing I’d said all week, either. Women never give you a straight answer when you ask.
She stood up. “Get up.”
Aw, shit.
“Up,” she said. “On your feet, Mort. Let’s go.”
“What the hell…?”
She opened one of two doors that led to the back of the house. So, I had a choice: quick out the front, now, or into the back with her. Oversized macho jerk that I am, I went into the back.
Why? Who knows? It might’ve been curiosity. Maybe I wanted to see how far women’s lib has taken them. Maybe I wanted to show her a thing or two, something that might save her life if she ever ran into real trouble. Maybe I wanted a tour of the house. It looked like an interesting place.
We went down a short hallway and into a good-sized room with a padded floor, free weights in a corner, jump rope, chin-up bar, rowing machine, expensive treadmill, heavy punching bag, a faint smell of sweat. A private gym, good equipment—which should have told me a lot more than it did, but my forte was missing persons, not common sense or straightforward deduction given relevant facts.
Jeri headed for another door. “Wait there,” she said. “And take off your shoes. You might want to warm up a little while you’re at it.”
She left. I stood there, feeling dumb, out of place, then I untied my laces and pulled off my Nikes. I jogged in place for about five seconds, then stopped, feeling moronic, like a big awkward kid, first day in gym class. I looked down at my sneakers. I could’ve picked them up and been out the door in three seconds flat, maybe two.
“This isn’t necessary,” I called out, eyeing my shoes.
Boy, was it ever not. But how was I, an ex-football player of sorts who still clung to that dead historical fact, supposed to slink out now? Things had gone too far for that. Male pride was at stake. Lots of it.
“Yes, it is,” she yelled back, voice muffled by the door.
“How ’bout I take your word for it?”
“Not hardly.”
She popped back into the room. Gone was the Baghdad Nights outfit. She’d changed into a navy-blue sports bra and black jogging shorts, bare feet.
I stared at her. First at the bra, because I’m like that, then at the rest of her.
She touched her ankles. Okay, I could almost do that. Then her toes. I couldn’t. Then she plopped the palms of her hands down flat on the mat, knees locked, then bent her elbows, finally touching her forehead to her knees. I shivered slightly. If I’d done that, my spine would’ve torn out leaving a bloody groove from butt to shoulder blades.
“Ready?” she asked after a few minutes of stretches that would have put me in the hospital, jogging in place as she rolled her neck and shoulders.
Best I can describe her, she looked like a clever steel framework covered with the finest imaginable latex. Her stomach was flat, hard with
