Free Bad Bones (Claire Morgan) by Linda Ladd Page A

looked warily at Claire.
    Claire fought the urge to pull her weapon on the smug, ring-appraising imbecile. Hell, she probably couldn’t get her Glock out without her cheap, Fig Newton-sized trinket obstructing her draw time. And Black had told her that it was only fifteen carats, anyway, which showed how much that moron knew about flawless white diamonds, and it sure as hell wasn’t as big as any Fig Newton, either. A Cheez-It, maybe, or a Frosted Miniwheat, or probably more like a Peanut M&M squared off some, but no cookie or cracker any bigger than that. And Black said it was set in platinum, not silver plate anything. So why did everybody she meet find it necessary to exaggerate about Black’s damn ring? It was getting downright ridiculous. With some effort having to be exerted, she restrained herself. She presented him with a tight rendition of a false smile. He was just stupid. She had to remember that. It was almost cute how stupid he was.
    “We’re not really here to discuss your opinion of my jewelry, sir. We’re here concerning a homicide investigation.”
    That obviously took him aback. “Homicide? Who got killed?”
    “Is now a good time to ask you a few questions?”
    “Like what?”
    “Like what’s your name and your business here?”
    He took plenty of time turning over another steak before answering. “Name’s Sonny Randazzo. Dazz, for short. And I own this place. Keep it running out here in the sticks so my scouts can find my fight company some raw talent to develop.”
    Claire watched him fork up a huge sirloin steak and carefully transfer it to a paper towel covered plate. Behind her, one of the contestants in the ring screamed. It sounded rather painful, and she tried not to look, but couldn’t help herself. The fighter was writhing around on the mat, moaning and groaning and a good amount of blood gushing out of his nose. The other guy was being glad-handed by his handlers. High fives even. Sick, sick, and more sick, oh, yeah. But back to business.
    “Well, Dazz, by the looks of that Mercedes outside, I’d say you can afford to buy your boys over there a pair of boxing gloves. Maybe even a face guard and mouthpiece, to boot. You know, just to cut down on broken bones and black eyes.”
    “What are you, anyways, detective, a softie? Just like a girl to say somethin’ like that. My fighters are as tough as nails. Those kids don’t need a goddamn thing inside that ring except their hands and their feet. They got those four deadly weapons. Don’t need nothing else.”
    “Wow, somehow the term blatant exploitation occurs to me.”
    “Don’t kid yourself, lady. They beg me to let them fight.”
    Claire narrowed her eyes. This guy was seriously chewing up her reserve of police politeness. She fought an urge to smash him in the face with Black’s gaudy, cheapo, embarrassing glass ring.
    Bud said, “I wouldn’t provoke her like that, if I were you. She’s not as soft as you think she is.”
    “Ha! What’s this sweet little lady gonna do, hit me with her big fake ring?”
    Okay, that did it. The ring was going back on the chain and around her neck and hidden under her sweatshirt, as soon as they got back in the car. But hey, this guy was just asking for it. “Well, I tell you one thing this little lady’s gonna do to you, Dazz, she’s gonna run you in to the Canton County Sheriff’s Department so that you’ll cooperate in a homicide investigation or sit in a cell until you do.”
    “Uh-oh, now I’m shakin’ in my Italian loafers. And unlike that ring, mine are the genuine article. Straight outta Rome, Italy.”
    Bud jerked a look down to see if they really were real, no doubt, and then he looked at Claire and shook his head. “Those are cheap knockoffs, man. Somebody took you for a ride.”
    “No, they’re not. I got them in Memphis last week, right out of the box.”
    “Yeah, right.”
    Oh, for God’s sake , Claire thought, can this interview get any more stupid? “Is there