Free Trader of Secrets: A Paul Madriani Novel by Steve Martini Page A

back to us as she works at the counter slicing some small sandwiches and stacking them on a plate. “He’s been in the dumps since he first heard about what happened to Sarah.”
    “Yeah, well, it’s pretty hard when your daughter comes within a whisper of being murdered,” I tell her.
    “Yes, but she wasn’t. You have to let it go and move on,” says Joselyn.
    “On to what?”
    “You can pour your own coffee. Cups are in the cupboard over there.” She gestures with her head. “Sugar and cream are on the table. Silverware is in the drawer. Help yourself.” She turns and sets the dish of sandwiches in the center of the table. “Napkins, I don’t know. You’ll have to use your sleeve. I forgot to put ’em on the list the last time they went for groceries.”
    “The FBI does our housekeeping,” I tell Harry.
    “So what’s the gig this time? Protective custody, witness protection, or are we under arrest?” He looks at me.
    “It’s not entirely clear,” I tell him. “I don’t think we’re in custody. As far as I understand it, we’re just cooperating with their investigation. For the time being, they’re happy to provide security, at least while we’re here and on their terms.”
    “What’s Thorpe saying?”
    “He’s suggesting we stick around, at least for a while. This thing with Sarah rattled him. They squeezed Joselyn and me for information, whatever we knew. They questioned Herman as soon as he could talk. Now they’re working on Sarah.”
    “They talked to her at the farm,” says Harry. “Questioned me as well. They lost interest when I told them I hadn’t seen or talked to either of you in almost a month, that I’d been hanging out on the farm in Ohio since we split from California. I couldn’t tell them anything. Didn’t even see Liquida. They trampled all over the farm looking for anything that might give them a lead. They would have grilled the Doberman but his English wasn’t that good.”
    “Sarah tells me the dog saved her life,” says Joselyn.
    “If he’d been just a few seconds faster, the FBI could be doing DNA on a hunk out of Liquida’s ass, I suspect,” says Harry. “She’s quite attached to him. The dog, I mean. He’s been sleeping at the bottom of her bed ever since it happened. He’s getting spoiled. Kibble and bacon bits out of her hand. I take it you met him last night?”
    “Lie down with dogs, wake up with fleas,” I tell him, “but that’s one animal I’d kiss. I’m glad she has him. At least for the time being.”
    “Which reminds me,” says Harry. “Where is he? You didn’t lock him in the bedroom, did you? Cuz he’ll chew the carpet off the floor. He doesn’t like to be locked in a room where he can’t see out. And he tends to get antsy when he’s separated from her.”
    “Sarah took him to her meeting at the FBI office,” I tell him.
    “They let her do that?” says Joselyn.
    “It’s hard to say no when you have a snarling dog with his nose in your crotch,” I tell her.
    We pour coffee, settle into chairs around the table, and start to eat.
    “Thorpe give you any idea as to whether they have any leads on Liquida?” Harry talks with his mouth half full.
    “They’re looking. But without a name or something else to track, it’s difficult. All they can do is print a sketch, put it on their website, hang it in the post office, circulate it to local law enforcement, and hope somebody calls in.”
    “I would think that after the bombing near the Capitol he’s going to draw a pretty high number on their wanted list,” says Joselyn.
    “Depends whether they put him on their terror list or regular most wanted list. They put him on the terror list, there’s no way he’s going to get near the top. There’s too many big names already,” I tell her.
    “The last time I checked, bin Laden was still number one. And that’s going on ten years now,” says Harry. “And, of course, while they’re looking, we don’t have a life.