Free Legwork by Katy Munger Page B

you’d call me with an update. What’s going on? Who did this to me?” There was a pause while she took a deep breath. “It is very, very important that I know who was behind this. Fast. For both professional and personal reasons. I can’t afford to have this hanging over my campaign. Please, I’m begging you. And I’ll give you triple your hourly rate if you get it cleaned up by early next week.”
    See what a tough negotiator I am? All I have to do is sit and listen and my opponent comes crawling.
    “I’m begging you, Casey,” she repeated. “Get these guys off my back. And hurry. I need you back. I’ve been getting those obscene phone calls again. Plus I hate my new bodyguard. I can’t pee with the big goon standing there waiting for me to finish. It’s killing me. He listens. I think he has a tinkle fetish.”
    She hung up abruptly and I marveled at her self- centeredness. Her bladder was more important than justice. But then again, whose isn’t?
    The next three messages gave me more to think about.
    “Casey, what did you screw up now?” Bobby’s accent was unmistakable. He sounds like a garbage truck backing up, only with a drawl. “You’re not content to have lost your own license, are you? Now you want to go and lose me mine.”
    Oh, that Bobby D. He’s always getting things mixed up. That’s why he’s a lousy detective. I never had a license. You can’t lose what you don’t have. Except for your virginity, of course.
    “You’re great for business, doll. Really great. Two of those SBI jerks came to the office today. I lost a customer when he saw them coming.”
    Poor Bobby. Having to sit on his duff in an air- conditioned office telling two polite men he doesn’t know a thing while his slimy bail client slips out the back. No wonder he was traumatized.
    “I don’t want to resort to threats, babe,” Bobby was saying. “But if you don’t call me back in an hour, your fat ass is tossed right out the door.”
    I would lose little sleep over having my fat ass tossed out his door. The next message represented a slight change in his attitude. It began with a greasy chuckle that escalated into a nervous laugh. “Casey, babe. Jonesy, Jonesy, Jonesy. I was kidding about what I said before. Har. Har.”
    Yeah. Har. Har.
    “Listen, babe, I just got a call from that lady politician you’ve been guarding. She says she’ll pay us triple if you can wrap things up by early next week. I told her it was no problem. You were a star.”
    Yeah—a superstar. But I didn’t get far.
    “Take your time getting back to me, babe. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll know you’re hot on the trail.” His greasy chuckle faded as he clicked off.
    I sat in the old armchair I had fished out of some garbage pile and considered my options as I scratched the four thousand bug bites on my ankles. Let’s see. I could bust my ass for Mary Lee. I could tell Bobby D. to take a hike. Or, I could confess to the murder myself and seize the opportunity to throw myself on Bill Butler’s mercy for an hour or two. Hmmm . . . now that was a concept.
    But the horses weren’t through running yet. The next message was from Bobby. Again. His voice was starting to give me a headache. I found an old Darvon molding on the window sill, no doubt a memento from a previous attack of mega-PMS, and popped the tranquilizer while I listened.
    “Hey, babe. Just checking in to see how we’re doing. We have some big bucks on the line here, know what I mean?”
    We? What was he planning to do that would help? Sit on the suspect once I caught him?
    Screw Bobby. I fast forwarded the message to the next one. Him again. Sorry, wrong number. Four down and two to go. Come on, Bill Butler. Pick up that phone and dial.
    “Casey, babe. I’ve got a really great idea.”
    So have I. Go stick your fat head in the can. Please. And leave my answering machine alone.
    “I’ve got a contact at the N&O who would kill for an exclusive on the inside track,”