Free Jericho Point by Meg Gardiner Page A

chrome and hanging copper kettles.
    ‘‘You know, that was scary,’’ he said.
    ‘‘What?’’
    ‘‘In your car, you locking the doors. I’ve never seen you mad before.’’
    ‘‘You still haven’t.’’
    He gave me a guarded look. I took the milk carton and set it on the counter.
    ‘‘You have serious problems to contend with,’’ I said.
    He hung his head. ‘‘You don’t have to tell me. I’m a shithead.’’
    ‘‘That’s a long-term issue. I’m talking about this afternoon. You should talk to a lawyer.’’
    ‘‘I’m talking to you.’’
    ‘‘I mean you should retain legal counsel, officially.’’
    ‘‘What for?’’
    ‘‘You said you were jamming at the party. Where’s your guitar?’’
    ‘‘The Stratocaster? It’s . . .’’ His lips stayed open. ‘‘Crap, I must have left it there. Why?’’
    From the far wing of the house Ricky came padding toward us, whistling. He was dressed in psychedelic green swim trunks and glistening with sweat. His blond locks were pulled off his forehead into a samurai ponytail. A white gym towel was draped around his neck.
    He waved at P.J. ‘‘Calistoga.’’
    P.J. got a two-liter water bottle from the fridge and handed it to him. Ricky glugged half of it down, splashed a swig on his face, and stood there letting water drip onto the stone floor. He burped and broke out a Cheshire cat grin.
    ‘‘Saunas, man, they revive you.’’ He pointed the bottle at me. ‘‘You weren’t here before.’’
    ‘‘No.’’
    ‘‘You work for Vonnie Marks.’’
    ‘‘On and off.’’
    ‘‘Check this out.’’ He slid his hand up and down his stomach. ‘‘I’m down twenty pounds since October.’’ He slapped a hand against the belly. ‘‘Listen to that. Solid.’’
    Sinsa walked in. ‘‘Twenty more to go, Slink.’’
    ‘‘Spandex is forgiving.’’ He scowled. ‘‘Crap, Sin, put a sweater on. I’ve seen smaller teats on a dairy farm.’’
    He should talk. He had the biggest tits in the room. No way could I have gotten a nipple ring that size through mine.
    He squinted at P.J. ‘‘You look strung out.’’
    Sinsa hopped up to sit on the counter. ‘‘He came from the animal shelter. Putting puppies down.’’
    ‘‘I don’t do that,’’ P.J. said.
    She mimed a dog being held by the scruff of the neck, with a syringe aimed at it. ‘‘Here, Spot. Head toward the light.’’
    He blushed a deeper shade of red. ‘‘That’s not funny.’’
    ‘‘I’m teasing.’’ She hopped off the counter. ‘‘Don’t be a sourpuss.’’
    She jammed her hands in the back pockets of her fatigues, so that her nipples stretched the undershirt like explosive bolts. Her silver jewelry sang in the light. She passed P.J., managing to brush his arm with her breast.
    His heel stopped bouncing. He leaned against the counter and crossed his legs.
    Ricky swigged from the water bottle. ‘‘We laid down vocals for the new track. Come up and listen after I shower.’’
    P.J. squeezed his knees together. ‘‘Great.’’
    Ricky cocked his head. ‘‘That’s the garage door. Go help Mom carry the groceries.’’
    Sinsa pouted. ‘‘It’s all stuff she buys for your Mick Jagger diet.’’
    Ricky put a hand on her back and walked her out of the kitchen. ‘‘And change this shit music. Pick a rapper who samples my tunes, not Steven Tyler’s.’’
    P.J. waited, trying to calm down enough to follow. I glanced toward the garage, wanting to leave.
    ‘‘You need to understand how serious the situation is,’’ I said. ‘‘You may have witnessed a murder last night, and the authorities know it. You need to talk to the sheriffs, asap.’’
    ‘‘But I don’t remember anything.’’
    ‘‘Listen to me. Your ex-girlfriend was strangled.’’
    ‘‘She wasn’t my ex—’’
    ‘‘Shut up. She’s dead, and you were at the scene. The cops will suspect you.’’
    His face went blank. ‘‘You mean . .