Free Bulldog (Dev Haskell - Private Investigator Book 9) by Mike Faricy

binoculars back up and returned to my unsuccessful scanning of the building across the street.
    A text came through from Casey around noon. ‘Getting abstract from safety deposit box.’
    I sent a text back, ‘Great, keep me posted.’
    I got another text at 12:20, ‘At the bank.’
    I didn’t reply.
    Another text came thru at 12:25, ‘Got abstract.’
    I foolishly replied, ‘Meet for dinner?’
    She text me back at 12:27, ‘Sure where?’
    I text back, ‘Shamrock’s 6:00.’
    12:31 Casey text back, ‘Lol. No! Where else.’
    I called her.
    “Hi, Dev.”
    “Let me just state for the record that I’m a guy so I absolutely hate text messages. You pick the place.”
    “You hate texting because you’re like all guys and you find it impossible to do two things at once.”
    “I’m looking out the window and talking to you on the phone, that’s two things,” I said.
    “I’m not sure I could last an entire dinner with you if you think that’s doing two things. How about La Grolla instead of Shamrock’s.”
    “Works for me, is six okay?”
    “It’s perfect, see you then,” she said.
     
     
    Chapter Eighteen
     
    La Grolla is a trendy Italian restaurant with nice wine, Italian beers and great food. It’s also one of the ‘in places’ to be, so I called and made a reservation. I was seated near the window sipping my second beer when I checked my watch. Casey was only twenty-five minutes late. She must have learned her arrival time skills from Heidi.
    I watched as she pulled up ten minutes later and attempted to parallel park. There was a good space and a half on the street. She backed in three separate times and hit the curb. I guess that was bound to happen each and every time if you don’t readjust your wheels. After the third time she drove off down the street. The car that was waiting behind her pulled ahead and backed into the same spot. Then the guy got out and opened the door for a woman, probably his wife.
    I took a couple sips from my beer, thought about ordering another, but decided to wait until Casey came in. The couple that had parked their car a moment ago was shown to a table across the room by the hostess. A moment later, a waiter was there with a basket of bread and menus, he appeared to take their drink order. He returned a few minutes later with a bottle of wine, opened it with a flourish and poured a little into the woman’s glass. She tasted the wine, smiled, nodded, the waiter filled their glasses then left. They toasted one another and started talking.
    Casey showed up a few minutes after that. “God, the parking is horrendous down here.”
    “Were there any spots out front?”
    She shook her head. “My car wouldn’t fit.”
    I decided to let it go and attend to the more pleasant aspects of the evening.
    “Another beer, sir,” our waiter asked.
    I nodded.
    “Madam?”
    “I think a glass of wine.”
    “I’ll spring for a bottle if you’re interested.”
    “No, I’ll just stick with the glass,” she said then ordered a wine I couldn’t pronounce.
    “So you got it, your abstract?”
    She nodded and pulled a document out of her purse. “Don’t spill anything on this, Dev, it’s the only copy and it’s got stuff in there from before Minnesota was even a state, all the way back to the 1840’s.”
    She had the thing wrapped in a Ziploc bag and passed it across the table to me like she was handing over a newborn infant. It was a dog-eared document with a faded green cover. I opened the first page and it led off with a legal property description from 1849. Minnesota didn’t become a state until almost ten years later in 1858. Casey’s home was built in 1885 by a guy named J. W. Stevens. His family apparently had it until 1916. I flipped through a number of pages, largely legal beagle stuff then I looked up at Casey.
    “The last entry here is for 1983, Norman Speer. You didn’t buy your house from the Speer family, did you?”
    “I told you, I can’t remember who we