Free Spook Squad by Jordan Castillo Price Page B

But Laura seemed to have a good supply of patience.
    “What a piece of junk,” Richie declared. “Maybe when Agent Marks gets his Lexus, he’ll sell you his Crown Vic cheap.”
    “Your concern over my vehicle is touching.”
    “Them are like cop cars,” he explained. While no one ever accused me of being the king of grammar, ouch. “And you’d have the same name…Vic, driving a Crown Vic. Heh-heh.”
    Laura smiled politely at the witticism. The elevator disgorged us onto the fifth floor none too soon. We made our way to the wide sweep of the big modern desk, and Richie planted his elbows on it, sprawling as if he was about to order a two-for-one drink special at happy hour. “So them guys never installed my new TV last night,” he told Laura.
    “Was there a structural issue with your wall?”
    “Nuh uh. They just didn’t show up.”
    “Okay, I’ll call.”
    “’Cos I need my TV.”
    “Right. I’ll reschedule.”
    “I can’t miss that show. You know. The one I watch.”
    “Understandable.”
    “It’s just sitting there in the box. I mean, what good is it in the box?”
    I was wondering how long he could sustain an argument with someone who kept agreeing with him when Laura nudged him toward the finish line with, “What time should I have the installers come—seven?”
    “Uh, yeah, okay. I should be home by seven. It’s all-you-can-eat wing night at The Blue Room.”
    “Got it. Seven.”
    Maybe I learned more about Laura Kim from that little exchange than I had the whole episode in the parking garage. While it was my experience that technicians supplied a broad window of arrival and then showed up whenever the hell they damn well pleased, The Fixer’s quiet confidence led me to believe she could make seven o’clock happen. She did it with the same cool confidence she’d just employed to get Richie to stop complaining about the installers, although whether he’d be there to let them in, or whether he’d still be anointing two-ply paper napkins with ranch dressing, chicken fat and hot sauce at that time would be anyone’s guess.
    Once Laura fixed her headset in place, tapped a few buttons and listened, she said to me, “Agent Dreyfuss would like to see you in his office. I’ll walk you there.”
    “Let me,” Richie said. “I got a question for him. An important one.”
    A look flickered across her face. Was that a small calculation? Weighing the pros and cons of setting me loose with only Richie to wrangle me—or determining the most non-invasive way to keep Richie in line? She pressed a button, paused, and said, “Agent Duff would like a word.”
    Who?
    She listened, then told Richie, “Go ahead.”

Chapter 8

    Not that I’d been under the impression Richie’s last name was actually Einstein, but the realization that I never even knew his damn surname was pretty disturbing. Almost as disturbing as hearing him called by the title Agent , which, I gotta admit, looks pretty slick in front of Jacob’s name. Not so much preceding Richie’s.
    He knocked on the door, which gave a faint electronic click, then elbowed me aside and bounded in as if we were racing toward a box of donuts with only one cruller. “So I met these guys at karaoke,” he told Dreyfuss, “and they really want to come see the Bears with me on Thanksgiving.”
    “How many guys are we talking?”
    “Two. Uh…three.”
    “That’s a total of thirty-two guests.”
    Richie thought about it. Then he started counting on his fingers. Then he got lost somewhere around eight while the repeater beside him took a bullet to the throat. “Well, there’s my bowling team, that’s four. Plus my neighbors Bernie and Meg….”
    Once I got over the idea of Einstein singing karaoke, I attempted to wrap my head around the cost of comping thirty-two people at Soldier Field—especially on Thanksgiving Day. That game had sold out two hours after the tickets became available…not that it would prevent Dreyfuss from scoring more.