Free Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) by Mary McFarland Page B

booty call list? Or is there something different about this one?

Chapter 8
    Nick LaFigli a’ s finally figured out he needs my money to keep Arne e’ s running.  He ambles to the register.  “ Detective, sorry to keep you waiting . ”
    “ Yeah, right . ”
    I’ d be pissed to get this kind of crappy service anywhere else.  Here, however, you suck up your anger and wait on Nick.  The foo d’ s that damn good, fortunately.  It gives me more than one reason to come here.  Today, I’ m keeping an eye on Nick.  I want to see what he knows about the latest vi c’ s body we found in the alley.
    Nic k’ s not your average restaurant owner.  Or maybe he is.  H e’ s gone straight, he says.  I have my doubts.  Arne e’ s screens employees well, but i t’ s easy to hide a criminal background by working in a kitchen.  Nic k’ s changed his identity more than once.  Who knows how many times?  Now h e’ s Nick LaFiglia, entrepreneur and reformed thug, who owns swank river front properties, and Arne e’ s.
    “ I hear you found another vic in the alley last night ,” he says.  “ Wha t’ s this make your body count now?  Two?  Three ? ”
    Nick knows already?  The vic, whose corpse we pulled from behind Oma r’ s last night, used to waitress here.  Word travels fast in Newport, especially when yo u’ re talking murder, so I’ m not too surprised.  I look him square in his eyes.  “ Wh o’ s to say whoever murdered her is n’ t working here?  Wh o’ s to say it is n’ t one of your thugs ? ”
    “ No need to be uncivil ,” Nick says.  “ Thanks for your business.  Now, do me a favor.  Go crawl back under the rock you came out from unde r— Detective . ”
    “ Wh o’ s to say her murderer is n’ t you, Nicky ? ”
    Nick does the usual perp dance.  Looks cocky.  Shoots me a shitfaced flat-eyed grin.  “ You pull anything concrete from the rive r ” — he smiles at his own stupid jok e — “ you let me know . ”
    “ Yo u’ ll be the first ,” I say.  “I’ d love to send your ass back up the river, and I’ m not talking the Ohio . ”
    “ Other than running all over Newport chasing your ass ,” he says, giving me a narrow-eyed stare that would make even the meanest criminal run for cover ,“ how goes everything in your personal life?  I hear dic k’ s get all the pussy . ”
    “ Great, Nick.  And you?  Made any more kiddie porn lately?  I hear i t’ s a booming business on the Internet . ”
    Nick never answers my questions, which is the reason I keep asking them.  “ Glad you enjoyed the food ,” he says, and then shoves a takeout order in a go-bag at me.  “ Cinnamon and pecan rolls, fresh-baked.  Just for you, Detective Hawks . ”
    I laugh.  “ No arsenic ? ”
    If he could get by with it, the rolls would be laced with enough arsenic to kill an elephant.  Even if his thick-lipped smile is n’ t squeezing back the evil lurking behind his darting gaze, I know Nick.  His rap sheet is a how-to crime manual.  Vice.  Murder.  Extortion.  Back in the day, LaFiglia ran a child porn factory out of Oma r’ s, which is why I’ m here, watching Nick y’ s ass.  Although Nick no longer owns the building, bodies keep piling up in the alley behind it.  Not that being the buildin g’ s former owner makes Nick a suspect in last nigh t’ s murder.  It does n’ t.  But I keep doing my mat h— three bodies so fa r— and keep coming to Arne e’ s every day to check in on our Nicky.  It irritates the piss out of him, knowing I’ m waiting to see if h e’ ll fuck up.
    Apparently, he wo n’ t this morning. 
    “I’ ll wait for my partner outside ,” I say.  “ I do n’ t like you, Nick, but I would n’ t wish her off on you.  Sh e’ s mean.  Look out for her . ”
    “ Oh, I’ ve had my eye on her . ”
    Poor bastard.   Nick likes blondes.  I hear h e’ s sported more than one Miss Teen America as his appendage, pedophiliac bastard.