Free Thigh High by Christina Dodd Page B

head—but he also thought she was right. Melissa Rosewell had had something else to tell them, and between her husband and Mac, she’d faltered.
    â€œPractice your smile on me,” she suggested.
    He manipulated his lips in that unfamiliar upward tilt.
    She studied him quizzically. “Maybe you’ll get better with practice.”
    This was their last stop of the day. So far, they’d visited every bank that had suffered a robbery, met the managers, met the tellers, and eaten lunch. Now Mac followed her through the lobby to the long line that led to the desk sergeant.
    Officer Ernie Rippon stood behind bulletproof glass. He looked ready for retirement, and more than that, he looked as if he’d heard every story and believed none of them. His sagging, bulldog face sagely observed every person who stepped up. He handed out forms, gave directions, and called for assistance with quiet efficiency.
    But when Mac and Nessa reached the front of the line, Nessa smiled at him as if he were her best friend. Of course. “Ernie, you are looking debonair today.”
    Ernie glared, then laughed. “Yeah, chère, I look debonair today. You can’t find a more debonair officer on the force. But that’s because”—he glared again from bloodshot eyes—“it’s Mardi Gras!”
    â€œAre the tourists crazier than normal?” she asked sympathetically.
    â€œNo. Yes. I don’t know.” Ernie observed Mac in one sweeping glance. “You pick yourself up a tourist? Because I have to tell you, Miss Dahl, he’s a big one.”
    â€œI didn’t pick him up. He was given to me.” She injected amusement and friendship in her tone. “This is Mr. Jeremiah Mac. Through no fault of his own, he is an insurance investigator.”
    Mac nodded a greeting.
    â€œWelcome to our fair city, Mr. Mac.” Ernie might be world weary, but he was courteous. “Are you here to celebrate or investigate?”
    â€œHe’s here to investigate,” Nessa said firmly.
    â€œLet the man talk,” Ernie said.
    â€œNo, he’s not allowed.” She put her hand on Mac’s arm as if holding him back. “Also through no fault of his own, he’s a Yankee.”
    Ernie laughed until he coughed, a smoker’s hack that sounded as if he were bringing up a lung. “I do not kill Yankees for less than a misdemeanor.”
    Nessa laughed, too, and dug her heel into Mac’s instep.
    Mac smiled.
    â€œMr. Mac wishes to see the tapes and transcripts of the Mardi Gras robberies,” Nessa said.
    â€œNow?” Ernie’s wide eyes bulged. “Miss Dahl, Chief Cutter hasn’t got time now. After Easter, he can—”
    Nessa smoothly interrupted his rant. “We can’t wait until after Easter—you know that. By then there’ll be another successful robbery, and the bank’s insurance company will be angrier than they already are.”
    That made sense to Mac, but Ernie almost spat with fury. “It’s not the insurance company, is it? It’s that CEO, that head of your lousy bank. He has made the chief’s life miserable—”
    â€œI know, Ernie.” Nessa verbally patted Ernie’s hand. “But Mr. Mac is merely the poor man who works for the insurance company, and he is very sorry to be a bother—aren’t you, Jeremiah?”
    â€œVery sorry,” Mac repeated.
    â€œBut he has a job to do. And, Ernie, I promised to help him.” Nessa managed to look both sorrowful and determined.
    â€œNo choice, eh?” Ernie glanced at the ever-growing line behind them. “I’ll call Rav Woodland to take you back. Might as well give the boy a thrill.” He winked at her. “And, chère, I’ll see you tonight.”
    She flopped a vague hand in his direction and walked toward the door that led into the inner sanctum.
    Mac didn’t understand what Ernie meant about Rav Woodland