Читать книгу Candy Apple Red - Nancy Bush - Страница 6

I had hours before my date with Marta but that didn’t mean I didn’t have things to do. I yanked on a pair of black jeans that had shrunk, making me look as if I were wearing capri pants. I coupled this with a once black, now gray, sleeveless T-shirt and quickly tied on my gray and black Nikes without socks. I gave another cursory glance in the mirror. My light brown hair lay in a shoulder-length tangle. I’m beyond stylish, no doubt. The Nikes were my good shoes, not my running shoes. I also own a pair of flip-flops and that about says it all for my entire shoe selection. There are a few dresses in my closet, left over from college when I used to care what I wore. I save them for weddings and funerals. One of these days I’m going to have to learn how to shop, but it hasn’t happened yet.

I dragged a brush through my hair, hoping for a miracle. No use. The gods of coif gifted me with straight, forgettable hair that firmly defies any kind of style. I used to complain about it until I listened to the woes of those cursed with serious curls/frizz whose taming time at least tripled my alloted five minutes for hair. Now, I keep my mouth shut. As I scraped my hair into a ponytail I remembered things could be worse.

Locking the door behind me I thought about lipstick and settled for Chapstick. I skimmed a wax coating on my mouth, inhaled deeply and smacked my lips. Tropical fruit. Who needs breakfast?

My car is a dark blue Volvo wagon which my mother purchased years earlier and donated to me. Actually, I think she just forgot she owned it, which is fine by me. I drove it out of California a little over four years ago and never looked back. Well, okay, I’ve looked back, but though I grew up in the land of southern California sunshine, I don’t mind the Oregon rain…too much.

With a supreme effort of will I pushed thoughts of Murphy and Cotton and Bobby Reynolds aside. At least I managed to push them to a distant corner of my mind for the time being. As I climbed into the car I called Dwayne on my cell phone to see if any of the property owners he deals with needed someone (me) to post 72-hour eviction notices. These same property owners then pay me a fee for chasing all over the greater Portland area and potentially facing enraged evictees like the howler.

“Hullo,” Dwayne drawled, sounding as if I’d interrupted him.

“Hi, it’s me.”

I could hear papers being shuffled. Dwayne’s in love with hard copy. He relies on the hunt-and-peck method, and therefore he runs off pages and reams and cargo loads of paper. It’s a form of compensation, or maybe Dwayne’s a belt-and-suspender kind of guy—an inverse reaction to his line of work. “What’s up?” he asked without any real interest.

I wanted to blab about Marta’s call and my pending meeting with Tess Reynolds but I also wanted to gauge Dwayne’s reaction to the news when we saw each other in person. I asked instead, “Have you got any work?”

“Hayden needs some 72’s posted,” Dwayne said.

“Great. I’ll stop by his office.”

“Bring me a Standish burger, would’ja?”

“No,” I responded without a second thought. Standish’s was known for its burgers the size of a large dinner plate. The place was a Portland institution, the original tavern located out Sunset Highway, past Hillsboro, which in my mind, is halfway to the beach. Its satellite offshoot is on Macadam Avenue which runs north from Lake Chinook proper to Portland, right across from Hayden’s office.

“Be a good girl. I’ll give you an extra buck or two for delivery.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Sweet-talk me. Where do these notices need to be posted? I’ll bring you a burger if it’s on the way.”

“I don’t know where the hell they’re supposed to go. You’re not gonna make me wait.” He sounded disbelieving.

“Yes, I am,” I stated succinctly and clicked off.

The Volvo started right up but it was warm inside, the worn black leather seats infused with heat. I flipped on the air-conditioning and left my house on West Bay, heading into Lake Chinook proper so that I could drive the road which runs alongside the Willamette River straight up to Greg Hayden’s office and Standish’s.

Greg needed to alert several defaulting renters that they had 72 hours in which to vacate their premises. Usually by the time Greg decides to pay me to post the notices, these deadbeats are way past due. For a few extra dollars I will also traipse to the county courthouse to file the paperwork. When I’m low on cash I start looking for work as a process server. My friends see this as a personal flaw. Maybe it is, but the real jobs I’ve tried haven’t worked out all that well. Even my bartending gig had its drawbacks. I need flexibility and mobility or I’m doomed.

Greg’s office is an older house off Macadam that has resisted the commercial development surrounding it on all sides. It looks cute on the outside, smells like dog on the inside and is a deathtrap of sloping floors and haphazard furniture. When I walked in Greg was rummaging through his desk, talking on the phone and tossing around loose papers. He makes Dwayne look like a man of the 22nd century as Greg still doesn’t use a computer at all. When I entered he motioned to an untidy stack of stapled papers. I scooped up the forms, sent him a high sign and headed back to the Volvo, breathing deeply as soon as I stepped onto the porch. There is no dog any longer. The cotenant with the back office and his Basset hound are gone, thank God. Dogs are fine, but they smell. And shed. And dig. And bark. Not to mention the fact that they do not have designated indoor toilet facilities. My idea of pets is the geese and ducks that paddle around on the lake. However, if they flap onto my property in a group, as they’re wont to do, I’ll shoo them off faster than you can say “group duck poop.”

Glancing at the addresses, I realized one of the soon-to-be evictees wasn’t that far outside my neighborhood. I had just enough time to grab Dwayne’s burger, speed over to his place, tack up the notice, then buzz downtown to meet Marta and Tess. Maybe I even had time for a quick stop at the grocery store. I could head home later and make myself a sandwich, thereby saving myself a few bucks on lunch/dinner. As soon as this thought crossed my mind, I nixed it. Better to buy a Standish burger for myself and charge that to Dwayne, too.

Standish’s was packed. I edged to the bar and placed a take-out order. As much as I love those huge burgers, I settled for a more moderate size. The bag smelled of juicy beef, onions and grease. I paid with some crumpled dollars and coins and was on my way within fifteen minutes.

I ate in the car. I covered my lap with extra napkins and chowed into the burger, one handed. In New York it’s against the law to hold a cell phone while driving. Other states may soon follow. But as yet you can still eat a burger. I know a woman who applies eyeliner on her way to work each morning while driving. I call it multi-tasking.

By the time I pulled up to Dwayne’s place and parked behind his car I was finished with my burger. Dwayne lives in a cabana on Lakewood Bay. The cabana is still pretty close to its original style which is basically one-story shotgun. At one time there were a row of like cabanas sitting side by side, two-bedroom homes built on stilts over the water, but most of the others have long since been purchased and redone. Now Dwayne’s looks like a stunted step-cousin surrounded by towering heirs to the throne. Its pebbled roof is faintly mossy; its gray paint blistering and peeling. Still, its waterfront location means it’s worth a mint. Dwayne’s neglect is more part of his style than a matter of his pocketbook, though you’d never know it by his cheapness.

Hurrying up the cracked concrete walk, I pounded loudly on his dark-stained front door which is weather-worn and splotchy.

Dwayne answered. He was wearing a pair of low-riding faded denim jeans, a straw cowboy hat and not much else. My eyes were level with an expanse of hard flesh. I could make out the muscles sliding beneath his taut skin as he threw open the door without giving me much notice. He was on his cell phone and he turned his back to me almost instantly, heading the way he’d come.

“Don’t bother,” he said to the caller. “It’ll work itself out.”

Dwayne has this slow way of talking that other women seem to find irresistible. Me, it just bugs. “It’ll work itself out” is “It all wook itsalf aut” rolling off Dwayne’s tongue. He sounds all western or Texan or just plain cowboy. I have this sneaking suspicion he’s from somewhere like Philadelphia or Columbus. One of these days I’m going to find out.

Tentatively, I followed after him into the condo. His long strides had already placed him at the far side of the room but I stepped inside more carefully. Instantly my sensitive nose picked up the faint scent of someone’s lilac, and decidedly feminine, perfume. A female visitor? I glanced over Dwayne’s chunky tan leather sofa and chair, his boxy coffee table, end tables and massive desk, currently masked under a mound of papers. Not a sign of any visitor.

My curiosity meter rose into the red. I’ve never known Dwayne to be with a member of my gender. Not that he isn’t interested; hell, no! I’ve seen his eyes wander over a lovely set of breasts, legs, etc. more than a time or two. But to date he’s been very, very circumspect about letting me inside his dating world. I’ve got to say I was hoping to run straight into her, whoever she was, so it was with a degree of impatience that I waited for someone to appear from the short hallway that led to Dwayne’s bedroom and bath—not that I dared head down that way myself, I mean, God knows what you’ll discover lurking inside a bachelor’s abode. Whatever it is, I just don’t want to know it about Dwayne, potential girlfriend or no.

Cradling the cell phone on his bare shoulder, he swept off his hat, raked his fingers through his hair, jammed the hat back on and said succinctly, “We’re done.” He clicked off and threw the phone on the leather chair. “Got my burger?” He gave me his full attention for the first time.

“Hello to you, too,” I said, tossing the sack at him. Dwayne’s jeans have to be decades old and he doesn’t give a damn. It kinda bothers me how good they look, low slung on his hips. No sign of undershorts. I wondered briefly if he went commando style.

“You owe me twenty-one fifty,” I said. “You bought mine, too.”

Dwayne grunted in disbelief. He still thinks a burger should cost $1.95 on all occasions. Muttering something about highway robbery, he jammed his hand inside the bag. “Where’s yours?” he demanded, pulling out one burger.

“Ate it on the way.”

He took a healthy bite, the kind that makes any woman marvel. It looked like he swept in a pound of ground beef, I swear. Like a chaw in his cheek, he moved it to one side and mumbled, “Need something to drink?”

“A little early for me.”

I was standing by the desk which was pressed up against the sliding glass door, making it possible only to open the door about twelve inches. Dwayne squeezes himself in and out of the door when necessary to stand on his deck/dock. Beyond lies the lake—dark green and gently restless. You can literally step off his dock and sink into the water.

I could see a .38 peeking out from the teetering stack of papers. I know he’s licensed, and given his profession he probably needs the handgun, but the sight of a firearm just lying around unsettles me. He swears he only loads it when he’s on a job, but it still gives me the willies.

“I mean a soda,” he said, digging into his pockets for money. The jeans dipped precariously lower. I watched in fascination, wondering if I was about to see more than I’d bargained for, but he managed to haul out twenty-five dollars. Dropping it into my palm, he said magnanimously, “Keep the change,” then turned and took one giant step into his tiny U-shaped kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator door in one fluid move. “Diet A&W?”

“Sure. I’ll take it for the road.”

Juggling the burger, he pulled out two cans of root beer. I took them from him and opened his—hey, I can be truly helpful when I want—then perched on one of the two suspect bar stools which crowd against a small, jutting counter that divides Dwayne’s kitchen and dining area. This dining area is now used as Dwayne’s den; the desk takes up the whole expanse. Dwayne hooked a leg over the other stool but continued to stand as he took another bite of his burger.

“Would love to stay, but I have miles to go before I sleep,” I said, twisting my unopened soda can on the counter, my thoughts on my upcoming meeting with Tess Bradbury.

Dwayne said around a mouthful of onions and beef, “Did you hear about Cotton Reynolds?”

I nearly fell off my stool but Dwayne was regarding the catsup running down the side of his hand and didn’t notice. I couldn’t think of any response. Dwayne seemed way ahead of me anyway.

He licked the catsup before it dripped to the floor. “There’s a benefit at his house this Saturday for the Historical Society. Saw it in the papers. First time he’s opened the house since it happened.”

It was Cotton’s son’s quadruple homicide, and now I understood how Marta had wangled me an invitation to Cotton’s party. She’d merely bought tickets to the benefit. I opened my mouth to inform Dwayne about my meeting with Tess when his cell phone rang loudly. He snatched it up, examined the caller ID and grunted, “Been waitin’ for this all day.”

As he barked a hello, I climbed off the stool. I wondered if the island’s latest tragedy, the Coma Kid, would affect all the “ladies who lunch” who would be at the benefit. Or, would the original horror be enough to absorb everyone’s mind? The property itself was incredible, but I had a feeling attending might be more like being witness to a car wreck than marveling over the width and breadth of the massive Douglas firs surrounding the property. The island and therefore Cotton were already infamous.

I glanced at Dwayne. Full disclosure would have to be later when I had his complete attention. Besides, I didn’t have time to waste. Dwayne crumpled his leftover wrapper into a ball with one hand, listening hard to whomever was on the other end of the line. I gave him a high-sign good-bye, popped open my soda and headed out. The answer to Dwayne’s mystery woman would have to wait.

Sucking down the ice-cold root beer, I whipped the Volvo up Taylor’s Ferry Road and curved through neighborhoods perched on hills. The house where I was to deliver the 72-hour notice was a seedy little ranch style with a cracked driveway near the I-5 freeway. I suspected the land value alone would soon make it worthwhile to initiate a complete demolition; the residence wasn’t much to write home about.

But my thoughts were on Bobby Reynolds as I pulled to a stop in the driveway, my wheels in ruts, the Volvo’s undercarriage tickled by a foot-high swatch of weeds and grass. For four years there had been relative silence about Bobby’s homicides. Now, suddenly, the tragedy was right in front of my face. Was Bobby still alive? I wondered. And if so, where was he?

Stowing the empty can in my cup holder, I climbed from the car and trudged through more knee-high weeds to the front door. Knocking on the screen door, I automatically held tight to my small purse. Its strap was slung over my shoulder. I was poised. If I saw even one whisker of a broom I was out of there. After waiting a few moments I rapped again, hoping against hope that she wasn’t home and I could just post the notice. Greg could mail the 72-hour notice but because of the extra mailing time the tenant was allowed six days’ leeway instead of three. When rent was late, sometimes that just didn’t pan out, especially for Greg who wasn’t known for his patience anyway.

Relieved that no one was there, I dug in my pocket for my Scotch tape. As soon as I stuck the tape on the paper and reached for the screen door handle I heard shuffling footsteps on the other side. I dropped my hand and waited. A woman with a tired face and a well-smoked cigarette dangling from her lips swam into view from the darkness beyond. The screen door was still between us. There was a big rip in the mesh down by my knees but I didn’t think I could hand her the notice from that angle. It just didn’t seem polite. I could drop it through the hole, but it was always better to actually see the notice in their hands. No questions later. If she took it, then the deed was done. I’ve always liked things wrapped up neat and tidy.

“Gail Mortibund?” I asked.

“Yeah?” She waited as if expecting bad news. I got the feeling she’d received a lot of it in her life, and I hesitated.

One moment I was debating whether to even give her the notice, the next a pit bull was charging toward the door at full bellow, heading straight for the rip in the screen. I pivoted and ran before my brain even locked into gear. The woman screamed at the dog to no avail. I pounded toward the Volvo. The beast was barking its head off and sounded right at my heels. The eviction notice flew from my hands. I leapt for the car. The dog snapped at my jeans, brushed my ankle and caught a piece of my left Nike as I hurled myself atop the hood of my car. Arms flailing, I landed in full sail. My stomach hit with an oof and all the wind burst from my lungs. I sprawled in classic starfish position for one heartbeat, then yanked up my legs at the knees while the monster snapped and snarled beneath me. With an effort I pulled myself to safety on the center of my hood.

My heart hammered like a woodpecker on steroids.

So, where was Gail The Tired now?

I glared at the house. The front door was solidly closed. She’d left Woofers out here to bark and lunge and bare his nasty teeth. I snarled back at him, and that sent him in paroxysms of dancing around and clawing at my paint job.

“Stop that!” I yelled in fury.

His wrinkled mouth revealed canines that sent visions of ripped, bloody tissue across the screen of my brain. I shivered, hugged my knees tighter and considered.

Five seconds of intense thought ensued. A lightning bolt of remembrance. That hard pain against my hip bone was my cell phone. Jammed into the pocket of my black pants. I pulled it out and examined its LCD, tracking the battery life. Only one little miniature battery icon was left. I had enough time for one, maybe two, calls. I mentally castigated myself, telling myself to plug the damn thing into the portable charger as soon as I was back inside my car.

First I called Marta’s office. Her receptionist snottily told me she was, as ever, in a meeting. I sighed inwardly, wondering what drives me to piss people off. Certain personalities just beg me to annoy them. I told her that I wanted to leave a message and was snottily told to go ahead. Meanwhile, Woofers prowled and growled somewhere along the edge of the car. My heart still thundered in my ears.

“Tell Marta I can’t make the three o’clock with her today. Something’s come up.”

“Could you be more specific?” she asked in a tone that held a world of judgment.

“Why won’t ‘I’m busy’ just cover it?”

Woofers began barking furiously again, having trotted back a few feet to spot me on top of the hood. The receptionist couldn’t help but hear. “Is that a dog?” she asked.

“Could be.”

“Just a moment.”

I was clicked off for a second. Woofers was really going to town. I was going to have a headache before this ordeal was over and the hood was blistering hot. I shaded my eyes, glancing toward the door again. Gail was back. Her figure stood like a wraith in the deepened shadows behind the screen door. I waved at her, but it was more an acknowledgment. She had me treed with her miserable, vicious dog.

Marta snapped on. “I’m in a meeting, Jane.” She sounded totally irritated.

“I didn’t ask to be put through. I was just leaving a message.”

“Yes?” she said tensely.

“I’m sitting on the roof of my car. There’s a vicious beast barking its head off—”

“I can hear.”

“—and until its owner decides to CALL IT OFF!” I yelled, “I’m stuck.”

“Fine. I’ll tell the client you can’t make it. That’s what you want, right?”

“As soon as I’m free, I’ll be there,” I said, growing irritated myself. “Trust me. I’d much rather be with you than here.”

“You need to be here on time, Jane.”

“Do you get that I’m in a bind?”

“Well, figure it out,” she ordered and hung up. I clicked off with a certain amount of righteous indignation, pushing a few extra buttons in the process. The phone beeped at me as if in distress before the deed was done. I sat cross-legged, debating what to do next. Should I call someone else? There was still some battery life left.

The only person who came to mind…the only friend I knew who would really drop everything and help me out…was Cynthia Beaumont. Cynthia worked in an art gallery in the Pearl District in northwest Portland. She was a sometime artist, specializing in watercolors of evil cats peeking through dense forests thick with red, blue, mustard yellow and violent purple flowers and fanglike hovering grass. I considered it a plus, given my current situation, that she seemed to understand the animal mind.

“Cynthia! It’s Jane. I need some help.”

“Jane?” Her voice came in stuttered cell phone static.

“Yes! It’s Jane! Can you hear me? I’m stuck on top of my car and I need you to come help me escape.”

“What?”

I repeated my words, debating on whether to mention the dog at this juncture. Despite her drawings Cynthia wasn’t exactly the model of heroism when it came to ferocious animals. Neither was I, come to that. Muzzles were invented for a reason and this slavering monster now lying in silent wait somewhere over the edge of my car sure needed one.

“I can’t hear you,” Cynthia said in fits and starts. I heard more static. There was a bit of whining in her tone so I had to get stern.

“I need your help!” I yelled directions into the phone, praying she’d hear them. “And don’t get out of the car. Just pull up beside me.”

“Okay…”

I sighed and turned off the phone. Woofers was challenging my paint job again. “Call off your dog!” I yelled to the front door but Gail The Tired seemed to have blended back into the house. Probably having one hell of a belly laugh at my expense. I could picture her doubled-over, struggling for breath, the stub of the cigarette dropping to the floor in her fit of hilarity.

Three-quarters of an hour later Cynthia’s battered Honda pulled into the rutted driveway and slowly bumped its way toward me. As soon as she stopped she opened her door and I screamed at her as the Pit Bull charged her car. She yanked her foot back inside and slammed the door. Woofers leapt upward, jaws snapping at Cynthia’s surprised white face behind the window.

I should have warned her about the dog.

Motioning her to edge her car next to mine so that they would be side by side, making it possible for me to jump from one to the other, I stood up on the top of my hood and glared at the closed front door. There was a twitch of ragged curtains at Gail’s front window.

Cynthia aligned her car with my Volvo. I leapt to her hood, trying not to make too much of a dent as I landed. Woofers also leapt and spun but could make no purchase against the Honda’s slick exterior…except for a few nicks that is. Actually, it was a couple of rather deep scratches. Luckily, her car was hardly the latest model. Luckier still, I’d managed to keep from dishing in her hood with my weight although my ribs felt bruised.

I turned over and lay spread-eagled on my back, staring upward into the dusty blue heavens. Why was I so determined to stay out of the information specialist business and keep up with process serving? Today hadn’t been exactly good for my health.

Cynthia rolled down her window. Her mouth was set. “Want me to back up?” she bit out.

“Hell, no. I want you to move forward. Right through her front door!”

Cynthia took me at my word, although mostly I was just railing at the sky. As the Honda jerked forward, Woofers trotted along beside us, barking so hard that I wondered if he might actually tear a lung or something. When Cynthia stopped just short of the porch Woofers gave up the call. His tongue lolled out and he glanced at the door of the house. He seemed lost in indecision. Apparently this was as far as his little pea brain could take him. Gail The Tired stepped outside—still with the cigarette between her lips—and made a shooing motion. Woofers suddenly scurried inside the house. I slid off the top of the car, found the 72-hour notice which was marked with a dog paw print and slapped it into her hand. She just looked at me and smoked.

I slammed into the passenger side of Cynthia’s car. She turned to me, her spiky short dark hair standing straight up, as if in surprise. As this was her normal hairstyle I couldn’t blame it on the events with Woofers. She said dryly, “You forgot to mention the dog?”

“I’m just sorry we didn’t get a good run at him.”

She snorted, knowing me too well. She wore a black suit coat over a black camisole and one of the shortest skirts on record. I have to admire a woman with that kind of moxie; I’d be showing the world things not meant to be seen in the light of day even if you gave me a couple of extra inches. She shot me a look that could curdle milk.

I would pay for my omission about Woofers.

We backed down the drive to where I’d parked my car. Climbing out of Cynthia’s Honda, I checked the paint job on mine, swore, then opened the driver’s door and slid inside. Examining my watch, I swore again, and then I saw the small tear in my right Nike and I swore a third time.

Cynthia gave me a look that warned the issue wasn’t finished as she drove away. I mouthed, “Thanks.” I would thank her more concretely later—with food and alcohol.

As soon as I was behind the wheel I drove straight to Marta’s office, punched the elevator number to her floor, then burned into her outer office. The receptionist raised an eyebrow at me, but I sailed by as if I owned the place. I realized belatedly that my black top and pants were covered with dust, so I steered myself to the bathroom for a quick once over. “Shit.” I looked as if I’d been treed by a wild animal, which wasn’t that far from the truth.

A few moments later I was knocking on Marta’s door. I heard her call for me to come in. When I entered she was sitting at her desk, hands behind her head. Though her expression was neutral, I could tell she was grinning to herself. Bobby Reynolds had single-handedly delivered Tess to her, no matter what his crimes, and Marta was counting greenbacks in her head. Marta, it now appeared, had become a full-service divorce lawyer. Need someone to chat up your husband in case he’s been secretly aiding and abetting your murderous son? Just ask Marta. She could find you an information specialist, or a facsimile thereof. And payment to Marta Cornell did not hinge on Jane Kelly—said information specialist’s—success. Marta simply delivered someone to help—and her clients paid her for her trouble.

I sat down in one of the two cream, faux-suede client seats on the opposite side of Marta’s Brazilian cherry desk; Tess Reynolds Bradbury sat in the other. I recognized the tight lips and blue eyes from her pictures in the paper and television interviews. I also recognized the pink scarf, now lying across her shoulders and down the front of her suit. She’d had it on this morning in the Coffee Nook. Wrapped around her blond hair. I hadn’t recognized her behind the Audrey Hepburn sunglasses.

The hairs on my arms lifted. Had she come to the Nook in search of me?

She pretended this was our first meeting, her smile of welcome brittle and tight.

She still possessed the hardness I’d first seen on TV, and she had a tense, nervous quality about her that rattled my equilibrium. I inhaled and exhaled slowly. Tess fit right into Marta’s decor: all taste and money. If she was anything like Marta in determination she was a force to be reckoned with. In Marta’s opinion: rain forest be damned. Marta would cut down every tree herself if it meant the good life. It was only a first impression, but I would bet my bottom dollar Cotton Reynolds’ ex-wife felt the same.

The question was: what did she really want?

“Tess Bradbury, Jane Kelly,” Marta introduced. “Jane, Tess…” I reached out a hand. Tess held hers as if I should kiss it, but I clasped it and gave it a quick shake instead. A small line dug between her brows, but then it smoothed away a moment later. She withdrew her hand, folded both of them demurely in her lap, and said, “I’m so glad you decided to help me.”

She had a faint southern twang. Texan, I believed, though I’m no expert. I really didn’t know what to say to her. Her son had been accused of multiple homicide. He’d killed his own family and bolted to escape prosecution. From what I’d read in the newspaper accounts, there was no doubt that he’d committed the act. Though no crime scene investigator had revealed any of the little forensic tidbits that so interest the scandal-hungry public, clearly the authorities had Bobby dead to rights.

Still, I knew his mother wouldn’t want to believe it. I cleared my throat, my curiosity growing in spite of myself.

“What exactly would you like me to do, Ms. Bradbury?”