The Dirt on Ninth Grave(64)

He lifted a shoulder. "I get easily bored, so I offered to do some maintenance work."



"That's funny. I get easily distracted." And now I was going to try to get some work done while the man voted most likely to cause spontaneous orgasms was lurking nearby.



He let a smile as smooth as aged whiskey soften his features.



I wanted to ask him, "So, did you give me that hundred-dollar bill? And if so, did you hear me when I said I loved you today? And if you did, how did you write a response on a bill that I got before I spilled my guts?" What came out was "Want some coffee?" 



His eyes glistened in the low light as he took in every inch of me. Mostly my boobs. "Sure."



"I'll make a fresh pot."



Brenda was the only server left, and she was spot-mopping the café. I didn't know her that well, but she'd always been really nice to me.



"Hey, Brenda," I said as I filled the pot with water.



"Oh, hey, Janey. Great shirt."



Shirt? I looked down and almost groaned aloud. I'd forgotten I'd put on a shirt that read SAVE A VIRGIN. DO ME INSTEAD! No wonder he was staring at my boobs. This shirt was another Scooter purchase. That man made a killing off me that day.



With humiliation warming my face, I went to Dixie's office and closed the door. I'd made up my mind about Mr. V. I had to at least try. To feel out this connection of Bobert's and see what he could do. What kind of guarantees he could offer.



I dialed the number and waited.



A female picked up. "Agent Carson." I hadn't expected a female. Actually, I wasn't expecting anyone to pick up. It was after hours. I figured I'd go to straight to voice mail.



I panicked and hung up. Anything I said to her could potentially put Mr. V's family in even more danger. But the phone rang about thirty seconds after I hung up. Was she calling back? Was that even legal? Son of a bitch.



I cleared my voice and picked up the receiver. "Firelight Grill."



"Yes, this is FBI Special Agent Carson, and I just received a call from this number."



"Oh, right. Some girl came in, used the phone, then ran out the back. It was weird. But thanks for calling."



"Are you Janey?" she asked.



Damn it. "No."



"That's strange. You sound like a Janey."



"Seriously?" What would the odds be that Janey was my real name? It was sort of growing on me.



She chuckled. "You sound very much like a Janey. I've been expecting your call."



I let out a long sigh. "Look, I don't think this is a good idea. I don't want to get anyone hurt."



"By law, you have to report what you know, especially if someone's life is in danger. I could have you arrested, see how you feel about it then."



I gaped at her. Or, well, at the bobblehead Beatles Dixie had on her desk. "Are you threatening me?"



"I never make threats, Janey. I make promises."



This was unreal. "So you would really have me arrested? "



"If what Detective Davidson told me is true, then yes I would."



"What the hell did he tell you? I hardly said a thing."



"He …  filled in the blanks."



"Great." I was so calling him Charley Bob. "Before I say anything, I want you to know that Mr. V practically begged me not to try to get help. His family is in real danger. Their captors killed their dog. They mean business."



"Mr. V? Is that a name or an initial?"



I wilted in defeat. "It's an initial."



"And you believe he and his family are in danger why?"





 

 


Here we go. "It was just a hunch at first. There were men digging a tunnel in his store."



"A tunnel to where?"



"The dry cleaners. Look, that's not the point. The point is that they stand guard and watch his every move. And his family hasn't been seen for days. And they have a plasma cutter."



"How do you know his family hasn't been seen for days?"



And that was how the conversation went. Me trying to explain my misgivings without sounding like a mental patient, and Agent Carson probing for more.



"I happen to be pretty good friends with the head of the FBI in your area," she said at last. "I'm flying out tonight. I'll try to keep you out of this unless I have no choice. Is there a way to contact you?"



"Not unless you have a can with a really long string attached."



"Can I call you at this number?"



"Sure. I work the morning shift, but if I'm not here, you can leave a message."



"Okay."



"Discretion is key," I said to her, my voice pleading. "If Vandenberg's captors suspect anything -"