I opened the envelope and pulled out a bunch of folder
s crammed with photographs and handwritten pages.
“She's got a condensed version for you clipped to the top folder,” Diesel said. “Got everything prioritized. Says you better hustle because Valentine's Day is coming up fast.”
“And?”
“Personally, I don't get turned on by Valentine's Day, with the sappy cards and creepy cupids and the hearts-and-flowers routine. But Annie is to Valentine's Day what Santa Claus is to Christmas. She makes it happen. Of course, Annie operates on a smaller scale. It's not like she's got ten thousand elves working for her.”
Diesel was a really sexy-looking guy, but I thought he might be one step away from permanent residence at the funny farm. “I still don't get my role in this.”
“I just handed you five open files. It's up to you to make sure those five people have a good Valentine's Day.”
Oh boy.
“Listen, I know it's lame,” Diesel said, “but I'm stuck with it. And now you're stuck with it. And I'm going to have a power shortage if I don't get breakfast. So find me a diner. Then I'm going to do my thing and look for Bernie, and you're going to do your thing and work your way down Annie's list.”
I clipped a leash onto Bob's collar and the three of us walked down the stairs and out to my car. I was driving a yellow Ford Escape that was good for hauling felons and Bob dogs.
“Does Bob go everywhere?” Diesel wanted to know.
“Pretty much. If I leave him at home, he gets lonely and eats the furniture.”
Forty minutes later, Diesel was finishing up a mountain of scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, home fries, and sourdough toast with jam… all smothered in maple syrup.
I'd ordered a similar breakfast but had to give up about a third of the way through. I pushed my plate away and asked that the food be put in a to-go box. I drank my coffee and thumbed through the first file. Charlene Klinger. Age forty-two. Divorced. Four children, ages seven, eight, ten, and twelve. Worked for the DMV. There was an unflattering snapshot of her squinting into the sun. She was wearing sneakers and slacks and a sweater than didn't do a lot to hide the fact that she was about twenty pounds overweight. Her face was pleasant enough. No makeup. Not a lot of hairstyle going on. Short brown hair pushed behind her ears. The smile looked tense, like she was making an effort, but she had bigger fish to fry than to pose for the picture.
There were four more pages in Charlene's file. Harvey Nolen, Brian Seabeam, Lonnie Brownowski, Steven Klein. REJECT had been written in red magic marker across each page. A sticky note had been attached to the back of the file, there's someone for everyone, the note read. I supposed this was Annie giving herself a pep talk. And a second sticky note below the first, find charlene's true LOVE. A mission statement.
I blew out a sigh and closed the file.
“Hey, it could be worse,” Diesel said. “You could be hunting down a skip who thinks it's open season on bounty hunters. Unless you really piss her off, Charlene probably won't shoot at you.”
“I don't know where to begin.”
Diesel stood and threw some money on the table. “You'll figure it out. I'll check in with you later.”
“Wait,” I said. “About Annie Hart—”
“Later,” Diesel said. And in three strides he was across the room and at the door. By the time I got to the lot, Diesel was nowhere to be seen. Fortunately, he hadn't commandeered my car. It was still in its parking space, Bob looking at me through the back window, somehow understanding that the Styrofoam box in my hand contained food for him.
The bail bonds office is a small storefront affair on Hamilton Avenue, just a ten-minute drive from the diner. I parked at the curb and pushed my way through the front door. Connie Rosolli, the office manager, looked up when I entered. Connie is a couple years older than me, a couple pounds heavier, a couple inches shorter, a lot more Italian, and consistently has a better manicure.
“You must be tuned in to the cosmic loop this morning,” Connie said. “I was just about to call you. Vinnie's bananas over Annie Hart.”
Vinnie's ferret face appeared in the doorway of his inner office. “Well?” he asked me.
“Well what?”
“Tell me you've got her locked up nice and neat. Tell me you've got a body receipt.”
“I've got a lead,” I told Vinnie.
“Only a lead?” Vinnie clapped his hands to his head. “You're killing me!”
Lula was on the faux leather couch, reading a magazine. “We should be so lucky,” Lula said.
Lula is a 180-pound black woman crammed into a five-foot, five-inch body. At the moment, she was wearing a red skin-tight spandex T-shirt that said Kiss MY ass in iridescent gold lettering, jeans with rhinestones marching down side seams that looked like they might burst apart at any minute, and four-inch high-heeled boots. Lula does the office filing when she's in the mood, and she rides shotgun for me when I need backup.