Basil Instinct by Shelley Costa Read Free Book Online Page B

stuff I was inventing that day?
    Silence. “Just tell me now,” he said finally. “Any withholding of evidence?” Ah, Joe Beck. He of the long memory when it comes to my more problematic moves. But then, it had been only three weeks since the infamous bracelet incident during my last murder investigation.
    “Not as of this time,” I hedged, reserving the right to withhold. Evidence, information, taxes, affection.
    “Any breaking and entering?”
    “Hey, bucko, you were with me!”
    “To keep you from committing a felony.”
    “Do we really want to split these particular hairs?” I said patiently.
    Then: “Free for lunch?”
    “Are you asking, or just telling me you have no social life?”
    “Asking.”
    “Because I’m sure Kayla’s available.” Low, Eve, low. He had shown remorse. Or, at least, a degree of embarrassment.
    With a sigh, he explained, “This is a business lunch.”
    “Oh.” More lighted matches. “I knew that.”
    “My place in twenty?”
    And then I got prissy. “I thought you said it’s a business lunch.” Was this the same woman who had plunged a Wüsthof knife into a butcher block not all that long ago? Maybe I should ask Renay where she got her python tattoo . . .
    “It is. I mean my office.”
    “Of course.”
    Then his voice spiraled up in confusion. “I mean, I assume you want my legal help, right? I mean, this isn’t just a social call, right?”
    “I believe I paid you a retainer.” Which was somehow beside the point, but I was fast losing a grip on the point . . .
    “One dollar.”
    I sounded haughty. “Will you be needing more?”
    He laughed. “Than a buck? Depends on what I have to do for you, Angelotta.”
    Was the man actually flirting with me? Or had itreally been that long since my one-off and misguided back-office romp with the FedEx guy that anything sounded sexy? “Well—” Why was my brain drifting to the leather couch in the Miracolo office? Was I truly no better than my flaky farming cousin?
    “See,” he went on, “you could have said it’s a social call, and then wormed the legal advice out of me anyway.”
    “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
    “Huh?”
    “You should be so lucky,” I said with some spirit that really pretty much put me on a level with L’Shondra and Renay. “If it’s ever a social call, Joe Beck, you can be sure I’m not there—” I searched for the stuffiest words I could find—“under false pretenses.”
    “Good!” said Joe Beck. Then, with a smile in his maddening voice, he added, “I’ll look forward to it. Now, what say you swing by Sprouts and pick us both up something for lunch. And, if you’re worried about our lawyer-client relationship staying pure, I won’t even offer to pay you back.”
    “I should hope not.” What just happened here?
    “I’m at 1220 Franklin Crescent. See you in twenty.” With that, he hung up.
    *   *   *
    After multiple calls to Choo Choo, to begin the extravagant reaming I had in mind, went unanswered, I decided it was probably better done in person. Although it may involve a bit of a footrace. Note to self: Bring tennis shoes and a cheese grater. I swung by Sprouts—a trendy veggie restaurant, all of whose sandwiches are named after food warriors—just up the street from Miracolo. For Joe Beck I ended up with a Michael Pollan gluten-free wrap with locally grown, seasonal, and not too many vegetables, and for me I got an Alice Waters bagel with goat cheese schmear topped with sprouts grown by schoolkids. Then I swung by Starbucks and got two Ventis of the real thing, bold and black.
    Two miles south on East Market Street, I turned west onto Franklin Boulevard and hit construction, where I waited out the lethargic (not to mention cryptic) hand signals of a hard-hatted gal planted on the blacktop in the bright June sunshine, and turned at last onto Franklin Crescent. The Crescent was a new three-story “colonial” office complex, where the developers were