Bouncer by Tyan Wyss Read Free Book Online Page B

if possible. I know it’s late, but I’ve heard his father spearheaded a case regarding one Ashley Peebles—a seventeen-year-old runaway who was murdered about 25 years ago. It’s come to my attention that certain specific details from that case are similar to one I’m working here, and I thought maybe your agency could help me out, since the original casebook seems to be missing.”
    After a long pause on the other end of the line, the efficient voice returned. “At what time would you like to stop by?”
    “9:30 p.m.? I know it’s late but would that work for Mr. Fox?”
    “That would be fine. And you are, again?”
    Nick ground his teeth exasperatedly. “Nick Thayne of Thayne Private Investigations in Girard,” he repeated. “I’m on special assignment with the Monroe Police Department. Tell your boss I’ll see him promptly at 9:30.”
    Lea Fox hung up the phone and leaned back in her chair, her thin hands clasped before her. Nick Thayne wasn’t the first man to have mistaken her gender and wouldn’t be the last. She recognized the case he’d inquired about and sat for a full five minutes thinking furiously before removing the file from the top drawer of father’s old wooden filing cabinet and settling herself down to read. Her eyes widened, and she nodded. After a few minutes, she tossed the well-read file upon the too-clean desk and fired up her computer, her short fingers punching in the noted P.I.’s name. When the facts and surrounding speculations came up, the information caused her to grin broadly. Well, well, Mr. Thayne.
     
    On the bright sunflower pattern of the breakfast tablecloth, the cluster of drawings would have put anyone off their lunch. The first depicted a red brick fence bordering an abandoned field shaded by an immense magnolia tree. The small red ball rested not two feet from the upturned claw of a hand. The second, as riveting as the first, could have served as an advertisement for never drinking and driving. The good-looking man horribly ravaged by a large oak tree trunk and a close encounter with the front windshield leaned against the still form of a teenaged girl appearing merely asleep by him. The final drawing showed an abandoned crib, its only occupant a chewed-up teddy bear floating in a huge twist-top jar. The artist flung down the garishly colored drawings and scooped up his keys, but not before swigging down three extra-strength aspirin. It was going to be a long evening.
     
    Nick paused before the modest yellow stucco house, standing for a moment on the pleasantly wide front porch and admiring the early evening neighborhood. His ring was answered by a lovely African-American woman, who, although clearly aging, boasted fine bones in a gentle face.
    “I’m Inspector Nick Thayne,” he said extending his hand.
    “And I’m Darcy Jenkins. Philemon is waiting for you inside. Do come in.”
    The beige furniture, though inexpensive, was comfortable, and Philemon rose from his favorite recliner, sticking out a calloused hand to Nick Thayne.
    “How are you doing?” asked Nick kindly.
    “Fine now . Please, won’t you sit down?” Philemon gestured to the plaid couch across from him. “Darcy, bring Mr. Thayne some of your award-winning lemonade. My wife captured the title in the Monroe County Fair’s lemonade contest three years in a row. She’s an expert at achieving just the right mixture of sugar, water, and lemons.”
    “That would be lovely,” said Nick sinking upon the worn but comfortable couch. He studied the African-American man. For a man nearing sixty, Philemon was in excellent condition. Only the faint lines engraved upon his dark face and the gray wiry hair cut very short around an increasing bald spot indicated his age. His glasses emphasized an intelligent if wary face. Darcy returned presently, bearing a tray with two glasses and a pitcher whose ice cubes clanked freely. She poured two tall glasses of lemonade and discreetly left the room. Nick opened