Fugitive Nights by Joseph Wambaugh Read Free Book Online

never been in the eatery in her life, said, “Thanks, Dot.”
    The waitress said, “My name’s Bonnie.”
    â€œReally?” Breda said. “Not Dot?”
    â€œDot works nights,” the waitress said.
    â€œThat’s a relief,” said Breda.
    After the waitress left, Lynn asked, “What was that all about?”
    â€œPrivate joke.”
    â€œBetween you and yourself? I guess you’re glad you’re here, or you’d be bored as hell.”
    Breda showed him that irritating grin and took another bite of pie. On the drive over, she’d explained everything she’d learned from Rhonda Devon about her husband, Clive. She didn’t tell Lynn about the five-thousand-dollar bonus. He was already too nosey about fees.
    Then he asked, “So how much we charging this Devon woman?”
    â€œWe?”
    â€œI’ve heard P.I.’s say they get maybe forty-five bucks an hour for surveillance. And how much a mile? Forty-five cents?”
    â€œLook, I’m offering you a flat fee of a thousand bucks if you get the results I want. That’s pretty generous.”
    Lynn Cutter liked the way she handled a knife and fork. Too many of the babes he dated talked during dinner with food hanging out their mouths. He hated that more than gum chewing, but when he complained, they always implied that he was awfully prissy for a cop.
    He absolutely loved the very dark freckle just below Breda’s lower lip, near the corner of her mouth. He had a crazy impulse to lick a tiny drop of cherry syrup off that bittersweet chocolate freckle.
    Still probing, he said, “I’ll bet you demanded a hefty fee up front. If I was doing a garbage domestic case like this I’d ask for two grand.”
    Breda Burrows quietly ate her cherry pie, chewing with her mouth closed.
    Lynn Cutter sipped his coffee, looked into those electric blues, and said, “In this town I bet you can make good bucks for domestic crap. Like when some a these fifty-million-dollar marriages break up they’ll fight over a used Maytag washer and hire P.I.’s to tail each other out of spite. Big bucks, right?”
    â€œI try to avoid domestic cases. Like you said, they’re garbage. And yeah, a P.I. better take a retainer up front and bill against it because you can never make a client happy in a domestic case.”
    â€œSo how much’re we … you getting an hour for this one?”
    She sighed and said, “I asked for sixty an hour. I usually ask for forty-five.”
    â€œBeverly Hills broad, Beverly Hills prices,” Lynn said, smiling.
    â€œThere’s a lotta competition,” she said, irked by the happy face. “There’s at least a dozen P.I.’s in the local phone book. Gotta get it when I can.”
    â€œSo what’re we gonna do about Clive Devon?” he asked. “I hope you don’t expect me to hang around in the urologist’s alley and go through his trash for clues. ”
    â€œThat’s not what I had in mind,” she said, squinting when the last of the afternoon sun slanted through the window of the coffee shop.
    â€œWhy don’t you call his doctor’s office and tell his receptionist you’re from the Beverly Hills Fertility Institute? That you got some problem with the care and storage of his little tadpoles.”
    â€œI tried that the moment I left Mrs. Devon’s home,” she said. “Only I said there was a billing problem at the institute and I needed to verify the client’s address.”
    â€œWhat’d the receptionist say?”
    â€œThat Mister Clive Devon hadn’t seen Doctor Blanchard in over twelve months. That there must be some mistake.”
    â€œMaybe he went to some other doctor.”
    â€œMrs. Devon said that Doctor Blanchard’s been her husband’s urologist for years. Maybe he’s lying.”
    â€œHell, most a them lie. My doctor lies every time he sends me a