Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries) by T.C. LoTempio Read Free Book Online Page B

asphalt parking lot behind the building and parked in the spot farthest away. I turned around and looked in the backseat. I’d folded it down and laid out all the toys from the box Mrs. Rojas had given me. Right now Nick looked content nibbling at a catnip mouse tucked between his toes, and I sincerely hoped he would stay that way. I locked the SUV and walked briskly to the building, then down the flight of stone steps to the lone oak door bearing the placard SAMPSON AND ATKINS INVESTIGATIONS . I noted as I rang the bell that someone had attempted to scratch out AND ATKINS . A few minutes later a buzzer sounded, and I pushed through the door into the dimly lit interior hallway. There were three doors, all unmarked, and I stood there uncertainly, doing an
eenie meenie miny moe
in my head, when the door on the left suddenly swung open and a tall, muscular frame filled the doorway.
    “Oliver Sampson?” I asked.
    Both eyebrows rose. “Uh-oh. You’re not the Pizza Hut delivery person, are you?”
    I shook my head and took a minute to study the brooding hulk of a man who loomed over me. I placed his age as somewhere in the late forties, early fifties. He wasn’t what one would call handsome—certainly not in a conventional way—but his features had a certain amount of Humphrey Bogart charm, from the crooked nose right down to the firm jawline and the slightly buck teeth. His mocha skin had a leathery look to it—no doubt the result of years of alcohol consumption—and his eyes were a pale, pale blue, almost a washed-out gray. He was huge—built like a linebacker—and I got the impression he could be intimidating if the need arose. His eyes flashed and he gave me a quick once-over as he cleared his throat loudly.
    “I’m Oliver Sampson, all right, and you’re not from Pizza Hut. Who are you? If you’re a bill collector, you want my ex-partner. And all I can tell you, lady, is there’s a long line ahead of you of folks looking for that good-for-nothing Atkins.”
    He started to turn away and I found my voice. “I’m not a bill collector, Mr. Sampson, but I was hoping to have a word with you about your, ah, former partner?”
    His gaze raked me head to toe. “What about him? If you’re another disgruntled girlfriend—although I must say, you don’t look like his type—sorry, I can’t help you. If he’s been working on something for you, well, I can’t help you there, either. Nick had lots of cases he worked on alone, and he wasn’t one to share details.”
    “I’m not one of his lady friends, and I’m not here about a case. I’m here about the cat.”
    He stared at me blankly. “The cat?”
    “Yes. The black-and-white tuxedo. Someone told me they thought it might be his.”
    Sampson’s pale eyes lit up, and he stroked at his chin with his long fingers. “Oh, you found Sherlock? That’s great. I wondered what happened to the little fellow.”
    I frowned. “Excuse me—Sherlock?”
    “Yeah. My boob of a partner got a huge kick out of naming the cat after the only detective he considered smarter than himself—fictional, no less.” He scratched at his ear and grinned. “So where did you find him?”
    “Actually, he found me.”
    He stared at me a moment, then pushed the door all the way open and made a motion with his hand. “Why don’t you come in? We can have a chat.”
    I moved past him into a small room that held a single desk, a scarred file cabinet tucked into a corner, and two worn-looking leather chairs. Along the walls were several pictures that looked as if they’d been bought at bargain basement sales—a flower arrangement, a wooded hillside with a church and lots of fluffy clouds, a lake scene—there were also some framed photographs as well, and even though I only took a quick glance, I thought I recognized Nick Atkins in some of them. Oliver Sampson walked around to sit in the leather chair behind the desk, and motioned me to take the other chair. I slid onto the well-worn