Sinfandel by Gina Cresse Read Free Book Online Page B

you?”
    “What?”
    “I’ll tell you about it later.  What’s up?”
    “There’s this guy I want you to meet,” Monica said.
     “Name, rank, serial number?” I said.
    After a long pause, she finally said, “His name’s Lucie, but don’t hold that against him.”
    I laughed.  “Lucie?  What’s it short for?  Lucifer?”
    “See?  There’s your problem.  You always assume the worst.  You are the queen of over-correction.  Everyone isn’t Roger.”
    “How many ex-wives does he have?”
    “None, you cynic.  Now, when can I set up a meeting?”
    “Don’t you have a vaccination to give or gash to stitch?” I asked.  “How can you possibly have so much free time to work on my social life?”
    “I can’t help it.  You’re my friend and I want to see you happy.”
    “Who says I can’t be happy all by myself?” 
    “Oh don’t be ridiculous.  No one’s happy alone.”
    I eyed Detective Obermeyer as he supervised the crew.  “If you must know, I’m seeing someone now.”  I hated lying, but not as much as trying to figure out how to keep Monica’s set-ups from getting too serious. 
    “Really.”  I could hear the doubt in her voice.  “When can I meet him?”
    “Soon.  I’ve gotta go.”
    After I hung up, I checked my watch.  Morning was almost over.  I left the authorities to finish the cleanup, and I drove to town to re-stock my supply of eggs and oranges.  Lockeford was a tiny bedroom community populated mostly with commuters, retirees, cowboys and cowgirls, farm laborers, and bikers.
    Traffic on Highway 88 was heavy.  It was Friday and people were probably getting an early start on camping or fishing or gambling at Lake Tahoe or Reno.  As I waited to make a left turn into the market’s parking lot, a quick flash of light caught my eye in the side view mirror.  Sun reflected off the shiny chrome bumper of a big dual wheeled Dodge pickup truck that had just pulled off and parked on the side of the highway.  An older man and woman climbed out of the pickup and took a big sheet of plywood out of the back.  I lost sight of them when they carried it around the side of the old Lockeford Hotel, a circa 1880 building that had been for sale—and condemned—for as long as I could remember.  I finally made my turn and parked under the shade of an old tree.  When I got out of my car, I could hear hammering coming from the direction of the hotel.  Curious, I walked down the sidewalk, past the corner of the hotel, where I could see what they were up to. The sheet of plywood was actually a sign, and on it were the words: HELP US FIND BETH — $20,000 REWARD.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Six
     
     
    O n Monday morning, Quinn Adamson called and asked me to meet him that afternoon, not at his office, but at the John E. Moss Federal Office Building in Sacramento.
    “Federal?” I asked as I wrote down the address.
    “I followed your suggestion and spent the weekend auditing weigh tags.”
    “That was fast.”
    “I got the director to agree to overtime for my staff.”
    “So, where did I go wrong?”
    There was a brief pause.  “You didn’t.  Your calculations are correct.”
     
    After the War on Terrorism was declared, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms added “Explosives” to their name and relegated the more mundane business of enforcing alcohol and tobacco taxation to a new entity—The Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau, or TTB.
    I met Quinn Adamson in the foyer of the Federal building, where he gave me a quick briefing on my role in the upcoming meeting.  As requested, I brought my laptop along to illustrate the discrepancies I’d found. 
    A young intern led us down a hallway to a conference room where we were met by two men, Agents Sean O’Reilly and Avery Parker.  O’Reilly’s red hair was cut in a short flattop, and he had more freckles than the Mojave has sand.  Parker was black, his bald head was polished to a brilliant sheen, and he