Unplugged by Lois Greiman Read Free Book Online Page A

and groaned. What was I doing? Protecting Laney? Maybe. But the question remained—what should I do next? Logic suggested that if I was idiotic enough to continue my foray into Solberg’s missing person status, I should ask Elaine for some pertinent information about her little geek beau. But truth be told, I wasn’t absolutely positive Solberg wasn’t doing the horizontal bop with some bimbo in Vegas, and I had no desire to upset Laney further until I had all the facts. So I’d have to garner information by some other clever means.
    I ruminated on that for a moment, wondering who might know his whereabouts. No great brainstorms brewed in my mind. In fact, other than Solberg’s parents, I couldn’t think of anyone who might take an active interest in his life.
    So I dialed 411 and asked for the number of any Solbergs in Schaumburg, Illinois, where I’d first met him. The woman on the other end of the line sounded less than ecstatic that I didn’t have a first name, but she looked it up, then duly informed me there were more than twenty such listings in the surrounding area. She could give me the first three. I wrote down the names and phone numbers. Amy, Brad and Joyce, and Brianna. I called all of them. On the first two tries, I got answering machines. I left messages, asking to have Jeen contact me, and tried Brianna. She hung up before I even got done with my spiel. Brianna was kind of rude.
    Not knowing what else to do, I called Directory Assistance back and repeated the entire process. Whoever said third time’s the charm must have had more Irish luck than I do, because it wasn’t until my sixth trio of names that I hit the jackpot.
    “Solberg residence, Teri speaking.”
    I sat bolt upright in my chair. The woman’s voice sounded exactly like J.D.’s. If she had brayed like an ass, I would have been sure she was lying about her identity and was the Geekster himself. As it was, I cleared my throat and launched into “Hello. I’m looking for Jeen Solberg.”
    There was a pause on the other end of the line. I held my breath and scrambled to figure out how to handle the situa-tion. Maybe I should simply tell the truth.
    But the truth had rarely garnered me more than a grinding headache and a pack-a-day smoking habit. And I had no idea what to expect from this conversation. Maybe the geekster had taken out a second mortgage and bribed a Vegas dancer into spending the week with him. Maybe his parents thought fraternizing with a professional fornicator was a dandy idea and wouldn’t appreciate me sticking my nose in their baby boy’s business.
    “I’m sorry. He doesn’t live here anymore,” Teri said. “Can I take a message?”
    My plans fell into place with a snick of insanity. “Oh, well . . . hope so. This is Frances Plant.” Mail theft having its advantages, I’d seen the name in the byline of a Nerd Word article. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized Frances might be a man’s name, but it was a little late to change the timbre of my voice, so I charged on like a demented rhino. “I do a column for a kickin’ techno mag.”
    I tightened my fist on the receiver. Mom had once told me that liars go straight to hell. I had lied immediately thereafter and nothing had happened. I hadn’t felt a lick of flames. I hadn’t even gotten a glimpse of purgatory—unless you count my senior prom. I’ve been a doubter ever since.
    “Which magazine is that?” she asked.
    “Nerd Word,” I said. “You heard of it?”
    “Oh.” She sounded breathless at the mere mention of the magazine. Maybe geekiness is genetic, passed down through the maternal line like hemophilia or male-pattern baldness. Or, more to the point, like impetuous stupidity in the McMullen clan. “Well, I most certainly have,” she said. “You did that lovely article about Jeen last summer.”
    “Absolutetomoto,” I said. “That article was screamin’.” I had no idea what I was saying, but it suddenly seemed to me that