Dead Man Talking

“Come on, Pepper.” His eyes sparking, he grazed one hand from my wrist and up to my elbow. He brushed his long, strong fingers back and forth over my arm. “You’ve got to admit, it’s pretty fu

“Not.” I would have crossed my arms over my chest if what he was doing didn’t feel so good. We were sitting side by side on the couch in my living room, so I slid him a look. “Explain to me the fu

“They’re not felons. Not all of them, anyway.” Qui

One of which was that when he had the little spark in his eyes, his mind was on one thing and one thing only-sex.

Come to think of it, Qui

Which meant either he was crazy nuts about me, or he only came around when he was looking for some action.

I batted the thought aside. Right now, I had bigger things to worry about.

Like those felons.

“The TV cameras were right there when they piled out of that van. They were filming. That nasty little Greer Henson says the look on my face was so priceless, she’s going to use that as the opening scene when the first episode airs next week.” I groaned. “The only consolation I have is that nobody is going to watch that stupid show, and that means nobody’s going to see me with a bunch of criminals out on parole.”

“Number one, I’m going to watch.” Qui

“Number two, none of those people are out on parole. They’re on probation. Parole is when you’re in prison and you get released. That’s different from probation. You can be put on probation when you commit a crime, you plead guilty, but the judge doesn’t send you to jail. As a condition of your probation, you have to do certain things. Like see your probation officer whenever you’re scheduled. Or stay off drugs. If you don’t fulfill the conditions of your probation, you can get sent right to jail. Your people-for God knows what reason-have been ordered to help with that cemetery restoration of yours.”

“It’s not my cemetery restoration.” Since he’d left my glass on the coffee table, my hands were free. I crossed my arms over my chest.

Qui

I shivered appropriately, but let’s face it, it was going to take a whole lot more than that to make me forget everything that happened at Monroe Street that day. “I can’t believe Ella pulled this on me,” I grumbled.

Qui

He sat back to sip and savor his wine. “It’s pretty smart, really. Think of the publicity.”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking about. Me, on TV, with…” I could barely make myself speak the words, and besides, I didn’t know what to call my team, anyway. Were they inmates? Jailbirds? Convicts? In the time since I’d become a private investigator, I’d dealt with my share of criminals, but never with ones who were actually incarcerated, or who should have been.

Jail, remember, was something I didn’t want to think about.

To keep my mind from going down that path, I reached for the file folder I’d plunked on the coffee table when I got back from the cemetery that day. I paged through the papers in it.

“Look at this guy,” I tipped the folder toward Qui

“This kid’s a graffiti artist. Who in their right mind would send a graffiti artist into an already-vandalized cemetery to help with the restoration? And why did he get arrested, anyway? Don’t you cops have better things to do than chase around after kids?”

Qui

“Whatever!” I cast Delmar’s paperwork aside and looked at the next picture. This one showed a pudgy, middle-aged guy who was as pale as one of those fish that live way at the bottom of the ocean where there’s never any light. His eyes pointed in different directions.

“Aggravated robbery.” I shuddered at the very thought.

“He doesn’t look like he could pull it off.” Qui

I was not in the mood for sarcasm, and just so Qui

“How about this guy?” Qui

Qui

“Great. Looks like this time, he pled guilty to a drug charge.”

“Good old Reggie. He never changes.”

“And this guy?” I am not one to be easily intimidated, but just looking at the photograph of Absalom Sykes sent shivers down my spine. And not the good kind of Qui

“He steals cars for a living,” I told Qui

“Better than this chick.” While I was preoccupied with quaking at the thought of spending my summer with a guy as scary as Absalom, Qui

I knew just what he meant. The second Sammi Santiago strutted out of that Corrections Department van, I knew we were not going to get along. And it wasn’t just because she was dressed like a tramp, either, though I will admit, her first impression was not a good one. Sammi’s denim skirt was so short, I was surprised the cameras kept rolling when she walked into the office/ tent. Something told me the good folks over at the PBS station would be working overtime that week to make sure every shot they showed of Sammi was from the waist up. Then again, even that might not keep the censors happy, seeing as how Sammi was poured into a brown strapless top made out of some kind of extra-clingy material.