“Oh. My. God. McKenzie.”
“Yes.” I deliberately smiled when I spoke, partly for Josie and Skarda’s benefit and partly because I was hoping Shelby would hear it in my voice.
“Are people listening?” Shelby asked. “Do you want me to call you Dyson?”
“Yeah, but you know, I move around a lot.”
“You’re still undercover and you need my help?”
“I am so happy for you, honestly.”
“Bobby is going to go crazy.”
I started laughing. “I imagine he will,” I said. “Tell me, sweetie, do you still work for Driver and Vehicle Services?”
“Ahhh…”
“How about your friend, Harry?”
“Harry? Harry from the FBI, that Harry?”
“Just goes to show, once you become a member of what’s the name of the union—American Federation of State, County, and Municipal Employees—once you become a member, it’s impossible to get fired.”
“You’re going to tell me something and you want me to pass it on to Harry,” Shelby said.
“You’re too smart to be that pretty. Or is it the other way around?”
“Let me get a pencil.”
I heard Shelby set down the handset. I covered the cell’s microphone and found Josie and Skarda. Josie was watching me, but Skarda was staring out the window.
“She went to get a pencil,” I said.
“Who is she?” Josie asked.
“Just a girl. Knew her when we were kids.”
“Uh-huh.”
A moment later, Shelby was back on the phone. “Shoot,” she said.
“I’m going to give you a list of license plate numbers.” I recited them slowly and carefully, although, in the big scheme of things, they didn’t really matter. “Got ’em?”
“Got ’em,” Shelby said. “Now what?”
“I need whatever information you can give me about the drivers.”
“Does Harry know why?”
“Harry has a friend named Chad—remember him?”
“No.”
“Chad is the IT guy.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
Think it through, my inner voice said.
“I’m hoping you’ll get Harry to ask Chad to give me the name of someone off the list who might be able to help me out on something I have going.”
I looked at Josie again and made a motion with my hand that suggested Shelby was ditzy.
“You want me to call Harry and tell him to call Chad, whoever he is,” Shelby said. “Somehow they’ll know what you’re talking about.”
“That would be perfect.”
“This is better than NCIS.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“Then what? Do you want Harry to call you back?”
I was staring at Josie when I answered. “That would not be a good idea. How ’bout I meet you? You can pass on the information yourself.”
“Me? Fun. When? Where?”
“Rice Park. In front of the fountain.” I glanced at my watch. It was 11:53 A.M. “Would six o’clock work?”
“How should I know?”
“If you’re not there I’ll assume something went wrong.”
“Wait till I tell Bobby.”
“I would prefer that you didn’t. Boyfriends don’t like me very much.”
Josie snorted when she heard that.
“I feel just like Veronica Lake in This Gun for Hire,” Shelby said, “lying to Robert Preston in order to help Alan Ladd.”
“Good-bye, sweetie. See you soon.”
I hung up and glanced at Josie.
“Sweetie?” she asked.
“I need to drive to St. Paul,” I said.
“I’m going with.”
“I thought you might.”
“I want to meet this trollop you’re dealing with.”
“What do you want me to do?” Skarda asked.
“If you were Brian Fenelon, where would you be?” I asked.
*
If not for the sign, I wouldn’t have known it was a strip joint. A brown, two-story clapboard building with white trim surrounded by a gravel parking lot—driving at fifty-five miles per hour on the county road, I nearly passed it without notice, probably would have if Josie hadn’t cleared her throat and motioned toward the sign. DANGEROUS LIAISONS GENTLEMAN’S CLUB OVER 21 WELCOME. There were only four cars in the lot, and I parked next to them. A wooden staircase and a long, narrow handicap ramp led to the entrance.
“Coming?” I asked.
“I think I’ll sit this one out,” Josie said.
A few moments later I was opening the door. Another sign told me Happy Hour Mon.–Thurs., Live Dancing Mon.–Sat., Wed. is Lingerie Nite! The first thing I noticed when I entered the building was a surprisingly large stage with two poles. A dozen stools abutted the stage, and a dozen small tables with two stools each bordered them. Booths large enough to accommodate private dances lined the walls. A large-screen TV hung above the bar. The bartender, his back turned to me, was watching a Spanish-language soap opera. The TV was the brightest light in the room.
“Excuse me,” I said. He didn’t answer, so I tried again in Spanish. “Con permiso.”
He turned quickly toward me. The way his mouth curled downward suggested that he was surprised that I spoke the language and none too happy about it, like a chess player who had just lost an important piece.