might help, call.”
Carol drained her wineglass and stood up to say her good-byes.
“You want to follow me home?” she stage-whispered, leaning in close enough that Jack could feel her heat.
“Tempting offer,” he said, thinking of Leslie and how their relationship was suddenly up in the air.
“I’m not repressed,” she said coyly as her breasts grazed Jack’s abdomen.
“I can see that.”
But however Jack did the math, Carol Williams was twenty years younger. His son’s age. Legal, but oh hell, just wrong, he decided.
“Good night, Carol,” Jack Bertolino said, moving off before he acted on his much baser instincts.
----
When Jack got home, he thought about giving Leslie a call, but it was the booze talking. Waking up his computer, he saw that Carol Williams had already forwarded the photographs.
He wisely chose to work.
Jack blew up the pictures and then made color prints. As he studied each of the shots under a light in his office, he was reminded again of just how striking Angelica was. He thought about Vincent Cardona and tried to imagine what he was going through. Jack would have been in hell.
Nothing else jumped off the page. But when he tossed the photos onto his desk, the lamplight illuminated the crowd at the standing-room-only bar in the background. One man was staring straight into the camera lens, holding a martini glass. Carol was in the foreground, and the man’s gaze was lasered in on the photographer. Probably Angelica, Jack thought.
Who took the picture of both women?
Jack grabbed his phone and punched in Carol’s number. She picked up on the first ring.
“Did you change your mind?” she said, flirty.
“Don’t tempt me,” he fired back. “Who took the picture of you and Angelica sitting at the table?”
“Just some dude, standing at the bar. He came over and offered, and we accepted. Kinda cute. Well dressed. Seemed nice enough. Why?”
“Did Angelica shoot the picture of you?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Pull up that picture and take a look at the man standing at the bar, over your left shoulder.”
“Oh, that’s him. Oooh. He’s got kind of a creepy vibe there.”
“That’s what I thought. Thanks, Carol.” And Jack hung up.
He went back to the computer and transferred the picture to Photoshop. Cropped the man in question and enlarged the photo. It was grainy but clear enough for an ID. He sent the enhanced picture over to Nick Aprea and asked him to see if the man was in the LAPD system. He thanked him ahead of time for the help.
It could have been nothing, but the man who took the photo might have been the last person to see Angelica Cardona before she disappeared. Jack wanted a sit-down.
11
“So you went over to the dark side,” Detective Nick Aprea said, unfurling the flour tortilla and pouring some more muy caliente salsa into his burrito, expertly rerolling it, and savoring the next bite of egg, bacon, cheese, and hot sauce.
Nick was wearing a black leather jacket, mirrored sunglasses, black leather boots, and unruly pillow hair. His bout with teenage acne had left him with a hardened visage but rendered him more attractive to the opposite sex.
He made the greasy breakfast burrito look so tantalizing, Jack started enjoying his own. Nick hadn’t wanted to have the conversation over the phone, and so they shared a wooden bench outside a taco stand that was the size of a shoe box. It was situated downtown, a few blocks away from LAPD headquarters, in the shadow of glass and steel high-rise office buildings. The street was knotted with Angelenos heading to work.
“Eh,” Jack grunted in answer to Nick’s dark-side quip as he took a sip of steaming hot coffee, burning his lip on the sadistic plastic lid.
“He’s a card-carrying scumbag.”
“Don’t pull any punches,” Jack said dryly. “Let’s just hope it hasn’t rubbed off on his daughter. If she’s still alive.”
“You gonna file a missing-persons? You should file.”
“Then they’ll
Carol drained her wineglass and stood up to say her good-byes.
“You want to follow me home?” she stage-whispered, leaning in close enough that Jack could feel her heat.
“Tempting offer,” he said, thinking of Leslie and how their relationship was suddenly up in the air.
“I’m not repressed,” she said coyly as her breasts grazed Jack’s abdomen.
“I can see that.”
But however Jack did the math, Carol Williams was twenty years younger. His son’s age. Legal, but oh hell, just wrong, he decided.
“Good night, Carol,” Jack Bertolino said, moving off before he acted on his much baser instincts.
----
When Jack got home, he thought about giving Leslie a call, but it was the booze talking. Waking up his computer, he saw that Carol Williams had already forwarded the photographs.
He wisely chose to work.
Jack blew up the pictures and then made color prints. As he studied each of the shots under a light in his office, he was reminded again of just how striking Angelica was. He thought about Vincent Cardona and tried to imagine what he was going through. Jack would have been in hell.
Nothing else jumped off the page. But when he tossed the photos onto his desk, the lamplight illuminated the crowd at the standing-room-only bar in the background. One man was staring straight into the camera lens, holding a martini glass. Carol was in the foreground, and the man’s gaze was lasered in on the photographer. Probably Angelica, Jack thought.
Who took the picture of both women?
Jack grabbed his phone and punched in Carol’s number. She picked up on the first ring.
“Did you change your mind?” she said, flirty.
“Don’t tempt me,” he fired back. “Who took the picture of you and Angelica sitting at the table?”
“Just some dude, standing at the bar. He came over and offered, and we accepted. Kinda cute. Well dressed. Seemed nice enough. Why?”
“Did Angelica shoot the picture of you?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Pull up that picture and take a look at the man standing at the bar, over your left shoulder.”
“Oh, that’s him. Oooh. He’s got kind of a creepy vibe there.”
“That’s what I thought. Thanks, Carol.” And Jack hung up.
He went back to the computer and transferred the picture to Photoshop. Cropped the man in question and enlarged the photo. It was grainy but clear enough for an ID. He sent the enhanced picture over to Nick Aprea and asked him to see if the man was in the LAPD system. He thanked him ahead of time for the help.
It could have been nothing, but the man who took the photo might have been the last person to see Angelica Cardona before she disappeared. Jack wanted a sit-down.
11
“So you went over to the dark side,” Detective Nick Aprea said, unfurling the flour tortilla and pouring some more muy caliente salsa into his burrito, expertly rerolling it, and savoring the next bite of egg, bacon, cheese, and hot sauce.
Nick was wearing a black leather jacket, mirrored sunglasses, black leather boots, and unruly pillow hair. His bout with teenage acne had left him with a hardened visage but rendered him more attractive to the opposite sex.
He made the greasy breakfast burrito look so tantalizing, Jack started enjoying his own. Nick hadn’t wanted to have the conversation over the phone, and so they shared a wooden bench outside a taco stand that was the size of a shoe box. It was situated downtown, a few blocks away from LAPD headquarters, in the shadow of glass and steel high-rise office buildings. The street was knotted with Angelenos heading to work.
“Eh,” Jack grunted in answer to Nick’s dark-side quip as he took a sip of steaming hot coffee, burning his lip on the sadistic plastic lid.
“He’s a card-carrying scumbag.”
“Don’t pull any punches,” Jack said dryly. “Let’s just hope it hasn’t rubbed off on his daughter. If she’s still alive.”
“You gonna file a missing-persons? You should file.”
“Then they’ll
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