his shoulder. “You’re free to go, Ms. Lynde.”
No response.
He turned around.
“She’s out like a light,” Wilkins told him.
“So do something about it.”
Wilkins peered into the rearview mirror. “Yoo-hoo, Cameron—”
“Yoo-hoo? That’s really FBI-ish.”
“Hey, I’m the good cop. I make it work.” Wilkins turned back to the task at hand. “Cameron—we’re here.” He glanced over at Jack, whispering. “Do you think she’d mind if I call her Cameron?”
“Right now I think you could call her anything and get away with it.” He even had a few suggestions on that front.
“Okay, time for plan B,” Wilkins decided. “Someone needs to go back there and wake her up.”
“Sounds good. Hope that works out for you.”
“I meant you.” When Wilkins saw Jack’s expression, he gestured innocently. “Sorry. I have to stay here and man the wheel.”
Grumbling under his breath, Jack opened the car door and stepped out, catching his first good glimpse at Cameron Lynde’s home. Or at least, the place that was supposedly her home.
He stuck his head back into the car. “Are you sure this is the right place?”
“She said 3309 North Henderson. This is 3309 North Henderson,” Wilkins said.
“Yeah, but this is . . .” Jack turned around and tried to decide how best to describe the sight before him.
“One hell of a nice house,” Wilkins said approvingly.
That pretty much covered it. As Jack stood there on the street, the elegant house rose grandly before him, three stories above the ground. There was an arched portico framed by columns that flanked the entranceway. Sprawling ivy adorned much of the house, and a garden wrapped around the right side and stretched all the way back to the garage. He guessed the place had to be sitting on at least a city lot and a half.
The first question that popped into his head was how a government-salaried prosecutor could ever afford a house like that.
Wilkins appeared to be of a similar mindset. He leaned over the seat and peered through the passenger-side window. “What do you think? Rich husband?”
Jack considered this. There was a rich somebody, because she certainly couldn’t afford that kind of house on her own. Either that, or he hadn’t been that far out of line when he’d made the crack three years ago about her being on Martino’s payroll.
Wilkins read his mind. “Don’t even go there. That’s exactly the kind of crap that got you in trouble last time.”
Jack pointed to Cameron, still conked out in the backseat. “The only place I’m ‘going’ is back to the office, as soon as we fix this situation here.” He grabbed the handle and opened her door. “Let’s go, Ms. Lynde,” he said in a commanding tone.
No response.
“She’s still alive, right?” Wilkins asked, turning around to look.
Jack leaned into the backseat. He lowered his face toward Cameron’s and listened for sounds of breathing. “She’s alive.” He nudged her shoulder. “Come on. Wake up.”
Still no response.
“Maybe you should kiss her.” Seeing Jack’s glare, Wilkins grinned slyly. “Hey—it worked for that one dude.”
Jack turned back to Cameron and considered his options. He could poke her a few times. Tempting. Douse her with ice-cold water. Extremely tempting. But then knowing her, she’d slap him with a battery charge and he’d be back in Nebraska by sundown. Which left him with only one option.
He reached past Cameron and tossed her purse over the seat. “See if you can find her keys,” he told Wilkins.
“Are you kidding? What if she wakes up and sees me rummaging around in there? You don’t touch the purse. The purse is sacrosanct.”
“Either find the keys or get back here and carry her yourself.”
Wilkins eyed the purse for a moment, then reached in. “It’s worth it. I gotta see you try this. Ten bucks says she wakes up and clocks you before you hit the front steps.”
Jack gave that about seventy/thirty odds as
No response.
He turned around.
“She’s out like a light,” Wilkins told him.
“So do something about it.”
Wilkins peered into the rearview mirror. “Yoo-hoo, Cameron—”
“Yoo-hoo? That’s really FBI-ish.”
“Hey, I’m the good cop. I make it work.” Wilkins turned back to the task at hand. “Cameron—we’re here.” He glanced over at Jack, whispering. “Do you think she’d mind if I call her Cameron?”
“Right now I think you could call her anything and get away with it.” He even had a few suggestions on that front.
“Okay, time for plan B,” Wilkins decided. “Someone needs to go back there and wake her up.”
“Sounds good. Hope that works out for you.”
“I meant you.” When Wilkins saw Jack’s expression, he gestured innocently. “Sorry. I have to stay here and man the wheel.”
Grumbling under his breath, Jack opened the car door and stepped out, catching his first good glimpse at Cameron Lynde’s home. Or at least, the place that was supposedly her home.
He stuck his head back into the car. “Are you sure this is the right place?”
“She said 3309 North Henderson. This is 3309 North Henderson,” Wilkins said.
“Yeah, but this is . . .” Jack turned around and tried to decide how best to describe the sight before him.
“One hell of a nice house,” Wilkins said approvingly.
That pretty much covered it. As Jack stood there on the street, the elegant house rose grandly before him, three stories above the ground. There was an arched portico framed by columns that flanked the entranceway. Sprawling ivy adorned much of the house, and a garden wrapped around the right side and stretched all the way back to the garage. He guessed the place had to be sitting on at least a city lot and a half.
The first question that popped into his head was how a government-salaried prosecutor could ever afford a house like that.
Wilkins appeared to be of a similar mindset. He leaned over the seat and peered through the passenger-side window. “What do you think? Rich husband?”
Jack considered this. There was a rich somebody, because she certainly couldn’t afford that kind of house on her own. Either that, or he hadn’t been that far out of line when he’d made the crack three years ago about her being on Martino’s payroll.
Wilkins read his mind. “Don’t even go there. That’s exactly the kind of crap that got you in trouble last time.”
Jack pointed to Cameron, still conked out in the backseat. “The only place I’m ‘going’ is back to the office, as soon as we fix this situation here.” He grabbed the handle and opened her door. “Let’s go, Ms. Lynde,” he said in a commanding tone.
No response.
“She’s still alive, right?” Wilkins asked, turning around to look.
Jack leaned into the backseat. He lowered his face toward Cameron’s and listened for sounds of breathing. “She’s alive.” He nudged her shoulder. “Come on. Wake up.”
Still no response.
“Maybe you should kiss her.” Seeing Jack’s glare, Wilkins grinned slyly. “Hey—it worked for that one dude.”
Jack turned back to Cameron and considered his options. He could poke her a few times. Tempting. Douse her with ice-cold water. Extremely tempting. But then knowing her, she’d slap him with a battery charge and he’d be back in Nebraska by sundown. Which left him with only one option.
He reached past Cameron and tossed her purse over the seat. “See if you can find her keys,” he told Wilkins.
“Are you kidding? What if she wakes up and sees me rummaging around in there? You don’t touch the purse. The purse is sacrosanct.”
“Either find the keys or get back here and carry her yourself.”
Wilkins eyed the purse for a moment, then reached in. “It’s worth it. I gotta see you try this. Ten bucks says she wakes up and clocks you before you hit the front steps.”
Jack gave that about seventy/thirty odds as
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