As far as I knew, Solberg’s boasts of electronic genius were as overinflated as his self-reputed skills as a lover, but I had been desperate. Note to self: Desperation rarely fosters exemplary decision-making.
“I just need a little information,” I said cautiously. “Thought maybe you could get it for me.”
“You know it, babe.”
I considered threatening his life if he called me babe again, but if the truth be told I was still pretty desperate, so I cleared my throat and let it slide. “The information might be, uhhh . . . classified.”
He chuckled. “I’ll pick you up tonight. Seven sharp.”
“What?”
“Don’t be late. The Geek God don’t like to be kept waiting.”
The phone went dead. I stared at it for a minute, then snorted and grumbled it back into its cradle. That pretty much disproved the theory that everyone grows up eventually, I thought, and went to sleep with the soothing assurance that he’d never find my house.
I awoke to the teeth-grinding ring of the doorbell.
Wandering hazily down the hall to the vestibule, I squinted through my peephole.
J.D. Solberg stood on the far side. Or at least I thought it was him, though he now sported a full head of curly dark hair and had lost the horn-rimmed glasses that had been as much a trademark as Zorro’s mask. He was, however, still two inches shorter than myself.
I opened the door, but left the security chain in place. Nothing says friendly like a three-inch length of metal between you and your would-be guest. “What are you doing here?” Yes, my mother had taught me better manners, and although I prescribe to the polite-but-dismissive philosophy, sometimes I’m better at dismissive.
“Babe!” JD said, spreading his arms as if I needed a better view. “It’s me.”
“Uh-huh.” I gave him a quick once-over. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s seven o’clock.”
I glanced down the street. The sun did seem to be sinking toward the horizon. I checked my watch, and sure enough, I’d been sleeping for a good thirteen hours.
My next expression might have fallen a little short of gracious. “I didn’t agree to go out with you.”
“Sure you did,” he said and leaned a shoulder against the brick outside my door. It needed sandblasting, and an exterminator. Although most pests weren’t quite so well dressed as this one. His suit was Armani.
“Listen, Solberg,” I said. Now that I’d looked at my watch, I was pretty sure I was no longer dead on my feet. So I stifled a yawn and tried to soldier my grumbling brain cells into submission. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. It was my mistake. I had a bad—”
“Andrew Russell Bomstad, christened on April 3 of 1981.”
My lungs felt suddenly tight. I let out a little air and stared at him. He was still five foot seven, so the world hadn’t gone completely mad.
“What?” I asked and, sliding the chain from its slot, eased the door open another few inches.
He grinned. When he smiled like that he looked like the J.D. Solberg of old, before the store-bought tan and the extra hair. It wasn’t necessarily a good thing. “I believe he was better known as the Bomb.”
Maybe I was naïve, but I was floored. I hadn’t told him who I wanted investigated, or even that I wanted
anyone
investigated. It made me ache to shake him until the truth fell out, but I played it cool. “What about him?” I asked, and he brayed again.
“What about him?” he repeated, slithering past me and slinking into my vestibule. “You should know. He croaked on your couch.”
“That’s not true.” My voice sounded raspy.
But he only shrugged. “Could be wrong,” he admitted. “I got that last part from the papers.”
“Where’d you get the rest?”
He grinned. “I ain’t called the Geekster for nothing.”
It felt strange in that alternate universe.
“Aren’t you going to ask what else I learned?”
It hurt to voice the question, but he was already there, leaking into my
“I just need a little information,” I said cautiously. “Thought maybe you could get it for me.”
“You know it, babe.”
I considered threatening his life if he called me babe again, but if the truth be told I was still pretty desperate, so I cleared my throat and let it slide. “The information might be, uhhh . . . classified.”
He chuckled. “I’ll pick you up tonight. Seven sharp.”
“What?”
“Don’t be late. The Geek God don’t like to be kept waiting.”
The phone went dead. I stared at it for a minute, then snorted and grumbled it back into its cradle. That pretty much disproved the theory that everyone grows up eventually, I thought, and went to sleep with the soothing assurance that he’d never find my house.
I awoke to the teeth-grinding ring of the doorbell.
Wandering hazily down the hall to the vestibule, I squinted through my peephole.
J.D. Solberg stood on the far side. Or at least I thought it was him, though he now sported a full head of curly dark hair and had lost the horn-rimmed glasses that had been as much a trademark as Zorro’s mask. He was, however, still two inches shorter than myself.
I opened the door, but left the security chain in place. Nothing says friendly like a three-inch length of metal between you and your would-be guest. “What are you doing here?” Yes, my mother had taught me better manners, and although I prescribe to the polite-but-dismissive philosophy, sometimes I’m better at dismissive.
“Babe!” JD said, spreading his arms as if I needed a better view. “It’s me.”
“Uh-huh.” I gave him a quick once-over. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s seven o’clock.”
I glanced down the street. The sun did seem to be sinking toward the horizon. I checked my watch, and sure enough, I’d been sleeping for a good thirteen hours.
My next expression might have fallen a little short of gracious. “I didn’t agree to go out with you.”
“Sure you did,” he said and leaned a shoulder against the brick outside my door. It needed sandblasting, and an exterminator. Although most pests weren’t quite so well dressed as this one. His suit was Armani.
“Listen, Solberg,” I said. Now that I’d looked at my watch, I was pretty sure I was no longer dead on my feet. So I stifled a yawn and tried to soldier my grumbling brain cells into submission. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. It was my mistake. I had a bad—”
“Andrew Russell Bomstad, christened on April 3 of 1981.”
My lungs felt suddenly tight. I let out a little air and stared at him. He was still five foot seven, so the world hadn’t gone completely mad.
“What?” I asked and, sliding the chain from its slot, eased the door open another few inches.
He grinned. When he smiled like that he looked like the J.D. Solberg of old, before the store-bought tan and the extra hair. It wasn’t necessarily a good thing. “I believe he was better known as the Bomb.”
Maybe I was naïve, but I was floored. I hadn’t told him who I wanted investigated, or even that I wanted
anyone
investigated. It made me ache to shake him until the truth fell out, but I played it cool. “What about him?” I asked, and he brayed again.
“What about him?” he repeated, slithering past me and slinking into my vestibule. “You should know. He croaked on your couch.”
“That’s not true.” My voice sounded raspy.
But he only shrugged. “Could be wrong,” he admitted. “I got that last part from the papers.”
“Where’d you get the rest?”
He grinned. “I ain’t called the Geekster for nothing.”
It felt strange in that alternate universe.
“Aren’t you going to ask what else I learned?”
It hurt to voice the question, but he was already there, leaking into my
Similar Books
