The Unknown Devil: A C.T. Ferguson Private Investigator Mystery (The C.T. Ferguson Mystery Novels Book 2) by Tom Fowler

Author:Tom Fowler [Fowler, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Fowler
Published: 2018-01-29T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Gloria left the next morning. She scheduled an early tennis lesson and would compete in a practice tournament in the afternoon. For the first time, she asked me if I would come. She chewed on the corner of her lip subtly after asking. I told her I would try if the case allowed me. She said she understood, gave me a lingering kiss goodbye, and set off for a day of tennis.

After she left, I made breakfast. Without Gloria to distract me, my thoughts drifted back to Chris Sellers and Anna Blair. Would they keep their heads down long enough for Joey to set them up someplace else? And what would happen after they got there? The old Simpsons episode with Homer wearing a Witness Protection Program hat leapt to mind. I wished they would stick it out for Brian. He needed to finish high school, and give college a try without worrying his brother would take two to the head.

I made a simple breakfast of wheat toast, two scrambled eggs, and turkey sausage. I carried it all plus a mug of coffee to my office to see what the day held in store. The SSL-stripping attack on Esposito's router continued to pay dividends. No significant traffic traversed it now, so I looked back on what I missed last night. Some web surfing and a few emails, none of which made a difference in anything I did. I knew he still wanted to find Chris Sellers. Why was he so quiet about it, then? Was he eschewing going online in favor of issuing all his orders in person or on the phone?

After breakfast with nothing to do in the case, I acted like so many other members of my generation and did the Netflix and chill. I was content to keep getting my chill on when my phone rang. It was Bobbi Lane. "Hello?"

"Hi, C.T.," she said. "You up for a run?"

I had eaten a hearty breakfast. Running off the calories—and anything else we might choose to do—with Bobbi sounded like a good remedy. "Sure," I said. "Your place or mine?"

"Can we do mine? My car's not the best right now."

I said we could, and we agreed on an hour, giving me almost thirty minutes to kill, so I went back and checked on Esposito's traffic. It looked like he (or someone else in the house) spent an enthralling morning reading the news. I kept on the alert for a smoking gun, and I couldn't even find an empty cap pistol. Now I knew what network analysts felt like.

Clad in my usual Under Armour running attire, I drove to Bobbi's apartment. She met me at the door with a kiss, then pulled me in for another. I wondered if we would make it outside to run. If we didn't, I wouldn't object. Bobbi's self-discipline re-emerged, however, and we headed to the same course she set out for us before. Again, I watched and admired her running form—and her form in general—in her tiny shorts and tank top.

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