Under Contract by Jennifer L. Jordan

Author:Jennifer L. Jordan [Jordan, Jennifer L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780997364309
Amazon: B01FN2HHVE
Barnesnoble: B01FN2HHVE
Goodreads: 30269052
Publisher: Clover Valley Press
Published: 2016-05-15T03:00:00+00:00

•••

Richard Leone had lied to me.

In our first meeting, when he reported seeing Kevin Slyford hanging around the house in Landry, the morning of the fire?

Or today, when he denied everything?

I had no idea.

I was tempted to dismiss all of his statements, but I had a gut feeling that truth lay within the lies.

Maybe blankets, comforters, pillows, coats, and food would prompt him to separate the two.

They couldn’t hurt.

It felt like a bribe, until I remembered my motivation had been pure three days earlier.

Richard gratefully accepted the donations but declined my offer to drive them to his shelter.

I unloaded the boxes and bags onto the sidewalk, where he assured me they would stay until he could transport them. Taking note of the upper-middle class homes that encircled the park, I didn’t doubt his prediction. After strapping a hefty portion of the goods to his trailer and tucking Pepper into the basket on the handlebars, Richard pedaled off at a slow clip, and I pulled a U-turn and headed to Washington Park.

On the way, I had my customary craving for Starbucks, but stopped at 7-Eleven instead and bought a six-pack of Gatorade.

I drank two bottles before arriving at my destination, an address Josh Mifflin’s employer had provided in our early morning phone call.

I rang the doorbell, and when no one answered, I entered anyway. I cut through vacant rooms and headed to the basement, where I immediately began to cough.

Over the clang of an air compressor, I shouted to a man as he methodically sprayed texture on the walls of a large rec room. He paused with the gun and said, “Gimme five minutes.” Exiting through a humid, white cloud, I almost tripped over the drywall hopper.

I waited on the back porch, shivering in the sixty-degree heat, nursing my third sports drink, and in about ten minutes, Josh Mifflin came out the back door, clutching a Bud Light in one hand and a Snickers in the other.

The screen slammed behind him, and he crouched and removed his mask and goggles. He had a round head, as true as a basketball, with an angelic face and full lips. Speckles covered every inch of his jeans, T-shirt, work boots, baseball cap, and exposed skin. Plaster residue had infiltrated his curly, sandy hair, imitating salon highlights, and he didn’t look a day over twenty, which meant he must have gone to work for McBride Homes as a teenager.

We introduced ourselves and debated the finer points of orange peel, knock-off, and popcorn texturing before the discussion soured, climaxing with, “Dennis McBride can suck my cock.”

“Do you think that would be wise?” I said placidly.

Josh wiped his brow with the inside of his elbow and held the beer bottle to his forehead. “He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. I built for him at Landry. I put money in his pocket. I built for him at Southfield. That didn’t matter. At company parties, he talked shit about loyalty and family, but he didn’t back it up.”

“He fired you in May?” I said, shifting on the concrete steps we shared.

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