CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 8 page

Is he as into this as I am? Or is he just trying to keep me happy?

The day was heating up, the sun glaring out from a thin web of clouds. They flew up the PCH, the ocean sparkling blue to their left. The puppy stuck her nose out of the sliver of space Veronica had left in the window, sniffing the salt air.

“What should we name her?” Veronica asked, glancing at Logan as she drove. “Athena? Joan of Arc? Christiane Amanpour?”

“Those seem a little…aspirational,” Logan said. He looked back at the puppy, who was now on her back, gnawing the squeaky toy they’d gotten at the shelter, her paws flopping in the air. Regardless of what she’d grow into, the puppy had a body type that could only be described as roly-poly. “I’m thinking something more like Doodlebug.”

“No way! The other dogs will tease her!” Veronica exclaimed. “How about Havoc? Or Mayhem?”

“Is she a puppy or a supervillain?” Logan raised his eyebrow. “Sugar Cookie. That’s my final offer.”

They headed back into town, laughing as they volleyed names like Nitro, Snuggums, Cerberus, and Peaches. In the backseat, the puppy wriggled and played.

“Mind if we swing by the office?” she asked as she exited the highway toward town. “I want to check in, make sure they don’t need me for anything.

“I thought this was going to be a day off,” Logan teased. “Or do you just want to show off the new baby?”

“Hey, I believe we have a duty to help the puppy-impaired.”

The response in the office was predictable, though it wasn’t Mac who cooed the loudest; it was her dad.

“Who’s a big fierce monster dog? Who’s a bloodthirsty hound from Hell? It’s you. Yes it is.” Keith knelt to the floor and tickled the puppy’s pudgy stomach. Veronica and Logan watched, amused.

“I didn’t know he was this anxious for grandchildren,” Veronica said.

“Just for the kind that can’t talk,” Keith said. The puppy struggled to her feet and started bounding in circles around him. Her dad brushed the dog hair off his leg as he stood up. “Do you remember when we first got Backup? He was so tiny he fit in your mom’s purse.”

“Yeah, before he chewed it to pieces, along with half the house. I seem to remember losing three pairs of shoes, the baseboard in my bedroom, and the better part of my Ninja Turtles collection, all in the first week.”

“He was just getting settled,” Keith protested. “You know, you’re in a new house, you have to fluff the pillows a little.”

“Or rip them apart, as the case may be.”

The puppy capered over to Logan suddenly, setting one paw against his shin and gazing up at him. Veronica fought the urge to coo. Channel Philip Marlowe, she told herself sternly. Come on, Veronica, Sam Spade doesn’t coo.

“She seems to like Logan,” Keith said.

Logan gave a nervous laugh; he was always strangely formal around her dad. He leaned over and stroked the little dog, his movements tentative and very gentle.

“Did you ever have a dog when you were a kid?” Mac asked him.

Logan shook his head. “Nah. Mom was allergic, and…Aaron worked a lot.” The puppy leaned against his leg, and a faint smile spread across his lips. “We didn’t really do pets.”

“Well, prepare to be owned,” Keith said. “Looks like this one’s already figuring out how she’s going to work you over.”

They were still playing with the dog a few minutes later when the door opened and Cliff McCormack entered, carrying a bankers box of paper, followed by Lisa Choi and Weevil. Cliff raised one dark eyebrow, looking around. Mac was on one side of the room, the squeaky T-bone in one hand, and Veronica was on the other side, poised to catch it in a game of keep-away. The newcomers distracted the puppy entirely from its game; she ran to Cliff, her tail whipping back and forth, and jumped up against his legs.

“Did I get the time wrong, or did you start a doggie day care while I was out of the room?” Cliff asked.

Mac quickly hid the squeaky toy. Veronica hurried over to scoop up the puppy. It wriggled in her arms, licking her cheeks and chin in raptures of affection. Her dad stood up from the sofa. “Sorry, Cliff. I lost track of the time.”

Lisa Choi was as efficient-looking as ever in a dark red pantsuit, a black briefcase at her side. Veronica was suddenly painfully aware of her rumpled T-shirt, now speckled with dog hair, and the suddenly adolescent-seeming Vans she’d donned that morning. Lisa gave Veronica a blink-and-you-missed-it smile as their eyes met.

“You’re Keith’s daughter, right? It’s nice to meet you.”

“Daughter and partner.” Veronica wasn’t sure why she said that, but it was out before she could stop it. “I’m a PI too.” She gave what she hoped was an authoritative nod. The puppy picked that moment to start licking her ear.

“These files aren’t exactly light. Where are we working?” Cliff broke in, shrugging to get a better grip on the box.

“Sorry, yeah. My office.” Keith gestured toward his open door. Cliff went through, followed by Lisa and Keith. Weevil hung back for a moment.

“Lisa’s a ballbuster,” he muttered. “She already told me I gotta get rid of the bike. Says I gotta clean up my appearance if I’m gonna win this thing.”

“Yeah?” Veronica shrugged. “Well, I’d listen to her if I were you. The county’s not going to roll over and let you take their money. If they can make you out to be a petty thug, they will.”

He exhaled loudly. “Yeah, I know. They been doing that my entire life.”

“Well, get ready for more because discrediting you is their plan A, B, and C,” she said. Weevil shook his head morosely.

Logan, who’d watched this exchange with a deepening frown, interjected: “But you’ve got their plan D, right?” He looked at Weevil, let one hand slide toward his belt buckle and discreetly whirled the other in the c’mon, c’mon sign.

Eli looked puzzled for a moment, then sighed. With a wan half smile, he cupped his crotch with one hand and muttered, “Dese nuts.”

“Better!” Logan exclaimed, stepping up to Weevil and enfolding him in an overlong bear hug. “You can’t let the cuicos bust you down, carnál. Stay strong.”

Over Logan’s shoulder, Weevil raised his brows at Veronica.

“Eli? We want to get started.” Keith waved from the doorway of Veronica’s office. “We’re running kind of late and have a lot to cover.”

“Yeah, Mr. Mars, I’m coming.” Weevil gave Veronica and Logan a cool nod and disappeared into the office.

“Wow, heartbreaking,” Logan murmured. “I know this is wrong, but I want to put a big greasy bike chain in his hand, slap him on the butt, and tell him to start trashing the place. Just to get some of the old thug brio back. I mean, Weevil and I were never tight, but I always respected the fight in the guy.”

Veronica stared at the closed door. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

But then, he’s never had so much to lose. She thought about Jade and Valentina, sleeping on a pull-out sofa in Jade’s mother’s little house. She thought about the plywood-covered windows in the garage Weevil had closed four months back.

“Well, hopefully two million dollars can get some spring back into his step,” Mac said. She sat the squeaky toy on the edge of the desk. “I’ve never totally bought that ‘can’t buy happiness’ thing.”

The office phone’s ringtone cut through the room. Mac snapped it up. “Mars Investigations.”

Veronica knew who it was from the way Mac’s eyes widened. Veronica handed the puppy, who’d conked out in her arms, to Logan. The dog made a small grunt of complaint, then burrowed into the crook of his elbow. Logan looked startled to be holding her. He stood still, staring warily at the little animal.

“Okay. Yes. Yes, I understand. Thanks so much.” Mac slowly put the receiver back in the cradle, her lips a wide, thin line. She looked up at Veronica.

“That was the lab,” she said, her voice a forced calm.

“And?”

Mac slowly shook her head. “It’s not a match. The DNA from the night of the attack doesn’t belong to Charles Sinclair.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

It was just over a week later that Keith first realized he was being watched.

The car was parked up the street from his house, a silver Ford Fusion with tinted windows. He could just make out the silhouette of a broad-shouldered man in shades behind the steering wheel. Keith checked out the kitchen window five or six times before he was sure. The car and its driver were there for hours, watching his front door.

Either this is amateur hour, Keith thought, or Lamb wants me to see him and be intimidated.

He’d expected something like this since the lawsuit was announced. Lamb and his deputies would be watching his every move now. They’d drop in on the witnesses they’d intimidated to begin with. No doubt someone would be keeping an eye on Eli too.

It was a clumsy, desperate move, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. Lamb would lash out any way he could.

Keith’s knee twinged as he stepped out onto his front porch and locked the door behind him. He couldn’t remember the accident, but he still felt its effect in his bones and joints, and in the lingering aches and pains throughout his body. He avoided glancing left or right as he made his way down the steps and straight to his car.

As he’d expected, the Fusion tailed him ineptly. He watched it in his rearview, a few cars behind him. It would have been easy to lose him, but Keith had nothing to hide. Not today, anyway; he was just going to the office. He amused himself by slowing down and speeding up, forcing the driver to pace himself accordingly.

At the office, the puppy—which Veronica had started calling “Pony” as a joke that ended up sticking—scampered toward Keith, wagging and capering around his shins. He knelt down and scooped her up in his arms, and she licked his chin. Then he looked up and realized Veronica was there in front of him, looking almost as eager as the puppy.

“You’re not going believe this,” she said.

Behind her, at reception, Mac gave a smug smile. Keith looked back and forth between them.

“Hmm. The atmosphere’s a half shade less doleful than usual. What’s with this relatively unfettered joy?”

Veronica grabbed his sleeve and dragged him toward Mac’s desk. “Just wait. Mac, you have it up?”

“I sure do.”

Mac had the Neptune Register’s website opened on her largest monitor. Keith stood behind her chair to watch as she clicked on a link. Then his jaw dropped.

“Sheriff’s Race Heats Up as New Candidate Enters the Stage?” he read out loud.

Veronica clapped her hands a few times, schoolgirl style, but he barely noticed. He’d just seen the subtitle beneath the headline.

Retired Army Brigadier General Marcia Langdon announced her campaign this morning, stating that the time has come for change in Neptune.

Marcia Langdon. It couldn’t possibly be the same Marcia Langdon.

But the accompanying photo was unmistakable. She was thirty-plus years older, in military uniform, but he recognized her raptor nose, her heavy jaw. More than anything he recognized her eyes—sharp and hard as a flint spearhead.

Citing departmental corruption and system-wide incompetence, Marcia Langdon announced Thursday afternoon that she would run against incumbent Dan Lamb in the sheriff’s race this November. Langdon, who retired from active service in 2013, moved back to her hometown of Neptune last year after ending a thirty-year career in the US Army.

He skimmed ahead. She’d been awarded the Legion of Merit, the Meritorious Service Medal, the Defense Distinguished Service Medal, the Defense Superior Service Medal, and the Bronze Star Medal. She’d climbed the ranks in CID, holding command for the last seven years of her military tenure.

The article included a quote from Langdon herself near the bottom of the page. “I grew up here. This is my home. And as much as I was looking forward to retirement, I can’t in good conscience stand by and watch the Sheriff’s Department run roughshod over the basic tenets of justice.”

“Did you notice how she used the words ‘conscience’ and ‘Sheriff’s Department’ in the same sentence?” Veronica looked up, eyes dancing.

Keith smiled slightly. “Yes. Yes I did.”

Veronica stared at him incredulously. “I thought you’d be thrilled, but you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

A ghost? Maybe. He could still see Bobby “Tauntaun” Langdon, his face paper white as Deputy O’Hare shoved him in the backseat of the cruiser. Could still picture Langdon’s mother, a messy, weak-chinned woman in a denim housecoat, crying on the street as they drove away. And Marcia. Seventeen years old, her slacks pressed with precise creases and her face an impenetrable mask, watching from the porch.

“No, it’s nothing,” he said. “It’s just…I haven’t seen her in a long time. It’s just kind of surprising.”

“You know her?” Veronica suddenly looked interested. He smiled a little.

“I used to. Like I said, it’s been a long time. And she’s been busy.”

“What was she like?”

He looked at the picture again, not sure how to answer. After a long moment, he said, “Honest. And…determined. Very determined.”

They were the kindest words he could think to use. Veronica seemed not to notice his hesitation.

“I’ll take it,” she said.

Mac leaned back in her chair and looked up at them. “Think she’s got a chance? It’s so late in the game, and Lamb’s been fund-raising for months now.”

“I don’t know, but they mention the lawsuit,” Veronica said. “Quote: ‘The department has been rocked by a series of scandals in the past year. A pending lawsuit, Navarro vs. Balboa County, alleges that deputies planted evidence on thirty-year-old Eli Navarro during an armed robbery investigation. Mr. Navarro was acquitted of all criminal charges, but in October his lawyers will try to prove that the county unconstitutionally targeted him and falsified their findings to gain a conviction.’ ”

“ ‘Sheriff Dan Lamb could not be reached for comment at press time.’ ” Mac read.

Veronica smirked. “God, I wish I could be a fly on the wall in the Sheriff’s Department right now.”

“Yeah, well, I’m glad you’re not,” Keith said. He frowned. “Stay clear of Lamb for the next few months, all right? Between the trial and the election, he’s going to be on the warpath.”

Pony wriggled against his chest, and he knelt down to put her on the ground, ignoring the achy pull in his back. Marcia Langdon for sheriff. It made a sick kind of sense. No, that’s not fair, he thought. You don’t know what really happened. You don’t really know what went down in the Langdon house that afternoon in 1982, in the hours before we busted down their door. You just know the rumors. He suddenly realized he was one of the last people around who’d even remember that much. Most of the other kids from the block had moved away, died, or burned out.

Thirty-three years was a long time; a lot could have changed. But looking at the photo, he couldn’t help but see the shadow of the teenage girl who’d turned in her own brother.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Two weeks later, Veronica had given up on the Manning case entirely. The last credible lead had evaporated like steam from a teacup. In the meantime she had been trying to refocus on the low-rent (and yet rent-paying) gigs she’d been ignoring.

On Wednesday afternoon she stood next to a concession stand at the Santa Anita racetrack, peeling the foil top off a single-serving of down-market white wine. She’d retreated to the shaded mezzanine walkway to escape the unseasonably hot sun. Down below, oblivious to the heat, were five hundred or so hardcore gambling addicts taking in some claiming races. Happily, the man she was tailing sat just ten rows down, enabling her to spy on him in relative comfort.

Parking her plastic wineglass on a condiment table, Veronica got out her mini camera and clicked several shots of her person of interest, a doughy, unwell-looking gent in a threadbare MIDNIGHT OIL 1988 WORLD TOUR tee. The final two snaps were keepers. One showed him on his feet, rooting his horse to the finish line. The other was taken right after the finish. It caught the guy with his head flung back in despair, clutching double fistfuls of his lank, greasy hair.

These, along with a previous shot of him at the betting window, would be plenty to satisfy Veronica’s client, the man’s sister—who also was executor of their late mother’s estate. The will specified that he had to quit gambling to earn his share of the inheritance. Thanks to Mars Investigation’s tireless quest for truth, the sister would now be able to claim her sibling’s share of the boodle—if any still remained.

Veronica knocked back the remainder of the wine in one gulp. She glanced heavenward. Yeah, yeah, I know: I am your daughter, in whom you are well pleased. No need to make a fuss over me, though. Just pay it forward by letting St. Vincent have a platinum album or something.

As she was heading for the exit, her phone rang and Mac’s face appeared on caller ID.

“Mac Attack. What’s up?” Veronica said, cupping the phone to drown out a sudden, blaring eruption of between-races music. She ducked into an empty women’s restroom to escape the noise.

“I need you to take a look at something,” Mac said, sounding psyched, perplexed, and exhausted all at once. “Can you get down here right now?”

“Is something wrong?” Veronica asked.

In the moment of silence that followed, she guessed the reason for Mac’s agitated state: She’d once again ignored explicit warnings to stay away from the Grace Manning case.

Veronica groaned. “Didn’t you have a teeth-cleaning appointment this afternoon? Because something tells me you blew it off to binge-watch the same fifteen hours of hotel security video you’ve already seen, like, three hundred times.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Mac said. The words came in a rapid-fire tumble, half apologetic, half desperate. “There’s just this thing I’ve got here and I need you to tell me if I’m crazy to…”

“Yes. You are. Now please, as a friend and as a fellow high-risk relapse candidate, just turn that computer off right now.”

“Veronica, I’ve found something we missed before,” Mac blurted, her voice suddenly firm and resolved. “I’m not saying it’s a huge breakthrough. But I have feeling it might be. And I really need you to see it for yourself.”

“Okay—wow,” Veronica said, trying not to sound as intrigued as she was. “Look, thanks for calling me, Mac. Forget the dentist; I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Fourteen minutes later—after shaving six off by driving illegally around a highway construction barrier—Veronica sat next to Mac back at the office, watching sped-up images zigzag across her thirty-inch monitor.

“This looks better than before,” Veronica said. “Did you enhance it somehow?”

“Just a little exposure gain in the shadows. It helps a lot for what I’m about to show you.” Mac slowed the video to normal speed and Veronica saw a numbingly familiar scene: Pacific Southwest University basketball players emerging from the Neptune Grand lobby with rolling gym bags, heading for their team bus. This camera, mounted just above the hotel’s main front entry doors, afforded a wide-angle view of a semicircular drive used mainly by guests who were checking in or out. Currently, the entire middle foreground was filled by the PSU Kestrels’ bus.

Mac, who’d looked alarmingly wrung-out when Veronica had first come through the door, now seemed to crackle with static energy. Impatient with the parade of drowsy, crotch-scratching hoopsters, she hit Fast Forward and turned to Veronica.

“Well, I guess we’ve seen this enough times already,” she said.

“Yep.” Veronica sighed. “Whoa! Heads up, Ice Cube!” Two seconds later, they watched for the umpteenth time as a burly player in retro Jheri curls walked face-first into a potted palm’s low-hanging frond, then angrily swatted it as his teammates cracked up.

“Don’t worry, we’re getting to the interesting part,” Mac said. As she spoke, the last few players, coaches, and trainers approached the bus for boarding. Each, in turn, passed around the back of the vehicle and out of sight—presumably to stuff their rolling duffels into the driver-side storage bin. When the final straggler, a diminutive trainer, trotted out the front door and behind the vehicle, Mac paused the video.

“Okay, boss, watch closely now. Here we go.” She hit Play again and, less than a minute later, the bus started to move, slowly gliding out of view on the screen’s right side. Veronica now saw another familiar scene: the crescent drive occupied by only a lone bellman sneaking a few hits from an e-cigarette. Veronica cocked her head and watched the static scene for a few more seconds, then turned to Mac.

“Well, I saw all the Paranormal Activity movies and clocked every spooky drifting balloon and ripple in the dog’s water bowl. But you’ve got me. What did I miss?”

Mac pointed to the top of the screen, a shadowy area beyond the entry drive. “The background—all the way back. The part we haven’t seen until now because it’s been blocked off by the bus. What can you make out?”

“A parking lot,” Veronica said, leaning into the screen and squinting at the dim, poorly resolved area on the outer limits of the camera’s range. She knew the area well; it was the hotel’s short-term parking lot, thirty or forty spaces used primarily by guests loading or unloading heavy bags. There were a couple of shuttle vans, a motorcycle, and six—no, seven—cars visible. Suddenly, she understood. “We’ve never watched the video this far, have we?”

“No. At least not with any real attention to this parking lot after the bus leaves. So okay, do we want nineteen more minutes of foreplay or…?”

Veronica lunged for the remote and Mac smacked her hand away. “Straight to the money shot it is!” she said, pressing Fast Forward. The image flickered under extreme acceleration, but no physical motion was visible until, as the eighteenth minute raced to its end, the headlights on one of the cars in the parking lot came on. Veronica and Mac watched, now at regular speed, as a small white compact car backed out of its space. It could be seen in full profile, but a parking lot light’s glare on the side window obscured the driver from view. The car unhurriedly crept toward the street exit, turned right onto Neptune’s wide central boulevard, and passed out of sight.

“To answer your obvious question,” Mac said, “those vehicles you can see after the bus pulls out are the same ones that were there before it arrived and blocked our view.”

“And later on?” Veronica murmured in amazement, suddenly realizing she’d watched the final few seconds with hands pressed to her face a la Munch’s The Scream.

“The parking lot view is clear all night. And from the time that one car pulls out, right up to when Grace is found, only two other people leave: A desk clerk who’s empty-handed and a teenage girl with a purse in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other. So I think it’d be very interesting if we could find out who’s driving that car, don’t you?

Veronica turned to Mac and slipped her a congratulatory low five. “You rule, girl,” she said. “How many times did you have to watch this, at what ungodly hours? Don’t answer that. All I’ve got to say is, if anyone wants to throw shade on the OCD community, they best not do it around me, because I will mess them up good.”

Mac grinned. “But I feel obligated to step on our buzz a little. We may have just watched an incredibly stealthy rapist leaving a crime scene. But it just as easily could’ve been some guy out having brews with his bros. And afterward they dropped him off at his car while the bus was blocking our view.”

Veronica closed her eyes and drummed her hands furiously on the counter.

“Right,” she said. “All this tells us is that someone, somehow, managed to leave the hotel without getting ID’d on video. That doesn’t prove they’re the perp. And whoever the perp is, we still have no clue how he got Grace out of there.” She mulled this over as she scooted into the kitchen to grab a bag of salted caramel pretzels and a carafe of iced coffee, and hustled back to Mac’s desk.

They both munched for a long while in thoughtful silence, then Veronica picked up the video remote and backed the video up to the point where the first of the PSU players started ambling through the lobby and out the front door.

“Can I safely assume you have godlike total recall of everything that happens from here until, say, seven in the morning?” Veronica asked, not even looking up to register Mac’s Bitch, please! look.

“Speak to me of luggage, Mackenzie,” she said as she pointed to one of the players’ gym bags. “Other than these ballers and the mega-duffels they’re carrying, I don’t remember anyone else who checks out after this and who has anything bigger than a backpack. Am I right?”

Mac nodded absently. Then, as the weight of Veronica’s question sunk in, her hands fell to her side in disbelief. “No way, Veronica,” she said. “Those bags aren’t remotely big enough. I mean, look at ’em. You could stand one on end and it’d barely even reach above these dudes’ kneecaps.”

Veronica didn’t answer. She grabbed the mouse and dragged the video back to the scene where the basketball players trooped steadily out the door. The bags were Nike, soft black duffels on wheels with retractable handles. She opened an Internet browser on Mac’s smallest screen, and typed in Nike roller duffel black. Immediately, several models popped up. She started scrolling through, trying to find the right one.

“Are you hearing me, Mars?” Mac said. “I’ll grant you these guys are amply proportioned. But there’s no way their jockstraps and shorts and whatnot take up as much space as a grown woman’s body would. Even your midget ass couldn’t fit in there.”

“But what if it could?” Veronica said.

“It doesn’t fucking matter!” Mac groaned, her face pink with exasperation. “The rapist has a bleeding, semiconscious woman in his bag. So when they get to the outskirts of town is he like, ‘Hey driver, you mind pulling over next to that big, muck-filled pit and popping the luggage bin? I’ve, um, got something I need to drop off. No peeking, guys!’ ”

“I didn’t say he got on the bus. We never see any of these PSU guys actually boarding because the door’s on the far side, out of view. We’ve just assumed they all did because they’re a team, and once the bus drives away, they’re all gone. But what if one of ’em, while everyone else is getting into the bus, rolls his team bag—with Grace Manning in it—straight out to his little white hatchback?”

—

“Coach Fennel!” Mac chirped when her old classmate picked up the phone. “I hope you’re enjoying these last heady days of summer vacation.”

Wallace’s voice was instantly wary. “Funny. This sounds like Mac, but that’s the patented Veronica Mars I-need-a-favor tone. Let me guess. You two belles are looking for a strapping black man to do something boring, strenuous, or illegal for you?”

“Look, Wallace,” Veronica chimed in, “all we really have is a sports gear–related question. I just texted you a photo and I need you to tell me how we can get one of these things very quickly.”

Seconds later, Wallace replied, “Well, it looks like you got this picture off of Amazon. Have you considered a Prime membership?”

“No, it kind of has to be today. And we’re more interested in just, you know, seeing it and poking around inside it than actually buying,” Mac said.

“Good luck, ladies. This is the biggest selling bag on the market right now, so those store managers may be a little on the unhelpful side.”

“Wallace, I’m going to cut to the chase here,” Veronica said. “We need to know if this is a gym bag that’s big enough to stuff an unconscious woman into.”

There was a long silence before Wallace spoke. “You know, Veronica, we go way back. And I’ve done all kinds of dubious favors for you without pushing for any explanations. But I kind of think I’m owed one here.”

“Oh, come on, Wallace! Why get all ‘morally culpable adult’ on me now, after all these years?”

Wallace sighed explosively. “Fine. I have a bag exactly like the one you’re talking about. You and Mac can come check it out if you like.”

“That is so awesome! But, um, is there any way you could maybe bring it over for us right now? I’ll owe you a nice warm batch of chocolate chip cookies…”

“What the hell. I can bring it over for you. Had thought about spending this afternoon bodysurfing with a special lady friend—but whatever. Driving used athletic gear across town works too. Oh, and one other thing: No chocolate chip. Snickerdoodles. Nonnegotiable.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Veronica paced up and down the office as they waited for Wallace, her limbs electric. Just a short while ago she’d felt utterly defeated. Now she couldn’t sit still. She tried not to get ahead of herself, though. Mac wasn’t wrong to be skeptical; those bags did look awfully small.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 572