The folder crinkled in his grip as he whispered just loud enough for me to hear, “I want him punished.” His rheumy eyes flooded with a pain I couldn’t imagine. “I don’t care what anybody thinks,” Jud said, “and nothing’s going to bring my baby back, proof or no proof. I don’t need any private eye to tell me that.” He murdered her and he threw her away like a piece of garbage. He gripped a coffee-stained manila folder in his thick farmer’s hands and clenched his jaw. “Then you know I’m not a private investigator,” I told him, “not a licensed one, anyway.” Besides, I didn’t come here for the food. I doubted the place would survive a health inspection, but the grimy windows and the backwater street kept the tourist traffic at bay. We sat in a booth in the back of Tiki Pete’s, a seedy diner four blocks east of the Vegas Strip. He’d introduced himself as Jud, Jud Pankow from Minnesota. The tremor in his voice told me he wasn’t so sure. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.Ĭover design by James T. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
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