Clare had been working the desk at the library since the first time I’d stepped foot in it to check out Shel Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends. I’d been eight and could have sworn Clare was a hundred.
She still looked exactly the same.
I wandered through the aisles, back to the workstation I’d claimed as my own, and logged in. After sending Moose the pictures, I checked my email, then signed off.
Moose’s “office” was actually his screened-in back porch, so I tried to keep all of our communication over the phone and through email, only going to his place if it was absolutely necessary. Not to say that I didn’t feel safe around my boss or anything; he was just a little creepy, so I felt better with things this way.
Moose shot me a text saying he got the photos and that he’d just driven by the nail salon and saw our next perp’s car.
Now, I’m not a cop, and the clients aren’t always correct in their accusations, but still, I had to call the people we were spying on something, so I called them perps. I sure as shit wasn’t going to remember all of their names so perp was just easier. Plus, I thought it made my job sound cooler, like I was actually doing something that made a difference.
Anyway, after reading the text, I turned on my heel and headed down the street toward Clarice’s, wishing I’d worn sneakers instead of my boots today. I’d gone for style rather than comfort, which was never the smart choice. The boots paired with my skinny jeans and long pullover sweater looked much better than sneakers.
“Hey, Lila,” Clarice said in greeting when I walked inside.
“What’s up, Clarice?”
“Same shit different day.”
“I hear that,” I replied. See, although my town was small, I’d managed to keep a lid on my side job. The town loved to talk, and with the way I’d caught my husband and Slutty Shirley Finkle, promptly left my cushy home in The Woods for a shitty apartment in The Heights, then started working for my best friend, they had plenty to talk about when the subject of me came up.
This was good for me, and for Moose, because it meant people never suspected when I was around, that there was a possibility I was looking into them. I didn’t know how long that shit would last, but I’d been lucky so far … No one really suspects a single mother of twins who drives a minivan and has an ongoing love affair with cupcakes to be sneaking around and capturing their bad deeds on camera.
I looked around the salon, and, not seeing the perp, I walked up to Clarice and whispered, “Can I use your bathroom? Sorry to bust in, since I don’t have an appointment, but I think I just started my period.”
“Yeah, girl, of course.”
“Thanks,” I said sheepishly, then pushed through the curtain into the back room.
I tiptoed quietly, pulling my camera out of my oversized Coach purse, one of the few things left over from my previous life. Keeping my eyes peeled and my ears open, I searched the back.
A sniffling sound had me turning right. I peeked around the corner just in time to see my perp bending over a table, getting ready to snort the three lines of coke she had cut out.
I’d spent an entire day trying out different cameras until I’d finally found one that didn’t make a sound when a picture was taken and still came out with quality images. That meant I could lift my camera, get my shot, and be gone without the cokehead even realizing I’d been there.
After I got a couple shots, I decided it was best to sneak out the back, rather than show my face in the storefront again, I slowly pushed the back door open and eased out.
“Who the fuck are you?”
I whipped my head up as I was shoving the camera back in my purse, and saw a strange man standing by a rehabbed old Camaro, smoking a cigarette.
“Uh … a friend of Clarice’s. I was just using the bathroom,” I managed, not sure who the guy was, or what my next move should be.
“Yeah?” he asked, throwing his cigarette to the ground and taking a step toward me. “You need a camera to do that?”
Shit.
Before he could make another move, I secured my bag on my shoulder, turned and took off like a shot.
I hit Main Street, cursing myself for wearing the damn boots when the sound of a motorcycle pulling up along side of me caused me to turn my head.
My first thought was, where the hell did the bike come from?
Then I realized it wasn’t the slimy guy from behind the salon. The bike came to a stop and the most dangerously beautiful man I’d ever seen rumbled, “Get your sweet ass on the bike.”
Huh?
I stood there for a moment, wondering what in the hell was happening, if I should get on this strange man’s bike, and if I was offended or flattered by his sweet ass comment.