Page 35 of A Very Happy Thanksgiving
“Have you been drinking?” I asked.
“Some douche emptied a pint over me.”
“What happened to your phone?”
“It fell out of my pocket, and another jackass trod on it.”
Thirty minutes ago, a guy from the Blackwood control room had called me, his bored tone suggesting that Emmy-related drama was all in a day’s work. He’d assured me she hadn’t been arrested, she’d just lost her phone, and said that I should check in to the Metrolux and leave a key for her at the reception desk.
“I broke a nail,” she added. “And possibly someone’s nose as well.”
“Congrats. All I did was play voyeur.”
“Was she underage?”
“It was a he.”
“And?”
“Definitely on the young side.”
“Nice work. Did you record it?”
I scoffed. “Of course. I’m a fucking professional. And don’t worry; McDonald didn’t see me. His mind was on other things.”
His hands too. And his stubby little dick.
“I need a shower, then we should head up to Lonnie’s room for a chat.”
My phone rang. Blackwood again. The same bored voice asked, “Is Emmy with you yet?”
“Sure, she just got back.” I’d put on my perky voice, and Emmy smirked as I held out the phone. “It’s for you.”
“Is this about the Carlisle case?” she asked the guy.
The answer must have been in the affirmative because she switched the phone to speaker while rummaging through the minibar.
“Okay, Dusk needs to hear this too. Heath wants to talk with us,” she supplied, popping the top on a can of soda and swallowing a mouthful.
A current shot through me. Were we finally getting somewhere? “What happened?”
After an electronic crackle, Heath spoke. “We have a lead.”
“What kind of a lead?”
“One of the witnesses in the hospital is more of a perpetrator. Ricky Dunkley—he’s an assistant cinematographer.”
“The guy who broke his ankle?”
“He couldn’t run to the boat, so he pretended to be a victim instead, but his story wasn’t consistent with the others’.”
“Charming of his friends to leave him behind.”
“Where are they?” I demanded.
“He claims he doesn’t know.”
“Hogwash.”
