Cutting to the Chase
“The thing is,” Bernie said, “I’m pretty sure I recognized that guy’s voice. Remember when we got that ransom call?”
Ransom call? Those had come up before. I had that feeling of coming very close to getting it. We were in the Porsche, me riding shotgun. I picked up a whiff of cat, spotted one in an alley, lifting a front paw in a delicate sort of way that rubbed me wrong.
“The call where the guy said, ‘We’ve got your client, Kelo Printz. He’s healthy at the moment. Whether he stays that way is up to you.'”
“That’s them up ahead,” Bernie said, pointing his chin at an old dusty van down the street. “Let’s see if they lead us to the honey-pot.”
Honey pot? I wasn’t too sure about that. I’d sampled honey in the past. Great taste, but the inside of my mouth had gotten all sticky. Maybe this time I’d try not eating the whole pot. Just a thought.
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