The Greed Case, Continued
Bernie took the blond woman’s purse, started looking through.
“You have no right to do that,” she said.
“You pulled a gun on us,” Bernie said. “That was it for your rights.”
He fished out a driver’s license. I know driver’s licenses, had seen them plenty in our work, and maybe chewed on more than one. Driver’s licenses are made of something that feels great when you chew on them. Maybe I should mention that we run a detective agency, me and Bernie. My name’s Chet. We specialize in missing person cases. Was this one? I’m not the one to ask. Things were pretty complicated. We had a client, Kelo Printz, Hollywood producer, but he’d gone missing. We’d been to Death Valley and found a can of film in a cave, but there was no film in it, instead a folded-up painting by a dude named Martin Ramirez. Was he the perp? I’m pretty sure there’s a ballplayer named Manny Ramirez. Bernie pitched for Army, have I mentioned that? He can throw a tennis ball so far. Suddenly I was in the mood for fetch. I barked.
“Easy, boy,” Bernie said. He examined the license, then looked at the blond woman. “This photo doesn’t do you justice, Ms. Printz. Are you Kelo’s wife or his sister?”
I barked again. Why not just a quick game of fetch? I was in the mood!
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