Page 22 of Shenanigans

The jerk easily blocked my attempt to unman him. “Temper. Temper. That’s gonna cost you. Answer my questions or you will be spending time in the county jail eating three-day old bologna sandwiches.”

One look at the threat in Dutch’s eyes and I knew he wasn’t bluffing. “You have heard of client confidentiality? I don’t release information on my clients without their permission.”

“Even if they’re dead?” His voice was flat and deceptively casual.

“What? Dead? Maria’s dead? Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Dutch watched me closely.

“That bastard! I told her to stay away from Tomas.”

Dutch abruptly towed me off the dance floor. “What do you know about Tomas?”

“Just what Maria told me.” I pried at his fingers.

He pulled a chair out from a table. “Sit.”

I sat.

“What did Maria tell you?” Still gripping my hand, Dutch took the chair next to me.

“Tomas cheated on Maria and when she threw him out, he took her Yorkie as payback.”

Dutch’s thumb stroked my wrist. “That’s it?”

“She said he had done some prison time and might be back to fighting dogs again.”

“Did Maria tell you where he held his cage matches?”

“She didn’t know. I was going to talk to the sister,” I answered.

“The sister knows the location of the bouts?

I nodded. “Tomas took her to one of the fights.”

“You charged Maria five hundred dollars to retrieve her dog. Why?”

Crap. What else did he know? “There was an element of risk in the retrieval.” Was he trying to take my pulse? My dad had warned me some cops used this trick as a poor man’s lie detector.

“How did you know Maria’s dog was in the warehouse?”

Sneaky man. I countered with, “Is that where you found Maria’s body? Was her dog okay? How did she die?”

“I don’t discuss the details of my homicide investigation with a suspect.”

I gave a theatrical gasp of horror. “You think I killed her? Are you nuts? What about Maria’s slut of a sister or Tomas, the abusive ex-boyfriend? They both have motive, means and opportunity to carry out the crime.”

“True, but I want to know how your fingerprints got on Maria’s Impala. The Impala you stole from the crime scene,” Dutch responded.

I rolled my eyes. God he was such a liar. He didn’t have my prints or any evidence connecting me to the warehouse. My latex gloves were fool proof and Samson had taken care of the cameras.

“If you cooperate, I’ll talk the County Attorney into giving you a reduced sentence,” Dutch added.

“Since I spent the day getting a makeover, not stealing a car or impersonating a nun, I’ll pass.” I fluffed my hair. “Which pound is Maria’s Yorkie at? I’ll let her family know.”

A muscle twitched in Dutch’s jaw. “I checked you out. They say you can talk to the animals. That you’re a regular Doctor Doolittle.”

I cocked a skeptical eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you believe in all that woo-woo stuff?”

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