Page 48 of Road Queens
“Who knew being a private investigator paid so well?”
It didn’t. He cleared about thirty thousand dollars last year, and if he didn’t have contacts in the MPD, he wouldn’t have made even that much. By contrast, when he’d worked for the MPD, his salary was forty-eight thousand dollars. Worth it—he liked the work a lot more—though he missed the health plan, which had been outstanding. And he was between cases, so the timing was optimal.
“And then see Amanda,” he finished as he scratched his chest and yawned.
“Careful. Keep this up, you might not be living an incomplete life much longer.”
“Dare to dream, Di.”
“Give them all a big hug from me. Or just keep lurking in the shadows, only to spring forth when someone needs help. That seems to work for you, little bro.”
“Finally! Didn’t think you were ever gonna get it right.”
“I was referring to your IQ.”
“Just for that, I’m coming for another unannounced visit, and I’m making pistachio gelato.”
“Don’t even joke about that. Any of that.”
“Love you, sis.”
“Of course you do! I’m incredibly lovable, while you’re just tolerable. Now go knock Amanda Miller’s socks off. And don’t make any jokes about how her socks aren’t the only thing you want off.”
He closed his mouth and cursed sibling telepathy. “I’ll talk to you in a couple more days.”
“Good. I expect to be regaled.” She made noisy kissing noises into the phone. Or she’d begun eating her way through a brick of brie. “Bye!”
Sean put the phone down and surveyed the mountain of linens he’d swaddled himself with. Time to switch out the dirty sheets for the clean. He wondered if Amanda preferred burgundy or seafoam.
Getting a little ahead of yourself, don’t you think?
He was. And it was pointless to speculate about Amanda’s color preferences. He needed to stay focused, and why speculate about something he’d likely never know?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“This has crossed the line from cute to incompetent.”
Amanda handed Beane his license. “It was never cute. Also, did you really resign over the Floyd debacle? Are you sure it wasn’t because you misplaced your gun or badge or cop car?”
“This is a great store,” he murmured.
“It sure is and, apropos of nothing that just happened, have you been tested for ADHD?”
He laughed. “Repeatedly.”
She watched him prowl amid the shelves, heading for the cookbooks, then pivoting to military history. “Ignoring the true crime section, huh? I don’t blame you. You’ve probably seen way too much of it.”
“I have,” he replied. “So I’ll never buy true crime. It’s the same reason cooks never buy cookbooks.”
“You could’ve just said, ‘Naw, not a fan of the genre,’ but you had to unleash the snark. Careful, that’s a game for two. Or more.”
“Got it.”
“While you’re here, Jelly Man—”
“That’s my sister, not me. Maybe you should try calling me Sean?”
“Maybe you should already be in court making arrangements to change your name for your own safety? I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
