It’s promo day #2 for Coco’s Nuts—available for just 99 cents.
Coco’s Nuts is the second paying case our Triple Threat Investigation Agency undertakes. As [still] rookie private eyes—Rey, and Linda and JJ (me)—search for evidence that demonstrates socialite-turned-trucker Buddy Feuer did not shoot her boss, Jimmy Picolo (an entrepreneur with “questionable ties”, who had an enemy or ten).
We’re certain Buddy has been set up. But how to prove it when all the proof proves otherwise? It’s a challenging case that keeps us on our toes and takes us into some curious and dangerous (if not deadly) realms—like debt-collector territory, where they “collect” any way they deem fit.
Here’s an excerpt:
A fine mist enveloped me like steam-room vapor, but a dark sky suggested dense rain would soon return. It was gusty, too, as if we were experiencing the tail end of a tropical storm. As I waited for Ric to finish addressing an assistant, I slipped off the PVC rain jacket hood and rearranged a bulky nylon water-resistant drawstring bag so it wasn’t pulling my left shoulder.
“If you find something of note in my brother’s North Shore refuge, I want to know about it.” A threat lingered beneath Ric’s honeyed words
Standing at the designated intersection, I scanned puddle-heavy streets. Kent, driving a Cherokee-red Mustang, should be pulling into view any moment. He’d dropped by Fugger’s to pick up a spare key for the North Shore retreat. The chauffeur hadn’t been keen on passing it on when initially approached, but Ric’s okay ensured the key was ours for the day.
“Did you hear?”
“I heard,” I replied curtly.
“Are you going to call me when you’re done, hon?”
“I’ll call, but what are you expecting us to find?”
“Remnants of Coco Peterson maybe.”
“Remnants?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral. “As in . . . ?”
“Jewelry maybe. A tattoo maybe.”
Again, mention of both. By the way, do you know if there’s any truth to the rumor that Coco’s sucking up the big one? Kent’s question tumbled around my head like dice in a crap game.
“Is he dead?” I demanded. “Did you or your brother kill him?”
“You’re the detective, hon. You tell me. Check in around nine tonight — hold that thought. I’ll check in.” Ricardo Mako Picolo disconnected.
I stared at the cell phone, not sure whether to curse or laugh at the man’s audacity. And just because he’d previously mentioned an incentive, who’d decided I was on the Picolo payroll?
A horn that belonged on a freight train and not a classic car sounded. Kent Winche waved cheerfully from the driver’s seat of a very bright, highly polished 1965 Mustang Convertible.
“Very nice,” I commented nonchalantly upon opening the passenger door.
He winked. “It’s got character . . . like me.”
“You, Mr. Winche, are a character.” With a droll smile, I slipped onto the leather seat.
If you’d like to learn how we fit the [many] pieces of this crazy puzzle together, please check us out at: