Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle Pauline Jones (the red fox clan txt) 📖

Mickey looked at Delaney. “Not exactly an artist, sir.” The report on Reggie Seymour was in their basket this morning, confirming what Luci told them last night. Was it the idea of her being right that made him so uneasy—or something else?

He handed the report to Pryce, who flipped it open. “Any prior record of violence?”

“No, sir, but Miss Weena’s gun is missing. Same caliber.”

“And,” Delaney spoke up, “most cons aren’t violent unless someone threatens them. It’s possible our John Doe is a former cellmate, trying to cut in on his action.”

“What makes you think he was running a con this time?”

“If you look at his record, sir, you’ll see he’s either been running a con or doing time for one since he hit puberty.”

“We’re compiling a list of his known associates, sir,” Mickey added.

Pryce acknowledged this with a slight nod, his finger hovering over text in the file. His brows rose. “Body piercing?”

Mickey picked at an imaginary piece of lint on the sleeve of his suit. “Yes, sir.”

“This doesn’t track with what I know of the Seymours.”

“Apparently the male Seymours are—different from the women.”

“Really?” Pryce frowned, staring off into space for a long moment while the two men watched uneasily. He finally gave himself a slight shake and directed his cold gaze back towards his detectives. “You got a plan?”

“We’d like to pick Seymour up,” Delaney said.

“Why do I hear a ‘but’ in there?”

“We don’t know exactly where he is,” Mickey admitted. “We have information that he’s in Cleveland—conducting business, but no one seems able to be more specific than that.”

“Not even the girlfriend?”

Mickey flinched at this description of Velma.

“She seems content to maintain a psychic connection with the suspect, sir,” Delaney said dryly.

Pryce’s lips twitched. “You have been having an interesting time, haven’t you?”

Mickey and Delaney exchanged quick looks. They’d left the really good stuff from their meeting with Velma out of the report.

Pryce snapped the file shut and tapped it against his hand. “Well, one thing you can probably be sure of.”

“What’s that, sir?” Mickey asked, suspicious of the sardonic look in Pryce’s eyes.

“With his record of ineptitude, he’s bound to surface soon. Just be ready when he does.” He tossed the file onto Mickey’s desk. “You know the drill. Start with the Cleveland PD. Then head back out to the Seymour’s, see if one of them will cough up an address—any personal details. The press is already turning this into a circus. Let’s wrap it up quickly, okay?”

“What are our chances of getting a warrant to go through his room?” Mickey asked.

“It would be better if we could search the whole house,” Delaney added.

“Did I mention these people have friends in high places? You’d be better off to just request their permission, get them to waive their rights.”

“I hate to tip our hand if they refuse,” Mickey said.

“The Seymours? I doubt they’re that devious, Ross.”

“Not the old ladies, sir, but there’s a niece that’s smarter than she likes to let on. She’s making protective noises. I don’t think she’ll let us search without a warrant.”

Pryce considered this. “I’ll see what I can do. Still have a few favors I can call in. When do you want to do it?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Okay.” Pryce didn’t shrug, he never did, but the “it’s your funeral” was implied by his tone of voice.

Mickey watched Pryce stalk to his office before he asked, “Why do I get the feeling Captain’s laughing at us?”

“Probably because he is.” Delaney looked up from some sheets he was scanning. “Did you get someone to check out our three Arthurs? Before we get too hot after Reggie, we ought to clear them.”

“It’s in the works.”

“Your Uncle Eddie doesn’t make any mention of Reggie Seymour. Didn’t he meet him?”

“When he was questioned, no one knew to ask about him.” Mickey felt a surge of hope. “If anyone can give us the straight scoop on Seymour, it’ll be Eddie.”

“Let’s do it. Be nice to have some nice, real facts to plump up this file.” Delaney grabbed his suit jacket off the back of the chair. “We can get some coffee on the way. Fortify ourselves before we tackle the Seymours again.”

Dante’s current Mardi Gras float was loosely modeled on Persephone emerging from the sea after her long sojourn out of the sun. He was particularly pleased with the visual impact of her large, mostly bare breasts just cresting the wave that mingled with the flow of her long hair down the length of the float.

He made a minor adjustment to a measurement, then looked up as Max came in and cleared his throat.

“What is it, Max?”

“I have some information on Arvin—not much—but it’s a start.”

“Ah.” Dante leaned back. “Took you long enough. Tell me where the bastard is.”

“Thing that’s made it so hard is Arvin Marvin didn’t appear to exist before he met your aunt. Had to be an alias. I put out some feelers. One of Giancarlo’s men remembers seeing a man answering Arvin’s description in Salt Lake City.” Max hesitated. “Seems he was married to twins there. He relieved them of their savings and disappeared about three months ago.”

“He’s a bigamist?” Max shrugged. Dante leaned back in his chair. “Cloris isn’t going to like this.”

Max looked as sympathetic as he was capable.

Dante frowned into the distance. “Keep looking. I don’t want him anymore—at least, not breathing.”

“Yes, Mr. Dante. I’ll arrange the contract. Anyone special you want to do it?”

Dante looked at Max. “Let’s find somebody that knows the bastard. Guy like that must have done time. I could tell he was a screw-up first time I met him. If he hadn’t already married her—” He scowled, his clenched hands breaking in half the pencil he held. One piece flew across the room and hit the wall. It made him feel better. He straightened. “The boys here yet? Got a little job for them to do, too.”

Max signaled them in and retreated to a corner.

The boys, Cain and Abel—though if those were their real