The Stiff and the Dead by Lori Avocato Page A

turned around.
    I felt faint.
    Then I realized I didn’t have on any makeup.
    The pain in my feet reminded me that I was still standing in my huff state in the doorway of Fabio’s office in a weird position. Fabio, on the other hand, sat staring.
    The biggest shit-eating grin I’ve ever seen formed across Jagger’s face.
    This was not good.
    The first thought that came to mind was to say, “Oops. Wrong office,” and then slink away.

    But I had every right to be here, I told myself, and I had every right to be annoyed. So, I sucked in the stale cigar air of Fabio’s office and stepped forward, leaving the door open.
    I wasn’t a fool.
    This way they’d have to be civil to me, or I’d have witnesses. I stepped closer. “Fancy meeting you here,” I said with a passing glance to the still-grinning Jagger.
    He nodded.
    Fabio stood. “What the hell is going on, Sokol? What’s got your panties in a—”
    Jagger flew up.
    I leaned back.
    But his furor was aimed at Fabio. “Is that any way to talk to a lady, Scarpello?”
    Wow. Had me blushing.
    I’d give him credit for manners.
    Fabio’s greasy complexion, the darker side of a cheap virgin olive oil, reddened. “What the hell are you storming in here about, newbie?” He gave a sideward glance to Jagger as if asking if that was better.
    Jagger ignored him. “Look, Pauline, leave Fabio out of this. There’s no use involving him anyway.”
    That I agreed with. Working with Fabio was like setting up a tent near a nuclear power plant. Any second and there could be a disaster.
    For a minute, I paused and thought. Jagger was right. He might have legitimate business here for one of his assignments—in which case I was betting that he worked for an insurance company, not the FBI. Then again, Jagger could have no good reason to be here other than to spy on me.

    I shook my brain. Why would Jagger waste his time on that?
    â€œOkay,” I said to him, “then you tell me what the hell is going on. Why are you here?”
    He turned toward Fabio. “Catch you later.” With that he took my arm and “guided” me out the door and down the hallway.
    When we passed Adele’s office, I heard her sigh. Loud.
    I felt the same way with his hand on my arm, but forced myself to ignore it and remain pissed. Once outside he aimed us toward his black Suburban. I’d had a few trips in that SUV. A family of four could live in the darn thing, and sometimes I thought Jagger actually did. Anything I needed, he had somewhere in the Suburban, and since no one knew where he actually lived, my mobile-home theory was entirely plausible.
    â€œGet in.”
    I looked at him and wondered if it was worth wasting my words to ask where we were going. So, I just got in with my mouth shut.
    Again, I always felt safe with Jagger—although every logical cell in my body said I probably shouldn’t. He could have killed me or done any number of things to my body—some of which I’d welcome—but he never did.
    We drove out of the parking lot and headed west.
    Dunkin Donuts.
    Our “hangout.”
    At the entrance he pulled up to the drive-thru window, ordered without asking me what I wanted and handed me my hazelnut decaf, light and sweet, followed by a French cruller.
    Exactly what I would have ordered.

    The January air was unusually mild today. The sun cast rays of gold across the dashboard to land on his now shaven face. Yum.
    And that wasn’t for the aroma of hazelnut decaf.
    He stuck his black coffee into the cup holder and pulled over to the side. This time there wasn’t any fear that someone was following us as there had been in the past, but I still felt a shiver of suspense run up my back.
    Again, being approximately thirty-three inches away from a hunk of a guy could have caused it.
    He shut off the engine and turned to me. “You need to take a job at the