JO01 - Guilty or Else Read Online Free Page B

personal questions. She looked nineteen, but she had to be at least twenty-three or twenty-four.
    “Yeah, I’m glad too, Rita. But it might’ve been a client.” We paused, then shook our heads in unison.
    “Nah,” we said.
    I watched the swing of her hips as Rita turned and walked to her desk to call the restaurant. I hoped she passed the bar on her first try. Not many did, but if she passed, I figured she’d leave me afterward. I enjoyed her company, her youthful exuberance, and her full of life personality, but no way could I match the offers that would come her way. With corporate law, the pay and benefits would be excellent. Who knows, maybe someday she’d make partner and be a role model to other young Latinas. I moved into the other room, my office, and put on some coffee.
    “Jimmy, the Regency wants to know what time you and your—Wait, are you taking a date?” Rita shouted from the other room. “Hey, good for you. Anyway, what time are you and your new girlfriend having lunch tomorrow?”
    “It’s business! Tell them twelve-thirty.”
    After she finished the call, Rita came into my office. “The coffee smells good. I’ll pour you a cup. Too bad about your date. You should find someone—”
    “Rita!”
    “Hey, you’re a good-looking guy. Don’t give up; someone will come along.”
    I reached for the phone. Dialing, I said, “I’m not looking for anyone to come along. I want to get settled before I…never mind. Don’t you have some junk mail to file or something?”
    Rita left. I took a sip of coffee and called Sol Silverman at Rocco’s Restaurant on Florence Ave. Sol, a licensed private investigator, information broker, and consummate horseplayer had been my friend since my days on the LAPD.
    Although Sol had a full suite of offices upstairs in the same building as the restaurant, he conducted most of his business downstairs. He even had a private phone installed at his exclusive booth in the rear of the main dining area.
    When he invited me to join him for lunch, I didn’t mention that I desperately needed his help with the Rodriguez murder case. Without Sol and his staff’s assistance, I didn’t stand a chance. His investigation and security company, the best in the business, commanded extraordinary fees. But, I’d drop a few hints while we ate and see if maybe he’d volunteer, pro bono.
    Rocco’s long and narrow dining room, two steps up from the bar area, had red leather booths with white linen covering the tables. An ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling, which cast the room in a dim glow. I walked in through the heavy, carved double doors. André, the maître d’, escorted me to Sol’s booth.
    Sol put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone he held. “Thanks, André,” he said and waved at me while continuing with his conversation.
    A tall drink rested in front of him. Knowing Sol, I figured it had to be a Beefeater’s gin and tonic, his choice before sundown. In the evening, he switched to straight Beefeater’s on the rocks. Something about not really drinking during the day.
    He hung up the phone and stood to greet me. Sol was actually taller sitting down than standing up. His chest and stomach were huge, but his legs were short and skinny. He had a large head perched directly on top of his torso without a noticeable neck. His crop of frazzled salt and pepper hair darted out in all directions. Most startling were his eyes: deep, dark and penetrating. They could bore right into your brain searching for some truth that might be in conflict with your words. He wore a ring with a diamond on his pinky, and a solid gold Rolex that looked like it weighed five pounds circled his wrist.
    Sol bought his suits from Sy Devore in Hollywood. His tailor here in Downey altered them. Benny tried his best for Sol—marking, measuring, cutting the material, adjusting everything you could adjust, and sewing it all back together— but to no avail. Sol still looked like Omar the Tent Maker