McCone and Friends Read Online Free

nice day, except for you.”
    He frowned. “What’d I do?”
    “Try ‘little,’ a Texas accent, and ‘ma’am!”
    “Ma’am are you all right?”
    “Aaargh!” I fled the parlor and ran up the stairs to the office of my boss, Sharon McCone.

    Sharon is my friend, mentor, and sometimes—heaven help me—custodian of my honesty. She’s been all those things since she hired me a few years ago to assist her at the co-op. Not that our association is always smooth sailing: She can be a stern taskmaster and she harbors a devilish sense of humor that surfaces at inconvenient times. But she is always been there for me, even during the death throes of my marriage to my pig-selfish, perpetual-student husband, Doug Grayson. And ever since I’ve stopped referring to him as “that bastard Doug,” she’s decided I’m a grown-up who can be trusted to manage her own life—within limits.
    That morning she was sitting behind her desk with her chair swiveled around so she could look out the bay window at the front of the Victorian. I’ve found her in that pose hundreds of times: sunk low on her spine, long legs crossed, dark eyes brooding. The view is of dowdy houses across the triangular park that divides the street, and usually hazed by San Francisco fog, but it doesn’t matter: whatever she’s seeing is strictly inside her head, and she says she gets her best insights into her cases that way.
    I stepped into the office and cleared my throat. Slowly Shar turned, looking at me as if I were a stranger. Then her eyes cleared. “Rae, hi. Nice work on closing the Anderson file so soon.”
    “Thanks. I found the others you left on my desk: they’re pretty routine. You have anything else for me?”
    “As a matter of fact, yes.” She smiled slyly and slid a manila folder across the desk. “Why don’t you take this client?”
    I opened the folder and studied the information sheet stapled inside. All it gave was a name—Darrin Boydston—and an address on Mission Street. Under the job description Shar had noted “background check.”
    “Another one?” I asked, letting my voice telegraph my disappointment.
    “Uh-huh. I think you’ll find it interesting.”
    “Why?”
    She waved a slender hand at me. “Go! It’ll be a challenge.”
    Now, that did make me suspicious. “If it’s such a challenge, how come you’re not handling it?”
    For and instant her eyes sparked. She doesn’t like it when I hint that she skims the best cases for herself—although that’s exactly what she does, and I don’t blame her. “Just go see him.”
    “He’ll be at this address?”
    “No. He’s downstairs. I got done talking with him ten minutes ago.”
    “Downstairs? Where downstairs?”
    “In the parlor.”
    Oh, God!
    She smiled again. “Lime green, with a Texas accent.”

    “So,” Darrin Boydston said, “Did y’all come back down to chew me out some more?”
    “I’m sorry about that.” I handed him my card. “Ms. McCone has assigned me to your case.”
    He studied it and looked me up and down. “You promise to keep a civil tongue in your head?”
    “I said I was sorry.”
    “Well, you damn near ruint my morning.”
    How many more times was I going to have to apologize?
    “Let’s get goin’, little lady.” He started for the door.
    I winced and asked, “Where?”
    “My place. I got somebody I want you to meet.”

    Boydston’s car was a white Lincoln continental—beautiful machine, except for the bull’s horns mounted on the front grille. I stared at then in horror.
    “Pretty, aren’t they?” he said, opening the passenger’s door.
    “I’ll follow you in my car,” I told him.
    He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
    As I got into the Ramblin’Wreck—my ancient, exhaust-belching Rambler American—I looked back and saw Boydston staring at it in horror.

    Boydston’s place was a storefront on Mission a few blocks down from my Safeway—an area that could do with some urban renewal and just might get it, if