“You know who this young man is?”
“Yes, Mr. Paulsen,” she said. “His name is Adam Zantz. I’ve got his driver’s license on file.”
“That’s not what I mean. Do you know what this schmuck does?”
She went ashen.
“You did look him up, Luba.”
She nodded. “He works for Lyft. He also wrote some songs; they’re registered with ASCAP but they…” She shot me a sympathetic look. “They didn’t chart. I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”
“I don’t care about that,” Rog said. “This idiot is a low-rent detective, and he just spent the last half hour trying to grill us about some ludicrous BS.”
“But I checked the bureau, the—”
“He has no investigator’s license, Luba. He’s a sneaky little rodent.”
“But Mr. Gladstone in Treehouse 32 is his uncle, he—”
“He has no uncle. Next time spend five minutes doing a little research instead of watching quilting videos or whatever the fuck it is you do all day.”
She trembled, and her chest was heaving. “How did you find out about him, Mr. Paulsen?”
“By reading the goddamn news, Luba. It’s not that hard. This is the idiot that worked on that Annie Linden case.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Paulsen, I—I—I—”
“You’re not gonna cry now, Luba, are you?”
“No, Mr. Paulsen, I—I thought that he—” But she started heaving and sobbing and, bam, Paulsen grabbed her roughly, gave her a hard, cruel shake.
I stood and said, “Take it easy, what the fuck.”
“You sit down and zip it.”
Luba looked at me, her mouth trembling. “Please—you caused enough trouble already.”
“You can go now, Luba.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kipler,” she said, still shaking with sobs. “I’m sorry, Mr. Paulsen.”
Rog opened the door, and she was about to scurry out with her head bowed, but Kipler said, “Wait a minute, babe, wait a minute.”
“Yes, Mr. Kipler.” Luba dried her eyes with the corner of her silk blouse sleeve and waited for instructions. Rog went nice-nice, petted her bony shoulder.
“No hard feelings, okay? You know we have to be careful.”
“I understand, Mr. Paulsen.”
“Call Jim back in here. Let’s get this snoopy little bitch off the premises.”
The door shut behind her.
“You’re outta here, sonny boy.” Rog winked.
I kept my eye on the closed door. Luba came back with Jim, the organic Jack LaLanne from hell.
She said, “Mr. Paulsen would like you to escort this young man off the premises.”
LaLanne said, “Up—now, dipshit.”
I said, “Fuck you.”
“Ha!” Kip said. “Will you listen to this prick?”
I said, “The Daily Telegraph—they came to you.”
LaLanne exchanged a glance with Rog, who gave a single cold nod.
LaLanne said, “Get up or I snap your neck.”
I was already in the process of getting up, but he shoulder-pinched me anyway and I crinkled like a Cheeto—he had incredible strength for a silverback. His grip tightened around my collarbone. “Let’s go.”
He pushed me to the door, but then Rog said, “Wait a sec, hold on. I gotta know something. Hold it. Just who sent you here?”
I stared back, silent.
Kip said, “How ’bout we make a deal? You tell us who told you to come here, and we won’t shoot you in the head and bury you behind the rec building.”
