D Is for Deadbeat (Kinsey Millhone Alphabet Mysteries, No. by Sue Grafton

By Sue Grafton

Whilst Alvin Limardo walks into P.I. Kinsey Millhone's place of work, she smells undesirable information. He wishes Kinsey to carry $25,000. The recipient: A fifteen-year-old boy. it is a basic topic. So uncomplicated that Kinsey wonders why he does not convey the cash himself. She's virtually sure whatever is off. yet with hire due, Kinsey accepts Limardo's retainer opposed to her larger judgment…When Limardo's fee bounces, Kinsey discovers she's been had significant time. Alvin Limardo is actually John Daggett--an ex-con with a consuming challenge, better halves as well, and a slew of people that wish to see him lifeless. Now Kinsey is out 400 funds and in scorching pursuit of Daggett. whilst Daggett's corpse exhibits up floating within the Santa Teresa surf, the law enforcement officials rule the demise an twist of fate. Kinsey thinks it really is homicide. yet looking justice for a guy who each person looked as if it would despise goes to be much more durable than she bargained for--and what awaits her on the finish of the line is way extra aggravating than she could've ever imagined…

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Extra info for D Is for Deadbeat (Kinsey Millhone Alphabet Mysteries, No. 4)

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She was wearing a gray wool business suit and a prim, high-necked white blouse with a froth of lace at the throat. Her heels were a burgundy leather and matched her shoulder bag. She looked like an attorney or a stockbroker, someone accustomed to power. "Come on in," I said, "I was trying to figure out how to get in touch with him. " I was making small talk. She wasn't having any of it. She sat down, turning those riveting eyes on me as I moved around to my side of the desk and took a seat. I thought of offering her coffee, but I really didn't want her to stay that long.

Up close, I could see that she wasn't much more than twenty-five. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter, her coffee cup cradled in her hands. She wasn't wearing a bra and her breasts were big, as soft and droopy as balloons filled with water, her nipples pressing against the tee-shirt fabric like puckered knots. I wondered if she was a hooker. I'd known a few with the same careless sexuality – all surface, no feeling underneath. " "It's your place. You can do anything you want," I said.

This was silly. I walked away from her desk. I wanted to make a withering remark, but I couldn't think of one. I knew I was just mad at myself for taking the job to begin with, but I was hoping to lay a little ire off on her... a pointless enterprise. I got back in my car and headed toward the freeway. When I reached Santa Teresa, it was 4:35. I bypassed the office altogether and went home. My disposition improved the minute I walked in. My apartment was once a single-car garage and consists now of one room, fifteen feet on a side, with a narrow extension on the right that serves as a kitchenette, separated from the living area by a counter.

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