A Gathering of Detectives
I hung up from my nightly call with Ron just as Ribs pulled up. He got out of the car, carrying three six-packs. I walked to greet him and took one from his hands.
“These feel nice and cold,” I said.
“Goddamn freezing,” Ribs said. “They had them on ice. I think the corner store does one hell of an after-work business.”
We put the beers on into the cooler—on more ice—then took a seat in one of the lounge chairs. “How do you want to work this tomorrow?” I asked.
“You’re the boss,” Ribs said, “but I’d say go straight at him. Just ask where the damn money went.”
I thought, then nodded. “You’re probably right. No sense in beating around the bush. He already knows we suspect him.”
“s**t. That ain’t the half of it. I’m all for Tip’s suggestion. Snap a pair of cuff
