The Case of the Purloined Painting by Carl Brookins - A Sean Sean Mystery! Plus Final Two Books in Series!

Later that evening, sitting on the couch wide awake, I wasn’t much good for anything. The trembling had subsided, but I was still pretty nervy. In spite of what’s found in novels and on television programs, cops don’t engage in shoot-outs very often. PIs almost never. I couldn’t remember the last time I shot at something other than a target at the range. The scotch in my drink helped. So did the calming understanding presence of my good friend, Catherine McKerney. She returned to my side on the living room couch after changing the CD in the stereo. The music filled the room and my head. Symphonic. Something by Schumann, I thought. 

“Do you want to talk about it,” she said softly. “No,” I said, but then I did talk about it. “Killing is so irrevocable. It’s so final. You can’t step back from that edge, find another route. Once you’ve killed someone that door is closed.” 

“You sometimes tell me that even with a death, we are so good at finding information or clues, that no door is really closed.” “That’s true, of course,” I said. I laid my open hand on her thigh as if to reassure myself of her nearness. “But this guy leaves so many questions unanswered. We’ll learn who he is and who he worked for. But why did he try to run me down last week, if it was even the same guy? And who was he working for then? How much did he get paid to take me out? Does he leave a family behind?” 

“So many questions,” Catherine murmured. “Did I tell you how very glad I am that we’re here together right now and I’m not visiting you in a hospital. Or the morgue?” We looked at each other. 

Then Catherine picked up the thread of our examination. “Will the answers to those questions help solve your cases?” 

“Some of them might. One of the questions with possibly an important answer is how he knew where I was this afternoon. Did he follow me from the office? Or was he lying in wait? Did somebody at Murchison call him in to try to rub me out?” I stopped and stared at the living room wall opposite. Then I stuck out my right hand and looked at the back. No tremors but my gut was still signaling me I was upset. A faint ache. “Do you want another drink?” “No, thanks. I’m as certain as I can be the truck was the same one that almost ran me down the other night downtown. That means I’ve been targeted for a while. I wish I could be sure it’s related to the murder of Gottlieb.” 

“You seem pretty sure,” Catherine said. I looked up at her. She’d stepped into the kitchen to refresh her glass of wine. “I’m not sure I get you.” “Ever since we got home and you’ve started talking about these cases, you’ve used the singular. You haven’t referred to the cases, plural, as I just did. I think, unconsciously, your analytical brain has decided the murdered Gottlieb, the mysterious Ann/Anne, and the missing Market woman are all connected.” 

Being a "little" disabled these days has allowed me to read faster than I can share and discuss them. So, since the next three by Carl Brookins in the entertaining Sean Sean Mystery Series, are all related to thefts, I'm going to go ahead and recommend the entire series to you!

The front cover of The Case of the Purloined Painting spotlights a murder which occurs as two men attack another, obviously looking for something, which the victim does not have. When the man is pushed over a railing and plummeted to his death, the two looked over and then, turned, and left, as if nothing had happened... But somebody had seen what had happened, hurried to the body, picked up an object and also turned away, also leaving the man with little concern!

And while this is happening, Sean is meeting with a new client who wants him to deal with a missing person, a woman the man had only recently began to date...

So, how does murder, a missing person, plus a painting come together into an intensive mystery? Simple... Sean Sean, PI, is on the job!

“Works for me. But first why don’t you tell me what you know and what you think.” McKinley looked mildly surprised and then the planes of his face relaxed and I got a definite feeling that he was softening, starting to think of us as closer to a collaboration. And that was a good thing. I wanted his perspective on the old case. “It was in July that year. The department knew the railroad was bringing a car stuffed with old money through town and we expected a shipment of old paper from the Federal Reserve in Minneapolis to come here by truck. But the truck was delayed so it wasn’t part of this.” McKinley shuffled a copy of a newspaper over to me. It had big headlines and a photo that showed a street scene with a couple of people and a single car parked at the curb. “I’ve got a map in here but this is the street where the thugs rolled up and just started shooting. In the service I would have called it suppressing fire. Made everybody keep their heads down. 

“Meanwhile, across the street and half a block down another vehicle rolls up to the train siding where the Railway Express and their guards are waiting. More shooting and the two guards are killed. They never had a chance. One guy jumps out of the truck into the railroad car and starts tossing out those canvas bags they used to use, you’ve seen ‘em?” I nodded. Only in pictures, but I knew what he meant. McKinley took a swig of coffee—he’d forgotten my water—and went on. “Four, maybe five bags of the cash. Then the first car with the rest of the gang rolls up. The truck made a U-turn and they took off down the street heading south on Concord. About that time, a rookie cop named Ed Washington runs into the street from around the corner. He has his gun out and probably shouted for them to stop. They gunned him down.” 

“So I count seven guys in the gang—four in the car and three in the truck. What happened to them?”

Old Money had surfaced--a couple had begun a renovation at their home garage and had found the buried stash... Soon as the work started, people started to ask questions, some just friendly neighbors but others who claimed to be inspectors or for other reasons had the right to check out what was happening in the back yard... Actually, it was found by their dog who, upon seeing ground being dug up, found a very old gun and their child picked it up, carrying it into the family's home... Was the gun buried because it was used to murder during a heist? The Kava family came to Sean to guide them on what to do--only thing is, Sean later learned that Kava's wife had a secret that may affect how to move forward. Was it that secret that resulted in both parents being killed, leaving their son an orphan?

Upon investigating it was discovered that the money was indeed old and the timing seemed to possibly be money taken during a train robbery... I enjoyed seeing the name of a distant relative, through marriage, of John Dillinger, a notorious gangster who was part of the family into which my mother's sister married! (And, no, none of that supposed money acquired by Dillinger ever made it all the way down to the John Dillinger who became my uncle...LOL

Well, as you can see, Sean had to do some serious study of train robberies that may have happened in the St. Paul area, figuring it would be an easy grab and run... A great historical story was the outcome of Sean's research and an exciting, complex story that leads to a dangerous vehicle and foot chase with Sean following and hoping some of the calvary got there quickly!

The guy sprawled on my office floor was dead. I didn’t need my years of experience as a private snoop to know that. The big bloody hole in his bare chest clued me in. The recently deceased was about seventy, I judged, and portly, overweight, even. He was a white man wearing expensive sandals and what was probably an upscale pair of boxer-style swimming trunks. They looked dry, but I didn’t touch them to verify that. I sniffed. The blood smell was strong and the dark pool under his right shoulder was just starting to congeal. I didn’t smell any gunpowder. I recognized him, of course. I stepped carefully around the body to avoid getting blood on my favorite tennis shoes and picked up my recently acquired cell phone to dial 911. After that I called my friend Ricardo Simon, an experienced investigator with the Minneapolis PD. I sometimes talked with him about puzzling aspects of my cases. I wasn’t your typical taciturn PI who viewed every cop as a potential enemy. I was atypical in a lot of ways. I often wore red Converse, for example. The ones with white soles. “Detective Simon,” he answered. “Sean,” I said. “You remember my case involving diamond smuggling?” “Of course.” “My principal suspect’s dead. In my office. Large-caliber gunshot to the upper chest.” “Preston Pederson? Wow. Did you kill him?” “No, I just found him.” “Call 911?” “Of course.” Ricardo hummed for a few seconds, then said, “Appears you’ll have to revisit your case while reordering your thinking. Hmm. Stay in touch.” “Thanks,” I said and clicked off. This case was getting more and more complicated. The case to which I referred started a few weeks ago in a suburb of Saint Paul. Actually, the case started years ago, in a previous century and about six thousand miles to the west. But I’m getting ahead of myself...

Sorry, I've not presented these books in order... I started with one, read it, got another, then...you get the idea. Anyway, by the time covered in this book, Sean is practically living with Catherine, his love interest...

My pardner is the tall, willowy and wealthy massage therapist Catherine Mckerney, holder of profitable massage contracts and owner of a massage therapy school and a bunch of stocks. Her dad had left Catherine well-enough fixed, but being a smart cookie and not one to rest on her well-formed backside, she bought a massage school and turned a documented need into a lucrative operation that gave her a very comfortable living, something I was willing and able to share. 

What? Shocked? I made a reasonable living as an independent PI. I shuffled about and took care of business just fine. But there was no fancy mansion on Lake of the Isles, no Bentley in the garage. No Pontiac GTO, for that matter. I had my little office on Central Avenue, and I had my practice, and as long as Catherine Mckerney would put up with my shortcomings and my demented wit, we had a fine relationship. It’s called love, I think.

I wheeled into the underground garage at Catherine’s abode, then zipped up to the fourth floor and down the well-carpeted hall to our apartment. As I went I admired the fine prints on the walls between doors. The doors were widely spaced because the apartments on the fourth floor were roomy, sporting multiple bed- and other rooms. Catherine liked her space, and as I might have mentioned, whatever Catherine likes... 

Inside, I discovered I was alone save for the blinking light on our joint telephone service. I was something of a reluctant techno user. I had a regular “blower” in my office, one of those units that squatted on a desk. With wires hooking it to the wall. It had a letter and number dial, and you picked up the hand piece and talked into one end while listening to the other. There was an extension here in Catherine’s place and another in my Roseville palace, my address of record. Catherine had a cell phone. I owned one but most emphatically did not carry it. Who wanted to talk on the telephone while driving somewhere? Not me. Maybe I was prejudiced because, not that long ago, I helped an EMT after a bad multi-car accident on a freeway at the edge of the city. I had the misfortune to help collect body parts. One of the parts we collected was the hand and wrist of one of the three dead drivers. The fingers still clutched a cell phone. 

So, with the telephone arrangement, I knew I could answer the blinking summons because it was our telephone service. I picked up the mobile unit and ambled into the kitchen while I retrieved the call. There was only one. It was my sultry-voiced lover, Catherine herself. “I miss you, sweetie. And I have to postpone tonight’s dinner date. Some things at the school need my immediate attention. I’ll make it up to you. There are leftovers in the fridge. I should be home by eleven or so and then we’ll have some fun.” Her voice dropped almost an octave, and she sort of growled at me when she hung up. It was very stimulating. 

Before Catherine and I came together after a chance meeting at a symphony ball affair, I would have gone out for a quick supper or back to my office with a beer and brat takeout. Something like that. Catherine had modified my eating habits so I was healthier. I checked the refrigerator, went and changed and slipped down to the basement pool to do a few laps. After laps, supper consisted of a large plate of cold broiled chicken, a bowl of cole slaw and a very nice crisp Sterling Sauvignon Blanc. The Napa Valley variety. Later, about eleven-forty or so, just as I was dozing off after having watched Charlie Rose interview somebody important, the other side of our big bed sank a bit and a long-legged, naked siren slid under the covers and began making free with my body. 

Got to tell you, this was my favorite, the byplay between Sean and Catherine is fun and extraordinary. Ok, I may be prejudiced, but in my "reading" experience, I don't recall that a rich woman willingly enjoyed a relationship with a guy making less money. You're right, it's normally the other way around. But, the key thing for both of these people was their self-confidence. They enjoyed each other's company and had fallen in love--so they strutted their stuff whenever and wherever they were seen...

And the the only thing that Catherine demanded was that Sean NOT wear his red Keds when they were dressing for a ritzy evening. LOL

There is more than one diamond involved--in fact, there were many gems being secretly stolen and then smuggled to America to sell... That was one concern for Sean...but solving the associated deaths that occurred was his greatest concern.

This wonderful series is character-driven. Sean Sean is funny, a fantastic Private Investigator and shares his love freely and openly. The two of them as a couple have a relationship which is full of quips to each other and, yet, it is clear that they are deeply committed to each other. The mysteries are unique in type and each provides the reader a story into which they can sink and enjoy watching a pro work his magic...

And this  all happened due to the pro that has written the series--Carl Brookins. Many kudos for a writer that creates not only great characters but one who keeps you interested to the very end. Enjoy!

GABixlerReviews

See Also The Case of the Deceiving Don

                   The Case of the Stolen Case

Carl Brookins' The Case of the Deceiving Don - A Sean Sean Mystery

Back in my office I considered what I had learned. My former boss, Duke Fararra, the owner of the agency where I’d trained to be a P.I., taught me that sometimes you had to kick the tires to dislodge the rust. I was going do that, metaphorically. On the main floor of my building was a small print shop where one could do some typing and mailing. I used an old portable typewriter they had lying around to compose a brief letter in which I explained I had some information the letter’s recipient needed. For a fee, I’d provide it. The information I had. I could have done the letter on my computer, but I wasn’t good with it for things like this. Besides, I wanted a deliberately low-tech appearance. 

I typed that the information was about the recently dead Augustus Molinaro. I suggested they call my representative, detective Sean Sean, and I put in my office telephone number. I signed it, Martin Levy. I addressed it to the Elite Agency in Edina. I didn’t wear gloves, and I didn’t care about other traces I might leave since I just wanted to see if I could break something loose. Rattle a cage or two, so to speak. 

Elite knew where my office was, and they knew where I lived. So I mailed the letter and went home. The next morning, after a peaceful night with my cats, a delicious steak and baked potato, and Yo-Yo Ma on the stereo, I sat down at my home computer, a nice, state of the art Dell, and Googled up Mr. Augustus Molinaro. I spent a couple of hours wandering the Internet dipping into various government and media sites, collecting bits and pieces on Don Molinaro. Some of this research had been done before and by others. But I was looking with a different eye. I wasn’t just collecting information, I was looking for clues. I was searching for something like a loose thread I could pluck out of the fabric of this event. What I assembled gave me some clues as to what might be going on. Molinaro came out of a Boston family. He spent some time in New York and then went off to Pennsylvania. I got the impression he was kind of a visiting fireman, or maybe a trusted liaison. In any case, he settled down in Mechanicsburg where he then rose steadily through the ranks to become a kingpin of the Eastern Pennsylvania Mafia.

Mechanicsburg is a small place, essentially a western suburb of Harrisburg in east-central Pennsylvania. It’s on the Susquehanna River. Which wanders through the Tuscarora and Appalachian mountains on its way to Chesapeake Bay. Pretty country out that way. Why is it important? If you drive north along the river a few hours you come up to Milton. It’s an easy scenic sort of drive with the White Deer Ridge rising ahead. You’ll see signs for the town of White Deer and another place called Allenwood. Allenwood has seen a lot of mobsters and other assorted criminals over the years. It’s the site of a large federal prison complex. One of the biggest in the federal prison system. So Mechanicsburg isn’t such a bad place to be headquartered if you function as a kind of inside/outside liaison. And you might acquire a lot of juicy secrets. And if you were a careful Don Augustus Molinaro—greasy Gus—after a while you might just become a liability. Or not. I was going to find out, hopefully not by traveling to Pennsylvania. There was a surprising amount of information, both official and not so official, about Allenwood on the Internet. There wasn’t a floor plan of course, and the maps were a little short on exactitude. So I called the Bureau of Prisons. Yes, under certain guidelines and under the rules for particular prisoners, almost anyone could visit almost any prisoner. If said prisoner agreed. 

Now, in spite of what they tell you about security, information flows back and forth. So does contraband. I was getting an idea that just maybe Don Molinaro was targeted for past actions or indiscretions which may have only come to light in recent times. If that were true, knowing what changes had occurred could lead me to the why of the bomb. From there it could be an easy step to the who of it. So the question of the moment became what sorts of information and other illegal goods might the good Don have been handling? I would find out. I went to my office and checked the roof across the street. It was empty. I checked the street. No ice-blue late model Audis in sight. I ran my new blinds up and down a couple of times. Nice and smooth. The telephone rang. 

It was my cop friend, Ricardo Simon. “How’s tricks, dude?” he asked. “Okay. I’m still a little jumpy, as you can imagine. Any information for me?” “Not on the Molinaro thing. I’m calling because we got a notification that Mrs. Higgins has been released.” “What, probation?” “Yeah. Good behavior. Thought you’d want to know.” “I appreciate the heads up, but I didn’t take her daughter’s threat seriously, did you?” “Nope. Just wanted you to know,” he said. “Is she staying in town?” “Oh, sure. Her listed address is their place on the south side.” “Thanks. Let’s have dinner one day.” “On you. Take care, Sean.” Simon hung up the phone. Mrs. Higgins. Huh. I’d been instrumental in getting her put away back a couple of years. She’d had an accident on the job at some insurance company. Figured she knew enough to stiff the company for a whole lot of money. Nice older lady, until you got in her way. Then she could turn nasty. I followed her around for a while and discovered her back and hip problems weren’t anywhere near as bad as she and her doctor said they were. I’d testified in court that my pictures and video of her cavorting in the water at Hidden Lake were true and unedited. I guess it didn’t help that she wasn’t wearing any clothes. Anyway, when the jury convicted her, she stood up in court and called me some names in most unfortunate language, concluding as the bailiffs muffled her that she’d get me. 

I hung up and went to the bathroom. When I got back to my office, the message light was blinking so I played the recording. There was only one call, from Blanche at the retirement home. “Hey, sonny,” she said. “Good recording on your answer machine. Get your buns out here as soon as you can. I got some intelligence for you.” Uh oh. If these imperative calls became a frequent pattern, Blanche could get to be a nuisance. On the other hand, she might have something significant for me. I decided to compromise with myself. I’d go over to Sheltering Limbs tomorrow morning on my way into the city from home, instead of right now...

~~~

I haven't quite figured out the time period during which Sean Sean acted as a PI... For one, cell phones exist, but he refuses to use one. Computers, including notebook style are available, but Sean doesn't have one. In fact, he eschews most anything technical, and, instead, depends upon experts with whom he builds relationships, to handle the parts of his job that are necessary, but not really, actually dealing with the actual investigation and pulling the pieces of information together to solve a case... 

And while he may not use technology, he has outfitted his car in various ways to ensure that he's able to both protect himself as well as work to investigate wherever he may need to go, all with the right tools... He is also quick to notice and remember his immediate surrounding area, no matter where he was, and, even though everybody was running around, Sean was, perhaps, the only one for this case who noticed a car parked not too far away that seemed to have two men in the front seat... And, a blue silver car, which he would later identified as an Audi...

Of course, he's also particular with what jobs he takes--and, under no circumstances, will he take on jobs related in any way to the mafia...

But, this one evolved out of an accident... Specifically, a wheelchair was found very near to the entrance of Sean's home and he had immediately ran to see if he could help... The individual in the chair lived in a retirement home. Sean learned from the officer in charge, Sgt. Lasker, that the chair and occupant was blown literally into pieces by a bomb! Fortunately, Ms. Laster was the type of officer who was willing to include Sean as somewhat of a partner as long as they were willing to share whatever information was found by either.

Almost immediately, it seemed that there was one individual who would be the main person of interest. He was a male attendant to the victim, Augustus Molinaro, a Mr. Levy, who was not an employee of the Home and about whom not even the director of the Home knew how to contact him. The only thing anybody now knew was that he had disappeared right after the bomb had exploded! 

This investigation was turning out to be extremely complex, so much so that Sean had to start making notes... He lamented the fact that, unlike Hammer or Philip Marlowe who must have a better memory since they didn't take notes... So Sean headed back to his office to start writing up what had happened. He may not have a client, but he knew that he personally was going to get involved with this one... Yeah, even after they found out that Augustus was, you guessed it, actually, Greasy Gus who had a long mob connection! So Sean figured he'd better check a few manuals--Lew Archer and a Ross MacDonald from his bottom desk drawer, but neither of these provided any new insight... Although... Archer did suggest that in his experience, at least, old crimes seemed to be at the root of much of his clients’ troubles. When the telephone rang, I picked up. That turned out to be one of my poorer decisions of the day... But Archer was right, because Greasy Gus' crimes were old...and still continuing! 'Til Somebody Blew Him Up!

Cause the Feds were not involved... And one of the things he brought to that meeting was this: What I mean is, who knows how many other nefarious characters like Greasy Gus are being quietly housed in our community? Isn’t this something that civic-minded citizens ought to take to City Hall? I mean, do I have to start worrying about property values?”

Well, Sean, somebody is out to keep you off this case... first, there's the two big guys... then somebody murders one of them thinking it was you...and then an anonymous caller asks you to meet him late that night at the Stone Arch Bridge... Personally, I'm pretty sure Spenser would have told him to take at least Hawk as backup...

It was a typical mid-summer night in Minnesota. Hot, moist, thick. It was nigh onto three in the morning and the pavers under my tires chuckled and popped. That’s what they’re called, pavers. Basically, they’re a kind of brick, and they replaced mud and gravel on a lot of Twin Cities streets in an earlier century. Some places they called ‘em cobble stones. Later they were dug up or just coved over with asphalt. In this historic district of the original village of Saint Anthony, hard by Saint Anthony Falls on the Mississippi River, in spite of their unevenness, the pavers had been exposed and many re-laid to add a bit of nostalgic ambience to the neighborhood. With the later bar closing installed by the legislature and various city councils, there were still a lot of people about here in the dead of night and numerous cars parked at the curbs. In an earlier time, three in the morning would have been pretty dead. Maybe my mysterious caller was hoping for the anonymity of a crowd. I was driving slowly south, more or less along the east bank. That put the river on my right. My caller had said to meet him at the south end of the famous Stone Arch Bridge. The bridge actually connects the east and west banks of the river, but because of the orientation of bridge and river at that particular place, the east end of the bridge was actually a little south of the west end. People sometimes get confused about that. Makes clandestine rendezvous problematic—or something. A patrol car went by in the other direction. I felt the cop’s eyes on me for a minute, registering, assessing my presence. Not for the first time I wondered why I was indulging my caller. I might learn something significant, but more than likely, I wouldn’t. I was a little more relaxed than I might have been because the site was open. It would have been difficult to sneak up on me, or even to get a shot off. The lighting and the closed up building on this side of the river all worked in my favor.

He was wearing a western-style straw hat and dark narrow-legged pants. But no high-heeled boots. His shoes appeared to be dark cross-trainers. The hat was pulled low on his forehead so his face was shadowed from the ugly orange overhead light that fell on us. He was white. His dark blue or black short-sleeved shirt revealed skinny arms and knobby elbows. I judged he was around forty, maybe a little older, and around 160 pounds. He appeared reasonably fit. He was leaning against the railing on the bridge looking sort of down toward the water and when I got close enough he said “Mr. Sean.” Quiet voice. Flat, no discernable inflection or accent. Not nervous. Like the voice on my machine. “That’s me,” I said. I didn’t ask his name. I figured it was a waste of breath. He didn’t ask me for ID, either. I was pretty sure anything that transpired here wasn’t going to end up in a courtroom under oath. A nocturnal bicyclist rode slowly by, tires faintly hissing on the pavers. I leaned on the same railing facing the man about four feet away. My instincts told me he wouldn’t take it kindly if I moved closer. He turned his head and seemed to look past me. I had the feeling he was checking for observers. I’d already done that. I was feeling just a mite exposed. After two murder attempts I was jumpier than usual. 

“You came alone.” “Yes. Your call indicated this was to be a private meeting.” “You wired?” “No. That stuff is expensive, not always reliable, and I can’t recall the last time I had a need for it.” “Who killed Dennis?” “Dennis?” For a moment I was taken aback, as it were. I recovered quickly. “Oh. Dennis, the man I called Buzz Cut. I don’t know.” “Wasn’t you.” “No. I was home watching TV. I think he was searching my office and somebody made a mistake. Whoever did it saw a shadow on the window blind, thought it was me, and pulled the trigger.” “You get shot at often?” “No, but it happened not too long ago. In my office that time as well. Missed me then, too.” I made an effort to keep my voice laconic. I didn’t want this guy to think I’d been freaked. Or that I was a little freaked at the murder of Buzz Cut in my office. “So you’re satisfied whoever shot Dennis thought he was aiming at you.” “That is correct.” “And it’s not related to the Molinaro thing.” “I don’t believe it is. I haven’t come across anything that would lead me to think there’s a connection. I could be wrong about that.” 

My inquisitor shifted away slightly to take more weight on his off leg. I can’t stand hip-shot like that for more than a few seconds. I guess the stance pinches a nerve in my back, or something. “You worried about being offed?” The tone of his voice changed. I’d had a feeling right from the beginning that the guy was graveling his voice and trying to use language in a different manner from his normal voice. All by way of concealing his identity. “Do you want to get to your point? It’s late, and I’ve got a full plate tomorrow.” I didn’t, but he didn’t have to know that. “Have you discovered anything about Gus Molinaro’s background?” “Some. He came from Mechanicsburg. That’s in Pennsylvania. Just a short ride south of Allenwood, the federal prison.” Straw Hat nodded once. “Do you know where Martin Levy is?” “No,” I said truthfully, “I don’t.” “We think he was planted on Gus.” I remained silent. None of my business what this guy and his companions, or family, thought. The less involved I could stay, the more likely I was to come out of this without any excess baggage. I rolled to my left and placed both elbows on the rail. Stared down at the water. It put me a little closer to my companion. I had my face turned toward him and could see a figure on a bicycle coming toward us along the bridge. Under the orange lights he was wearing a helmet, loose ankle-baring pants and a baggy tee shirt. He kept both hands on the handlebars and pedaled at a steady pace right on by us. Didn’t so much as glance our way. “I think you’ve got a tail,” I said. “Unless that cyclist is one of your minders.” Straw Hat tensed slightly. “All right,” he said. “Somebody will call you.”

~~~

With a surprising ending, I was hooked on this case from the very beginning... 

But next, we'll be hunting for a stolen piece of Art! I'm loving the Sean Sean Mystery Series! How About You?

GABixlerReviews