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“The obvious person is Bernie, but I don't know why he'd have reason to search the house. Do you suppose the police did this, searching for the supposedly stolen property?”
“No,” Diesel said. “This doesn't feel like a police search. And I doubt the police would go to this trouble for a charge I can almost guarantee will be dismissed. Annie's wanted for armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. A guy named Stanley Cramp claims Annie walked into his pawnshop, robbed him, and shot him in the foot. No weapon was found, but two witnesses can place Annie at the scene. Neither of them saw the robbery or assault happen.”
Diesel was turned toward me in the small car. His arm was resting on my seat back, and he was absentmindedly stroking my neck with his fingertip while he was talking. It was soothing and disturbingly erotic, all at the same time, and I was working hard to pay attention to the conversation and not to the warm fingertip.
“Why was Annie in a pawnshop?” I asked Diesel.
“Annie said she went into the pawnshop on a whim. She said she saw a necklace in the window that intrigued her. The two witnesses were in the shop when she went in. The witnesses left. Annie left shortly after that without the necklace. And minutes later the call went in to 911.”
“How was she identified?”
“She'd parked in front of the shop, and Stanley Cramp took her plate down.”
“What is she accused of taking?” I asked Diesel.
“The necklace. Nothing else.”
“Have you talked to Stanley Cramp?”
“Not yet, but I think it's time. I'd like you to do it. See if you can charm something out of him. If that doesn't work, feel free to shoot him in the other foot.”
“That would be tough,” I told him, “since I haven't got a gun.”
Diesel reached under his seat and pulled out a Glock.
“I'm not going to take that!” I said.
“Why not?”
“I hate guns.”
“You can't hate guns. You're a bounty hunter.”
“Yes, but I almost never shoot people. Bounty hunters only shoot people on television.”
Diesel raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, so maybe I shot a couple guys, but it wasn't my fault.”
“Just take the friggin' gun,” Diesel said. “Stanley Cramp isn't a nice person.”
“Where am I going to find this guy?”
“He lives in an apartment over the pawnshop, but at this time of day he'll be working. The pawnshop is a one-man operation, open seven days a week.”
I got out of Diesel's 'vette and into my Escape. I drove into the center of the city and took the side street that led to the pawnshop. I parked two doors down on the opposite side of the street. I left my car, crossed the street, and glanced at Diesel parked one store down. I rang the bell next to the front door and got buzzed in. High security.
Stanley Cramp looked like life had pretty much been sucked out of him. He was about five foot nine and scrawny. Mid-fifties with thinning oily black hair that was badly in need of a cut. His clothes were a size too large. His teeth were tobacco-stained. He had bloodhound bags under his eyes and skin the color and texture of wet cement. He looked like he'd be better placed in a body bag than standing behind the counter in a pawnshop.
I approached the counter and sent Cramp a flirty smile, and Cramp turned to see if someone was standing behind him.
“I hope you don't mind,” I said to him. “I was freezing out there, and your shop looked cozy and warm. And I saw you in here all by yourself.”
“You aren't looking to… you know, make money, are you? Because I think you're real cute, but I don't have any money. I bet on the wrong horse yesterday, and I got cleaned out.”
Oh great, he thought I was a hooker. Not exactly a flattering appraisal, but I could get some mileage out of it. “Do you bet on the wrong horse a lot?”
“Yeah, unfortunately. I used to always win, and then my luck turned, and now I keep getting deeper and deeper in the crapper.”
