About This Book
He was minding his own business, hard at work in his cubicle at the accounting firm of Garst, Bauer & Hartmann, when his cellphone chimed. It was Vonda. Shit. Baldacci, his ever alert coworker and friend, rolled his chair over and peered at the screen of his cellphone. Shit. Carla rolled over. Chatterjee leaped to his feet and darted close. Carla and Baldacci were smiling at one another. Chatterjee said, Is Vonda the detective? Carla said, Detective Golczewski of the Philadelphia Police. Baldacci said, What did you do, Bergeron? People often asked him that. It was totally uncalled for. Most of the time. Hello, Vonda? How are you this lovely summer day? Vonda, or someone, expelled a deep breath. Vonda? Vonda said, So you aren't dead. Excuse me? I am the picture of health. Wait. What do you know? You have to tell me.... Shut up, Bergeron. I can't talk now. Are you at work? Of course.... Good. Stay there. Do not move without calling me first. Carla, Baldacci, and Chatterjee, who wanted to be called Dhruva, pulled their collective heads back like wide-eyed turtles. Baldacci said, Shit, Gabe. Carla said, Why did she think you might be dead? No idea. He really couldn't imagine. He was still pondering that when she called back. Baldacci said, It's Vonda! I can see that. Dhruva smiled. We need popcorn. He may have made several obscene hand gestures directed at young Dhruva before he answered the call. Yes, Vonda? Get here, Bergeron! He took another breath. Where exactly? She gave him an address in Port Richmond. And why do you need me there? Because they called me in on my day off. And she was gone. Which didn't explain anything really, but she was a homicide detective so he probably wasn't in for a festive afternoon.
