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Camino Winds (Camino Island, #2) by John Grisham Read Online (FREE)

 

He shook his head in frustration. “Who knows? Lawyers and judges. Could be a couple of years. She might even cut a deal and avoid a trial.”

Nick said, “Oh, I so want a trial. I want to see Big Bob here on the witness stand telling the jury about his wonderful weekend with a cuddly contract killer right before she rubbed out his close friend. Talk about rich.”

Bob smiled and said, “I’ll have the jury eating out of my hands. And her lawyers won’t touch me.”

Bruce said, “You can’t testify, Bob, you’re a convicted felon.”

“Says who?”

Bruce looked at Van Cleve, the only one with a law degree. He said, “Well, generally speaking, they prefer not to put on felons because of credibility issues. But that’s not always the case.”

Bob protested, “I got more credibility than that crazy woman. I want to face her in court.”

Nick said, “And they flew you all the way to L.A. to see her in jail? You gotta tell us that story, Bob.”

“All right, but order another pitcher.” Bruce waved at the waiter as Bob launched into his windy tale. His language deteriorated as his humor gained traction, and soon they were all laughing again. It was almost dark when the shrimp was gone but the party was far from over. They found menus and were discussing the catch of the day when a young blonde in tight shorts and T-shirt approached the table. Heads turned and the music seemed to pause as she stopped by Van Cleve, took his hand, and pecked him on the cheek.

He said, “Hello dear,” as he quickly stood. “Sorry, boys, but I gotta go. This is my friend Felicia.” She flashed a perfect glowing smile at Bruce, Bob, and Nick, all of whom were too startled to say anything. They returned the smile, and Bruce was about to ask her to join them when Van Cleve said, “It’s been real. Thanks for the drinks. I’ll catch the next tab.” They sauntered away, with every eye on the tight denim shorts.

 

When Bob finally exhaled he said, “Since when do Fibbies get the girls?”

“Well, Bob, he is about twenty years younger than you.”

Nick, still gazing, said, “Wow, that’s impressive. Maybe I will hire on at the Bureau.”

Bruce said, “Down, boys. Who’s hungry? I’m paying, obviously Van Cleve is not. Who wants fish tacos?”

The music cranked up again and the crowd grew thicker. When the waiter brought a platter of fish tacos they ordered another pitcher of beer. As they ate they recalled, with more humor than they had any right to expect, the awful hours after the storm and the scene on Nelson’s deck. They laughed at the vision of old Hoppy Durden, Santa Rosa’s only homicide detective who doubled as its bank robbery specialist, as he stared at Nelson and scratched his head. And then he strung up enough yellow crime scene tape to stop a riot. They laughed at themselves as the three looters making off with Nelson’s thawing meats and pizzas and the best of his booze, in his fine BMW roadster. They laughed at Captain Butler of the state police, strutting around the crime scene in his pointed-toe boots as if on the verge of making an arrest while not discovering anything useful. They wondered if the FBI had informed him that the killer was in Jacksonville, in jail. They laughed and ordered more beer.