CHAPTER EIGHT
“Very cool,” Sach said, twirling slowly on the large Persian-green flatweave rug in the center of the main agency office. “Not what I’d expect a private-eye place to look like.”
“You were expecting something à la Sam Spade?” Rey asked with a wry smile and dropped into one of four blended-leather chairs.
“Kinda.” He grinned and sat on a rattan sofa.
“Coffee?” Linda held up a freshly made pot as she stood in our “sort-of” kitchen, a small niche with a counter and room (barely) for a small fridge, coffee machine and kettle, and toaster oven.
“Sure, with a little milk.” He pulled down the sleeves of a raspberry-red quarter-zipper argyle sweater. “Who’d have thought it could get so cool so fast? My eleven o’clock client will probably nix the beachfront run.”
I grabbed one of
