I shouldn’t have answered the phone. Jeff’s house phone rarely rang, and I thought it likely to be telemarketers. But I stood in his kitchen—directly in front of the damn thing—slicing onions to go in a stir fry. When it rang, I picked it up on reflex.
“McConnell residence.”
“Is Jeff McConnell there?”
“He’s not available at the moment. Can I take a message?”
“Yes. This is Bill Sandoval. I’m Shannon McConnell’s probation officer, and I’m trying to reach her. She left this number as an alternate contact.”
“I’m not sure why she gave you Jeff’s house phone number instead of his mobile. But anyway, Shannon’s not here.”
I nearly added that she was rarely there these days, but stopped short. Just get his info for Jeff and let him deal with the guy. I pulled open Jeff’s junk drawer and locat
