CHAPTER SEVENTEENKellen Jamison showed up as promised. He was dressed in a Cal Bears sweatshirt that had obviously seen better days, a pair of jeans that could stand a thorough washing, and a baseball cap with Free Palestine embroidered on the front.
“Ready?”
A Plymouth sedan badly in need of paint and with half its body trim missing stood at the edge of the street.
Carolyn Horton stared at the battered car and shuddered. She was holding a white leather Gucci handbag—it was springtime now, nearly summer—and wearing Stuart Weitzman pumps.
In the car—it didn’t even smell good—Jamison asked how her husband was doing.
“Not well. Not well at all, I’m afraid.”
Jamison said, “Sorry to hear that.”
“You will still be paid, Mr. Jamison. No need to worry about that.”
“I wasn’t thinking that a
