11
The Scooby Gang
Wembley slowed the van to a crawl. Smart man.
“How long have you known about the text?” I asked Bradley. “Never mind. Who sent it?”
“For fifteen minutes. You didn’t stop talking until now. It came from Blaine Waldrup’s personal cell.”
Wembley chuckled and, when he finally got his mirth under control, said, “Well done, Bradley. Well done.”
I poked a finger in Wembley’s shoulder. “You shush. But he’s right, Bradley. Really nice job. Next time you have an important piece of information, please interrupt me. Especially if I’m talking and talking and talking.”
Bradley looked over his shoulder at me. “I don’t think I’m supposed to say you talk too much. Mrs. A wouldn’t approve of that.”
My cheeks hurt from trying not to smile. At least I could laugh at myself. I lacked
