52
"Yeah, I think that was enough," I say, as we tail Tunney across the city. "Don't think I needed to know about the canapés."
"Hey, you said not to leave anything out,” Naomi, says, looking out of the passenger window. "My mom tells me I talk too much. Says I'm a chatterbox. Once you get me going, there's no shutting me up—And I'm doing it again, aren't I?"
"A little bit," I say, struggling with the stubborn gearstick on the Beetle.
"So what do you think?" Naomi says.
"I think I was right," I say. "Josh was killed and the LAPD are involved. I just don't know how or why."
I keep following Tunney at a safe distance, the Beetle chugging away, steering like sludge and a permanent vibration through the enormous wheel.
"You know, you really need to get the tyres looked at," I say. "When
