“Just take it when a suitable candidate turns up and store it for me until I call.”
“Store it?” he shouts. “It’s a f*****g dead body!”
“You have a freezer, don’t you?”
“And what should I say to Guadalupe if she decides to make carne asada and finds a f*****g dead body in the freezer?”
“Who’s Guadalupe?”
“My girlfriend,” he snaps.
My eyebrows hit my hairline. “You’re ninety.”
“I’m seventy-five! And for your information, Lupe says I don’t look a year over fifty.”
“Tell her, ‘Sorry, baby, it’s just work.’ She’ll understand. And maybe take her to get her eyes checked.”
“Oh, go to hell, Az.”
The line goes dead.
I grab the black velvet pouch lying on the desk next to the laptop and take out a small green rock, lifting it toward the light. Drago Popov certainly has a nice pr
