Chapter Thirteen
Gotcha!
Whirling around, I saw a hulking, fiftyish blond man—probably six-foot-six—with slate blue eyes and, so help me, a crew cut. He held out a badge and said, “Private investigator.”
The photo on the license matched his face, and the name was “Gunther Grzbowski.” I could feel my face twist with the effort to figure out how to pronounce his name.
With a pained expression, he growled, “No, it’s not Grab-asski. And it’s not Gurz-bow-ski. It’s pronounced Juh-BUSS-key. It’s Polish. See the brown stains on my shoes? That’s from stomping the s**t out of people who tell Polish jokes. Want to try one?”
“No, I’m fresh out of Polish jokes. Blonde jokes, too.”
“Thought so. Damn! I wish sodomy was illegal here the way it is in some states!”
“I didn’t—”
Honey frowned. “He di
