Page 30 of Misadventures of a Biker

“Not especially.”

He sat down. “You know, early in our marriage, Midge and I had a parrot. Damned thing could only say one thing. Hello. It said it over, and over, and over. After about ten years, it died. It was supposed to live thirty. I told the missus it died from boredom, because all it did was repeat itself. Keep saying ‘not especially’ for a few more years, and I’ll predict an untimely death.”

“Go to hell, old man.”

He chuckled. “I’m headed that direction. Just give me time.”

I laughed. “Sorry if I woke you when I got home.”

“I heard you come in, but I fell right back to sleep. You’ve got distinctive footsteps. As soon as I hear ’em, I relax.”

It was four thirty in the morning when I got home. Being up all night wasn’t constructive, but I had to do something to keep my mind off Teddi.

“I need to figure out something constructive to do with my day,” I said.

“You’ve already got something to do.”

“Do I?”

“Vinnie found out about your coworker gal’s ex-boyfriend.” He sipped his coffee. “He’s in Bonita Springs, five minutes away.”

I appreciated the old man’s efforts, but I had my doubts that Herb’s card-playing buddy found the right person between card games and free cups of coffee at the clubhouse.

I finished my coffee and stood. “I doubt he’s got the right guy.”

“I don’t give a damn if you believe me or not,” Herb snarled. “But if Vinnie said it’s so, it’s so.”

I sauntered to the coffeepot. “So Vinnie’s a detective now?”

“Better detective than you,” he insisted. “That’s for damned sure.”

I poured a fresh cup and returned to the table. “How does he know it’s him?”

“Well, if you’d shut up long enough for me to finish a sentence, I’ll show you.”

Herb shuffled to the back of the house and returned with his phone. He handed it to me. “Open up the text message thing. There’s a picture in there somewhere. I know the son of a bitch is there. I just don’t know how to get to it.”

I swiped my thumb across the screen, surprised that the old man didn’t have a password. I tapped my finger against the text message icon. Two text message threads opened. The first, from Verizon, included offers for a new phone that began two hours prior and dated back years. The other was a message from an out-of-state number that must have been Vinnie’s. It had two photos attached to it and an address in Bonita Springs. The photos were of Kate and the same man.

He wasn’t what I expected. Not really. A scruffy-looking guy with a deep tan and a sparse, unkempt beard, he looked like he should be living under a bridge.

The photos were taken at two different times in Kate’s life, as her hair was colored a little differently in each of the photos.

“How do I know this isn’t her brother?” I asked.

“It’s on his Facebooks. Vin said there’s messages on there about them doing stuff together.” He gestured toward the phone. “In that one, they were at the Mercato. Vin said it was some sort of celebration. Grand opening of an Italian joint or something.”

“Josh Jackson, huh?”

“That’s what he said.” He wagged his wrinkled finger at the phone. “It’s right there in the message. I saw it late in the evening, yesterday, while you were fucking around in Tampa Bay eating tacos. You can call that phone number, and Vinnie can guide you to that kid’s Facebooks.”

“Book,” I said. “Book. It’s not plural. Facebook. Not books.”

“Well la-tee-dah. Fine. Facebook. I don’t give a shit what it’s called. Scribble down that phone number and call Vinnie. Or send him one of those messages.” He scowled. “He’s all up-to-date on that shit.”

I pulled my phone from my pocket and logged into Facebook. A quick search for “Josh Jackson in Bonita Beach, Florida” produced the guy’s profile. After a few minutes of scrolling through pictures of him with other women, I reached the point in his timeline where he and Kate were obviously together.

He wasn’t her brother, that much I was sure of.