One

I stared down at the handwritten Jagger note that said, "Case Number 6. Practice your driving skills, Sherlock. We'll talk in the morning—at our spot."

Our spot.

Suddenly the noise from Goldie's "nose-revealing" party at my parents' house brought me back to reality. My dearest roommate and second-best friend was celebrating the success (in his opinion) of his recent plastic surgery. Gotta love dear Gold. We all did, especially my other roomie, Miles. They were two of the best guys in the world, and although each had their own little quirks, I loved them dearly. The guys, not the quirks. I had to admit that I looked forward on a daily basis to seeing Goldie's out fits—especially when he wore Armani from the women's department. Then again, he looked handsome in men's Armani too, but when in his female mode, he always made some fashion statement that I later stole for myself.

Since knowing Goldie, I was looking better and better.

Maybe there was hope for me yet.

I stared at the note again and decided I had to forget that Jagger had called Dunkin Donuts "our spot," as if he thought we really were an "our" (be still, my foolish heart), and forced my mind back to Case Number 6. That was my sixth medical fraud insurance case to investigate.

Practice my driving skills. Hmm. Okay, I'd be the first to admit I was no Mario Andretti, and, okay again, I admitted to closing my eyes when driving but only if something bad was about to happen. So what could case number six be about? Me and Jagger racing in the Grand Prix?

I had started to laugh, when I felt a presence behind me. My hormones ready to explode, I turned to see Jagger, but unfortunately—very unfortunately—saw Fabio Scarpello instead. My boss. A definite misnomer.

Then the recent revelation by none other than Jagger that he was, in fact, a Tonelli, making him my boss, hit me. Hard.

I grabbed Fabio, subsequently startling him. "Is Jagger the owner of Scarpello and Tonelli Insurance Agency? Does he own it? Do you? Is he my boss?"

Normally Fabio would have called me "doll" and brushed off any of my questions with a curse or two, but he looked directly at me. Damn. Was that fear in his eyes? No one had ever been able to say who Jagger really was. What was his last name? Or first name, for that matter? And whom did he work for?

Until now.

However, I always figured Jagger intimidated Fabio.

"Well?" I yanked on the lapel of Fabio's dark brown polyester suit. "Wel-l-l-l-l-l?"

"Ha!"

"Ha? That's all you have to say? Ha doesn't explain shit, Fabio. Tell me the truth!"

Finally he reached both hands up between my arms and pushed me until I lost my grip. While he tried to straighten out his always-wrinkled suit, he said, "I own it."

With that he turned and walked down the steps, out to his car and drove off, with me standing there—back to square one.

And here I thought I'd had some information on Jagger.

Not to mention that I thought he was my boss!

What a fool! No one got any information on Jagger—unless he gave it to them.

Copyright © 2007 by Lori Avocato.