Game (Jasper Dent #2)(61)

Connie made a mental note to watch what she wore around Howie. She liked being sexy and looking good, but she didn’t want one of her best friends thinking about her bras. Ew.

“In any event,” Howie went on, “I’m busy, doing the exact opposite of playing with myself, for your information.”

“What’s the opposite of that?”

“Trying to get Jazz’s aunt into bed,” Howie said with a matter-of-factness that was both hilarious and horrifying.

“You’re doing what?”

“She’s hot,” Howie said. “Older-lady hot, you know? Cougar-y? MILF-y? Plus, Jazz doesn’t want this to happen, so she’s got that whole ‘forbidden fruit’ thing going for her, too. I just can’t resist that. I’m, like, a slave to my passions and stuff.”

Connie’s head spun. Howie… and Jazz’s aunt? Billy Dent’s sister? “How the hell did this happen?”

“Well, nothing has happened yet. But I’m over here helping her get the crazy racist lady to sleep and I’m using all my best moves. Trust me, this is happening. The ladies always eventually succumb to Howie Gersten.”

“When has anyone ever succumbed to you?”

“The succumbing part is strictly theoretical at this point,” he admitted. “But I have high hopes.”

“If you can stop thinking with the contents of your jock strap for a second, I need your help.”

“Yes,” Howie said solemnly, “I can teach you how to be more ‘street.’ ”

“For God’s sake…”

“Or is it ‘urban’? I can’t remember. Anyway, I can teach you, grasshopper. Or hip-hopper.”

“Be serious for just a minute. I need help in your area of expertise.” Before Howie could say “pleasing women of all ages,” she pressed on. “I need to sneak out of my house.”

“How do you get to the ripe old age of seventeen without knowing how to get out of the house?” Howie demanded. “Hell, your bedroom is on the first floor! You don’t even have to climb down a trellis or sneak down squeaky stairs.”

“But once I’m out, I’m screwed—I don’t have a car.”

“Ah.” Howie chuckled. “You’ve come to the right place, ma’am.”

An hour later, Connie slipped silently out her window into a frigid January midnight. She willed her teeth to stop chattering. At Howie’s suggestion, she’d lubed the tracks of the window with some hand lotion (good stuff, too—fifteen bucks a bottle) so that it would open and close quickly and quietly as she came and went. Howie was a goofball of the first order, but a lifetime of parental fascism had inculcated in him some truly spectacular sneaking skills.

She darted to the cover of a cluster of firs at the end of the driveway and waited. Soon Howie’s old car drifted into view, its headlights and engine both off. Connie wasn’t sure how necessary this next part was, but Howie insisted.

As the car passed, coasting down the hill, Connie emerged from cover and then, jogging alongside, wrenched open the passenger-side door and threw herself in.

“Close the door!” Howie said. “Close it!”

Connie managed to slam the door. “This is ridiculous,” she panted, catching her breath. “You just wanted to be able to say you pulled this off.”

“You want your parents to see or hear a car driving by this time of night?”

“My parents are asleep.”

“People wake up.”

Once they were out of sight of Connie’s house, Howie gunned the engine and flicked on the headlights. “Where to, Miss Daisy?”

“I think you have a couple of things reversed,” she told him drily. “And I’m not sure where we’re headed yet.”

In short, clipped sentences, she told him about the Ugly J discovery at the dump site, as well as the note in the Impressionist’s pocket, followed by the mystery texts. In the dim light of Lobo’s Nod’s ill-spaced lampposts, Howie’s face became more and more pale as she went on.

“Are you nuts?” he asked. “Is Jazz’s kind of crazy an STD or something? This isn’t something for you to mess with. It’s for the cops. This is G. William territory.”

According to Jazz, Howie always balked at first but invariably caved in the end. She hoped she could be as persuasive as Jazz.

“I’m just going to do some preliminary investigating.” She liked the way that sounded. Very official. Very safe. “Then I can point G. William in the right direction.”

“Some crazy person—probably a serial killer—is texting you and you want to get the cops started? Not sane, Connie. Not sane at all. This is Jazz-level idiocy.”

“You broke into a morgue with him. I’m not asking you to do anything illegal.”

“Jazz is my bro.”

“I respect that. But maybe a little of his bro-hood rubbed off on me.” She regretted it as soon as she said it. Howie’s eyes widened and he started to speak, but she said, “Can we just stipulate that you made a killer double entendre with ‘rubbed off’ and then move on?”

“I guess.” Howie’s shoulders slumped in disappointment and Connie almost felt sorry for him. Howie lived for innuendoes. He signaled and took a right turn out of Connie’s neighborhood, onto the main road that cut directly through the center of the Nod.