"Who's the guy?"
"If I knew," I said, "I wouldn't be needing your help, now would I?"
After returning from Chloe's, I'd called Bishop with the guy's license plate number, along with the make and model of his car. Since Bishop hadn't answered, I'd left the info in a voicemail and told him that I needed an answer like yesterday.
All I wanted was a name. And an address. I frowned.And anything else that might tell me who the guy was and what the hell he was doing at Chloe's place.
"Youknowwhat I’m asking," Bishop said. "Who's the guy to you?"
In the message, I hadn't said where I'd seen the guy's car, and I sure as hell hadn't said anything about Chloe.
When it came to her and me, Bishop had been a royal pain in my ass. It was like the guy couldn’t even say her name without being a dick about it. In fact, he could hardly say her name at all.
"He's no one," I said, glancing at my watch. "Just tell me what you learned, alright?"
"Lemme guess," Bishop said. "It's about that neighbor of yours. Isn't it?"
She wasn't just my neighbor. She was the girl I loved, the girl I'd been wanting to marry – I felt my jaw clench – the girl who letotherguys into her house, but not me. What the hell was that about?
When I didn't answer, Bishop said, "Or should I call her 'dog girl'?"
Great. My brother was turning into Brittney.
Fuck that.
"For the last fucking time," I said, "her name is Chloe. And if you've got some problem with that, you can just fuck off, alright? Because I'm in no mood for your bullshit."
He was quiet a beat before saying, "You're losing it. You know that, right?"
Hell yeah, I knew it. But I needed information, not grief from someone whose relationship track record was worse than my own. Through gritted teeth, I said, "You gonna give it to me, or should I call someone else?"
"In your mood?" he said. "I wouldn’t recommend it."
I wasn't in a "mood." I just wanted the information without all the bullshit. Looking to move this along, I kept my mouth shut and waited.
Finally, Bishop told me what I needed to know. The guy's name was Chad Flemming. He was forty-nine years old, married, and lived in Bloomfield Hills, maybe a half-hour away. From the guy's address, I knew the general area. The head of my legal team had a place on the next street over. Homes in that neck of the woods ran a million dollars, give or take.
So the guy had money. Big deal. I had money too. A lot more thanhedid.
"What else?" I asked.
Bishop sounded annoyed. "What do you mean, what else?"
Before I could answer, the doorbell rang. I glanced toward the front entryway, but didn't move. Into the phone, I said, "Well?"
"Well what?" he said. "You wantmeto get the door?"
Did he have to be such a dick? "No," I said.
"Good. Because I'm two hours away."
"What I need," I said, "is to hear the rest of it."
"There is no 'rest of it.'"
"Why not?"
"Because that's all you asked for. If you wanted more, you should've said so. Now, you gonna tell me why you wanna know?"
