“You really need a bigger trash bag in your car,” Cait said, tossing yet another foil and wax paper ball into the empty takeout bag.
The car smelled of butter and lobster. I was on my third roll; she had just finished her fifteenth. Storm riders had an impressive metabolism.
“I don’t expect someone to show up with fifteen pounds of seafood, you know?”
“Well, that’s an oversight on your part. Thought you would have all sorts of stuff. You know, be prepared. Trash bags, duct tape, shovel.”
“Duct tape is in the glove box. As for the rest, I’m a private investigator, not a mob hitter.” I sucked a drop of butter off my thumb before it could fall onto my shirt and joint the others.
Kate shrugged. “Not just for mob hits. You know, vampires and such.
I just shook my head, taking another bite. “So,” I said around the mouthful of lobster and bun “how’d it all pan out?”
She shrugged again, using a napkin to wipe an impressive amount of butter of her mouth. “They went into the thing and sweat for hours. They come out, they’re okay. Melissa said it was a cleansing ceremony.”
I nodded. “Common to a lot of cultures. Lots of bad juju out there, so you gotta have a way to get rid of it.”
“How do you know about this stuff?”
It was my turn to shrug. “Research.”
“There’s gotta be more to it than that.”
I gave her a hard stare, then looked around to see if we had attracted any attention, then made sure the windows were up tight. They were because it was still drizzling rain.
“You can’t be too careful,” I muttered. I leaned closer to her, dropping my voice to a whisper. “You gotta swear not to tell anyone.”
She leaned in, too, the nodded. “I swear.”
“All right, here’s the skinny. . . .”