He sat at the bar and ordered a whiskey. The bartender—a drugged-out looking guy in his sixties with a glass eye—gave him a sharp look but poured the drink.
Probably not used to selling anything but beer.
The drink burned all the way down and Jack felt a flush of release when it hit his empty stomach. He closed his eyes and twisted his neck to unkink his shoulders. He never drank on the job. But this wasn’t a job. He didn’t work for the city anymore and the only client he had to please tonight was himself. One drink wouldn’t impair him.
And by God he needed it.
“You a narc?” a female voice to his left asked him in low tones.
Jack turned to look at her. African-American, oily hair in ringlets around her face. She looked seventeen trying to pass for thirty. Her plunging neckline showed off ample cleavage and her eyes, heavily made-up with kohl, were watching his jacket, his hands.
“Do I look like a cop?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said, looking at his face. “That’s why I asked.”
“You a prostitute?”
“See, that’s why I think you’re a cop,” she said, reasonably. “Only cops call us that.”
“Well, would I call you that if I were undercover?”
She nodded. “Good point. So what are you doing here?”
“Why can’t I just be here for the reason everyone else is?” Jack looked around the bar. Most of the patrons seemed unable to sit up all the way. They sagged onto the tables over their drinks, supported by elbows, and staring at their hands.
“Everybody else is getting shitfaced,” she said, looking at his clothes. “You looking for someone?”
Is it that obvious?
“No.”
“Maybe I can help.”
“I’m not in the market for underage sex.”
“I wasn’t talking about that,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Buy me a drink?”
“Got some ID?”
“Yeah, you’re a cop, all right.” But she grinned at him. The bartender handed her a glass of what looked like cola. “Thanks, Jimmy,” she said, grabbing a straw from a caddy on the counter and jabbing it into her drink. She pulled out a cell phone and busied herself with texting and reading, as if she were done with Jack. He turned his attention to the mirror over the bar and did a visual sweep of the room. Gilstrap wasn’t here. Not yet anyway.
Jack ordered a beer and a packet of potato chips to slow down the buzz the whiskey was giving him. He’d better pace himself. It could be a long night.
“Buy me a burger?” the girl said. “Or do I need to show ID for that?”
“They serve hot food here?” he asked her with a frown. He didn’t want to be responsible for sending the kid to Grady with food poisoning.
“I’ll settle for fries,” she said. “They microwave those.”
Jack gestured to the bartender. “Order of fries.”
“Thanks,” she said, drumming her fingers on the counter.
“Your pimp doesn’t feed you?”
“He’s afraid I’ll get fat. Who are you looking for? I know everyone here. How about twenty bucks? That’s cheap for information.”
“You don’t know him. He’s from out of town.”
“I especially remember the tourists.”
Jack drank his beer. Truth was, he was crap at waiting, always had been. The bartender dropped a plate of cold, limp fries in front of the girl, followed by the thump of a catsup bottle. Jack watched her as she ate the fries. With all the makeup on, he couldn’t even tell if she was pretty. Sadly, she seemed comfortable in her surroundings. When she finished the last fry, she wiped her fingers on a paper napkin next to her plate. Jack got out his wallet and laid a twenty-dollar bill on the bar.
“He’s big,” he said in a low voice, his eyes still watching the mirror overhead. “Probably six-three or four. He’s shaved his head. Talks in a thick South Georgia accent.”
“I know him.” The girl grabbed the twenty and hopped off the barstool.
Jack stared at her. “You do.”
“He plays cards in the back room. Mean guy. You got a gun?”
Jack glanced past her to the opposite wall. Sure enough, there was a door. At first glance he thought it led to a back alley or served as some kind of exterior portal. He should have known there was a back “game” room. There usually was in dives like this.
“He’s here now?”
“Saw him come in an hour ago,” she said over her shoulder as she walked back to a table of girls against the wall. Jack glanced at them. He was surprised that a place like this could support more than one sex worker. Most people here didn’t look like they could afford a beer, let alone a girl for an hour. He watched the girl turn her attention back to her phone as she sat down at the table.
Peeling a ten out of his wallet and dropping it on the bar, Jack walked the forty feet to the door. The music piped over the loudspeaker was just loud enough to make it impossible to hear anything on the other side. He opened the door and saw a big man sitting at a table with another man. There was only one light but it wasn’t near their table. They didn’t look up when Jack opened the door. He stepped inside.
“Eugene Gilstrap?”
As the man stood up and began to materialize out of the gloom, a sudden burst of pain exploded at the back of Jack’s head. He fought wrenching nausea as he fell and let the whirling darkness engulf him.
Chapter SEVENTEEN
His face was an inferno of pain. Wetness dripped from his chin. Jack opened his eyes and saw a box of writhing garbage inches from his nose. Groaning, he sat up, pushing his hands under him in an attempt to stand. He was in the alley behind the bar. The sun was peeking out from over the dumpster. He put his hand to his pocket. His wallet was still there but his gun was gone.
Cursing, he leaned against the back wall of the bar and struggled to his feet. His ribs hurt but it was his face that was on fire. He gingerly touched a finger to his chin. Whoever hit him had worked him over once he was out.
Surprised there was any pleasure in it for him with me unconscious.
Jack’s car keys were in an inside pocket. He staggered to his car, the piece of paper jammed under the windshield wiper visible from twenty yards away. When he reached the car, he saw it was a piece of the bar menu. The words wait for my call were scrawled on it in blue marker.
Had Eugene known he was coming? Had the prostitute tipped him off? Why? He pulled his cell phone out of the glove box, waited for it to turn on then dialed Sandy. She picked up on the first ring.
“Oh, my God, Jack, where are you? Where have you been? I’ve been going out of mind back here!”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“What happened? Why didn’t you come home? Did you find Eugene?”
“Unfortunately, he found me,” Jack said, feeling in his mouth with his tongue for any loose teeth.
“Are…are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said, “He definitely knew I was coming. Hell, I’m not sure the matchbook wasn’t planted in your car to get me to come to him. He’s been wanting a piece of me for a long time now.”
“Do you think he has my place bugged?”
“I don’t know. The good news is he left us a message.”
“What kind of message?”
“He left a note on my car saying we’re to wait for his call. It gives us another chance at Twyla and also, once this is all over, it’ll directly link Eugene to the kidnapping.”
“So we can have him arrested after we get her back? And get the money back?”
“Exactly. Most criminals are stupid. Eugene appears to be no exception.”
“Just come home as soon as you can,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone when he calls.”
“I won’t be long.”
He drove to the first drugstore he came to and bought antibacterial ointment, bandages and ibuprofen. The last thing he wanted was to show up at Sandy’s house displaying the full extent of what her ex-hus
band was capable of.
Not while the bastard still had Twyla.
The fact was, it had been insane to go into the bar in the first place. He should’ve waited in his car until he saw Gilstrap and then followed him. But he didn’t do that because he wanted to confront the bastard. It was personal. Which was so fucking idiotic. Not to mention arrogant.
How could someone smart enough to hire muscle in a strange town be stupid enough to leave a handwritten ransom note tucked under a windshield wiper?
It didn’t make sense. But one thing was sure, handwritten note or not, Jack had drastically underestimated him.
And he had the kicked-in face to prove it.
In the drugstore’s restroom, he cleaned the cuts on his face, bandaged his nose and taped his split lip. After gently prodding his nose, he decided it probably wasn’t broken after all, but even with all the blood cleaned up he still looked like his face had gone two rounds with a Mixmaster.
What had the bastard hit him with? He touched the back of his head, where he felt a lump the size of a small egg. The first hit on the head had knocked him out. Whatever else had been done to his unconscious body was the work of an angry, vicious individual.
And that individual had Twyla.
Focus on the positive. It’s not over yet. The bastard still wants to deal. That’s all that matters.
Jack threw the remnants of his purchases in the trash and went out into the bright morning of a beautiful fall day in Atlanta. He wondered if Mia would be riding today. She always said October was the best month for that. He hoped Ned was looking out for her.
He hoped that someday she’d be able to understand all this when he finally was able to sit down with her and tell her the truth. He pointed his car back in the direction of Buckhead and what had begun to feel like the most wretched place on earth.
*****
Day one of life without Jack Burton.
Mia stood in the grass, her hands on her hips, waiting for Daisy to quit sniffing dandelions and get down to business. Jessie had insisted Mia take her for company, but Mia suspected it was really to keep her busy taking care of something besides a series of monster hangovers.
Mia had to admit there was some merit to the idea. Already, she’d been forced to stop at the grocery store for dog food on the way back from her mother’s last night. While there, she’d stocked her own shelves.
“So already you’re a better roommate than Jack,” Mia said to the little terrier. Daisy looked up at the sound of Mia’s voice and cocked her head. Mia remembered the day Jack rescued the little animal during a traffic stop when he was still a police detective. Seemed like years ago instead of months.
Mia watched Daisy move on to another clump of weeds that lined the curb outside her condo parking lot.
Now what? Maxwell thought Mia should carry on with the agency regardless, which was a total change of direction for him. Mia grinned in spite of herself at the thought of Maxwell last night—so earnest, so determined to give her something to feel positive about. And who knows? Maybe he had. It was true something clicked with her on one of the moves he showed her. He’d made her repeat it a few hundred times until Jessie finally called him off.
Can I really do this without Jack? Run this agency? When the only two cases I’ve done solo, one got me sued and the other arrested?
She gave the leash a tug and turned back toward her condo. The little dog trotted at her heel. If she stopped feeling sorry for herself for a moment the single biggest thought that kept coming into her head was that something didn’t feel right with the whole Jack situation. And when she stopped feeling sad for a moment, she found herself confused and annoyed by that. It was like a mosquito that kept dive-bombing her head, insistent, relentless.
Why exactly am I doing what Jack told me to do instead of what I feel is right? Is it because I’m afraid of displeasing him? Really? Because I’m thinking that ship already done sailed, sank and got eaten by predatory sea anemones.
She hurried her pace back to the condo. If I eliminate the emotion and just pay attention to the facts, what do I really know?
She ran up the stairwell steps to her condo. I know Jack came back from Valdosta happy, as evidenced by the fact that we promptly tore each other’s clothes off and fell into bed. She forced herself to ignore the shiver of pain at the memory. Focus, Mia. She entered her condo, detached Daisy’s leash and went straight to her laptop on the kitchen counter.
I know a few hours after we made love, Jack left to see his newly discovered daughter. Later, then called me—the same woman he’s just had mind-blowing sex with and with whom he says he wants to engage in round two as soon as possible—to say he’s spending the night with his ex-girlfriend.
Mia opened the laptop and stared at the blank desktop.
That’s what’s wrong with this picture. My own stupid insecurity made it impossible to see. I’d just had sex for the first time. Of course I’m back here hanging on tenterhooks wondering how my first time was for him. Mia shook her head in frustration. I’ve been looking at this from the perspective of a woman who’s just made love for the first time.
Jack didn’t call to say he’s spending the night with his ex-girlfriend. That’s only what I heard.
Jack called to say the daughter he was there to meet was late getting home.
A feeling of dread and excitement mingled and crept up her arms.
What if the kid never came home?
That’s why Jack stayed. That’s why Jack is still there.
Mia opened up her mailbox and scrolled through the emails she’d exchanged with Jack while he was in Valdosta for his brother’s funeral. No mention of the kid or the girlfriend in any of them. She opened her browser and typed in Lottery winner Sandra Gilstrap and got an article in the Valdosta Gazette. Scanning it she found out that Sandra was divorced from Eugene Gilstrap and they had a child together, Twyla Gilstrap. The photo in the article was an old one, showing Sandy from her high school days.
What kind of newspaper shows a twenty-year old high school picture? Mia squinted at the image. Of course she was pretty. Everybody was pretty twenty years ago. The photo showed her in a perky little cheerleader’s uniform.
Mia went to the kitchen and got a can of Coke out of the refrigerator and put a Pop-Tart in the toaster.
Why isn’t the photo recent? Surely the whole lottery-winning thing was a photographer’s bonanza. Shouldn’t there be photos of Sandy with the check, Sandy with the mayor, Sandy with the key to the city of Valdosta?
She took her pastry and Coke and sat back down in front of the computer and Googled Eugene Gilstrap. Which is the bigger bummer? Finding out the kid you thought was yours was the product of an adulterous affair or divorcing your wife just before she wins the lottery?
She found a photo of Eugene and studied it. Was this who Sandy was arguing with in the car? Mia got out her phone and compared the website photo with the ones on her phone. Her photos were taken from too far away and he’d been sitting in the passenger seat—furthest away from where Mia was shooting. She looked at the picture on the Internet. He didn’t look like a sociopath. He had a nice smile. His hair was Marine-sergeant short, nearly shaved, and he had big ears. Not Mia’s type, but he didn’t look evil either.
Pictures could be deceiving, though.
Mia ate her Pop-Tart and clicked back to the article on Sandy to find the name of the nail salon where she used to work. Ten minutes later, after a quick phone call to the Crush ’n Curl, Mia now knew that everyone at the salon adored Sandy and was heartbroken to see her leave when she won the lottery and moved to Atlanta. Mia now also knew that none of the ladies knew Eugene very well—having only seen him at the salon one or two times over the years—and that when Twyla got to be a difficult teenager, the girl stopped coming to the salon.
Mia fed the rest of her pastry to the dog. She closed the laptop and drummed her fingers on the lid for a moment. Maxwell was right. Mia was different. And not in a bad way. She’d been l
ooking at things ass-wise in that regard too—although the lawsuit and criminal trespass charge probably contributed to clouding her thinking just a tad.
The fact was, anybody can sit in a car and take pictures. Anybody can trail behind a car and discover where they go and whom they talk to.
But if the reason my detective agency is different from every other agency is because of who I am, then I need to do what not just anybody else can do.
She grabbed her purse and the keys to her car, finally certain of her mission. To hell with what everyone else told her she should do. Her direction was as clear as a shining beacon in the dark. She needed to drive back to Sandy’s house and, once and for all, get her hands on the truth.
*****
Sandy walked to the car as Jack pulled up. She was carrying the backpack with the money in it. He saw the tired slump to her shoulders, her hair tied back in a ponytail, not a shred of makeup on. She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans that looked like they were molded to her body.
As soon as she saw the damage to his face, her bottom lip began to quiver.
“I’m so sorry to put you through this, Jack,” she said, as she stood by his driver’s window, her face a mask of anguish. “I just can’t believe he attacked you.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he lied, climbing out of the car.
She nodded, as if desperately trying to believe him. “Can I see the note?” she asked quietly.
He pulled it out of his jeans pocket and handed it to her. Her face was lined and haggard as she studied it. Not the same woman who’d met him at the front door seven days ago. She handed the note back to him.
“It’s his handwriting,” she said.
“What’s with the bag?”
She looked down at it, as if she’d forgotten she was carrying it, and then shoved it into his arms.
“I can’t bear to look at it any more. We’re supposed to have Twyla back, but instead we have this book bag full of cut up bits of paper.” Her voice rose in a shrill crescendo.
“I know,” he said, trying to remember if he’d ever felt more helpless in his life.
Complete Mia Kazmaroff Page 56