by D. A. Bale
That shut him up right quick. “You serious?”
I nodded. “But that threat dissipated pretty quick after I reminded him about a certain stack of photos.”
My opinion of the sperm donor reached its how-low-can-you-go, point-of-no-return just before my fourteenth birthday. The envelope of pictures I’d discovered beneath a loose plank in the attic of the Galveston family vacation home soon taught me the real meaning of the phrase business trip. In private my father had always treated me and my mom with unveiled contempt like the heartless bastard he is. But that day I learned the graphic truth about his secret life – and the power of a named and dated Polaroid.
“Still using blackmail against the old man, are we?” Bobby asked.
“Nah. Moving out on my own works better...for both of us. Keeps at bay the possibility of the cops cleaning up a double homicide.”
We both flinched. See, there’s this disease I have commonly known around these parts as foot-in-mouth disease. My taste for shoe leather and toe jam hadn’t improved with time or age.
“Poor choice of words,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
Warmth enveloped my hand as his covered mine. “It’s okay.”
Now it was my turn to choke up as Bobby held my hand and laid back against the windshield to stare into the sky. The Corvette hood didn’t hold us as well as his truck bed had, but it didn’t stop us from again sharing the experience of watching the horizon turn from yellow to orange, then pink to periwinkle. The only place you could really enjoy the expanse of a Texas sunset was outside the metropolis that was Dallas. Tonight we’d had to drive a lot farther than we used to in order to escape the suburban sprawl.
A deep sigh before Bobby interrupted the opening strains of the cricket chorus. “This is what I missed most about Texas.”
“The sunsets?”
“Mm-hmm. The sky just goes on and on forever.” His voice dropped off for a bit. “It’s been so busy since we arrived, I never got to share this with Amy.” Emotion choked his words. “I’ll never share this with my son.”
Silent tears streaked his face before the growing darkness swathed him in shadows. Anger boiled me anew. Even with our checkered past, Bobby had always been the friend to me Janine couldn’t. Janine was too sweet. Wanted too much to please. When we were all growing up, I understood the pressures Bobby faced – and he mine.
Being a preacher’s kid, Bobby had to play a part like an actor for the masses, all the while knowing what went on behind the scenes of a massive and bloated religious enterprise. He knew about the battle sequences between his dad and the church leadership, my father being one of the battle instigators. He’d witnessed and heard things even I hadn’t – and I’d known a lot, at least with what pertained to my own family. Our friendship had started because of our families’ mutual involvements, and over the years the commiseration had kept us somewhat sane – at least until our well-publicized hook-up.
“It’s my fault, you know,” Bobby whispered.
“What?”
“That they’re dead.”
That bolted me upright. “Well ‘scuse my French, pastor, but that’s a load of shit,” I emphasized. “No, not just a load, but a heaping helping ass-load of bull-shit. Just sniff the air.”
That earned me a caffeinated belch and a shake of the head. “You always were the more eloquent of the two of us.”
I shrugged. “I try.”
“Amy wasn’t ready to move back to Texas,” Bobby confessed. “But then she got pregnant. The children’s ministry job opened up and all. It was like God was pointing us here. I even told her that.”
Stomach acid churning started all over again. Maybe it was too much carbonated pop. A burp didn’t ease it.
“I can’t stand this anymore,” I said, chucking my can into the weeds. “Doesn’t it anger you at all?”
Bobby stared into his cola can before launching it to join mine with an ease that bespoke his basketball prowess. “I’m not angry with anyone but myself, Vic. Why would I be?”
Flies could’ve camped in my mouth. Now I was really mad. “Your wife committed suicide. While she was pregnant. She basically murdered your son.”
There goes my disease-ridden mouth again.
“She didn’t commit suicide,” Bobby whispered.
That shut me up – for all of two seconds. “Come again?”
Between the deepening shadows, for the first time since Bobby’s life went sideways, I saw anger reflected in the depths of his eyes.
“Amy did not commit suicide. Regardless of what the police say, I’m as sure as the second coming that my wife did not jump off your building of her own accord.”
Maybe the jerk of his head earlier had caused whiplash. Oxygen and blood no longer seemed to be making its way toward Bobby’s gray matter.
“I don’t know about the second coming, but do I need to call the men in white?” I asked.
The Vette shook as Bobby shoved off and paced a cow trail through the nearby pasture grass. Some things never changed. It’s a wonder he’d been able to hold still all afternoon by the fireplace, though I imagine during that time he’d been trying not to think.
“There are things about Amy’s past she never got to share with you,” Bobby ranted. “Things about her family connections.”
“Why would she share with me?”
“I don’t know…some spiritual connection she felt with you when we aired our dirty laundry the other day.”
A spiritual connection? I’d rather felt it as well, but I wasn’t ready yet to acknowledge some inner-workings of the cosmos.
“Does that have something to do with none of them attending the funeral?” I asked.
“You noticed that too?”
“You know me. I notice everything. It’s a curse.”
Bobby stopped pacing and stared at the twinkling stars as if listening or seeking a sign. Then he leaned over the hood, his face now fully veiled.
“What if it’s not a curse but a gift?”
“I use it more as a toy,” I acknowledged.
“Whatever you want to call it, how about you use your superior observational skills for good instead of evil this time?”
Yeah, maybe it was time to call the men in white. “How?”
“To prove my wife was murdered.”
My heart skittered to a stop. I knew what he was asking. I knew I’d say yes. But in the immortal words of George Lucas – I’ve got a bad feeling about this.
Chapter Seven
I so didn’t want to do this.
Two years wasn’t enough time to get over betrayal by that low-down, scum-sucking excuse of a – ahem – man. But if I was going to help Bobby and start somewhere, I had to find out the details from the purported suicide scene. That meant I’d have to face Zeke. And in order to allow my feminine wiles to do their deed, I’d have to face him in person.
Not that deed. Mess with the guy’s head. I mean his brains. Oh hell, you know what I mean.
Zeke Taylor – all six-foot-five, solid muscle, and Texas Ranger through-and-through. Likes his noon high and his guns and Stetson slung low. If the Rangers still had a mounted patrol, he’d be all over that like chocolate syrup on vanilla bean ice cream. Known as Big Z to his friends.
And I had firsthand knowledge of how he got that nickname.
But I digress.
We were finished. Kaput. Enemies after I caught him on a moonlit night with arms wrapped around one Lorraine Padget. If I’d disliked her before, I wanted to field-dress her sorry carcass after that one. Like mother like daughter, I suppose. Zeke should’ve known better than to cross me – especially with a Padget.
Today I was in luck, or whatever you called it when you had to face a cheating ex-boyfriend. Ranger Taylor was in residence this Monday morning, cooped up in his corner cubby of the Garland field office – or, as they preferred, Company ‘B’ of the Texas Ranger Division. Honey-glazed, l
ight brown hair peeked above the wall as I snuck up from behind.
Zero pictures lined the desk. No personal effects. Not a speck of clutter save for the non-descript coffee mug. So Zeke.
“Hey, Stranger Ranger.”
“Answer’s no.”
No hello. No how ya been. No checking out what he threw away. The man hadn’t even turned around but continued pecking away at his computer keyboard like I wasn’t even an afterthought. I flicked my long ponytail over my shoulder and struck my best pissed-off pose.
Zeke continued, “You can take your hand off that hip while you’re at it.”
“How the hell…?”
No reflection in the flat-screen monitor. Matte finish of the cubby walls weren’t the source of the great reveal. No glass to project an image.
“We dated for seven months,” Zeke explained. “Or have you forgotten?”
The boy already had my dander inching toward the danger zone. “It was eight, and yeah, I’d like to.”
He spun the chair around to face me, tracked my image from pumps to coif, then frowned.
“I always liked your hair down better.”
“Good thing I no longer care,” I retorted. “It gets hot wearing it down all the time. Been thinking about cuttin’ it short for the summer.”
That got me a flinch.
What is it with men and long hair? Do they think our brain function is in direct correlation to the length of our hair? I mean, I generally wear mine just above the waist – but it’s still my hair. Why do they make such a big deal whether we choose to leave it long or chop it into a pixie? I say if a man wants long hair, let him grow it himself like Jesus and the disciples and leave mine the hell alone – well ‘cept during those nice, slow pony rides. Hmm…
“So where’s the brochure?” Zeke asked.
“Brochure?”
“Selling Girl Scout cookies?”
“Only in February.”
“Cute.”
“Even with my hair in a ponytail?” I asked.
That earned me a slow tilt of the lips. “How you doing, Vic?”
The way Zeke said my name always sounded so sultry. Like foreplay – which would never happen between us again. I swear. All I had to do was retrieve a certain image of the other woman to stem any naughty thoughts – no matter how the familiar whiff of his musky aftershave tried to trigger those other memories.
“How’d you know it was me when you were facing the other way?” I asked. “There aren’t any reflective surfaces.”
Zeke thumbed the phone like a hitchhiker. “They called from downstairs. Wanted to make sure you weren’t on the ‘no-fly’ list. I told ‘em to pat you down for weapons first.”
“Funny. What about the hip thing?”
“Law enforcement. Unlike you, I’m paid to observe and remember things.”
I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes. “It’s been two years, Sherlock. Maybe I’ve changed.”
The eyes gave me another once over. When he finished this time, instead of a frown I got a smile. “Not a bit.”
I could take that one of two ways – and I’m not sure either left me in a positive light. “Don’t even go there.”
Zeke unfolded himself from the chair and rolled it my way while he leaned against the cubby counter. “Since you’re not here to kiss and make up, what’cha want?”
I intended to sit in the chair as gracefully as I could, let the power of my feminine presence work its magic, but the clearance to the floor left me dangling from the edge after my unceremonious ascent. Didn’t set the seductive tone I’d had in mind when I chose the dress this morning. Instead of the gentle hiss of lowering the ergonomic chair, it sounded more like an intermittent cow fart. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Zeke set it up on purpose.
“If we’re gonna stick with brass tacks,” I said, “I’m trying to help a friend.”
“This friend wouldn’t happen to be named Bobby Vernet, would it?”
I bit my lip before answering. “It might.”
“Not happening. Good to see you and all, but I’ve gotta prepare for the governor’s visit.”
“Now hold on a minute,” I said as he almost dumped me in the floor to reacquire the chair. “You two were buds at one time. Played basketball together in high school.”
“Being on the same team made us teammates, not buds.” Zeke plopped into his chair, zipped it to its former heights, and started tapping away again on his keyboard. “This is a PD matter, not a Ranger one.”
So that’s how he wanted to play it. “Don’t tell me you can’t get a copy of the report.”
The typing stopped. Here’s a lesson for you, ladies. The best way to get a guy’s goat and get him to do what you want is to suggest he can’t do something. Wreaks havoc on a man’s ego. Remember that. Use it. Works every time.
The chair whipped around so fast I almost ended up in Zeke’s lap. Not a totally unpleasant prospect, but considering surrounding company, not the right place or the right time. Anyway, no matter how good the sex had been – hectic and hard or long and languid – the boy was still a low-down, cheating son-of-a-bitch in my book. Always would be.
“Access isn’t the problem,” Zeke said. “You are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” My toe starting tapping faster than a woodpecker on a tree.
“You gotta stick your nose where it don’t belong and come up with your own scenario to fit the scene. No matter how ridiculous.”
“Well I’m not talking about Lorraine Padget here. I’m talking about Amy Vernet.”
“Who committed suicide by jumping off a freakin’ building. Case closed,” Zeke said. “And stop tapping that damned foot.”
By that point, the command practically bounced off the walls of the next high-rise. My foot sped up to keep time with the boiling of my brain. No man was ever gonna tell me what to do again – especially Zeke Taylor. I’d pound a hole through the overpriced cheap carpet if I had to.
“First of all,” I said as I shoved a finger into Zeke’s face. “Why would a happily married pregnant woman leap to her death?”
“Appearances can be…”
“Second.” My fingers followed the count. “Why’d none of her family attend the funeral?”
“Really, Vic…”
“Third. Of all the buildings in the city, why’d she jump off mine?”
That shut him up. Hallelujah and pass the offering plate to that boy. The familiar furrow of Zeke’s brow suggested I’d hit upon something he hadn’t considered. I guess miracles do happen.
“Did you know her very well?” Zeke asked.
“We’d had lunch together last week – all three of us, but it wasn’t like we were bosom buddies. Bobby said she had felt a connection to me, and for a pastor’s wife she came across as rather genuine, which goes a long way in my book.”
Zeke rubbed his freshly shaved cheek. “Maybe she’d just found out about your previous involvement with Bobby and wanted to confront you.”
“At three-thirty in the morning? Anyway, Bobby had told her about the truck bed debacle before they got married. If it wasn’t then, it’d sure been paramount before moving back here.”
“So meeting you face-to-face set her off.”
“What?”
“I can vouch for your effect on people.”
That did it. I set upon him a glare that would set Hell on fire, turned on my heel, then marched out of the office area to the elevator bank. Hell’s fumes burned through my scalp while waiting for the floors to tick off until Zeke came rushing around the corner and slid to a stop before nearly slamming into me. Graceful tall guys – aren’t. Or at least only on basketball courts. Gives ‘em that home court advantage.
“New shoes?” I retorted.
“Look, you bring up at least one interesting question,” Zeke conceded.
“Only one? Gee, thanks.”
“I’ll take
a hard look at the report if you’ll go see Vernet and ask a little more on the family background.”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“Not my case. Besides, it sounds like you already have a relationship reestablished with him.”
Was that a hint of jealousy in his tone? “Fine.”
“That’s settled,” Zeke said. “I’ll pick you up at six.”
“What for?” I asked.
“We’ll rendezvous at that little Italian place you like.”
“Oh huh-uh.”
“It’s not a date. It’s business,” Zeke called over his shoulder as he walked away. “And you’re buying.”
“The hell I am,” I responded.
“See you at six.”
“My ass!”
“Maybe next time.”
“Won’t be a next time!”
But he was already gone – and I had company. The older couple and the accountant type tried not to stare in the uncomfortable silence. I sighed. The things I go through for the men in my life. Or out of my life. Or whatever. Yeah, this was a train wreck waiting to happen – and I’d voluntarily gotten on this ride.
Yee-haw and pass me a shot of Jack.
***
There’s just something about seeing certain ex-boyfriends that makes you wanna shoot something. It’s far preferable than shooting somebody – at least according to the law. When that certain ex was the law, it was best to take said frustrations out on a thin piece of cardboard and imagine the outline with a particular face inside it.
It’d been quite some time since I’d last headed out to the range with my little Sig Sauer P938 handgun. One reason? I’d been kinda busy. The real reason? Zeke had bought the gun for me when we’d dated and made sure I knew how to shoot the thing on at least a weekly basis. After we broke up, I went regularly to kill that son-of-a-bitch – figuratively of course.
But ammo and range fees add up right quick when you plow through rounds like a jilted lover. The gun also felt almost tainted, a constant reminder of the relationship failure. So I’d put it away on a closet shelf to gather dust. A year or so later after a spate of muggings and rapes near the Historic West End, I figured it was best for a single girl who worked nights to have more than pepper spray for defense.
Plus it was cute, the perfect size to fit my tiny hands and the rainbow purple slide to fit my personality.
Since I didn’t want to lose my hearing by the time I was thirty, I usually opted for one of the outdoor ranges. What I suffered in the heat more than made up for the constant ringing from the indoor ranges – even with protection.