The Gossip

by Nancy Bush

  Today, Taft parked his car beneath the carport in his allotted slot, remote locked the Rubicon, and entered the condo, tossing his keys on the small console table near the front door. He walked through the living room and past the small galley kitchen to the bathroom that sat between the two bedrooms. One bedroom had his bed and dresser; the other was filled with boxes of stuff. Junk, Helene would say, if she could see it. The same junk he’d transferred from his apartment when he’d moved in. An acoustic guitar gathered dust next to his desk. The desk, chair, and lamp were the only pieces in the junk room that were used, unless you counted his laptop and portable printer, both of which he often kept in his vehicle. This was the extent of his office. Oh, and the safe he’d installed in the wall, which housed his Glock and some cold hard cash. Welcome to Taft Investigations.

  He stripped down and took a quick shower. There was work to be done tonight and he wanted to both clean up and wake up before he met with Mangella. The man was wealthy and eccentric and his wife was even worse. Nothing about Prudence Mangella was prudent. She was excessive, loud, and indiscreet. A perfect complement to her husband, who was exactly the same. Strangely, they both liked and trusted him, even when they were viciously fighting with each other, which was most of the time. He thought over her last dido, expecting that Prudence would resent him finding her “stolen” jewels, but no. All was well again in Mangella-land. Taft worked for Mitch and Mitch’s business and therefore he was part of the team. Prudence had her eye on the money, always, and if she tried to sneak a little extra off the top from time to time, well, apparently that was—after much Sturm und Drang—a forgivable offense. The Mangellas lived a strange partnership that somehow seemed to work for them both.

  Taft dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black jacket. As he was heading out he saw the text from Mackenzie on his phone: Tonight. 7:00. Deno’s or Pizza Joe’s. Your choice.

  Mackenzie Laughlin.

  He thought about it, caught sight of himself in the mirror by the front door, recognized the faint, interested smile on his lips, and purposely wiped it off. Not a woman to mess with. A cop, ex-cop, he reminded himself. Maybe not seasoned, not hardened . . . maybe not even any good. Hard to know, at this juncture. Ex-cop or no, she had recently been a police officer, and Taft had learned long ago to keep those kind of women at arm’s length romantically.

  Those kind of women? his mind taunted him as he headed outside, locked up, and strode into the carport.

  Was it sexist that he found policewomen too . . . rigid?

  You want every woman to be like me, Helene’s ghost reminded him, like she always did. He could almost see her standing by the Rubicon, her eyebrows lifted and gazing at him in that way that let him know that Yes, you are a full-of-shit male and I only love you because you’re my brother.

  The image darkened and faded and he climbed in the vehicle, his mood sobering. His sister haunted him less and less, but she was still there. One of these days he might even forgive her for leaving him.

  * * *

  Mackenzie waited by the maitre d’s station at the River Glen Grill, an ivy-covered brick building that had once been a hotel and now was the restaurant on the first floor with very nice apartments above that, each spanning the entire floor of the twelve-story building. At one time Dan the Man had said that he and Mac’s mother might move there, but that, like so many other of Dan’s plans, never materialized. Stephanie had said of her father, “Yeah, you can’t believe him. My mother finally figured that out and left him. He’s never forgiven her and she’s never looked back.” According to Stephanie, her own mother had married a man from Scottsdale and moved there while the ink was still drying on the divorce papers. Left high and dry by his ex, Dan had then entered Mom’s circle of friends, introduced by one of them who’d apparently had designs on Dan herself. Unfortunately, Dan had zeroed in on Mom, recently widowed, who owned her own home and had only one child, who was about to graduate high school.

  Mac made a face. The only good thing about Dan was that he’d brought Stephanie, also an only child, into Mackenzie’s life, and the two stepsisters had become close friends. That almost made up for the man’s other transgressions. Almost.

  “Order for Dan Gerber,” Mackenzie said to the girl behind the maitre d’s podium when she finally looked up.

  “Okay.”

  The girl checked with another member of the waitstaff, who turned on his heel and headed out to collect Mac’s order. Mackenzie looked past the podium and into the dining area. The room was full of semicircular blood-red leather booths. There were no white tablecloths, but the amount of glassware glistening under the muted lights and the deferential attitude of the waiters suggested a place out of the fifties where Frank Sinatra or his like would order a black telephone brought to the table and lean back, puffing on cigars. There was something wasteful about the whole shebang that bugged Mac in a way she couldn’t quite define. The food was good at the Grill; there was no denying that. But the dollar signs on the restaurant Internet’s ratings denoting price were many.

  The maitre d’, a forty-something man with a straight back and prematurely gray hair, came up to the podium as the girl rang up the order. The younger man returned at that moment with the order and he set the white plastic bag on the counter as the girl handed Mac the bill. The total wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but it did make her grimace. She talked with Art, the maitre d’, whom she knew from other trips to the River Glen Grill, to make certain she wasn’t on the hook for the bill. He assured her it was taken care of and hefted up the order for her to grasp. Mac slipped her fingers into the handholds in the white plastic bag. “Thanks, Art,” she said before carrying the bag of food to her car.

  She drove the meal home and dropped it off, sketching a goodbye to her mother when Dan’s back was turned as he busied himself with digging into the bags. “You didn’t pay for this, did you?” Mom asked, as Mackenzie turned to leave.

  “Heck, no. Gave them Dan’s credit card.”

  “What?” Dan asked, looking up in surprise.

  “Just kidding,” Mackenzie said. “They have your number on file. Remember?”

  “Oh, do they . . . ?” He looked discomfited, even though he knew full well they did. Art had called Dan and gotten the information from him the last time Mackenzie had been tasked to bring home the takeout and had asked Dan if he could keep the number on file. Dan had agreed but either had forgotten, or more likely, hoped Mac had. Like that was gonna happen. You had to stay one step ahead of a guy like Dan or you found yourself left holding the bag.

  From her time on the force, Mackenzie had gotten to know a number of people around River Glen who were stationed in various jobs and who willingly helped her if she asked. It was one of the best things that had come from the job.

  “See ya later.” Mackenzie walked out into a brisk night. The air felt thick with moisture, but for the moment the clouds were holding on tight. It was full dark now. Taft hadn’t gotten back to her, so she was in a quandary. “Screw it,” she muttered, yanking out her phone and typing in: Heading to Pizza Joe’s. Hope to see you there.

  She drove to the pizza parlor and parked in the back lot. Pizza Joe’s was in the middle of a center with a Safeway, a nail salon, a small deli, a Great Clips, and one of the Good Livin’ fitness centers. Mac strode through the front door, which had an annoyingly cheery little bell. Immediately she wished she’d chosen Deno’s. She’d forgotten how chipper Pizza Joe’s was with Pizza Joe’s smiling, mustachioed face painted on one wall, a near-perfect replica of Nintendo’s Mario or Luigi, surrounded by a kabillion miniature red, white, and green Italian flags, which were spread just as cheerily all over the place. As Mackenzie sat herself at a two-person table with a good view of the front door, she eyed the little bouquet of flags sprouting from the top of her napkin dispenser. Pizza Joe seemed to have forgotten the warning: too much of a good thing.

  She was debating whether to order a personal pepperoni pizza or to attempt somet
hing more exotic, like Canadian bacon and pineapple. That’s about as far as she liked to venture when it came to the pizza menu, and even then she was generally sorry she’d left her comfort zone, which was pretty much pepperoni.

  The bell above the door jangled and she looked up and there was Taft. He spied her at the same moment and she felt a small jolt of awareness. She clocked it as a normal reaction to a good-looking male.

  “Hey,” he said, swinging the other chair at her table around and half sitting, half slouching in it, his arms over the back of it.

  “Are you preparing to jump up and leave, or are you staying for a while?” she asked.

  “I’m staying.”

  “Are you?”

  He looked amused, but he turned the chair back around, sat down on it, and scooted up to the table, folding his hands on the tabletop and regarding her expectantly.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You wanted to share information. I had an appointment that I rearranged to come here, so give me what you’ve got and I’ll see where we are.”

  “I get a choice in this, you know. This is a two-way street.”

  His answer was a faint twitch of his lips.

  “You’re going to give me information, too,” she said, in case he had some other idea bubbling around in his brain.

  “You’re making up the rules here?”

  “Let’s just talk like adults, okay? I want to know why you were surveilling”—he shot her a look of warning and she lowered her voice—“our mutual friend. You want to know what I was doing, and I want to know what you’re looking at. Let’s get to it.”

  “You gonna order?” He inclined his head toward the menu, still in her hand.

  Mackenzie bit back a sharp remark. “I was thinking about pepperoni.”

  “With mushrooms?”

  “No.”

  “Pepperoncinis and some onions, maybe tomatoes.”

  “Taft . . .”

  He lifted his palms. “You like it plain. I get it. Just pepperoni.” He nodded, as if that made sense, and it pissed Mackenzie off anew for reasons she couldn’t immediately place.

  “No, I don’t care. You order.”

  “You buying?”

  She was about to object but saw he was baiting her. “Yeah, I’m buying.”

  He laughed. “I’ve got it.”

  “Jesus, Taft. Don’t make everything so difficult.”

  “Okay, I’ll place the order.”

  He got up and walked to the line at the counter, his gaze scouring the menu posted on the wall behind. Mackenzie watched the pretty gal taking his order smile and flirt a little and almost sighed. Taft was a wild card, his aims hewing closer to his client’s rather than the letter of the law. It was why he’d washed out as a cop. Too much leeway. Though he’d never been on the River Glen force, everyone in the department was well aware of him and there were those who felt he’d gone over to the dark side. Mac didn’t necessarily believe that, but she certainly knew she needed to be on her toes around him.

  But then the River Glen PD had no reason to be on their high and mighty, either. They were in the midst of challenges in the department. A rogue cop, one of their own, had accidentally shot and killed another officer during a robbery at a convenience store. It was an ugly and sad affair and the cop, Keith Silva, had left on bad terms. Though Mac had her problems with Bennihof, she had to admit the chief had stuck to his guns, fought with the union, and fired Silva, who’d been universally disliked in the department anyway. She just hadn’t figured she’d be the next to go, for totally different reasons.

  Taft headed back to their table, bringing them each a beer on his return.

  “I don’t drink beer,” Mac said.

  “A lie. You occasionally drink light beer.” He pointed at the mug he’d set in front of her. “That’s a Coors Light.”

  “Very occasionally.”

  He shrugged. “Your choice.” Picking up his beer, he took a long swallow.

  She wasn’t sure what she thought about how much he knew about her, but then hadn’t she just been thinking about what she knew about him? Dragging her eyes from the sight of his strong throat as he swallowed, she asked, “What did you order?”

  “Pepperoni straight up.”

  “You could’ve added some other stuff.”

  “It’ll be good anyway.”

  Was this flirting? It felt like flirting. There was a spark of humor lurking in his eyes that put her a little on edge. “So, why’re you following Seth?”

  “He’s a low-level drug dealer.”

  She blinked at this admission. “What’s your interest? You trying to go up the chain?”

  “Something like that. What’s your interest?”

  “Why do I feel I just got fobbed off?”

  “I can’t go into it further right now. Maybe later. We’re doing a little tit for tat here. I got something, you got something. . . Tell me the name of your client?”

  “‘Client’ might be too strong a word. A friend . . . more like an acquaintance who thought I was still with the department. Bibi Engstrom. She wants me to find a friend of hers who just disappeared. Rayne Sealy. Rayne’s apparently a bit of a flake. I talked to her boss at the Coffee Club and he just acted like she’d done this before, and said he wasn’t interested in hiring her back this time, if and when she returns.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think . . . the boss probably knows her character, but I said I’d look into it and I’m not real busy at the moment, so fine. I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  “What are your future employment plans?” he asked.

  “I don’t know yet. Who’re you working for on this?”

  “I really can’t say.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Another smile crossed his lips, one that she suspected had worked its magic throughout his life. She kept her expression neutral, a trick she’d learned on the job. Don’t give anything away.

  Into the silence that followed, Taft admitted, “Mostly I’m working for myself.”

  “More bullshit.”

  “No, it’s true. There are . . . reasons to keep Seth under tight scrutiny. Call it more of a hunch than anything else. Yeah, he’s low level, but he’s on the way to something more.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’re a cop. Ever just known when you were onto something?”

  “Was a cop,” she corrected.

  “Something that doesn’t feel right. Maybe on the surface it looks one way, but underneath you just know that there’s more. And I don’t mean bigger and badder drug czars up the ladder to the kingpin. Leave that to the DEA. It’s personalities that make up these crime . . .”

  “Syndicates?” Mac finished for him when he trailed off.

  “Smaller than that. More like crime groups. Small-time, but deadly. It’s amazing what you can get killed for if you try to carve out your own niche within the family hierarchy. You half expect it in the big families, but it can be as vicious at a lower level. And sometimes it gets quirky.”

  “Quirky,” Mac repeated.

  “I knew this guy over in Laurelton who raised llamas. Look sweet, but terrible beasts. They spit at you.”

  “Maybe they spit at you,” said Mac dryly.

  He inclined his head to her on making a good point. “There was one llama in particular who was the spitter. Apparently, he’s the angry one. He got me twice before I knew to stay out of range. The rest of the herd was apparently benign, but if you’re ever around ’em, I advise to stay back. Just a warning.”

  “Got it.”

  “So, there was this member of the family that owned the herd. A younger brother, who was . . .”

  “Quirky?”

  “And then some. Stole some of the prize stud’s semen to start his own herd. Got caught, asked forgiveness, then did it again about six months later.”

  “Llama semen?”

  He nodded.

  “How did he get this semen?” she as
ked tentatively.

  Taft spread his hands. “There are ways, apparently. This particular sample was in a vial in a refrigerator. Used for artificial insemination from the prize llama stud.”

  “Ah. So, the brother got caught a second time?”

  “Started a melee. A huge fight, which resulted in the vial breaking and the prize stud’s semen leaking onto the floor, which then further resulted in the younger brother being pummeled hard enough by the ‘family’ to send him to the hospital. He survived, but it was touch and go. Like I said, small-time but vicious.”

  “But Seth and Patti aren’t into llama breeding.”

  “No.”

  “You think they’re a small-time drug . . . family?”

  “Along those lines . . .” His voice trailed off thoughtfully. She sensed he was thinking something over and waited for him to come to a conclusion. About her? About Seth and Patti? She wasn’t sure, so she just waited.

  His name was called and he got up and retrieved the pepperoni pizza and some paper plates. He brought everything to the table and they spent a few minutes sliding hot and gooey pieces onto their plates and doctoring them with Parmesan (Mac) and hot chili flakes (Taft).