Mackenzie August Boxset 2

by Alan Lee

  “It’s fishy,” I said, bringing us back to a topic over which I wasn’t afraid to make eye contact. “Juanita Yates is fishy. A stolen car? No other customers? No logical motive in her death? I’m terribly perplexed.”

  “Police can’t find anything about her. But you can?”

  “I’m hot on her trail. For Grady Huff I would move mountains,” I said.

  She raised her glass. “To Grady Huff.”

  I clinked hers with my Old Fashioned. “To Grady.”

  “And his deep pockets. May he rot in prison.”

  Her phone vibrated. She opened and grinned at a few incoming bright photographs. She held the screen so I could see—pictures of a toddler, a little girl.

  “My baby,” she said. “Tyler.”

  “Tyler’s a boy name.”

  “My Tyler is a girl. Don’t be base.”

  “Where is Tyler?” I asked.

  “At home in Sterling. My mother’s watching her, and she sends me photos and videos. I cry five times a day, missing her.”

  True to her word, she leaked tears from both eyes.

  “Tyler’s father?” I asked.

  “There is no father.”

  “Immaculate conception,” I said wisely. “Way to go.”

  “Anonymous donor from a clinic. Until this trial is over I don’t even have time to visit on the weekends, and it’s killing me.”

  “Bring Tyler here to Roanoke.”

  She wiped her eyes. “It wouldn’t work. A hotel room is no place to keep a toddler the entire day. Up there, my mother has daycare help.”

  “Tyler is welcome at my son’s daycare. A lovely lady named Roxanne keeps him at her house,” she said.

  “You have a son?”

  “His name is Kix. He’s not walking yet. And shut up about it,” I said. “One day he’ll walk and he’ll be the best walker and it’ll be glorious.”

  Candice smiled wider and wider. Those had to be porcelain veneers. “His name is Kicks? Like, the soccer player kicks the ball? And you’re making fun of Tyler?”

  I glared appropriately. “Kix, as in he kicks Tyler’s butt.”

  “Could Tyler really stay with Roxanne? It’s baby proofed? Is Roxanne trustworthy? You vetted her? Does she have a teaching degree? You checked her background?”

  “Polygraph every other week,” I said. “Direct descendant of Abraham Lincoln. She’s ordained, a Nobel prize winner in childcare, fluent in sign language and Latin. And her PBJ sandwiches are on point.”

  “You’re mocking me. But Tyler is all I have,” said Candice and she cried again.

  “Then bring her. I’ll call Roxanne to verify.”

  “Mack,” she said and she sniffed. “That would be beyond tremendous.”

  She stood and wiped her eyes and hugged me. One of those hugs where she leans in hard, and her face presses against my throat, and both arms go around my neck and squeeze. It was a good one.

  Mackenzie August, Mr. Beyond Tremendous.

  14

  Manny used his clout as a federal marshal to get the Franklin County sheriff to release the stolen car used by Juanita Yates. It wasn’t being used in the homicide investigation anyway. Hell, there wasn’t an investigation period.

  The car was a blue Jeep Cherokee, twenty years old, 156k on the odometer. I drove it up Route 8 through Floyd from Rocky Mount; the trip took ninety minutes on back country roads. Manny followed in my Honda.

  The Cherokee had been stolen from a man named Brent Lowe a year ago, or so he claimed. Brent lived near Claytor Lake, a popular spot for tourists and vacation homes in the mountains. Brent didn’t live on the luxurious side of the lake, though—he lived on Trade Winds Road in a trailer near a handful of others.

  I parked at his trailer and climbed out. The air up here felt thin and cold. The leaves had already begun turning.

  Manny parked on the street and got out. He leaned over and groaned. “Those country roads, amigo. Gonna be sick.”

  “Don’t throw up on my spaceship."

  “Ay dios mio, gonna die,” he said.

  The grass was long and brown in this neighborhood. I climbed the wooden stairs to Brent Lowe’s door and knocked. It sounded hollow and flimsy.

  A man answered. He wore sweatpants and a Jimmy Buffet style flower shirt and thick socks. Open and friendly face, short gray hair. He held a glass of…something in his left hand. Maybe coffee mixed with milk, a dirty white concoction.

  “I’ll be dammed,” he said. He grinned and it looked like he enjoyed doing it. “There she is, Old Blue.”

  “Brent Lowe?” I asked.

  “That’s me. And that’s my car. Never thought I’d see her again.”

  “Courtesy delivery from Sheriff Sutton.”

  He stuck out his thick hand and we shook. “Mighty obliged to you. Thought the sheriff said the car was evidence or some such.”

  “Not anymore,” I said.

  “Say, is your friend sick? Does he need some Maalox or something?”

  Manny had sat down on the gravel, his head between his knees.

  I said, “What he needs is an iron constitution, the pansy.”

  “Why is Old Blue no longer evidence?” asked Brent Lowe. He meandered across the deck in his socks, down the stairs, and towards the Cherokee. His neck needed shaving, covered in heavy fuzz.

  “Are you familiar with the case for which your car was impounded?” I asked. And then I observed him intensely, the way Inspector Clouseau would.

  In my professional opinion, he looked sad.

  He said, “Yeah I heard about it. Girl who stole the car got shot.”

  “Right. Her name was Juanda.”

  “Juanita,” said Brent Lowe. He corrected me without thinking.

  Ah hah!

  I was so preternaturally talented at my job, I scared myself.

  “Right, Juanita.”

  “Yeah that’s a real shame,” he said.

  “You knew Juanita?”

  “Knew her?” He shook himself, taking his eyes off the Cherokee. “No sir, I didn’t know her. But I guess she’s the one who stole my car, huh?”

  “Why’d you never report the theft? You seem attached to the car,” I said.

  “Oh well. Old Blue ain’t worth much anymore, I reckon. Juanita needed it more than me. I got a bike round back in the shed, I can drive.”

  “But you kept paying insurance on Old Blue, all this time,” I said.

  “Did I? How about that. Stupid of me, huh.”

  “Anyways, that’s no business of mine,” I said. I grinned—ah shucks, I’s being too nosey for my own good. “Here’s your car. Key’s in the ignition. We’ll be on our way.”

  “Thanks again!” said Brent Lowe with a lot of genuine enthusiasm. “Tell the sheriff I appreciate it.”

  I got into the Honda’s passenger seat. Manny reluctantly slid behind the wheel.

  I asked, “Do you think it’s a coincidence that Juanita was cleaning houses at Smith Mountain Lake, and the car she drove had been stolen from Claytor Lake?”

  “Don’t talk,” he said. “I a nauseated spic.”

  “Know what those two lakes have in common?”

  “Water. Don’t be stupid.”

  “Money,” I said. “People with money to burn.”

  “I don’t care. What now?” he asked. “Ride a roller coaster? Spin in a circle till we throw up?”

  “I had planned on observing Brent and Old Blue, unbeknownst to them, from a magnificent hiding spot. However,” I said. This was a sleepy street with no trees, no traffic, and no hiding spots. I’d be seen anywhere. “I think we’ll go with our backup plan.”

  “Simon,” he said, which meant ‘Yup’ in Spanish. Or so he claimed. “Let’s find the straightest road leading to Roanoke.”

  I turned on my phone and opened the location services app.

  On the screen, I was represented by a blue dot.

  Brent’s Cherokee was represented by a orange dot—the tracking device hidden in the
truck, putting off a clear cell signal for the next seventy-two hours.

  My backup plan; I’d track Old Blue.

  “I’m so good at this, it’s scary,” I said.

  Manny groaned. “I’m going to be sick.”

  15

  That afternoon at three I called it quits, giving me time to make football practice. Our final game was soon, which was good because my absences had grown embarrassingly frequent. I shrugged into my soft shell jacket and locked up. Temperatures had fallen into the fifties and a cold breeze came down Campbell Avenue.

  I turned the corner onto 1st Street and nearly collided with Darren Robbins.

  The Darren Robbins.

  Darren wasn’t as tall as me but it was close. He had short blond hair, styled with gel. Clean face, hard jawline. Eyes so brown they appeared black. Looked like he played quarterback in college and kept the muscle. Handsome and all-American, the kind of guy you want your daughter to bring home.

  So you could punch him in the nose.

  He wore a dark suit and a camel overcoat.

  “Mackenzie August,” he said. His hands were gloved and they hung by his side, the fingers twitching a little.

  Darren had a shadow. Guy with a shaved head, wearing jeans and a sports coat. The coat covered the bulge of his shoulder rig, but the pistol was in his coat pocket, hidden and pointed at me.

  “Hey, look’it this. It’s the man himself, the guy who beat up Ronnie Summers,” I said.

  “Relax, August. Play it cool. You get to walk away from this, if you don’t act like a freshman.”

  I said, “Good thing there were three of you the night you beat up Ronnie, otherwise your hands might’ve gotten tired from hitting her face. Three’s better, that way you courageous gentlemen could take turns.”

  “Quite the mouth on you,” said Darren Robbins, lowering his volume for the sake of our fellow pedestrians. “Especially for a man purported to be sexually active with my fiancé. Let’s walk. Then we go separate ways.”

  I turned back towards the market, towards the crowds. He fell in step beside me, the shadow behind.

  “You’re wrong,” I said.

  “Concerning?”

  I said, “Ronnie was engaged and I have scruples.”

  “So.”

  “I can spell scruples, if that helps.”

  He didn’t respond.

  I said, “There was no sexual activity. I know your engagement was a sham. But it still mattered to me.”

  “Was,” he said. I heard a question behind the word.

  “You got dumped.”

  “Only naive rookies believe everything they hear, August.”

  “I’m not sure what’s worse, beating up your fiancée or beating up a girl who dumped you. I mean, neither are great.”

  “Veronica and I had an arrangement.” His gloves hands came together, his left hand playing with the ring finger on his right. “And she’ll honor it.”

  “Or else?”

  “Doesn’t matter. She’ll honor the arrangement. I’m giving her a few days to think it over.”

  “Good thing. She’s a woman—little brain power, prone to flighty decisions. Am I right?” I said.

  We reached Market Street and stopped on the corner, near Center in the Square. Roanoke denizens hurried to and fro, bundled against the chilly wind.

  “What do you want, Robbins,” I said.

  “To enlighten you.”

  “Good. Always nice to glean enlightenment from a man who hits women.”

  “You see this.” He indicated the commercial world around us. “All of this, the market, the restaurants, the law firms—that’s one reality. The world most people see. The world where mothers take their children for ice cream and meter maids ticket cars and farmers sell fucking grapes. But gentlemen like Marcus Morgan and myself, we’re apart of another reality. A world with its own rules and ways of doing things.”

  “The underworld,” I said. “This is a fun story.”

  “Call it what you want. It’s a violent place with enormous stakes. It subverts much of the surface world and underpins the rest. You’ve wandered into that world, Mr. August.”

  “Whoops.”

  “I’m trying to be patient. Out of respect,” he said, “to Marcus. Because this is his territory. But you’ve wandered into my world, like an errant dog, now it’s time you back away.”

  “An errant dog.” I looked down at myself. “I knew I should have worn my tighter shirt today. It’s a slim fit, you know? You could see how strong and manly I am.”

  “You’re on the junior varsity team, August. You don’t fully get it, and I understand. But my tolerance for the antics is at an end,” said Darren. “I need to return to Washington. So you—”

  “You’ve given up on poor Grady Huff?”

  “The Huff trial is merely an excuse to be down here. My real business is with Marcus and Veronica and you,” he said and sniffed. “How’d you know about the Huff trial?”

  “I’m working for the defense. Which means you don’t stand a chance. I’m so good it’s scary.”

  He paused and glared at me. As if one of us was an idiot.

  “You’re working with Candice Hamilton?”

  “I am,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “To piss you off.”

  “Why?”

  “You gang up on women and abuse them. You prostitute them. You abuse your power and you blackmail. You have blonde hair but brown eyes, and that’s a stupid combination. I could go on and on.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you, August?”

  “For starters, scruples,” I said. “Keep up.”

  “I don’t care what happens to Grady Huff. He’s part of the surface world I mentioned.”

  “Good. Because I’m getting his charges reduced.”

  “You couldn’t possibly. The idiot confessed,” said Darren.

  “Run back home to Washington before you get embarrassed, is my advice. Grady will be dodging first degree.”

  “Grady’s fate is sealed.”

  “Ah hah! What you don’t know is—”

  “Jesus,” he said. “Shut up. I’m here for two reasons. The first, to guarantee the continued shipment of Calvin Summer’s primary export. The second, to guarantee the continued shipment of Calvin Summer’s secondary export, his daughter.”

  Hearing him describe Veronica as an export was like a physical shot to the gut. I fended off a bout of dizziness.

  Mastering myself, I said, “And you’re here to lose the Grady Huff case.”

  He did something like grinding his teeth. His shadow, the guy behind us with the gun, snickered. Cause I’m hilarious.

  “I don’t care about Huff. And he’s getting first degree, all the way,” said Darren.

  “So you’re going to lose the trial and you got dumped. That’s a rough week. This special world you’re in, it sounds sub-utopian.”

  He shook his head. Not looking at me. He was still tugging on his ring finger.

  “Perhaps I’ll remain in Roanoke a few extra days to kick your ass in court.”

  “We’re not going to court. We’ll settle on manslaughter or second degree before then,” I said.

  “You haven’t passed the bar, August. You’re repeating cute phrases learned late on a Tuesday night, watching a cop show on—”

  “What did Ronnie say about continuing her services?”

  I interrupted him and he didn’t like it. He wore the expression of someone having an irritating conversation with a stupid detective on a stupid street corner.

  He said, “As I explained, I’m giving her a few days to think it over. She’s a smart girl. She’ll—”

  “For reasons which are too sophisticated for you to comprehend, Ronnie asked me not to kill you,” I said. Behind us, his shadow shifted, as if wondering if he should use the gun. “So I’m not. Yet. But I don’t like you, Darren, and I’m looking for an excuse.”

  Darren stepped back and looked at his shadow a
nd shrugged again. “This is like talking to a two-year-old. Why am I bothering?”

  The shadow said nothing.

  “The two reasons you’re down here,” I said.

  “What about them?”

  “First, the fields of marijuana. I don’t care. I imagine Ronnie doesn’t either. They should keep running smoothly for a while, is my guess. Second, Ronnie’s services. That’s up to her. From what I was told, she gave you her answer and didn’t cave while you three asshats beat the hell out of her. So you’ve got responses to both questions. Now run home.”

  Darren said, “I think you’re the reason she said No.”

  “Maybe partly. But also maybe she sees that you’re not worth her time. That she’s got a future without you in it. That she holds more power in the deal than you do, and that you can shove it up your ass.”

  He took a sudden step towards me. He kept his face calm. “Do you know what Veronica does when she visits me in Washington? I book three rooms at the Regis off K Street. And I line up her boyfriends in hour-long shifts. I work Veronica the entire night, running her between clients. I run her into rooms with senators and congressmen and MS-13 bosses and Camorra hitmen and billionaire junkies. Two nights in a row, sometimes three. By the end, she’s sick and can barely move and I remind her that I’ll throw her and her father in jail if she so much as sheds a tear. And then we repeat the process the following month. Don’t talk to me about power. I wear her ass out.”

  I came very close to dying. Darren’s shadow was behind me, gun in my ribs. I didn’t care. I wanted to put an uppercut into Darren’s teeth. A knee into his groin. An elbow into his throat. I went through my options, so angry that the emotion was a kind of color at the edges of my vision. I tasted the hate in the back of my throat.

  I settled on an option.

  To kill Darren and live.

  Which meant waiting.

  Which was so difficult it made me tremble.

  If Ronnie could endure him, I could too.

  Darren Robbins stepped back. He made a motion brushing his hands together, like dusting them off.

  “Okay, August. I tried. You and Grady Huff, you’re dead men.”

  He turned and walked towards 1st Street. His shadow walked backwards a few paces, gun pointed, and then he turned also.