“I don’t know any details. Just water cooler talk. We gave ATF a cubicle while she’s investigating, but Agent Langtry’s not very friendly. At least not to me.” He shook his head, then waved off the comment. “Doesn’t matter. I just wish I knew more.”
“It’s possible Roger was working with someone. We’d only been following him for a few days. He didn’t meet with anyone during that time, but the officer could have pulled dead files off his computer we hadn’t accessed. We were watching his phone and the other usual stuff. He was on social media a lot, but it was mostly gaming talk.”
Ian nodded. “How’s your bike?”
“Daddy fixed it. Good as new.” I hadn’t told him about Lucky’s second mishap since it involved a bit of illegality called Breaking and Entering. I suspected Ian wouldn’t view my run-in at the Jonson home as “no harm, no foul.” I busied myself with finding a smaller bag inside my backpack. “I almost forgot. The motorcyclist at Chandler’s apartment might have dropped this. I can’t say for sure.”
Ian peeked at the lighter and cocked his head. “This was near your bike? With a cut fuel line?”
“I don’t want to do paperwork, Ian.”
“Neither do I.” He studied me. “If you’re not sure, I’ll just hang on to it for now.”
“Is stealing gas a problem on that end of town?”
“Not really. But that kind of crime can be random. I don’t have a number on the motorcycle yet. Can you remember the make or model?” He smiled. “It’d be helpful to have more than “red” and “fast-looking.”
“Sorry.” I sighed. “An investigator should be better at paying attention to details. I didn’t realize how badly I sucked at investigating until I had to do it alone.”
“You’re in training. You shouldn’t expect to handle a full case by yourself.” Ian scooted his chair closer, then leaned forward, placing his forearms on his knees. “Maizie, I’m worried about you. You look really…tired or something.”
“This heat does a number on my skin.” I flushed, knowing guilt did the same thing. “And I could really use a keratin treatment. A manicure and facial, too. Plus, community service is hard on my wardrobe.”
Ian shook his head. “It’s in your eyes. Don’t get me wrong. You look as beautiful as ever. But I recognize that kind of exhaustion.”
“Oh, that.” I rose from my chair. “I’m not sleeping.”
“You’re a little young for insomnia. Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“I have one. He’s part of the problem.”
Twenty-Two
#ThePriceofthePrices #UnaBombaMomma
As much as I wanted to return home, eat Carol Lynn’s food, and pretend to sleep, I couldn’t let Nash down. We had a client overdue for payment. I had procrastinated long enough. Mrs. Price would continue to ignore my letters, emails, and calls. It was time to play my most despised role: collections agent.
Add in the double whammy that I was collecting on the mother of the man who left me breathless and awake all night.
In a bad way. A very bad way.
I parked Lucky in the Price driveway behind Mrs. Price’s car and next to Roger’s Sentra. I stared at the gash in his roof and crumpled frame. A garbage bag had been duct-taped over the driver’s side window. Another garbage bag covered the roof gash, but the door had buckled. No amount of duct tape was going to keep rain from seeping in.
Good luck getting insurance to cover that, Roger.
I tore my eyes off Roger’s car and meant to slide a leg over Lucky, but I couldn’t make myself get off the bike. Instead, I gazed at the brick ranch with the silk flower wreath on the door and wondered how such a normal-looking home could raise a bank bomber. Roger grew up in a one-parent household, but then so did I. Was it all the video games he played? Or a chemical imbalance that pushed a tinkering inventor into an evil scientist? Maybe he was into drugs and we had completely missed it.
I didn’t care. I wanted Mrs. Price to pay us, then I never wanted to see her or Roger again. Except in court. Where I had no choice but to go. With or without Nash.
A mist settled over the house. I was hyperventilating inside my helmet. I yanked it off, tumbled from the bike, and sat on the driveway with my head between my knees.
After mantra’ing and wheezing back into semi-normal breathing, I pushed off the driveway and ambled to the door. Knocked. Rang. Waited.
I opened the screen door and banged on the wood until the wreath shed a few silk flowers. “Mrs. Price,” I called. “I really need to talk to you.”
Nothing.
From my previous visits, I knew Mrs. Price spent most of her time in the kitchen. She’d served Nash and me sweet tea in Superhero glasses. Mine had a cracked picture of Batman. The ice sweat had looked like rain and Batman was missing a finger and his nose.
Mrs. Price didn’t want to speak to me any more than I wanted to talk to her. Her son was in jail because Nash and I hadn’t caught him in time. But her son had blown up my boss. I knew she was home. Both cars sat in the drive.
I had things to do. A lot of things.
I’d tried calling and knocking. I could cross this off my list and move on to the next item. I thought about Lamar working two jobs, trying to keep Nash Security Solutions afloat. And Nash waking up to an empty office (and residence) because Lamar and I couldn’t pay his bills.
Adulting really sucked sometimes.
Julia Pinkerton wouldn’t allow Mrs. Price to hide from her. Of course, Julia Pinkerton never had to act as her own collection agency. But if Mrs. Price was a valuable witness or even better, a suspect, Julia would have already kicked the door in and forced her to speak.
I was pretty sure kicking in the door was against the law. Instead, I marched around the house, onto the back slab of concrete that served as a patio, and knocked on her sliding glass door.
Inside, Mrs. Price jerked her head from the magazine she’d been reading.
Placing my hands on my hips, I raised my brows and chin and mustered all of Julia’s swagger. “Open the door, Mrs. Price.”
She glanced at her magazine, then at me. Her mouth set in a grim line.
“I’m not stepping off your patio until you talk to me.”
Her eyes shifted to the cord dangling on the inside of the door.
“And if you shut the shades, I’ll lawyer up.”
The last thing we needed was attorney fees. But I’d found the threat of litigation worked better than actual litigation.
She placed her hands on the table and pushed off her chair. Lumbered to the door and grabbed the cord to the vertical blinds. We eyeballed each other and exchanged a mutual feeling of “you’re not my favorite person.”
Or at least, that was what I was feeling. Maybe her feelings ran a little harsher.
“I didn’t hire y’all to watch my son allegedly blow up a bank. If you were doing your job you would have caught him.” She yanked on the chain and the blinds zipped across the door.
“All right. If that’s how you want to play it.” I pulled out my phone, flipped it open with a flourish, and paged through my menu of about twenty numbers. None of which were an attorney. I held the ringing phone up to my ear. I could sense her standing on the other side of the glass. I hoped she sensed my phone. “I’m calling my lawyer.”
“LA HAIR,” said Rhonda. “We’re full up right now. But you can make an appointment. Or try your luck. Your choice. It’s a free country.”
“Hi there, Rhonda. It’s Maizie Albright of Nash Security Solutions. We have an issue here with a client refusing to pay. Not only refusing to pay but refusing to speak to me. She signed a contract. Even if services weren’t rendered in a favorable outcome, she still has to reimburse us.”
“I’m on this,” said Rhonda. “What d’you want me to do?”
Rhonda and Tiffany loved shakedowns. “As my attorney, I would like you to speak to Mrs. Price.”
“Price? As in the dude who blew up the bank?”
“The mother of
Roger Price who used her instant pot and a lot of fertilizer to make a bomb. A bomb that would have killed Mrs. Price’s son if my Nash — I mean Mr. Nash — my boss and your client hadn’t saved him. And saved the rest of the victims of Roger’s failed robbery at First National Bank.”
“Alleged bank robbery,” said Leslie Price from behind the blinds. “He wasn’t trying to rob the bank.”
“In which,” I continued. “Mr. Nash suffered a horrendous head injury and now lies in a coma. Due to her son.”
“Alleged.”
“That coma is not alleged,” I said. “It’s totally for real. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Hang on, Maizie,” said Rhonda. In the background, a muffled argument played out. “Just a minute, Tiffany. This is Maizie and she wants me to play her lawyer...No, she asked me to do it…I am too fierce…I know you have experience with lawyers, but as a receptionist at LA HAIR, I have experience with phones.”
Actually, of the two, Tiffany was more fierce. But lawyers generally didn’t threaten bodily harm. I sensed a Battle Royale for the phone. And backpedaled. “Rhonda, as my lawyer, I know you’d like to handle this matter immediately. But no need to speak to her now. Have your secretary make an appointment to get Mrs. Price’s testimony.”
“I’ll talk to your lawyer right now. Because I’m not talking to you.” Mrs. Price yanked open the sliding door and shoved her hand through the blinds. The blinds swung and thwacked her arm.
Hells.
“Rhonda, Mrs. Price would like to speak to you,” I spoke quickly, fought my way through the blinds, past her arm, and into the kitchen. “Do not let your partner handle this matter.”
Scuffling sounded through the phone. Which did not bode well. Lawyers didn’t scuffle. As far as I knew.
Leslie Price turned toward me, hand still held out.
I swept my phone behind my back. “Before I have you speak to my attorney about payment, I heard Roger might have been working with someone else. Is that true?”
When Nash woke up, he’d want to know if we’d missed Roger’s accomplice. And now that I’d called my fake lawyer, I had the brilliant idea of suing Roger and his partner to pay for Nash’s hospital bills.
Feeling more Vicki than Julia, I placed my hands on my hips and gave Leslie a hard stare. She backed a few steps from me and sank onto a chair. Crossed her arms and looked away.
I put the phone to my ear. “Looks like you’re going to need to subpoena Mrs. Price.”
“What does that mean?” said Rhonda. “Lawd, Tiffany, back the hey up. You can’t listen in if it means breathing down my neck. You know I can’t stand that vape stank.”
More scuffling ensued. Followed by heavy breathing.
“Maizie, it’s Tiff. What’s going on? You having trouble with someone?” said Tiffany. “Ask her where she gets her hair done. I’ve got dirt on most stylists in town. Next time your woman goes in for a highlight we apply bleach and threaten to not rinse until you get what you want.”
I cleared my throat. “That seems a little extreme? I’m sure my client will comply without the need for…additional measures. May I speak to Rhonda again?”
“Legal mumbo jumbo will not get you—”
“This is Rhonda speaking,” said Rhonda. “To whom do I have the pleasure of conversing? Legally-wise?”
“It’s still Maizie.” This was so not working. I looked at Leslie Price. Or maybe it was. Her pallor had paled and her eyes had grown red and teary. “Let me get back to you.”
I flipped the phone shut and sat in the chair across from Leslie. “I know this must be hard for you. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through. But Mrs. Price, Wyatt Nash is in a coma. He almost gave his life to save your son. You have an obligation to pay us even if the results weren’t what you wanted. We certainly didn’t want it to end this way. We were just doing surveillance.”
She blinked back tears. “The bomb wasn’t meant to go off.”
“But it did.” My heart felt bent and twisted. A small part of me empathized with Mrs. Price. Her only son arrested and likely to spend the majority of his life in prison. Nash and I hadn’t figured him out in time.
But a bigger part of me — the part that made me feel smaller — just wanted to be done. We’d only had a few days to follow Roger. She’d had his whole life. “Mrs. Price, please just pay us so I can go.”
She nodded, rose, and lumbered to the counter where her purse rested. Bringing back her checkbook, she sank heavily into her chair and gusted a sigh. Tears rolled off her cheeks and plopped onto the checkbook, smearing the ink. She ripped off the check and handed it to me.
I folded it and stuck it in my pocket. “Thank you. I am sorry about Roger. Was he working with someone else? It might help his case.”
Her eyes darted to the side, but when she looked back, she shook her head. “Leave me be.”
“Fine.” I exited through the blinds and asked the universe to please cut me some slack and not let the check bounce.
The ride home — despite the usual lumbar pain and burning sensation to my thighs — was almost pleasant. I had finally accomplished a task. We were one step closer to not losing the business.
Back in the office, I pulled out the check. And noticed Mrs. Price had written, “Help us” in the memo section.
Shizzles.
Twenty-Three
#ThePriceIsNotRight #HighNoonAtSix
“I’m so confused,” I said to Nash. “I want to deposit that check. Bad. But why would Mrs. Price write ‘help us’ on it? I should probably go back to Black Pine PD, but I’m late for camping. And to be honest, I think Ian Mowry might only be tolerating my style of hot mess because he’d like to go to lunch again.”
Nash’s monitor blipped. I glanced at the steady heart line, then back to Nash. He looked pale. His five o’clock shadow was a beard. Hair had begun to grow where he usually kept his head shaved. My chest tightened. I focused on Steve the armadillo, whom I’d placed on his stomach.
“I called Mrs. Price, but she won’t answer. Again. The woman is so frustrating.” I squeezed his hand. “Fine, I’ll go back. But after my camping reenactment. I promised the three. And I can’t let kids down, right?”
Steve stared at me impassively.
“Okay, the truth is, I don’t want to see Mrs. Price again. I don’t even want to think about the Prices. I hope there’s enough evidence that I won’t even have to appear at Roger’s trial.”
I blew out a long sigh. “Nash, never in my life have I felt the way I feel about Roger Price. I think I hate him. And I’ve dealt with some petty, malicious backstabbers. People willing to physically hurt me to prevent me from getting a part or to slow production enough to get me fired. Once a stage mom actually sent her son into my dressing room to lick my water bottles and cough into my makeup. Her daughter was my understudy for a teen deodorant commercial. Her son had chicken pox.”
I winked. “Joke was on her because I’d had chicken pox when I was six. And gave it to all my costars. On accident. But even with all the Tonya Harding-isms, I mostly felt sorry for that kind of desperation. It’s a brutal industry.”
Sucking in my breath, I shook my head. “But Roger? He took a bomb into a bank where there were innocent people. And look what he did to you. I can’t stand—”
A tear dripped off my cheek and splashed onto Nash’s knuckle. I slowly rubbed it in and swallowed the lump in my throat.
“So, I don’t think I can help Mrs. Price.”
I could feel Nash’s look. His eyes were closed, but I knew what he was thinking.
“I’m acting like a princess? Okay, fine. I’ll see what’s wrong with Mrs. Price.” I kissed Nash’s hand, stood, and moved the stuffed armadillo to Nash’s feet. “Steve, make sure Nash sees you when he wakes up. Tell him I’ll be back soon. I’ve got a mother of a bank robber and a scene of the crime to visit.”
* * *
As I drove back to Leslie Price’s house, I couldn’t help but feel the
anger and resentment toward her build again. I had business flyers to make. Sixty-five texts from Vicki to delete. Two mysterious texts from Giulio to ponder. One from Oliver to ignore. A Nash to worry about. And a crime scene to reenact. In the woods. But first I had to figure out why Leslie Price had written “help us” on her check.
Thank you, Roger Price, for blowing up a bank, my boss, and giving me more dealings with your mother.
The Price street was quiet at dinner time. I parked Lucky in the driveway behind Leslie’s car, avoided looking at Roger’s Sentra, and skipped the front door for the patio. The vertical shades were closed, but the kitchen was lit. I knocked on the glass, hoping it wouldn’t give Leslie a heart attack. A moment later, the shades jostled, and an eye peered through the blinds.
A man’s eye. I was pretty sure. Certainly not Leslie’s. Roger was in jail. And as far as I knew, there were no other men in the household.
The eye squinted. I hopped back a step. The blinds swung back. My heartbeat quickened. I slipped to the side of the door. A second later, the kitchen light cut off. I caught the slight movement of the shades slithering.
I flattened against the side of the house, wondering why I was weirded out. It was perfectly reasonable for someone to be suspicious of a backdoor caller. Maybe he was visiting family, come to care for Leslie in her mother-to-alleged-bank-bomber time of need. Or a neighbor. A friend. Maybe Leslie was dating. It wasn’t like we’d been watching Leslie. Just her son.
A son who might have had an accomplice. A woman who had written “help us” on her check’s memo line.
Shizzles.
The lock clicked. The sliding door scraped along the track. The plastic blinds clattered. I scooted around the corner of the house. And squatted to peer around the edge.
A young man stepped through the doorway. Turned slightly away from me, he studied the backyard. He wore the uniform of Black Pine’s working class: jeans, work boots, and ball cap. He held something in his right hand. The blunt edges looked like a handgun.
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