The tow truck driver who climbed into the cab next to Debbie smelled of sweat and grease. There was a smudge of oil on his forearm. He wiped his hands with a dirty pink rag before starting the engine and grabbing the wheel with his thick fingers.
"Where to?" he asked gruffly. "If you need a rec, I know some good mechanics."
Debbie flipped open her reporter's notebook and read the name Flannery had given her.
He frowned. "I know it. They do good work. A favorite of cops and folks who don't like to be ripped off."
Attempting to make small talk, Debbie asked, "So, how long have you been driving a tow truck?"
"Forever," the man replied as he removed some chewing tobacco from a pouch and put a pinch below his lower lip.
For Debbie, it was hard to judge what would qualify as forever for this man. The grime from his dirty job made it hard to see the clues that might reveal his age. His hair was an oily blond that needed a shampoo. If there was any gray, she couldn't see it. Even though his hair was thin, it could've been its natural state rather than anything related to aging. Because he worked outside, his face was weathered and tan, which could make it look like he'd spent longer on the earth than he actually had.
"What are the easiest jobs that you do when you're called to tow a car?" Debbie asked.
The man sniffed, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and replied, "That's simple. People like you. Though I don't know what a gal like you was doing in a neighborhood like this. Ain't safe," he said as he picked up an empty cup to spit tobacco juice into.
"Why do you say I was an easy job?" she asked.
"You sure ask a lot of questions, so maybe I'm going to change my answer," he said.
"I'm just curious. Just making conversation. You must encounter all sorts of people every day. I was wondering what made me so easy."
"You're still alive," he said. "That makes you easy."
"Then the hard ones..." Debbie began before she was interrupted.
"The hard ones are the dead ones. When you gotta hook up a car, and someone's guts are still inside. Well, that ain't easy."
The driver picked up his cup and brown spit came out again.
Twenty-four hours with a tow truck driver, Debbie thought. Could be a story pitch. She doubted that Sam would go for it, but then again, at least it was something she could throw out as an idea.
"Say, you didn't happen to work an accident a few weeks ago where a boy stole a red Audi and ended up hitting and killing a girl, did you?"
The driver nodded. "Yeah, I was there. Teenagers bunched together. Easy target for a street rat who had no business being behind the wheel."
"That one went to Ace Towing, right?" Debbie said.
"Yep," the driver answered.
"But I didn't see an Ace Towing logo on your truck."
"No one owns me. I'm an entrepreneur," he said proudly. "I got my truck and arrangements with companies all over town. They call me when they don't have enough manpower. The big tow truck companies--the ones with big lots--they got all the best city contracts locked up. Even if I had a lot, I'd still need someone on the inside to help me win a city contract. I don't have any connections. I just have my muscle, my smarts, and a reputation for being reliable. And it keeps me plenty busy. In fact, lately, it seems like I'm picking up a stolo a day."
Debbie had second thoughts about calling her mother for a ride. Instead, she resorted to a Lyft. And when she got home, she found Beth seated at the kitchen table in front of an open laptop, a container of cornbread on the cabinet next to her.
"Where'd you get that?" Debbie asked, recognizing Ada's handiwork. The original batch Debbie had received spilled on the street. This had to be a substitute offering.
"Detective Flannery," Beth answered.
"Flannery? He was here?"
"Mmmhmmm," Beth answered, sipping from a cup of tea. Turmeric, Debbie guessed from the scent.
"So, he told you about the car?"
"He told me about the shooting, if that's what you mean," Beth said. "And he somehow sensed that you weren't going to call me--even though you told him you would."
"I was going to tell you. I just didn't want to bother you. I know you're still recuperating. And you've got work to do."
"I could've still gotten in my car to get you. I'm allowed behind the wheel now. All I can say is thank goodness for Detective Flannery--and Mrs. Davis. At least they figured I'd want to know. And I think they guessed you wouldn't tell me, or tell me much. I think the cornbread was just an excuse to feed me info."
"Geez, Mom, I'm an adult. I was gonna tell you. I did live in D.C. I encountered way more dangerous situations there than I have here. And you didn't worry."
"But that's just it. I didn't know about it. When you're away, I don't worry. But as long as we're living together, I worry more. Old habits die hard. I can't help it."
"Well, as you can see, I'm fine."
"Your hand doesn't look fine."
"It's fine," Debbie said, reflexively hiding it behind her back as if that would somehow prevent her mother from focusing on the injury. "It's just a cut. No stitches. Just some glass."
Debbie placed a tea bag into a coffee cup and poured hot water from an electric kettle into it.
"And my car just needs a new window. Unfortunately, my deductible is high, so I've gotta pay out of pocket."
"You need a loan?"
Debbie sat down and wrapped her hands around the mug. Even though it was warm outside, the heat on her palms was comforting.
"I hate relying on the Bank of Mom," Debbie said.
"I know. And I don't want you to rely on me. But I know money's tight for you, at least temporarily. And we should sit down at some point and talk about money management strategies. I think every woman should know how to use a hammer and how to save and invest. Your dad wasn't so good at finances. I was always the one who put together budgets for our household and our law practice. I took care of the cash flow and made sure there was always enough for a rainy day. For lawyers, it can be feast or famine. And when you've got employees counting on you, the first person who goes without a paycheck is the one whose name is on the door."
"Mom, the last thing I want is a money lecture," Debbie said.
"I'm not lecturing. Really. And I'm not judging. I was young once. I know what it's like starting out; struggling to establish your career and build a solid financial base. I feel a lot of empathy for you. I just want to share some tools to help you. Tools that you'll need to manage your estate you'll inherit once I'm gone."
"Don't say that, please."
"It is going to happen someday."
"What? Did you get some news today about the cancer?"
"No. Everything is the same as it was. But all of this has made me consider revisiting my estate planning. I'd like to have you more involved in the process. I want to sit down with a trust and estates lawyer and go over our options. If I create a trust, you would end up being a trustee someday."
Debbie let out a sigh.
"I don't know how we got on this, but I'm worn out. Yes, we can talk about estate planning. But not now, okay?"
"Fair enough," Beth said. "By the way, if you're hungry, I highly recommend the cornbread."
"I know, right? Ada's a good cook. I ate breakfast over there this morning. I'm surprised she gave Flannery the job of delivering baked goods to you, though. She's got a son who's a cop."
Beth sipped her tea. "Perhaps she trusts Flannery. And, after all, he was at her house so it was convenient. There's something, some quality about him, that encourages trust. He's, um, solid."
"Solid?"
"Dependable. Reliable. At least that was my impression. You know as well as I do how rare it is find those traits in people. Someone who isn't a flake, overly dramatic, or a complete narcissist. You know, he may not tell you all the secrets you want to hear, but that doesn't make him a bad guy. And I'll tell you this: Denise Robertson is an idiot. I'd pick Flannery over our weak-chinned m
ayor any day."
"So I take it you liked Flannery?" Debbie teased.
Beth waved her hand. "Oh stop."
"Amazing. I'd rather talk about Flannery than discuss handling your money when you're gone. You spend too much time worrying about everyone else--me, your clients. Have you considered that maybe you've been given a second chance? A wakeup call? I know you loved Dad, that you still love him. But I don't think Dad would want you to get up every day, go to work, come home, worry about me, then start all over again. I think he'd want you to enjoy life more, worry less."
Beth closed her laptop and got off from the table to pour more hot water in her mug. "It's hard not to worry when someone is shooting at your daughter."
"We don't know if I was the target. And besides, the tow truck driver said I was an easy call."
"What'd he mean?"
"He just said that he'd seen much worse than my vehicle," Debbie answered. "He was an odd duck. But interesting. Although he seemed disappointed when I gave him the name of the mechanic that Flannery recommended."
Beth's brow furrowed. "You might've cost him some money."
"What do you mean?"
"Perhaps the mechanic Flannery sent you to is an honest one who doesn't give a kickback to tow truck drivers," Beth said.
Debbie shook her head. "No matter where I turn lately, there's some undercurrent that I'm missing," she said. "I'm beginning to think I'm losing my keen perceptive abilities."
"When you're in the midst of a crisis, as you were today, it's hard to see things clearly. Plus, you're losing your detachment as you become part of the story, Crime Beat Girl."
Debbie frowned. "Well, I need my superpowers back fast. It looks like I've got an interview with the mayor tomorrow."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Under the Bus
As Debbie walked into city hall, she recalled how much her father had admired the building.
Constructed over the course of several years starting in the late 1800s and into the early 1900s, the French Renaissance Revival style of the structure was meant to pay homage to the city's roots. The red tile roof, the yellow stone set upon rose-colored stone, had always fascinated her dad. And the father's enthusiasm for the building had been transferred to his daughter. Only for Debbie, it was the giant clock on the outside that she found most intriguing.
"You know where you're going?"
A sheriff's deputy interrupted Debbie's reverie as she cleared the metal detector and collected her purse from the scanner.
"Mayor's office," Debbie answered.
"Room 200. Elevator's around the corner."
Debbie made a beeline for the grand staircase. Moments later, she had walked through the outer set of double doors, the first threshold that had to be crossed to see the man who had summoned her. His public relations chief, a woman dressed in a tailored navy pantsuit, looked at her smartphone and said, "Debbie Bradley, I presume. You're punctual. Mayor Robertson is ready for you. Why don't we head on into his office?"
With no time for pleasantries, Debbie obeyed. The flack led the way, then dissolved into a corner of the large office as Robertson crossed the burgundy wall-to-wall carpet, skirting around the common seal of St. Louis, a riverboat in the center of the image, that had been embedded into the fabric of the rug.
The mayor was maybe six feet tall, Debbie guessed as she shook his hand. His bright blue eyes complemented his ash blond hair. And while his chin wasn't as chiseled as Flannery's, Debbie wouldn't describe it as weak. Like his press aide, Mayor Robertson wore a navy suit. However, his uniform was offset by a crisp white shirt and a burgundy tie that matched the carpet. In his lapel, a pin with the city's flag; a red background with three thick, wavy lines of blue and white symbolizing the Missouri and Mississippi rivers and at the intersection of the three lines, a yellow circle with the fleur-de-lis in the center.
Mayor Robertson gestured to the guest chairs. Debbie sat down in the spot to the right, the PR flack immediately sitting down in the one to the left. Like a French king, the mayor took his place on the black leather throne placed behind an imposing two-toned wooden desk, espresso-brown panels offset by red-toned trim.
"Well, Ms. Bradley, welcome back to St. Louis," Mayor Robertson began. "How does it feel to be home?"
Debbie smiled and played along with the boosterism. "Really good. It's nice to spend time with my mom."
Mayor Robertson nodded. "Yes, Beth Hughes. She's certainly well known in the legal community. How's her cancer, if you don't mind me asking?"
It seemed, at this point, that people in town knew far too much about Debbie's life. "So far, the news is encouraging. She's had wonderful medical care."
Mayor Robertson nodded solemnly. "We are blessed to have some of the finest medical institutions in the country located right here in our city."
"Indeed," Debbie agreed. Knowing that time was limited, and the press rep would happily usher her out regardless of whether Debbie had asked all of her questions, she did her best to speed past the pleasantries. "So, Mayor Robertson, I know you're an extremely busy man. I really appreciate the fact that you agreed to meet with me."
He smiled, showing off his somewhat lightened teeth. They weren't movie star white; after all, that wouldn't fit in a Midwestern city with union roots. But they'd been lightened just enough to give him a youthful glow.
"I thought that it would be good for us to get acquainted. Perhaps a sit-down with me could help you get off to the right foot in this town. A number of my supporters read your magazine. If I talk to you, I bet they will, too. I'm always happy to help open doors for a fellow St. Louisan."
Quid pro quo, that's what he's getting at, Debbie thought. He would do her a favor, and she would do him a favor. Even though Debbie needed an access pass into the upper echelons of St. Louis society, she'd never stoop so low as to sell her integrity to get it.
"Well, as I said, I really appreciate your time. And there are so many things to talk about. One of the topics on the minds of people who live in our city is the fact that St. Louis continues to rank as one of the five most dangerous places in the country. Don't you think that's hurting our ability to attract new industry, new talent?"
"Fake news," Mayor Robertson said.
"Pardon?" Debbie replied.
"The stat is fake," he repeated with a smile. "Those rankings look only at the boundaries of the city itself, not the metropolitan area. It's unfair to use a population of three hundred thousand to represent an area of two point eight million people."
"That's a valid point," Debbie conceded. "Be that as it may, there are still an awful lot of murders within the city limits every year. There were over two hundred last year. And if our current pace holds, we'll break a record this year. Already, the summer has been deadly. And that doesn't even include other types of crimes. I know from firsthand experience that stolen cars have become an issue of late."
"No one can say for certain how this summer will end up, especially given that we've deployed more officers to the areas where we've seen an uptick in violence. In those districts, we're having officers patrol and walk the streets. We're arranging more community meetings. You see, we need to strengthen our community ties. Unfortunately, trust has eroded. And without trust, we can't seem to get the tips and information we need to protect the people who are being hurt. I want to help them. But they have to help me."
Debbie scribbled in her reporter's notebook. Even though she was taping the interview--as was the PR flack--she liked to have a handwritten backup. Plus, it was easier to check her quote accuracy when she knew approximately where in the interview a statement was made.
Debbie decided to go direct with her questions. "Do you think that crime could be reduced if we could curb the use of so-called community guns?"
The mayor paused. The public information officer chimed in. "Ms. Bradley, can we go off the record?"
Debbie sighed, put down her pen, and turned off her recorder. "Go ahead. I'm listening."
&nb
sp; The PR rep spoke. "I'm not sure where you heard that term. But it doesn't apply to St. Louis."
Mayor Robertson spoke. "Where'd you hear about community guns? Flannery?"
Debbie shook her head. "Flannery? Heavens no. I wouldn't describe him as someone who enjoys talking to media, let alone giving us tips."
"I would be very disappointed if I found out that he was spreading disinformation to reporters."
"Do you suspect he's been sharing false information?" Debbie asked.
"I just think that it's only fair I warn you to be careful around Detective Flannery," Robertson said.
"What do you mean?" Debbie asked.
"Flannery has, um, shall we say, a complicated past?"
Debbie pursed her lips to stop herself from asking if that complication included the mayor's wife. "What do you mean?" was all she could come up with.
"For most of his career, Flannery's had a cloud of suspicion over his head. If you need proof, look at the fact that he's still only a detective. I don't know if you're aware of this, but we went through the police academy together. I fully expected him to be the police chief one day."
"What happened?" Debbie asked.
"There was a scandal--though it mostly was kept quiet. Internal affairs never had anything ironclad. Plus, the police union closed ranks around Flannery. His family has deep roots in the department and a lot of pull with the union. If it had been anyone else, he would have been fired."
"Flannery has always seemed like a by-the-books kinda cop," Debbie said.
"Sure. But he really hates bad guys. So much so that some believe he broke the law, you know, reasoning that the end justifies the means. You see, Ms. Bradley, there were some drug dealers who claimed Flannery framed them."
"That happens all the time," Debbie said. "You know as well as I do that if you ask ten people convicted of a crime whether they did it, five will say they're framed. Another three will say the police got the wrong guy."
"In Flannery's case, drugs were found in his car."
"His patrol car? Again, It could've simply been dropped by a suspect."
Crime Beat Girl Page 13