The Devil's Own Game

by Annie Hogsett

“Do you know what PTSD is?”

  “Sure. But—”

  “Yeah, ‘But.’ You’re right. It’s not you. I’ve seen it. You don’t have it. So. Wednesday night while you were at the museum, Gloria handed you the envelope and then—”

  “I got the call from Lisa and she said—”

  “Right. She told you somebody blind had been shot, down by Severance Hall. A spot you knew Tom and I could be in. Were in. You ran through that mess we saw on the Gloria video. Out to that balcony—where you could have been shot, out of nowhere no problem, by the way. And about then, I’d imagine, the note got erased off your brain by its built-in survival instincts. Big surprise, Allie, you were scared. And distracted.

  “We all were. Me. Tom. Even Tony. The one thing you can’t afford, Allie, is to lose confidence in your smart, creative, brave self. She’s in there. I know you can deal with the harsh reality that there are things we don’t get to control. Tom is dealing with it today. I thought he was going to wear that treadmill out this morning.

  “So, Allie, listen. There’s no MondoMegaJackpot Winner’s Police Academy to prepare you for what you all are handling, day to day. For one thing, there has never in the history of criminal investigation been a so-called detective agency like the T&A. The name alone—” He passed a hand down over his face to straighten it out and went back to breaking the speed limit.

  I could make out the skyline of Cleveland now, rising tall and cranky out of the bloom of red taillights. The Terminal Tower scowled at us through the murk. Tough old icon of the city’s glory days when the builders of the city were all moving to Bratenahl—just in time to watch the stock market self-destruct. My town. No apologies.

  “Look, Allie. When Tom won all that money and everybody within a six-state radius found out? You both stepped into the deep—Nothing deep I can think of is deep enough to describe the mess you were in. Still are. That accidental jackpot of Tom’s is one genie ain’t goin’ back in her jar. You all drew the Good Luck Fairy that smokes weed, drinks Jack Black, and juggles grenades.”

  He noticed the speedometer approaching eighty and backed off the accelerator again.

  “Listen. You guys woke up everybody with those multi-millions. The penny antes and the howitzers. It was a crapshoot, shook up and thrown out onto the table. You and I met one of the penny antes in the garage at the Arco Building. Armed and dangerous, no doubt. A screaming wind tunnel between his ears. Worst/best day of my life. So, look, I’m in. I’ve been in ever since you kicked that dude in the nuts and gave me a shot at him. You’ve got plenty of what it takes.”

  “Otis?”

  He threw a sideways grin at the bewilderment in my voice. “Some speech, huh. I hope you paid attention because I meant every word. And I don’t think I could repeat it from memory. Now hold on for a minute. I got another couple of things you need to know.”

  Big, rapid deceleration. We’d caught up with traffic and got wedged into the stop and start. He zapped me with his “Zero Bullshit Otis” face. I kept paying attention.

  “Here are your real so-called detective skills: Smarts. Guts. Intuition. Commitment. Honesty. Although I wouldn’t put much of anything past your Lee Ann.” He stopped. Shook his head. “If you ever get into a real jam, I’d give her the upper hand.

  “On the downside? Patience. Attention span. Self-preservation. You’re still weak on those. That’s real unfortunate. Because the worst, most useless girl detective on the planet is the dead one.”

  “Geez, Otis. Now you sound like Tony.”

  He snorted. “Tony. He talks tough to you but, Allie, if you weren’t busy getting your feelings hurt, you’d have figured him out. All that pushback and put down is a tough, cranky, worried old mother hen. He’s seen plenty of stuff to turn him that way. Don’t take it so hard. And don’t tell him I told you that or I’ll swear you lied.

  “So, look, you need to stop studying on trajectories and what fancy armor-piercing ammo might be out there with your name on it. There are things you cannot duck. Ducking is damn dangerous all by itself. We need you to rely on your brains and instincts to help us figure out what the fuck is going on at any given moment. Let Tony and me—and the guys in the garage—keep you as safe as we can. No half-assed end runs. We’re in this together. You got that?”

  “Yeah, I got that. Otis?”

  “What?”

  “You hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  “Take me to Arby’s? We can drive through.”

  “Works for me. You better now?”

  “Sure. Nice cold, dingy, sloppy drive, dodging tanker trucks and speeding tickets, topped off with a Smokehouse Brisket signature sandwich and fries, which we will actually eat right here in your precious truck? Should do the trick.”

  “Don’t push your luck, Allie.”

  “Never, Otis.”

  So we drove to Arby’s and drove through the drive through. I got the Brisket, a thing of fries, a mint shake—because nothing says March in Cleveland like ice cream dyed green—and about two hundred extra napkins. Otis got the Fire-Roasted Philly and a Diet Coke. We ate in the parking lot, hidden behind our tinted windows. Otis ate three quarters of my fries. After that we went home.

  * * *

  The sugar, salt, and grease helped level out my high-test jittering too, but now I had a virulent case of “Don’t Know What To Do With Myself.” And the boogie-woogie flu. Our pretty glass house was watertight again and had a new ceiling fan. Nonetheless, Sniper Man had ruined it as a refuge for me at least for today. The repairs hadn’t made it chill-tight either. Currents of dank, frigid air circulated in there and kept trying to worm their way into the kitchen.

  A drink might have been calming, but Jay and I had already dismantled the No Booze Before 11 A.M. rule. Not smart to go back there. I didn’t feel like reading. Especially I did not feel like reading Long-Range Shooting for Beginners. I was never going to learn to long-range shoot, and Otis had disqualified ducking as a solution for high velocity projectile peril.

  Otis disappeared into his man cave. The security folks were discretely deployed. Nobody had shot anything around here since the afternoon before. Tom was listening to music and/or sleeping on what I’d come to think of as “our couch.” Or “our Buick.”

  So there I was. No help for it. No excuses. I went up to my dressing room, glared at the TV for good measure, changed into my scruffy workout gear and headed to the treadmill. I found my rhythm. Measured. And my pace. Slow. I sent my mind on vacation, which, inevitably, devolved into a replay of last night. I was playing “It’s Gonna Be Me” into my earbuds, and jogging along. Poor Tom. His imaginary runs were all melting asphalt and the smell of kudzu or whatever. I’d have to tell him about my playlist. I smiled.

  Smiling was a mistake. When I let my guard down and did that, the phone rang. I picked up and Lisa Cole said, “Allie. We need to talk.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “No way, Lisa, I need to hang up on you.”

  “Don’t. Please. You were watching 16 last night.”

  “I was. Watching you smearing Tom’s name all over TV-Land.”

  “Allie. Wait. It wasn’t—I got put on administrative leave.”

  “Lisa.” I turned her name into liquid sarcasm. “Why on earth? I thought you were doing a regular bang-up job last night. Channel 16-style.”

  She was quiet for minute. “I probably have that coming, but Allie. What did you hear me say last night?”

  “That the message left at the museum was for MondoMegaJackpot Millionaire Tom Bennington III.” I admired my snarl.

  “I didn’t say that Allie. Remember again.”

  “I don’t—” On second thought. What I remembered was Lisa’s deer in the headlight expression. Her hair whipping at her face. The cut back to the anchor.

  “He said it.” I rearranged the sequence of my memory. “The
dumb ass on the desk. You didn’t?”

  “Because I couldn’t. He read that on my face. Even if you didn’t.”

  “Is that why—?”

  “Yeah. That’s why I’m on everybody’s list at 16 right now. Why I don’t care very much, either. Look, Allie. Let’s not do this on the phone. Can we meet somewhere?”

  “When?”

  “Six-ish?”

  “Where?”

  “Flying Fig?”

  “Works. Otis will drive. We’ll have guys following too.”

  “Good.”

  * * *

  Lisa Cole and I faced each other across a couple of Manhattans in a booth in the bar of The Flying Fig. Except for a murmur of conversation from the main room, the place was quiet. Otis had selected the booth because (a) it had a high back to hide us from the front windows; (b) the door was marked “Please use other door,” which stopped traffic coming in but didn’t stop a few folks from trying; and (c) he could sit reasonably close without unnerving other patrons by looking like a bodyguard. Or inhibiting Lisa and me by eavesdropping.

  He’d situated himself midway down the long bar and was pretending to enjoy his N.A. beer. I saw the face he made after each sip. A couple of extra guys, hired special for the occasion, were parked out front. I felt like Taylor Swift hiding from my fans. I bet no one would realize I was her tonight.

  I’d left Tom home, lying on our couch, eyes shut, listening to the “Chet Baker Sings” album, from 1956. The man had eclectic tastes. Jazz. Classical. Indie. I hoped he was thinking about me, maybe worrying about me—not much, but enough to fuel some plans for another high school reunion tonight. Euphemism.

  Lisa Cole gave me what a classic noir detective might describe as “the fisheye” over her Manhattan. The Manhattan was a warm, friendly brown. Lisa was wary, with a splash of offended. I reminded myself I was dealing with a skilled reporter. Lately she’d been a happy ex-officio member of the T&A. Now she was on administrative leave from the T&A. Also from 16. Which put a different light on things. Setting aside her noisy visit to the crime scene Wednesday night—we hadn’t spoken since I hung up on her in Gallery 241-B. We had a lot to discuss.

  I stared into the depths of my Manhattan. It was lovely, dark, and deep, but I needed to keep my wits about me. Maybe just a taste. So this wouldn’t feel so much like an interrogation.

  The glass was weighty and cold in my hand. The liquid smelled sweet but authoritative, and somewhere in there was a jigger of lighter fluid. Perfect. It didn’t rush non-stop to my head, but the heat of it softened up my heart as it passed by on its way down. When I viewed Lisa Cole through the lens of that kinder, gentler sip of booze, I could still catch a glimpse of my friend.

  You always hear how a person who knows she’s about to die will get a flashback of her life. Just the high points, of course, because time would be fleeting. Watching a friendship you think might drop dead in the next ten minutes can give you a moment like that.

  I saw Lisa, laughing with me over salads and girl talk. Being great to Loretta when Loretta’s heart was broken. Eating a whole one-pound Slyman’s Corned Beef Sandwich with glee and no apologies. Lisa’s horror at the moment she discovered she’d been the unwitting pawn of a serial murderer. Her ambition to be a full-fledged member of the T&A and to realize a dream she still entertained of how a reporter’s stories might be worthwhile instead of one reckless, tasteless Channel 16 scoop after another.

  I pushed the drink a few inches away from me. “Lisa. We’re friends. I want us to stay that way, but we have to talk about how we can be friends and work together and not endanger anybody. Especially Tom. Also Otis, who’s over there assaulting his taste buds with an N.A. beer to protect you and me. Margo. Valerio. Everybody. So I need to ask you something.”

  She scanned my face. Glanced away in the direction of nothing. Said, “Sure, Allie. Ask away.”

  The question had been tapping me on the shoulder, bugging me, ever since I woke up on Thursday morning: That phone call at the museum. Lisa’s Huey Lewis ringtone. Her question, “Allie. Where’s Tom?” The one that broke open my world and trashed my life for a few endless, terrifying minutes spent running through the museum to the balcony and bullying my way through the crowd to get to Tony.

  My body was reliving those frantic moments as I studied her face. I folded my arms onto the table and leaned on them. I could feel my shoulders curling in to protect my chest. And my heart.

  She nodded. “I get it. I get what you need to know. I can see it. You want me to tell you if I was standing over the body of a blind man when I called you. If I rang you up from—that—so I could prey on your—on your life. For a fucking scoop?”

  I sat up and pressed my shoulders into the hard back of the booth to straighten them out.

  “Yes. I might not have put it quite that way, but yes. I’m sorry. But I can’t—”

  She brushed off my apology. Picked up her drink. Set it back down. Met my eyes.

  “Those are two separate questions. I’ll answer them both. Was I standing way too close to the body of a dead blind man who from what I could see looked an awful lot like Tom? Yes. I was right there. As close as I could get to the barrier. But Allie, I couldn’t see his face because—I couldn’t see it. So I didn’t know for sure.

  “I called you to find out. I wanted you to tell me you were both safe at home. And I promise you, if you hadn’t hung up, I would have handed my gear off to the sound guy and come to find you until we knew for sure.

  “For, me, Allie. For me, that night, as far as I could see, it was Tom lying on the pavement, shot dead, almost at my feet. That wasn’t a scoop.” Her face collapsed into that awkward, flushed, trying-not-to-cry-but-too-late-to-stop-it morph. Unraveling into a sob.

  “Allie.” She choked on my name and grabbed a couple of breaths, trying to get control. “It was a nightmare, Allie. The cops wouldn’t let me get closer to—the body—or cross the lawn either. They were hustling me out of there when Tom and Otis showed up. You can ask them. I was a mess and a wreck and my makeup was—I wasn’t covering the news. I was falling apart.”

  I groped around in my purse and passed her a handful of tissues. “I wish I hadn’t asked you that, Lisa. I—”

  She grinned at me and blotted her face. “You didn’t ask me that, Allie. You were about to beat around the bush for ten minutes, blurt out something, and then take it back. Girl. I may never make any kind of detective, but you will for sure never be a hard-ass reporter. Not unless I give you lessons.”

  She handed half her tissues over and we both blotted around and blew our noses. I pulled my drink back toward me. She got hers back too. We clinked glasses.

  “Now,” she said, “you and I need to have a serious talk, and we’re going to have to figure out our ground rules. I think 16 will work me over and, after a short pause for the brutal browbeating, take me back. If they do, I can work there until I find something better or they fire me for real. I’ll also help you as much as I can from inside. I’ll be a detective and a spy. Because, in my soul, I’m done with them. But I need to not look kicked out if I can avoid that. And I still have to pay the rent on my awesome new place.”

  “One last question. Let me try to ask this one out loud. Who leaked about the note, Lisa?”

  Lisa pressed her lips together, thoughtful, as if she was taking both sides in a conversation with herself.

  “The protect-your-source thing is gospel, Allie. Sacred. People go to jail. I’m proud to know women and men who’ve done that. But in the spirit of the rule, I hope, I’m going to tell you. Not because I’m mad at 16. Though I am. As hell. But to protect my source from you poking around and getting him fired.”

  “Getting who fired? Who—Oh.” Light bulb. “Lisa? It was Chad? Chad Collins.”

  “It was. And although he was wrong to talk about it, he’s a very sweet man, and he was bamboozled by
a clever, treacherous television reporter who was not me this time. Our guy was so earnest and interested. So disgustingly impressed and encouraging. I wanted to barf. Your guy Chad is such a fan of you and Tom and so thrilled about being ‘part of the investigation—’ He was putty, Allie. It was painful to watch. Especially when he said, ‘You aren’t going to print this in your paper, sir, are you?’ You aren’t going to get him fired, are you Allie? Or yell at him.”

  “No. Of course not. Thanks for telling me. I promise not to yell.”

  I gave a second thought to what she’d just told me. “That’s why you clammed up last night. Not only because of Tom and me. For Chad too. You’re a stand-up girl, Lisa Čebulj Cole. I’m sorry I hollered.”

  “You did not holler, Allie. I’m going to have to teach you the difference between being outraged inside your head and outside of your mouth. It’s a skill you could use.”

  She glanced back toward the kitchen. “Let’s see if we can find a waiter and get us snacks. I plan to have at least two of these and I can’t do that on an empty stomach. And tell Otis to come over here and sit with us. He has the only level head in this bar.”

  Otis came over. He brought a bowl of peanuts he’d been using to blunt the essence of N.A. He pretended not to notice the both of us fussing at our makeup, read us the menu, and took our orders.

  “Waiters give up on ladies like you two, who sit around talkin’, drinkin’, cryin’, and huggin’ after happy hour is over. I’ll get us food. Allie hasn’t had anything to eat today. Except—”

  “Otis.”

  A bland expression. “A light lunch, Lisa. On the run. With a green shake. Not to mention, Veuve Clicquot with an interior decorator before noon. And Lisa? One of my guys will bring your car, and we’ll drive you to Atelier 24.” He grinned. “We know where you live.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  9:00 p.m.

  Standing in front of the shining glass entrance of Atelier 24 on a cold, drizzly, Northeast Ohio evening, craning my neck to take in its many, many stories of living spaces—the top several of which were wrapped in an honest-to-goodness cloud tonight—I shuddered. I hoped Lisa was not well off enough to be living up close to the pinnacle of her new digs. The penthouse lair of Tito & Sniperman. And D.B.