Ill Will

by J. M. Redmann

“I’m so grateful to you, Grant, for this opportunity. I feel like this gives me a chance to not just struggle, but to do well.” I had to remind myself to not take it too far over the top. He had an ego, but he wasn’t stupid.

  “I don’t give people opportunities; they earn them.”

  “I know you’re a busy man. I had mentioned to you that I have someone close to me who is very ill and wanted to know what would be the best for her. You said you might have some suggestions if I’d call you in a few days. If now’s not a good time, I can call back later.”

  “I might have some suggestions. As you know, our government and big industry have control of health care. There are things they don’t want you to know.”

  “Yes, I’m well aware of that. Nothing is ever cured, so their profits never stop.”

  “Exactly. It’s a challenge and can be costly to take them on, to offer things that should be on every pharmacy shelf, but instead aren’t allowed in the country.”

  “Yes, I understand. I can’t let someone I care about undergo horrible treatment because that’s what makes the most profit.”

  “Who is your family member?” he asked.

  Damn, I was hoping to keep it vague. “My sister. She’s older than I am and kind of raised me—my mother suffered from depression, so she wasn’t always there. We’ve always been close. I’ve been taking her to her chemo appointments.” I wasn’t going to get into the lesbian issue—plus this was not Cordelia and I but Debbie and her sister. I needed the lie that would best work for this situation.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  No, he wasn’t stupid. If it was true, I should be able to easily answer these questions. “Lymphoma. Stage three when they found it. It’s one of the more aggressive forms, so they’re doing heavy chemo. She’s living on plain rice and dry toast.”

  “Who is her doctor?”

  “Uh, let me remember.” Cordelia called her Jenny. “Oh, now I have it, Jennifer Godwin. She’s at…oh, what’s that place Uptown? On Prytania.”

  “Ah, yes, I think I know where you’re talking about. Listen, you have to make sure your sister knows what she’s getting into. It could help her, help her greatly, but there are forces out there that would shut this down the second they found out about it. Let me see what I can do. In the meantime, let’s keep you going with Nature’s Beautiful Gift.”

  His meaning was clear. I had to prove myself and earn his trust.

  He continued, “Why don’t you come by this afternoon and get some more product? It’s the only time I’ll be around this week and I like a chance to meet personally with my associates.”

  This was the cliché “offer I couldn’t refuse”—not if I wanted him to believe in perky Debbie and her fake sister.

  “I’m a little short on cash—”

  “Don’t worry, just give me half of what you’ve made so far and I’ll give you the same amount of inventory. Unless you want more?”

  Rafe and his Dallas money buddies will cover this. At least I hoped they would. “I definitely think I could sell more—I’m meeting some of my old sorority sisters over the weekend, so if you trust me with more, I’d be glad to take it.”

  “How about double if you give me three-quarters of what you’ve made so far? I’ll make it a no-interest loan for a month. Sell everything and pay me back in that time and it’ll be yours for cost.”

  “Thank you, sir—I mean, Grant. This is a great deal and I appreciate it.”

  He gave me instructions to meet him at the same place in Metairie in the late afternoon.

  Bathroom break.

  My cell phone—mine, not Debbie’s—starting jangling as I was zipping up.

  Worried about Cordelia, I ran out of the bathroom and grabbed it.

  “Mick!” It was Danny.

  “What’s up? What’s wrong?” Would Danny be calling me about Cordelia? Her partner Elly was a nurse and might be with Cordelia.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  “What? Just tell me!”

  “Dudley escaped. The oldest trick in the book—faked being barely able to move, got his guard to uncuff him so he could take a leak, then punched the guy, grabbed his gun, and took off running.”

  “That’s all?” I asked, relief coursing through me.

  “Isn’t that enough? A man who tried to kill you has escaped and is armed.”

  “Can you hold a minute? Someone is knocking at my door. Oh, wait, they’re breaking the door down.”

  “Get the fuck out of—bullshit. The phone would be on the floor.”

  “My bad, just a woodpecker outside.”

  “Mick, someone might be trying to kill you. You’re taking this a bit lightly.”

  “I thought you might be calling about Cordelia,” I said softly.

  “Ah…yeah.” It was all the explanation needed. “Go lock your downstairs door.”

  “It’s already locked. As is my office door. And I’m carrying my gun. Anything else?”

  “Don’t take candy from strangers.”

  “Roger that. Any reason to think he’s coming after me rather than trying to be at the Mexican border before dark?”

  “No, just that he’s loose, armed, and dangerous.”

  My office phone started ringing. I glanced at the caller ID. Joanne, presumably to tell me the same thing. “Joanne’s calling,” I told Danny.

  “No jokes about people breaking down the door,” Danny admonished me before hanging up.

  “If you’re calling about Dudley, I already know,” I answered the phone.

  “Bingo. Be on the alert. The good news for you is that he’s not in great shape. Some busted ribs and other stuff, and once his pain meds wear off, he’ll be very aware of it. He might come after you, but right now he’s so doped up he probably couldn’t shoot straight.”

  “Which means he might hit me given what a lousy shot he was sober.”

  Joanne ignored that. “He’s due for another pain pill in about half an hour, so we’re guessing that he’ll be at one of his favorite drug haunts in about an hour.”

  “So what should I do in the meantime?”

  “Doors locked, gun handy, steer clear of crack houses. Call me later in the day and I’ll update you.”

  “All of the above. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to call you back yesterday. How are you doing?”

  “Fine,” she said in a tone that let me know she wasn’t and she wasn’t going to talk about it. The phone was dead before I had a chance to say anything else.

  I retrieved my gun and put it right in the middle of my desk. This would not be a good day for Mr. Charles Williams to visit, because I was inclined to shoot first and ask questions at a later date.

  My stomach was growling. It was well past my usual lunchtime. I decided to venture out. It might be risking my life, but sometimes an oyster po-boy is worth it. Right now I was craving something fried. All our talk last night of how off-putting fried was for Cordelia had lodged the waft of hot grease in my brain. I put on my gun, found a light enough jacket so it didn’t look too out of place in this weather, and went in search of something golden brown.

  I was careful, checking the street from one of the stair landings, my hand on my gun as I opened the downstairs door.

  But all was quiet, no cars, no trucks, no maniacs trying to kill me.

  I ate at the restaurant, not wanting to bring the hot oil smell back to my office. Cordelia didn’t go there often, but in case she did, I wanted it smelling of apples and arugula.

  The trip back was just as uneventful and I was soon safely behind two locked doors.

  I’d carried the hot pink cell phone with me, but it hadn’t rung. The wait made me glad I wasn’t really Debbie, caught between hope and desperation. Instead, I used the time to do due diligence and run a background check on Rafe Gautier. He was a private eye out of Dallas, part of a large organization. His picture matched the man I’d met. Basically, he checked out as much as I needed him to check out.


  Time to call him—he was the only way I’d get a couple of thousand dollars anytime soon. I’d done some quick calculations. At twenty dollars apiece and selling over half of what she’d taken, Debbie would have taken in close to three thousand dollars. That meant handing Grant Walters over two thousand.

  The games were over—Rafe answered on the second ring. I gave him a quick rundown of my phone call with Grant Walters. His response to the money was, “Not a problem.”

  “I need it by three thirty,” I reminded him.

  “Still not a problem.” We agreed to meet in front of his hotel. He’d hand me an envelope and I wouldn’t even need to get out of my car.

  I passed the afternoon by checking e-mail, reading the news online, the weather, celebrity gossip. I’d made it to pork belly futures, by which time Dudley had to be well over the pain threshold and therefore presumably in search of drugs and not me.

  At around 3, I prowled in my costume closet. Debbie couldn’t wear pink every day—mostly because Micky Knight didn’t own that much pink. I found a frilly aqua shirt and a knock-off version of designer jeans for her. In the bare nick of time, I remembered to shift all the putatively sold product out of my trunk and added it to the obstacle course that led to the back door of my building.

  As promised, Rafe was standing a little down the block from the entrance to his hotel.

  “Be careful out there,” he told me as he leaned in to hand me a thick envelope. “It’s a mix of bills, a couple of fifties just to keep it from being too bulky, but mostly twenties and tens.”

  “Just like someone would get from selling things at twenty bucks each.” I tossed the envelope on the passenger seat and headed off.

  Traffic was a snarl, early rush hour going out to the suburbs. I avoided the interstate for my sanity and the safety of others—if one more big SUV cut me off, the gun in my glove box might prove too tempting.

  It was just a little after four when I got to the place in Metairie. I scanned the parking lot. It seemed pretty empty, only a few cars by the pizza place. Maybe Grant gave up on Debbie because she was a few minutes late. I didn’t see any car that looked expensive enough for him.

  I took the money out of the envelope and stuffed them into my purse, making sure the bills were in a different compartment from my gun.

  Show time.

  I hurriedly traipsed up the stairs, as if Debbie would be concerned about being late.

  When I got to the second floor, the door was ajar, not welcome open like it had been the last time.

  I rapped softly on the door. “Mr. Walters? I mean, Grant?” I pushed the door open a few more inches and stuck my head in.

  “Ah, Debbie, I’m glad you could make it.”

  It was just the two of us. He was sitting at the far end of the room at the big table he had used before.

  “Yes, sir—Grant. I’m happy to do it. So far everyone I’ve told about Nature’s Beautiful Gift has been interested and willing to buy at least a bottle or two.” Much as my feet wanted to stay near the door and freedom, I forced myself into an easy saunter across the room to him.

  “Good, I’m glad to hear it.”

  I pulled up a chair so I was sitting opposite from him. Just far enough away he couldn’t easily grab me.

  I reached into my purse and pulled out the money. I wanted to keep this meeting focused on business. “This is all the money I’ve made so far,” I said, as if wide-eyed, naïve Debbie would so willingly reveal everything.

  He nodded, picking up a stack and proceeded to count it. I counted another stack and pile by pile we both went through and counted the entire amount.

  “Two thousand, eight hundred and seventy-two dollars,” he announced.

  “Exactly what I got,” I said, although I’d counted ten dollars more. I did not want to quibble and have to sit here and count again. It was Rafe’s money anyway.

  “So three quarters of that is two thousand, one hundred and fifty-four.” He quickly separated that from the stack.

  “Oh, well, easy come, easy go,” I said, looking at the small amount left for me.

  “The start-up phase is always hard,” he assured me. “You’re doing quite well. Several of the others are still struggling to sell their first bottle.”

  “I may not be great with math,” I said, doing my best to actually giggle, “but I’m pretty good at talking to people.”

  “You are good at talking to people,” he echoed. “I could see you wanted to succeed at that first meeting.” He reached out and covered my hand with his. Then he gave me the kind of smile a man gives a woman to show he’s interested.

  Holy fuck balls, what now? I kept a smile plastered on my face. “Thank you, Grant. I hope I never disappoint you.” I lifted my thumb slightly as if responding to his touch.

  He again smiled at me.

  I desperately tried to think of a lie that would require me to have to be on the other side of the city in fifteen minutes.

  Then he glanced at his watch and his smile changed to annoyance. “I’m sorry, I have to be somewhere. It was great to see you. I hope you continue to sell very well and we can see each other again soon. I’ll walk you out and give you your inventory.”

  “I’m sure you’ll see me again soon,” I told him. I hastily stuffed seven hundred and eighteen dollars in my purse and followed him out of the room.

  He didn’t bother locking the door.

  When we got to the parking lot, the truck—driven by Vincent—was parked in front.

  “Hello, Vincent,” Grant greeted him. He handed Vincent a sheet of paper—my order. “Please fill this for Debbie.”

  “Hi, Vincent,” I greeted him.

  “Ah, hi, Debbie,” he said, looking at me then at Grant.

  I pulled my car around, facing my trunk to the back of the truck.

  Vincent quickly tossed the boxes out of the truck. I started to grab them, but Grant insisted on helping me.

  “Can’t have a beautiful woman like you doing grubby work.” He smiled at me.

  When we were done, Grant put an arm around my shoulder in a possessive way and kissed me on the cheek.

  I leaned into him, playing along. He wasn’t really interested in Debbie, I had figured out. This show was mostly for Vincent, partly for the woman he assumed to be Debbie. Grant Walters, with his money, smooth talk, and distinguished looks, could easily get young blond women with perfect hair and teeth, breasts skillfully enhanced.

  I didn’t break mirrors, but I was over forty, wearing cheap knock-off clothes and, even as fake Debbie, at least one divorce past doing anything to get a man.

  He only did it to see the hurt puppy dog look in Vincent’s eyes—a reminder that no one could compete with the alpha wolf.

  Grant got in the truck with Vincent, clearly his designated driver. I could almost see the satisfied smile he’d give to Vincent, all the little ways he’d play that he and Debbie had been doing more than counting money.

  Moments like this make me glad I’m a lesbian. I waved cheerfully—my happiness genuine that Grant was as interested in having sex with me as I was with him—and drove away.

  Rush hour driving prevented me from thinking about much on my way home.

  I detoured by my office to change back into Micky Knight garb.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I still had to meet Lydia, so I decided to do what a good detective with a maniac trying to kill her should do—vary my hours. Cordelia wouldn’t be home. The support group was near her office, so she was staying Uptown. I went home, fed the cats, and had an apple and some nuts for myself. My late lunch was still working its way through my digestive tract.

  I left at a quarter to seven, heading up Elysian Fields toward the lake. At least the days were getting longer and it was still light out.

  I got there right at seven, but didn’t see Lydia. I parked on the far side of the lot, got out, then stood by my car fiddling with my cell phone. I had run through about every function except the ones I didn’t kno
w what they would do and had never tried because I was afraid they might cause the phone to go into the fetal position, when I saw her come out of the drugstore.

  Like she’d come here to do shopping and just happened to meet me in the parking lot.

  At a major intersection where anyone could drive by and see us. Amateur. Not that I intended to tell her that. I wasn’t a double agent and she wasn’t the KGB. In the unlikely event that anyone asked, we could say we ran into each other. She asked about Cordelia and I engaged her in a lengthy conversation about colon health.

  She spotted me, did a passable—for someone driving by at a high rate of speed—acting job of being surprised to see someone she knew here. She trotted over to me, looking over her shoulder as she did.

  “Hey, thanks for meeting me,” she said, with another glance behind her.

  “Let me watch behind you,” I said. “It’s more natural that way.”

  She blushed, actually blushed. “I’m not sure what I’m doing.”

  I agreed with that, but didn’t express it. “So tell me, what made you want to see me?”

  “I looked through some of the charts and there are…irregularities.”

  “Like what?”

  “I mean, no one is perfect. We’re in a hurry, we jot down something wrong. If you search everything you’re going to find something.”

  “You didn’t want to meet with me because someone mixed up a blood pressure reading.”

  “No, but now I feel stupid, like I’m adding two and two together and somehow came up with ten.”

  “Were other people billed for appointments they didn’t make?”

  “Maybe. I thought so, now I’m not so sure.”

  Denial. It’s hard to think that someone you work with every day, chat with at the water cooler, eat lunch with, is a criminal, taking advantage of you and your patients. Lydia was obviously struggling.

  “What did you see?”

  “A few of the charts indicated appointments that weren’t on the books. But maybe the chart is right and the appointment book is wrong. Maybe someone canceled the wrong appointment, so it disappeared.”

  “But the person still showed up and was seen?”