Hunting Dixie

by James, Harper

‘I know that. Unfortunately, you’ve got to look at it from their point of view.’

  ‘This has probably made Ryder’s day.’

  She laughed. ‘Day?’ She sounded like someone trying out a word in Swedish. ‘Year, more like. He’ll retire a happy man. Don’t forget, Dixie’s a cop. Whoever shot him is a cop killer. And whoever catches a cop killer—’

  ‘Gets a free blow job from the Chief?’

  She couldn’t help laughing even though she tried hard not to.

  ‘Sometimes I can see why he doesn’t like you.’

  ‘So what do I do?’

  She flicked out a fourth finger. He stared at it as if he didn’t know what business it had sticking up like that.

  ‘You need to let me finish.’

  ‘There’s more?’

  ‘They’ve got your fingerprints on the shell casings they found by the body.’

  ***

  ‘NO WAY,’ Evan shouted.

  He came out of his chair like somebody lit a fire under his ass. If the table hadn’t been bolted to the floor, it would’ve been in her lap. As it was she scooted sideways to avoid the remains of his cold coffee as it flew across the table and dripped off the edge.

  This time, every head in the diner turned as one and stared at him. All other conversation stopped mid-flow. The waitress froze in the midst of dropping flatware noisily into a drawer. He looked around. Grinned apologetically then slowly sat back down.

  ‘I can believe all the other stuff,’ he hissed. ‘It can all be explained away if anybody wants to listen. But there’s no way my fingerprints are on those shell casings. I didn’t do it so they can’t be. It’s not possible. There’s been a mistake.’

  She leaned back as if she’d just opened the door to the oven. Held up her hands, palms towards him.

  ‘I’m only telling you what Ryder told me. Would you have preferred me to not say anything? Let you go back to the office and hear it from him?’

  She called the waitress over to clean the table and bring them more coffee. The waitress gave Evan a sour-faced look as she banged his coffee cup down in front of him. He looked like he wouldn’t have noticed if she’d poured it in his lap.

  ‘Here’s what I think,’ Guillory said. ‘First of all, I don’t think you did it—’

  ‘Hallelujah.’

  ‘—and I can leave it at that, walk out right now if you want to keep this up. In fact, that sounds like the best idea I’ve had all day.’

  She put her hands on the table. Pushed herself to her feet.

  ‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry.’

  She made a point of staring at him as she considered his apology. Stretched the moment out. Then she slowly eased herself back down.

  ‘Drink your coffee and listen. I don’t think you did it. You might be lots of things but you’re not a murderer. Not even with your belly full of beer and your head full of the stupid stories Carly told you. It might not have registered in that shrivelled-up, under-used organ you’ve got where your brain should be, that if I did, I wouldn’t be sitting here now, would I?’

  He kept his attention on his coffee cup.

  ‘I said, would I?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean I have any explanation for the fingerprints that Ryder says he’s got on the shell casings. I believe he lifted some prints and he’s matched them to you. He’s not lying to me. And he didn’t make it up. How that situation came to pass . . . I have no idea. Yet.’

  Evan looked up into her eyes.

  ‘Yet?’

  ‘Yes, yet.’

  ‘So you’ll look into it?’

  ‘I know, I know, you’re thinking why would anybody want to help a miserable, ungrateful bastard like me? And I’ve got to tell you, you’ve got a hell of a point. I’m not sure I’ve got an answer for you there either.’

  ‘What made you decide to help?’

  ‘Because if you didn’t do it, somebody else did. It goes back to the pedophile I told you about. The one we had to let go.’

  ‘The one you hit.’

  She nodded, satisfaction in her eyes.

  ‘Exactly. The one I hit. The one I’d like to hit again. It’s bad enough having to let him go because we didn’t have enough evidence. But I can’t sit and watch Ryder take you down on the basis of evidence I know must be wrong.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Don’t know yet. But keep your head down. Don’t go home or back to your office. Wait until you hear from me.’

  He got up.

  ‘Evan . . .’

  He heard a small break in her voice, wanted to get out before she did it to him, that thing she always did.

  ‘That isn’t the only reason I’m helping you.’

  ‘I know.’ He had to say the next word before she did. ‘Teardrop.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I can’t lose two of you.’

  She’d told him a couple times about another one of her brothers, the youngest one, called Teardrop. She hadn’t ever explained where the name came from. But she’d told him how he was pig-headed, how he did stupid, irrational things and wouldn’t listen to reason, however much she tried. He’d died, badly, as a direct result of the way he was. And she blamed herself as if it was her fault.

  Evan wasn’t a rocket scientist. For once it didn’t matter because you didn’t have to be to see the parallels.

  Next time he’d make sure he got out of the seat a damn sight quicker.

  Chapter 31

  CHICO SAT BEHIND HIS desk, swivelling gently back and forth, thinking about life and what a shitty thing it could be. Is. An old-fashioned glass sat on the desk in front of him, a couple of ice cubes melting in the bottom.

  He’d thought things had changed for the better when Dixie, a man who he’d have given his right arm to have as his son, had walked into his life. Sure, it had caused no end of problems for him. Diego, for one, had been consumed by jealousy. He suspected Diego and Carly had snitched to the police to try to get Dixie put away. The idiots couldn’t even get that right and it had been Jackson who’d taken the fall. Dixie had walked away, but not without paying a high price. Seeing his brother sent to prison had affected him in a way that neither he, nor Chico, could have predicted. At times Chico got the impression that Dixie would happily have gone to prison in his place.

  And now here he was, back where he started. Except that he wasn’t. It was far, far worse. Because the only thing worse than having no one was to be told that the one person you believed in had deceived and betrayed you. To be told over the telephone, so you couldn’t see his mocking eyes, by a man like Dante Ortega that, in effect, you were an idiot. A stupid, trusting old man who’d lost the plot. A fool who everybody said should retire to spend his days sitting in the corner drooling or playing with his grandchildren. All because he was so desperate to have somebody to trust that he couldn’t see what was under his very eyes.

  He picked the glass up off the table. Turned it in his fingers, watched the light reflect off its sides. Then smashed the rim against the edge of the desk. Stared at the jagged base. With a strangled shout he mashed it into the desktop. Twisting and dragging it across the surface. Scoring deep gouges into the wood, tearing the green leather inlay. He lifted it and mashed it back down again. Tore it across the ruined surface. Mash and tear, mash and tear . . .

  His phone rang. He stopped the rhythmic desecration of the desk to look at the display. Groaned. It was that murderous little bastard José that he’d sent with Victor after the money. He threw the remains of the glass at the wall. Answered the phone. Listened.

  ‘You’re telling me you gave Dixie the money.’

  On the other end of the line José was having trouble forming meaningful words. Unintelligible protestations filled Chico’s ear. José wasn’t happy at all with Chico’s summary of what went down with Dixie, the events that resulted in a broken nose and his incarceration in a dumpster—which is where he’d st
ill be if a couple of kids looking for a secluded spot for a quiet cigarette hadn’t heard him banging and let him out.

  ‘And you’ve got no idea where he is now.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or the woman, Carly.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What do you suggest we do, José?’ he said for the fun of it. ‘What’s your next move?’

  He imagined the panic on José’s face. A massive silence came down the line. Not even a nervous I dunno . . .

  ‘Victor got any ideas?’ he said and laughed. He hadn’t thought he’d ever laugh again. But the thought of Victor having an idea—one of his very own—did it for him. A thought suddenly bubbled up from nowhere in the midst of all the shit that now passed for his life. ‘What about that investigator? He might know something. At least we know where to find him—unlike everybody else.’

  He opened the desk drawer. Dug around until he found Evan’s business card. Gave José the address.

  ‘What do you want us to do if we find him?’

  Chico shook his head in despair.

  ‘Ask him who he thinks is going to win the World Series.’

  ‘Huh?’

  It wasn't worth the effort. It really wasn't.

  ‘Ask him if he knows where Dixie or Carly are. What do you think, you idiot?’ he shouted into the phone.

  ‘What if he doesn’t know?’

  Chico looked down at the ruined mess that used to be his desk. He took hold of one of the strips of green leather and pulled, tearing it some more. People say life’s a bitch, then you die. But why should it only be his life, why shouldn’t somebody else get a share of the shitty luck and all of life’s disappointments?

  The investigator had been hired to find Dixie. With any luck he’d been successful. He’d give them what they wanted. But if he hadn’t been able to find him, he wasn’t a very good investigator, was he? He was a fool. So he should pay the price. Like Chico was paying the price for being a fool.

  Stupid. Old. Fool.

  ‘Boss?’

  The tinny voice coming from the phone brought him back.

  ‘I’ll leave that up to you, José.’

  Chapter 32

  ‘WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR face?’ Carly said.

  Evan was getting used to the question. They were sitting in the same seats in the same diner as last time. A waitress brought him a cup of coffee. He waited for her to leave again before he answered.

  ‘Dixie didn’t like the look of it as it was.’

  It took a second for his words to sink in.

  ‘You found him?’

  ‘He found me. He came to the office.’

  ‘And you had a fight? Why? What did he say?’

  It was too many questions all at once. Actually, today, even one question was too many all at once. He held up his hand to stop her.

  ‘There’s something I need to say first.’

  She gave a half-hearted nod, a look of long-suffering boredom on her face. A here we go again look. If it had been a man sitting in front of him, he’d have punched that face, knocked the patronizing sneer right off it.

  ‘I’m sick up to here with your lies,’ he said, his hand held flat under his chin.

  Her coffee cup stalled halfway to her mouth.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  She slammed the cup on the table, slopping it everywhere.

  ‘We can run through all of them one by one, if you like. How long have you got?’

  ‘Actually, I haven’t got any time for this crap.’

  She shifted along in her seat to get out. He leaned across the table, gripped her upper arm.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘Let go of me,’ she hissed, wrenching her arm out of his grip. She slid out of the booth, headed for the door.

  He tucked five dollars under his still-full cup of coffee, headed after her. By the time he got out she was twenty yards away. He jogged up behind her, catching her easily. Just up ahead on the left was an alley. Grabbing her arm, he hustled her into it. Stepped in after her, boxing her in. A high brick wall blocked the far end. There was no other way out.

  She made a sudden lunge for the gap between the wall and his left shoulder. He hopped sideways, blocking her. She tried lunging the other way but he was too fast for her.

  ‘We should have stayed in the diner if you wanted to dance. They’ve got music in there.’

  She gave it up, backed away from him.

  ‘You want to tell me now why you made up those lies about Dixie going after Sarah?’

  ‘Is that what he says?’

  ‘Of course it’s what he says. What did you think he’d say? Ha, ha, ha, guess what I did to your wife?’

  ‘And you believe him rather than me?’

  He let out a short chop of a laugh.

  ‘You got that right.’

  ‘You don’t even know him.’

  ‘Maybe it’s because I do know you, that I don’t believe you.’

  He’d have thought it was impossible for her face to turn any more sour, but he’d have been wrong.

  ‘You were always a bastard.’

  ‘Why’d you lie?’

  She didn’t say anything.

  ‘Stupid question. You lied because it would make me do what you wanted.’

  She stared at him for a long moment. Then surprised him by giving a slow hand clap. Every one of the mocking claps reverberated in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘And I’m the bastard?’ he said.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘You’re the sucker.’

  If she’d been a man, he’d have taken a quick step forward, punched his head straight through the brick wall at the end and into the next zip code. Instead he took a deep breath, smiled at her to let her know she hadn’t got to him.

  Yeah, right.

  ‘I don’t give a damn who you believe,’ she said. ‘There’s still only one way you’re going to find out anything about Sarah. And that’s by helping me.’

  He bit down on his tongue. Tried to ignore the mocking tone. Took comfort from the knowledge that any minute now he’d be walking away for good. He hoped.

  ‘Did you tell him I want to talk to him in between punching each other’s heads like a pair of little boys?’

  ‘Sure. He told me how the two of you ripped off Chico together, how you disappeared with the cash—’

  ‘I know all that. What did he say when you told him I want to talk to him?’

  ‘He said he needed to think about it first.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. He’s not thinking about it anymore.’

  Her face compacted in confusion.

  ‘What? Why not?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know.’

  ‘Stop messing around, Evan. Tell me.’

  ‘Because somebody shot him last night.’

  For a moment, she looked like a fish in the bottom of a boat. Flapping around, gasping for air. She opened her mouth a couple times. Nothing came out. He savored the moment. It didn’t happen often. Or last long.

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Not quite. He’s a tough old bastard. Let me see your phone.’

  As he’d hoped, the sudden demand caught her by surprise.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let me look at your phone.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  He took a quick step forward. Grabbed her bag, pulled it off her shoulder. She caught hold of the strap and they did a little tug-of-war dance. He gave a short, sharp pull. The strap snapped suddenly. Sent her stumbling backwards as the loose end slipped through her fingers. Her heel caught on a broken curb. Next thing she knew she was on her butt in a pool of dirty water. She tried to scramble to her feet, missed her footing again on something slimy, ended up back on her ass.

  ‘I like you better down there. Down where you belong.’

  She ext
ended her finger towards him. Gave him a mouthful of words that wouldn’t be welcome in church. Lips pulled back over her teeth, skin stretched so tight across her face she looked like she’d been struck by lightning during an orgasm. She stopped trying to get up. Pushed herself onto the curb, out of the puddle.

  He opened up her bag. Found her phone and tossed the bag into her lap. It didn’t take long to see there wasn’t anything in the photo gallery. He checked her sent items. Didn’t see anything going to Chico but she wouldn’t be that stupid. Maybe she had a second phone, a throwaway she bought specifically for the purpose. She could’ve mailed the whole phone to him.

  Damn.

  He threw the phone to her. She fumbled the catch, the phone plopping into the puddle.

  ‘Happy now, you idiot?’ She fished the phone out of the dirty water, dried it on her jeans. ‘I am so sick of this.’

  A sound like he had a hairball caught in his throat slipped out of his mouth.

  You’re sick of it!

  ‘That makes two of us. But I’m out of it now. I found Dixie, gave him your message, gave you his answer. That’s me done.’

  ‘Aren’t you interested in finding Sarah anymore?’

  He could hear Guillory’s voice, Dixie’s voice, his own nagging head voices.

  She’s stringing you along.

  He turned to go.

  ‘What about the photograph you found in my suitcase? The one with the arm you think is Sarah’s. Maybe it is her after all.’

  He stopped. Looked down at the ground. She was right. And he hated her for it. That arm with the bracelet on it was the one thing he couldn’t ignore. Even if every word that had come out of her mouth was a lie, he’d seen that photograph with his own eyes.

  A car horn blared suddenly in the street followed by the screech of tires. He looked up. A couple of teenage kids—a boy and a girl, both aged about sixteen—dived onto the sidewalk in front of a passing car that had been forced to brake and swerve around them. The driver hit the horn again in annoyance as he pulled away. The kids were laughing and hanging onto each other, making for the alley.

  Evan locked eyes with the boy. He went rigid, the laughter dying on his lips. Then he gripped his girlfriend’s arm tighter. Propelled her past the entrance. She twisted in his grip to get a look at what was happening. Then they were gone.