The Spider Thief

by Laurence MacNaughton

  The wind noise abruptly cut out and a wooden door banged shut. Graves’s voice dropped down a notch in the quiet. “That license plate you asked me to run for you? I had to go all the way back to paper files here in the county. It belongs to an old Ford Galaxie, owned by a woman in your home town.”

  A memory shot through Cleo like a spark of electricity. Seeing that big red car as a kid on the way to church. The Galaxie was all angles and chrome, shining clean, but even then it was an old car. She’d known it looked familiar. She could have smacked herself.

  “Only one owner,” Graves went on. “Local woman affiliated with a church.”

  “The preacher’s wife,” Cleo whispered, more to herself than to him. The preacher and his wife had disappeared years ago, after a scandal that everyone gossiped about but no one really understood. Drug addiction, most people agreed, with a click of the tongue and a shake of the head. What a shame, how the righteous could fall.

  She always thought they’d moved away. Everyone did.

  “I came to the address to check it out, maybe find the owners of that Galaxie,” Graves said, as if he could hear her thoughts. “Turns out they’re still here.”

  “Did you talk to them?”

  “No. They’ve been dead a long time.”

  Hearing that threw Cleo off-balance. Had their bodies been there all these years? How were they connected to Andres? Could Ash really be in that deep over his head?

  Too many questions. No answers.

  Graves cleared his throat. “You think this could be connected to your apartment shooting?”

  The facts snapped through Cleo’s mind like photos spread out across a desktop. The preacher’s old car. Ash behind the wheel. Mauricio captured by Andres. Two known perps and their friend gunned down. Andres escaping. “It’s a safe bet. They’re connected.” How much could she trust Graves? Would he understand that Ash was caught in the middle of this? “We need to talk to this DMT, find out what he knows.”

  “We?” Graves said, sounding genuinely surprised. “Cleo, you do understand what it means to be suspended, correct?”

  “I don’t think you could let me forget if you tried. But you’re not going to get back to town before the hospital releases this DMT. Unless we can hold him on something.”

  “No. Well, I don’t know.” She could picture Graves, his crisp white shirt and gray suit in sharp contrast to his dark brown skin, shaking his shaved head. “Cleo, you’re sitting this one out.”

  “I think he’s connected to Andres,” she said, feeling the heat in her face. Not all of it was from the sun beating down on her. “I can’t risk this DMT slipping away.”

  “No, Cleo, listen to me. The last time you interviewed a suspect with ties to Andres, you hit him.”

  She shrugged. “Well, not that hard.”

  “On purpose.” Graves took in a patient breath. “With your car.”

  “Your point being?”

  “Cleo, do not put me in this situation. I’m asking you.” His voice took on a note of urgency. “I’ll be done up here as soon as I can. But the last thing you need is any more heat from Snyder if you step into the middle of this case.”

  Cleo thought it over. No matter which way she looked at it, there was only one thing she could do, and Graves wasn’t going to like it. “Look, I’ll promise to stay out of trouble if you promise to bring me back a six-pack of Honey Wheat from the brewery up there.”

  “Hmm.” Graves didn’t seem convinced.

  “Deal or no deal?”

  A voice yelled something in the background on Graves’s end. “Fine. Deal. Look, I’ve got to go.”

  “Tell them at the brewery that Cleo sent you.”

  “All right. You promise you won’t run right over there and start questioning this DMT?”

  “Bye, Graves.” She hung up and took a deep breath.

  She had promised she would stay out of trouble. As long as she didn’t have any trouble with DMT, she could keep that promise.

  *

  The hospital seemed to be in the middle of an identity crisis. Half of it was swallowed up by wooden scaffolding on the outside, covering a remodeled core full of soft lighting, warm wood accents and frosted glass counter tops. Then, one elevator ride away, the hospital became its old self again: smelly, crowded, and surfaced with plastic and ground-in grime. Cleo stepped into DMT’s room, nudging the door closed behind her.

  DMT filled the hospital bed, a bear of a black man stretching out the seams of a hospital gown. The top of his head sported a wrapped white bandage.

  “Nice hat,” Cleo said, smiling. She held out her hand. “My name’s Cleo Garnett.”

  He looked at her hand, but didn’t shake it. “You a cop?” His voice was surprisingly high and soft.

  “Sometimes I am.” She pulled out a chair and sat down next to his bed. “Right now, I just want to make sure you’re okay. I’m the one that found you and called the ambulance.”

  DMT turned his head to give her a direct look. “I know you?”

  “I’m a friend of Mauricio’s. Have been since we were kids.”

  DMT struggled to sit up. “Where he at?”

  “He’s okay. He’s safe.” She gently pushed him back down onto the bed. “Just relax. Mauricio had to take off, but I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” She hoped that was true.

  He stared at the ceiling. “Jermain and his brother, Sweet. They dead, ain’t they?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. But you made it out okay. Did you get a look at whoever shot you?”

  He shrugged.

  “You ever see them before?”

  He avoided her gaze. “I don’t know.”

  “Look, I want to catch Andres.” She let the name hang in the air, but DMT just bit his lip. “And I want to keep Mauricio and his brother out of trouble. To do that, I’ve got to work fast. Anything you tell me could help.”

  DMT’s face worked, and for a moment Cleo thought he might talk, but he just shook his head. “I’m a innocent victim. Ask anybody, I never hurt a fly. I ain’t dealin’, ain’t doing nothin’, and now my friends are dead.”

  “So what kind of work do you do?”

  He sighed. “Mostly driving. Runnin’ errands. Keep a eye on things.”

  “For who?”

  “Nobody.” His gaze roved the room, avoiding hers. “I’m, uh, self-employed.”

  “Mm-hmm. You file your taxes as self-employed?” Cleo said, and waited. “That’s okay, you don’t have to tell me. I can check that out. Of course, if you don’t file, that’s a whole other issue. I might have to ask around, talk to your friends, your family. Does your mom live in town?”

  “Don’t hassle my mama. She got nothing to do with anything.”

  Cleo leaned closer. “DMT, it’s okay to talk to me.”

  “I can’t,” he said softly.

  She sat back in her chair, thinking. “That was a nice suit you were wearing when I found you. Ralph Lauren, right?”

  He shrugged.

  “It looks good on you. Looks expensive.” She sat for a moment, thinking. “You know, when I was at your place, I saw you had some takeout from that bistro down the street. That was no Domino’s pizza, no, that was some serious gourmet pie. You like it?”

  “It’s a’ight,” he said.

  “You eat there a lot?”

  “They got good steaks. Chicken cacciatore.”

  “Yeah, I went there once. Can’t believe how much they charge for a salad. Twenty-five dollars. For lettuce and tomatoes. You know that?”

  DMT gave her a long look. “I know what you tryin’ to do. Tryin’ to get me to slip up. Tell you where I get my money at. Find out how come I drive a Porsche.”

  Cleo faked a shocked look, fingertips touching her lips. “You drive a Porsche?”

  He glared at her.

  She reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out his car keys and watched his gaze latch onto them. “Somebody takes good care of you, Demetrius. Who is it? Who are you protecting?”
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br />   He let out a long breath and went back to staring at the ceiling. “I’m done talkin’ to you.”

  “Even though I saved your life. Really? That’s got to be worth just one little name.”

  He ignored her.

  Cleo sat there with him, pondering her next move. When she was up in the mountains with Ash, in that old red Galaxie, he’d said something odd on the phone to Mauricio. She struggled to remember it. It was something unusual. A name that wasn’t a name.

  I’m on my way back, Ash had said, right before he hung up. I don’t want Prez or anybody else messing with you.

  That name had struck her as particularly odd. Especially since Mauricio must have been worried about Prez, and now DMT was worried about Mauricio. It clicked.

  Finally, she reached out and took DMT’s meaty hand in hers. “I talked to your doctor on the way in. He says if everything checks out, you can get out of here first thing in the morning. Is Prez going to pick you up?”

  Still staring at the ceiling, DMT shook his head. “I get a cab, maybe. He don’t like to drive.”

  Bingo.

  “Well, forget the cab. I think you should have these back.” She pressed the Porsche keys into his meaty palm and stood up. “You drive safe, okay?”

  DMT’s fingers closed protectively over the keys. He looked up at her, trying to figure her out.

  She just smiled to herself. Prez.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Honey

  Night fell, turning the clouds overhead into stunning blue and purple continents, fringed with fading coastlines of fiery orange. Cleo, exhausted, sat on her sofa in the silence of the dying light. She tried not to think about the fact that Ash was out there, somewhere, being hunted by Andres.

  She could still see every detail of the apartment murders in her mind. DMT bloody at her feet, fighting to stay alive. Ash with the cell phone in his hand, staring at it as if it would bite him. “I’m sorry,” Ash had whispered, digging the heavy brass Galaxie keys out of his pocket. “But he’s my brother.”

  If she could go back in time, she’d say something, anything, to make him stay. If she had told him the truth, that she had the law on her side, would that have made a difference? Would he have stayed and let her help?

  She couldn’t see it. No matter how she turned it over in her mind, Ash was just too suspicious of everyone around him. He only believed in doing things his own way, and you could either go along with him and try to minimize the damage, or get left behind. She was beginning to get an inkling of what it must be like to be in Mauricio’s shoes.

  Cleo sat in the silence, listening to the clock ticking away on the other side of the living room. She could still see the anguish in Ash’s eyes, wanting to stay put and listen to reason, but overwhelmed by the need to protect Mauricio. She could understand that on a gut level, even if intellectually it made her mad as hell that he’d made things so much worse. If he’d just stopped at the factory gate when she’d told him to, this whole situation would be a lot less messy. Now he was on the run, and there was nothing she could do to help him.

  Her gaze kept wandering down the dark hall to the closed door of the spare bedroom. She’d been in there all evening, making notes about Andres, circling areas on maps where she might search for him. It wasn’t getting her anywhere yet, but she was close. She could feel it. The pieces of the puzzle were already out there. She just had to find them and put them all together.

  Outside, a car pulled into the guest parking space next to her Jeep, headlights casting a reflected glow through her window, only to die away a moment later. It didn’t even really register with her. Just another neighbor coming home at the end of the day. She was lost deep in thought again when someone knocked softly on her door.

  Andres. Her first thought made her leap to her feet, heart pounding. But there was no reason to believe he’d know where she lived. Or that he’d knock.

  As soundlessly as she could, she slid open her end table’s single drawer, drew her steel-framed Sig Sauer out of its clip holster and thumbed off the safety. On bare feet, she padded across the carpet to check the front door’s peep hole.

  It was Graves.

  A moment of panic gripped her, and a quick glance in the hallway mirror only made it worse. She looked like she hadn’t slept in a week. She set down the Sig and quickly brushed her hair into place. With her fingertips, she wiped bits of mascara from under her eyes and gave herself a smile. A little better. She stripped off her overly large sweatshirt.

  Graves knocked softly again.

  She glanced at her reflection one last time, standing barefoot in capris and a tank top. It wasn’t exactly the message she wanted to send. Not yet, anyway. After a moment’s hesitation, she slipped the sweatshirt back on, but left it unzipped. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

  Graves was already a few steps back toward his car. At the sound of the opening door, he turned around. Even after hours, he looked impeccably put-together. Earlier, she’d imagined him in a light summer suit, but his was charcoal gray, his white shirt crisp against his dark brown skin and strong jaw. His warm gaze found hers and stayed there.

  “Hey, stranger,” Cleo said, and had to clear her throat. Smooth, she thought, real smooth.

  Graves didn’t seem bothered. He came back toward her, wordlessly pointing at her feet.

  She hadn’t even noticed the six-pack of bottles he’d set on her doorstep. The cold brown glass glistened with moisture in the last rays of sunlight.

  Cleo bent and picked up the beer. The bottles clinked, heavy and cool in her hands. “Honey Wheat,” she said, seeing the label. She couldn’t keep the disbelief out of her voice. He’d brought it down from the mountains, just like he’d said.

  Graves looked a little embarrassed. “Didn’t think I’d catch you at home.”

  She looked up at him, standing a little closer than usual, and felt something change in the air between them. The silence of her apartment seemed to stretch out through the doorway and surround them, hushing the sounds of the outside world. As if it was waiting for her to make a decision.

  Cleo lifted the six-pack, just a little. “Hey, you’re off the clock.”

  Graves glanced inside, the light reflecting in his eyes, then back at her.

  She stepped back and held the door open for him. “You going to tell me what you found up at that house, or what?”

  Graves shook his head, his white teeth shining. After a moment, he stepped in past her, carrying the scents of the mountains in with him. “You never turn it off, do you?”

  “Never,” she agreed, shutting the door behind him.

  They sat on the sofa and talked about nothing for a while, as the sky outside turned purple, and faded to black. They chatted about the weather in the mountains. The fact that Snyder refused to say anything about Cleo’s role in the incident at the Gates factory. The final disposition of her unmarked car, which had been shot to pieces in the mountains thanks to Ash.

  “You’re going to be driving your personal vehicle for a while,” Graves said, and took a sip of his beer.

  “Or walking.”

  Graves got up and took his half-empty beer with him. He crossed the room to her curio cabinet, squinting in the lamp light at her collection of spider memorabilia. “I can’t believe you kept this,” he said finally, bending at the waist to look at something.

  “What?”

  He carefully picked it up and brought it back to the sofa. It was the spider trapped in amber, the one he’d given her the year before. The lump of amber was long and thin, about the size of Cleo’s ring finger. The prehistoric spider crouched near one end, as if plotting its escape.

  “Of course I kept it,” she said. “You thought I’d get rid of it?”

  He shifted on the sofa next to her, close. “I don’t know. I thought we’d agreed to put that all behind us when we got partnered up. Keep things from getting awkward.” He peered at her over the top of the beer bottle, watching her closely.

/>   She felt her cheeks start to flush and turned away. She nodded at his laptop, sitting closed on the coffee table. “So what did you find in the mountains?”

  He leaned forward and set down his beer, his knee brushing hers. He powered up his laptop with a barely audible sigh.

  The crime scene photos didn’t make a lot of sense out of context, just a jumble of dusty furniture and dirty floors. But when he got to the body of the dead gunman, Cleo stopped him.

  There, on his forearm, was the unmistakable tattoo of a tarantula, drawn in such detail that it looked like it was wrapped around his wrist, drinking from his veins.

  “Andres,” Cleo whispered. “This was one of his men.” Suddenly, the warmth was gone from the room. She zipped up her sweatshirt all the way to the collar.

  “The victim was shot once in the head,” Graves said flatly. “Executed, it looks like.”

  “It wasn’t Ash,” she blurted out.

  “Ash who?”

  “It’s complicated.” She had no intention of going into it. “We went to school together.”

  “The one whose parents died in the fire? The same fire as...” He didn’t finish.

  “As the one where my dad died, yes,” she said, a little more abruptly than she meant to. “Look, are you going back to the scene tomorrow? I’ll ride with you.”

  “Cleo, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Of course it’s a good idea. What are you talking about? Better yet, give me the address, I can head up tonight and get a hotel. Start fresh in the morning.”

  He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

  “What?” she demanded. “Look, don’t start in with that whole suspended thing again. This is Andres we’re talking about. We’re close, here. And I have to get to him before Ash gets blamed for all of this.”

  Graves studied the bottle in his hands for a long moment, his lips pressed into a thin line. Carefully, he set it down on the coffee table. “I should go.”

  “No, wait, just hear me out.”

  “Look,” Graves said with a heavy sigh, “it’s getting late.”

  “Graves?”

  “I’ve got a lot on my plate tomorrow.” He packed up his laptop, avoiding her gaze.