by R. J. Jagger
“Anyway, the next day she’s reading the paper and comes across an article about a woman being run over the night before,” Tessa said. “Accordingly to the article, someone named Mary something-or-other got a flat tire. She was changing it when a car came speeding down the road and took her out, the side of her car, too. This all happened at night, after dark. Are you following me?”
Yes.
He was.
“It turned out that Mary got run over not far from where Jennifer picked up the man and woman. She started to wonder if they were the ones who did it.”
Wilde nodded.
“That makes sense.”
“That’s when things went bad,” Tessa said.
“How so?”
“She didn’t go to the police like she should have,” Tessa said. “Instead, she hired a PI to find out who the man and woman were. Somehow, the investigator actually figured it out. Then Jennifer blackmailed the guy, doing it anonymously, just being a voice on the phone. I didn’t know any of this was going on. You believe me, right?”
“Sure, why not?”
“It’s the truth, I didn’t know,” Tessa said. “Anyway, the guy she was blackmailing was starting to close in on her. She got scared and told me everything that was going on. That’s the first I knew of it. I told her to contact my attorney, Stuart Black, who might be able to arrange some kind of a standoff between the two. She said she would and wrote the number down. That was the last I saw of her.”
“Who was the guy she was blackmailing?”
Tessa didn’t know.
“She never told me.”
“Why not?”
“Probably because she wanted exclusivity but I don’t know that for a fact.”
Outside, walking to Blondie, Alabama said, “Whoever she was blackmailing caught up to her.”
Wilde said nothing.
“You’re supposed to say, Right,” Alabama said.
“Maybe that’s right, maybe it isn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe she did call the lawyer like she said she would.”
Alabama wasn’t impressed.
“If she did, your little love Jackie-girl wouldn’t tell you about Tessa. There’d be too big a risk that you’d run it down.”
Wilde lit a cigarette.
“Maybe she didn’t know about the call,” he said. “Maybe she wasn’t at work when the call was made.”
“Interesting.”
“Isn’t it?”
“So we’re back to Black again.”
“Not necessarily,” Wilde said.
Alabama punched his arm.
“Make up your mind,” she said. “Is he the guy or not?”
Wilde blew smoke and said, “You never answered my question before. What do you lie to me about?”
She kissed him on the cheek.
“Got you curious, don’t I?”
He fired up the engine.
“Where we going now?” she asked
He took off and said, “Got you curious, don’t I?”
124
S aturday evening, Fallon and Jundee drove south under a windy, blackening sky. A storm was moving in and it wouldn’t be pretty. Fallon sat in the center, next to her man. Jundee had his left elbow out the window and a cigarette in his left hand. His right hand alternated between the steering wheel and Fallon’s knee.
“Maybe it would just be better to let the body be,” Fallon said.
“We’re already en route.”
“We can turn back.”
“It’ll be fine,” Jundee said. “Don’t worry about it.”
They got to their destination exactly when they wanted, at the edge of darkness.
The road was deserted.
The last car they crossed was fifteen minutes back.
Jundee stepped out, closed the door and stuck his head through the window.
“If I don’t get back before dark, turn the headlights on for three or four seconds every minute or so.” He ran a finger down her nose. “See you soon.”
“I’ll be here.”
She watched him as he headed into the terrain. Before long he was nothing more than a black silhouette. Then the thickening darkness swallowed the silhouette.
Five minutes passed.
Rain came, light at first then mean and nasty.
It blotted out the little light that was left.
Fallon slid over until she was behind the wheel, flashed the headlights for three seconds then shut them down.
“Come on, Jundee.”
Minutes passed.
Lightning exploded overhead simultaneously with a deafening slap of thunder. Then something bad happened; headlights appeared in the rearview mirror, still distant but definitely heading this way.
What should she do?
Think.
Think.
Think.
If she just sat there the person might stop. It would be too suspicious if she didn’t at least roll down the window. He’d see her face. More importantly, he’d want to know what she was doing out here. What would she say? Moving a body that me and my boyfriend killed?
The other option would be to lock the car, head into the terrain out of sight and wait for him to pass.
That would be better.
It still wouldn’t be good though.
He might stop.
What if he turned out to be the guy who stopped last night? Now he’d really think something was strange. If he didn’t write the plate number down last time, he definitely would this time.
Damn it.
This was bad.
Wait.
There was another option.
She could drive down the road a quarter mile or so with the lights out, turn around, put the lights on and then drive back this way.
That way they’d be nothing more than two cars passing each other.
That was the best option.
She cranked over the engine and looked ahead.
The road was nearly invisible.
She’d have to be careful.
“Don’t go off the road. The last thing you need is to get stuck in the squish.”
She shifted into first and took off.
125
B axter Fox—the man Mojag killed—wasn’t listed in the phone book. He should have been easy to track down, being a lawyer. How the hell did Mojag find his house yesterday? Did he follow him home from the office?
“I can’t believe this is so hard,” Shade said.
“Maybe he does divorce law,” London said.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning a lot of those types lay low out of the office. That makes it harder for mad husbands to hunt ’em down.”
Shade smiled.
It was a joke but there was probably some truth in it.
As a last resort, they went over to the Daniels & Fisher Tower to see if there was anything there to be gained. The building was locked and the lobby was dark. They knocked on the door next to the revolving door until someone came and cracked it open.
It turned out to be a middle-aged woman in a blue cleaning uniform.
“We’re trying to find Baxter Fox,” Shade said.
“The building’s closed.”
Shade pulled a five-dollar bill out of her purse and dangled it in her fingers. “I’m supposed to pick something up from his office. I’m running late. It’s important. If you could let me in it will only take a second.”
The woman hesitated.
“I’m not supposed to do that.”
“Help me out there, please, or I’m going to end up getting fired.”
She studied Shade’s eyes for a second, looking for danger or exaggerations, then opened the door and let them in. She took the bill and handed over a key.
“His office is on the ninth floor, No. 904. The elevator’s shut down. You’ll have to walk up.”
“Thanks.”
“Lock his door when you leave. I’ll probably be gone before you get back
down. Put the key over there in that flowerpot,” she said pointing. “To get out of the building use that back door over there. Be sure it’s closed tight. It locks by itself from the inside.”
“Will do.”
“Don’t tell anyone I let you in.”
“I won’t.”
Rain pelted against the building.
“Be careful of the ghosts. There are a lot of ghosts in here, even on a nice night. On a night like this you never know what you’re going to get.” She wrinkled her face. “I don’t like the guy, personally.”
“Who?”
“Baxter Fox. I don’t like him.”
The stairwell wasn’t just dark, it was pitch-black. There were no emergency lights, no after-hours lights and no other lights. They may as well have been a mile under the surface of the earth, blindfolded.
“This is creepy,” London said.
“Don’t talk, you’re going to wake the ghosts.”
“Do you think she really believes in them?”
“No. She was just messing with us.”
“I don’t know,” London said. “You don’t see her in here with us. Maybe she really does know something we don’t.”
“Are you trying to freak me?”
London laughed.
“Maybe a little.”
“Well stop it, it’s not funny.”
They came to a landing.
“This is floor five if I’m counting right.”
“That’s what I have too.”
“Four more then. Four more to go.”
They continued up.
“At least we don’t have to worry about running into the cops here,” London said.
“Right.”
“Unless of course the ghost-lady recognized us from the paper and is calling them as we speak.”
“Stop talking. You’re not making things better.”
126
F rom Tessa Tanglewood’s house, Wilde headed for the first public phone he could find. A black rain pelted out of an even blacker sky. Blondie’s wipers swung at full speed and still only delivered a blurred mess. The ragtop would start leaking if this kept up.
He spotted a phone but it had no booth.
He’d just have to get wet.
Luckily no one had ripped off the phone book. It was sopped though. The pages stuck together. He opened the yellow pages to Private Investigators. There were six numbers listed, one being his. The names were familiar. He reached in his pocket, found no coins and trotted back to the car.
“I need change.”
“You didn’t check before you went over there?”
“Apparently not.”
Alabama found some in her purse. Wilde dialed the first number, got no answer and remembered it was Saturday night. He looked up the man’s name in the white pages and dialed. His question was direct. “This is Jack Wilde,” he said. “Did you do any PI work for a woman named Jennifer Pazour?”
“No.”
On the fourth try he got the answer he needed, “Maybe, why?”
“She’s dead,” Wilde said. “I don’t know if you knew that or not.”
“I didn’t.”
“I have time for details but I need information and need it now. You were trying to find out the name of a man she picked up in her cab one night.”
“Right.”
“What was the guy’s name?”
A pause.
“That’s confidential, Wilde.”
“Do you think I don’t know that? Let me repeat, the woman’s dead. I’m in the middle of a mess here. I need to know the man’s name and need it now.”
Hesitation.
“You never heard it from me. His name is Parker Trench. He’s a lawyer in a law firm downtown.”
“Parker Trench?”
Right.
Parker Trench.
“Thanks.”
“You owe me a referral.”
“You’ll get it.”
“Make it two.”
“Fine.”
He hung up and dialed Senn-Rae. She answered with wine in her voice.
“Do you know a lawyer named Parker Trench?”
No.
She didn’t.
“Who was that woman you were with this afternoon? The one in the white sundress?”
“No one.”
“It looked like someone to me.”
“I don’t have time for this right now,” he said. “I’m coming over. I’ll be there in five minutes. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Why, what’s going on?”
“Just stay there.”
Six minutes later he turned the knob of her door and walked in.
“This is supposed to be locked,” he said. “I thought we had an understanding. Where’s your phone book?”
She got it.
He flipped to the T’s, got the number he wanted and dialed. As it rang he got Senn-Rae’s head by his and stuck the receiver between their ears. “I’m calling Parker Trench,” he said. “Listen to his voice and tell me if he’s your client.”
A man answered.
His voice was deep.
Strong.
“Trench,” he said.
“Who?”
“Trench.”
“I’m trying to get Robert.”
“There’s no Robert at this number.”
“Are you sure? Robert Brown, that’s who I’m trying to get.”
“There’s no Robert Brown here. You dialed wrong.”
The line went dead.
Wilde hung up and looked at Senn-Rae.
“Is that your mystery client?”
“Yes.”
“It is?”
“Yes, I can’t believe it.”
“Are you positive?”
“Absolutely positive. How’d you find him?”
Wilde headed for the door.
“It’s a long story. I have to run. Keep your door locked.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
“Okay I said.”
He was three steps down the stairs when he heard, “Jack! Come back here.”
He did.
“You didn’t kiss me.”
He did it.
“Better?”
“Yeah.”
He turned.
“There’ll be a lot more later. For right now just keep your door locked.”
He got all the way to the ground level then headed back up, turned the knob and found it locked.
“It’s me, Jack.”
She opened.
He grabbed the phone book, turned to the T’s and looked up Parker Trench again, not for his number but his address. “Next time I forget something, tell me,” he said. “Lock your door.”
Then he was gone.
Outside it was storming even stronger than before. He fired up the engine, waited for the wipers to make a clean spot and squealed out.
“Where we going?” Alabama said.
“To see the pinup killer, Parker Trench.”
“That’s nuts.”
The words shocked him because they were so absolutely true. It was nuts to bring her with him. It was nuts to put her in danger.
He slammed on the brakes.
“Get out.”
“No.”
“Do it.”
“Jack—”
“Do it I said.”
She stepped into the storm and slammed the door.
“This isn’t fair!”
She smacked her fist on the trunk as Wilde pulled off. She also shouted something, he wasn’t exactly sure what it was but it sounded something like, “I hope you get shot!”
127
S ometimes things happen exactly the way they’re supposed to even when the likelihood of them happening that way is minimal. So it was with Fallon’s plan to drive down the road with the headlights off, do a one-eighty and then swing back. It worked perfectly. No encounter took place other than two pairs of headlights passing each other in the middle of a storm.
That’s where the perfection stopped though.
Jundee showed up five minutes later with a heavy breath and said, “The coyotes ripped him apart.”
“Really?”
He cracked the window and lit a cigarette.
“He’s basically just rags and bones.”
Halfway back to Denver flashing lights appeared in the rearview mirror.
Jundee checked the speedometer.
He wasn’t speeding.
His headlights were on.
“What do these yo-yo’s want?”
He pulled over, shifted into neutral and left the engine running.
Two cops approached, one on each side.
Flashlights sprayed in.
Fallon whispered in Jundee’s ear, “Those are the same cops from yesterday.”
“The ones who stopped you?”
“Yes.”
The butt of a flashlight rapped on the driver’s side window.
Jundee rolled it down halfway and said, “What’s the problem?”
The cop put on a hard face.
“What are you doing out here? Are you looking to settle a score?”
Jundee looked straight ahead.
His heart raced.
Then he looked directly into the cop’s eyes.
“Here’s your choice,” he said. “You and your friend can drive back to the station right now, this minute, and quit your jobs. If you do that, the score’s settled.”
The cop laughed.
“Did you hear that?” he said over the roof.
“Yeah, I heard it. It looks like we have a comic on our hands.”
“It sure does.”
He hardened his face.
“I don’t think we’re interested,” he said. “Why don’t you step out of the vehicle?”
Jundee stepped out.
The weather assaulted him.
The rain was cold.
It hit like needles.
Five minutes later he got back in. His face was a mess, his body was a mess, his lungs were on fire. Fallon slipped in the other side and scooted over to the middle, not as badly battered but breathing just as heavy if not more so.
Two asshole cops were on the ground, not moving, not breathing, not bothering anyone. Jundee ran over the one in front of the car as he pulled away, the one Fallon managed to grab by the eyes as he straddled her and beat her face with his fists. The body caught up on an axle, dragged for fifty yards and spit out the back.