by Diane Kelly
“Here we are,” Doug said, his voice muffled slightly by the black mask. He stopped in front of a metal box mounted on the back of the building. He reached out, positioned the lock for easy access, and raised his bolt cutters. Emitting a quick grunt, he forced the handles together. The severed lock fell to the dirt with a clunk.
One of the dogs emitted a short, sharp bark in response. Yap!
I turned to look at them and put a finger to my lips. “Shhhhh.”
Doug flipped the switches inside the fuse box. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. The floodlights on the warehouse went dark. We stepped around to the front of the administrative building to find it dark, too.
Using Katie’s key, Doug unlocked the front door and we slipped inside, closing the door behind us. I activated the flashlight app on my phone and used it to light our way to Katie’s office. I found myself instinctively tiptoeing despite the fact that there was nobody around to hear our footsteps—nobody other than the goldfish, that is. One of them swam to the edge of the aquarium again, seeming to watch us as we crossed the room, as if it were some type of sophisticated high-tech spy equipment.
Wait. It isn’t, is it?
Josh, my techie coworker, once told me that military contractors had developed a miniature spy drone that looked like an insect. A goldfish wouldn’t be much more of a stretch.
Sheesh.
I mentally chastised myself for thinking such a ridiculous thought. My nerves were just getting to me. Nobody would put a hidden camera in a fake goldfish. It was a ridiculous thought, right? Right?
I tamped down my anxiety and tried to focus on the tasks at hand. Once we were in Katie’s office we glanced around, looking for the safe.
“Where is it?” I asked Doug.
He shrugged. “Forgot to ask.”
Doug texted Katie, who directed us to the safe’s location. We found it behind a framed painting of a drilling rig. Ironically, or perhaps appropriately, the artist had painted the rig with oil paints. The frame had hidden hinges along the right side. Doug swung the picture outward, revealing a small safe built into the wall.
I stepped up behind Doug as he turned the dial. “I thought they only hid safes behind pictures in the movies.”
He shrugged again, turning the combination lock to the final number. The lock released with a soft click. He pulled the door handle. Once the safe was open, I shined my phone light inside.
The only thing inside the safe was the spare set of keys. They hung from a key chain imprinted with a quote from John Paul Getty. “Formula for success: rise early, work hard, strike oil.” So it was that easy, huh?
Doug snatched the keys, left the safe open, and walked back outside with me trailing along behind him. When we reached the fence that surrounded the warehouse, the dogs stalked up on the other side, growling and snarling at us. One of them drooled, as if he could already taste our flesh. I wondered what human meat tasted like. Chicken?
I’d faced down men armed with guns and box cutters, but these dogs were something entirely different and, frankly, far more frightening. Their fangs appeared to be six inches long, their toenails as sharp as knives. These dogs could tear any intruder to shreds in seconds.
“Hi, boys!” I said in the friendliest voice I could muster given the cold sweat that had broken out over my entire body. “Got a special treat for ya!”
While Doug unlocked the gate, I unwrapped the foil from the first sandwich and waved it in front of the fence to give them a good smell of the food. When I had their attention, I tore the sandwich into large bites, tossing them over the fence into their pen. With a reluctant and distrustful glance back at me, they ambled into their pen and wolfed down the sandwich, two of them engaging in a brief squabble over one of the bites. Yep, you could always count on fried baloney.
The gate unlocked now, Doug returned to my side. I handed the other sandwiches to him and pulled my weapons from my holster. With my gun in my right hand and my pepper spray in my left, I pushed the unlocked gate open and stepped inside, my stomach clenched tight in fear. I had no intention of shooting the dogs even if they attacked. After all, they were only doing what they’d been trained to do and I knew I could never bring myself to kill an animal. But a shot fired into the air might scare them off like it had scared off the rabid fans at Brazos’s photo shoot. As for the pepper spray, though, I’d have no qualms using that. It might burn and sting for a few minutes, but the dogs would fully recover.
Doug continued to toss pieces of sandwiches over the fence and into the pen, distracting the dogs as I quietly slunk toward the open gate of their enclosure.
When I was five feet from the gate, one of the dogs turned, spotted me, and bolted toward the open gate of the pen. A scream ripped from my throat as I fought the instinct to turn and run but instead forced myself to bolt toward it, too. I reached the gate a half second before the dog, managing to slam it shut and lower the hinged handle to hold the gate closed just as the dog hurled himself at it, shaking the entire structure as he tried in vain to get at me.
“Holy shit!” Doug cried from the other side of the fence. “I thought you was a goner!”
“Me, too!” Thank God I hadn’t wet myself.
The dogs secured in their pen, Doug entered the larger enclosed area and we made our way to the warehouse door. After a few tries, he found the key that fit the lock to the sliding doors of the equipment storage area. He slid it open just enough for us to squeeze through, then slid it closed behind us.
Using the light from our cell phones once again, we stepped over to the area where the drill bits were stored.
Doug looked over the numerous boxes and peeked inside to verify their contents. “Hughley-Baker. Hughley-Baker. Hughley-Baker.” He glanced over at me. “There’s no other bits here.”
“So Katie was right. Larry Burkett’s been lying to her.”
That was good news. I’d hate to think I’d risked being ravaged by savage dogs for nothing. But what had I risked my life for? What, exactly, was Burkett up to?
After Doug and I exited the warehouse, he turned to lock up. When the building was secured, we headed toward the open gate. My plan was that once we got outside I’d use the crowbar I’d seen in Doug’s toolbox to open the latch on the dog pen and release them back into the bigger enclosure. I could stick the crowbar through a hole in the chain-link fence and safely nudge the latch from outside the fence. Yep, Tara Holloway knows how to get things done.
Apparently the dogs had a different plan, though, one that would make the fried baloney a mere appetizer and me the main course. When Doug and I came around the corner of the warehouse, we found ourselves face-to-face—or should I say face-to-muzzle?—with the three dogs. Apparently they’d figured out how to nudge the latch too.
I spread my legs and arms to block the dogs as well as I could. “Run!” I screamed to Doug. “Save yourself!” It had been my stupid idea to come here. If anyone was going to get hurt—or killed!—it should be me. He had a wife and three young boys counting on him. All I had were a couple of cats, only one of which would mourn my loss.
While Doug tore out the gate and yanked it closed behind him, I engaged the dogs and backed slowly toward it. “Nice doggies,” I said in what I hoped was a soothing voice as I slowly readied my gun and pepper spray again. “Good boys!”
While Nutty would’ve wagged his tail in appreciation of these compliments, these dogs seemed to realize that my tone and words were complete falsehoods, intended merely to placate them. They continued to snarl and show their teeth, their upper lips and nostrils twitching. With each backward step I took toward the gate the dogs took a step forward, stalking their prey.
“You’re sweet doggies,” I lied. “Good, good doggies!”
A beard of foamy drool formed on the frontmost dog. Yikes!
When I reached the closed gate, I counted down. “One. Two. Three!”
Doug slid the gate open just enough for me to get through. I turned and darted out, the dogs on my heels.<
br />
Bam!
“Aaaaaaaagh!” I fell forward to the asphalt, losing both my gun and pepper spray, screaming in terror and agony.
Doug had closed the gate too soon, slamming it on my already sore ankle. While most of my body had made it through the gate, my left foot was still inside the fence, being mauled by the dogs. Thank God I’d worn my Doc Martens. With their thick leather and steel toes, the shoes proved difficult for the dogs to bite through, though they did manage to quickly cover the shoe with drool and tooth marks.
Grrr!
Snap!
Snarl!
I kicked backward, managing to loosen the dogs’ hold just long enough to pull my foot free from the shoe and through the gate to safety.
This time the BAM! as the gate slid closed was followed by the metallic rattle of the fence. Foam-beard picked up my shoe and shook it violently in his teeth. If my shoe had been a small animal its neck would have broken. Wagging the tiny stub he had for a tail, the dog trotted back toward its pen with the prize.
I turned to Doug. “What should we do about the shoe?”
“Not a problem,” he replied, gesturing toward the pen. “There won’t be anything left of it by morning.”
I glanced back to see that the dog had already ripped the laces from their grommets and pulled the tongue free, too. Losing a pair of hundred-dollar shoes made me none too happy, but I decided to count my blessings. After all, that could’ve been my foot he was chewing on.
chapter eighteen
My Furious Valentine
Nick was out of the office all day on Thursday. Frankly, it was a relief not to have him hovering over me, asking whether I’d heard from Sierra yet. He’d never shown this much interest in my other cases and his attempts to micromanage this one irked me. That said, on a personal level, I was looking forward to spending the evening with him. He’d left a bouquet of red roses on my desk before heading out this morning, and they’d greeted me with their sweet scent and gorgeous blooms upon my arrival.
The card he’d left with the flowers was typical no-nonsense Nick. It read: “Happy Valentine’s Day. Go Mavs!”
I used my lunch hour to make a run to Nordstrom for a new pair of my signature red Doc Martens. Luckily for me the store was having a Valentine’s Day sale. I used the money I saved to buy myself new red lace panties to replace the pair Brazos had kept after the concert.
Given that my attempt to speak face-to-face with Brazos yesterday evening had been a bust and the fact that I still hadn’t heard from him or his manager by the end of the workday on Thursday, I decided to track Sierra Behr down myself. I found an address for her in the DMV database indicating she lived in the Dallas suburb of Carrollton. I’d pay her a visit bright and early tomorrow morning.
* * *
That evening, Nick and I joined Alicia, Daniel, Christina, and Ajay for dinner at a Moroccan restaurant near the American Airlines center before the Mavericks game. Nick would’ve preferred a steak and baked potato, but he was outvoted five to one.
“I don’t think Nutty’s gonna be too excited about couscous in his doggie bag,” Nick complained, looking down at his plate.
“I’ll fry him some more baloney,” I said. “He likes that better than steak anyway.” Nutty was a dog of simple tastes.
Alicia raised her cocktail. “Dear God, I needed this drink. I’m not sure I can survive another tax season.”
As she took a sip, her engagement ring caught the light, the diamond sparkling brightly, almost as if it were taunting me. Both she and Christina had received rings and were in the midst of planning their weddings, while I had yet to even hear the L-word from Nick. Of course, he hadn’t heard it from me, either, but that was beside the point.
“Come work with me at the IRS,” I suggested to Alicia. “It’s way more fun than preparing tax forms all day.”
“Only you would think chasing down criminals and getting shot at is fun,” she returned. “Then again, maybe I should apply. It’s not every job that lets you get up close and personal with celebrities.”
I tried to shush Alicia with my eyes, but she was looking down at her drink, not at me, and didn’t see the warning.
“I can’t believe you met Brazos Rivers’s parents,” she added. “I hear they keep a really low profile and refuse all interviews.”
Nick’s head turned my way. “You met his parents? When?”
Dang it! I should’ve never mentioned it to Alicia. But when she’d arrived home late last night I’d still been up, searching every database I could access, trying to find more information on Brazos and his family. My knowledge of his real name led me to sources the media hadn’t accessed. I’d learned some intriguing tidbits unknown to the general public.
According to my exhaustive search of the state vital records, Brazos was the Merriweathers’ only child. He’d been born in Burlington, Vermont. Dear Lord, he was a Yankee! Not that there was anything wrong with that, of course. It’s just that Southerners liked their country-western music the same way they liked their salsa, made by someone born south of the Mason-Dixon line. As for bagels, however, Southerners conceded a total lack of skill and only trusted a bagel vendor from a Northeastern state. I wondered if Northerners felt the same way about barbecue?
Even if Brazos hadn’t been born and raised in Texas, I supposed I couldn’t fault him for having Texas’s Lone Star flag tattooed on his bicep. Texas was by far the largest state down this way, with the greatest number of potential music buyers, and in many ways symbolized the South. Besides, the white star on the blue background flanked by single red and white stripes was far more simple than the Vermont flag. Per my glance at Wikipedia, that state’s flag included a deer, a cow, a pine tree, three sheaves of wheat, mountains, the state’s name, and the state’s motto, Freedom and Unity. That’s a lot of detail for one arm. It might fit on a butt cheek, though.
Brazos’s father, Winthrop VI, had come from old money, sticky money earned in the maple syrup industry. He’d served as chief financial officer of the family syrup business in Burlington. He’d sold the company to a food conglomerate three years ago and eased into an early retirement, moving down to the Texas ranch though retaining a ski chalet in Stowe.
Per the information on her son’s birth certificate, Marcella’s maiden name was Abbiati. Though there was no record of Brazos attending any public or private school in Vermont, the Web coughed up a reference from the early nineties noting that his mother, a minor opera star in Italy, had traveled to her home country to star as Violetta in La Traviata. According to the article, Marcella Abbiati Merriweather had been accompanied by her child, who was being schooled by a tutor in Milan. Presumably Brazos had been taught by private tutors throughout his childhood. The lack of interaction with other children could explain his tendency to childish behavior. Perhaps his social skills had not properly developed under a pair of doting parents and paid instructors.
I’d found three other articles indicating that Winthrop Merriweather VII had sung roles in various performances in summer stock musical theater performances in Vermont. He’d once played Kurt, the “incorrigible” son of Captain von Trapp in The Sound of Music, and performed as Oliver in Oliver Twist.
His name popped up in several articles written in Italian. I didn’t know the language, but I could make out some of the words. Il barbiere di Siviglia. I was pretty sure that was The Barber of Seville. Don Giovanni and La bohème needed no interpretation. My best guess after reading the articles through several times was that Brazos had been cast in secondary roles in these operas. Judging from the dates, he’d been in his mid to late teens at the time, after his voice had changed but not long before he’d launched his country-western career.
Surprisingly, I found no speculation that Brazos and Winthrop Merriweather VII were one and the same. No one he’d performed with back then seemed to have clued in that the brown-haired boy in their acting troupe was now the blond-haired country star with the silver spurs.
By all acc
ounts, Brazos’s parents had initially been raising him to follow in his mother’s classical opera footsteps. But at some point Winnie had instead decided to pursue a career as a country-western singer rather than as an opera star. I wondered what had made him change directions. Had he discovered a love for the musical genre? Or had he simply been chasing the almighty dollar, jumping on a trend?
My mind swirled and churned like river water after a hard rain. I wanted to believe it was the former, that Brazos had fallen in love with the country music I liked so much, that he’d chosen to sing his songs because they appealed to the common man and spoke to a sense of simplicity. To believe otherwise would mean Brazos was a phony, a fraud, a made-up man who didn’t really exist other than in the minds of his fans. Not wanting to believe it, I pushed the ugly thought from my head.
“I met his parents last night.” I poked the food on my plate, avoiding Nick’s stare. “Brazos’s manager still hasn’t called me and I thought maybe I’d find him at his parents’ ranch.”
“Thought you’d find him?” Nick snapped. “Or hoped you would?”
I turned my eyes on Nick now. “I hoped I’d find him so I could get him to sign an agreement. Geez. Don’t get your panties in a wad.”
Nick huffed. “At least I’m wearing underwear.”
Touché. Or should I say tush-é?
His reference to the panties I’d thrown on stage at the concert was the final straw. I’d only been trying to have a good time. I dropped my fork onto my plate with a clatter. “First you tell me I’m not moving the case along fast enough, then when I do something to try to get the case resolved you get mad about that, too.” I rolled my eyes. “Make up your damn mind.”
Nick looked away, his jaw clenched in anger. “That kid is making a fool out of you, Tara! Can’t you see that? Worse, he’s making a fool out of—”
Nick stopped himself, but I knew the guy well enough to know what he’d been about to say. That Brazos was making a fool out of him, too. That my fawning all over the guy when I was supposed to be committed to Nick made him feel like he was playing second fiddle.