by Diane Kelly
“Tell you what,” Nick continued, refusing to back down. “Since you seem so uncomfortable placing a call to your own attorney, I’ll do it.” He pulled out his cell phone and held a finger poised over it ready to dial. “What’s her name and number?”
Brazos spoke slowly and deliberately, a sure sign he was fighting to stay calm. “I’d like to speak with her before I give you that information.”
“I know bullshit when I smell it.” Nick took a step closer to Brazos and looked down on him. “This stinks to high heaven.”
Not to be outdone, Brazos took a step closer to Nick. “Do I need to call my bodyguards in here?”
Nick chuckled. “If this were a street fight, hell, yeah, you’d need those guys. But this is a battle of wits and legalities and honor. Those lame-brained thugs aren’t going to be of much use to you.”
Before Nick and Brazos came to blows, I figured I better put an end to this conversation. It appeared to be at an impasse anyway, and I’d finally overcome my shock enough to speak. “Look, Brazos,” I said. “You’re being…” An uncooperative ass is what he was being. But I couldn’t very well say that, could I? I racked my brain for an appropriate choice and my mind spat up the perfect word. “Incorrigible.”
The singer’s head snapped my way, his eyes wide. “What the fuck did you just call me?”
Though I knew I shouldn’t take it personally, his rude language and tone insulted me. My subtle reference to his summer stock performance in The Sound of Music had obviously surprised him. Was he actually so naïve as to think we wouldn’t figure out who he really was? For a guy who was too big for his own britches, he had some growing up to do.
I didn’t bother addressing his question. “If you get the signed agreement to us within a week we’ll hold off on the other enforcement measures available to us.”
“‘Enforcement measures’?” he spat, making no effort at this point to remain calm and civil. “What the hell do you mean by that?”
I was about to explain that we could arrest him and seize his assets—assuming we could track down his elusive plane, bus, and boat—but Nick raised a palm to stop me. He offered Brazos a smug smile of his own. “Your attorney can tell you all about it, Winnie.”
On hearing his secret nickname come out of Nick’s mouth, Brazos knew for certain that the jig was up. He froze, his mouth hanging slack when he realized we had the power to expose him for the drugstore cowboy he was.
Nick chuckled. “See ya.”
Without another word, Nick walked out of the room. I grabbed one last glimpse of Brazos, noting how immature and frightened he appeared. Also how dark his roots had become. Definitely time for a touch-up lest the public realize he was Italian opera progeny. Disillusioned, disappointed, and disgusted, I followed Nick out of the room.
Neither of us spoke until we were seated in the car.
Staring out the windshield, Nick asked, “Still nuts about that jerk? Still want to get down and dirty with him and have his babies and whatnot?”
“Nah,” I said. “I’d rather put my steel-toed loafer in his nards.”
Nick’s head swiveled my way, a wide smile spreading his lips. “Now you’re talking.”
“Actually, I’ve got a better idea. Watch this.” I pulled up my Twitter app on my phone and logged into my secret @crazyaboutbrazos account. I typed a quick message.
Brazos Rivers at KDFW studio in Dallas right now!!!
I held my phone up and showed it to Nick, then hit the tweet key.
I pulled up the Brazos Rivers Fan Page on Facebook and posted the same information.
Nick snickered. “You’re a damn evil genius.”
He wasn’t the first person to tell me that. The genius part didn’t bother me, but I wasn’t so sure about the evil part.
Screeching tires drew our attention. Two cars careened into the parking lot, one of them running up over the curb and sideswiping a holly bush as the driver took the turn much too fast. Three women leaped from the vehicles.
I rolled down my window and pointed at the Ferrari with its BRAZEN plate. “That’s his car!” I called. “He’ll be out in a minute.”
As Nick and I pulled out of the lot, we passed a steady stream of crazed fans heading to the studio. The singer and his bodyguards were on their own this time. Tara Holloway was done with Brazos.
This river had run dry.
chapter twenty-five
Leapfrog
Wednesday night, Nick and I watched Trish LeGrande’s report about Brazos on the 10 o’clock news. His most recent fan attack was the lead story. Trish stood inside a recovery room at Baylor Medical Center, dressed in her usual pink.
“Country-western superstar Brazos Rivers and his team of bodyguards suffered minor injuries today when fans flocked to a studio where the singer was filming a commercial for Schweiger’s Summer Sausage. Fans were allegedly drawn to the scene after the star’s location was leaked on Twitter and Facebook by a fan using the alias ‘crazyaboutbrazos.’”
The camera panned out, revealing Brazos lounging on a hospital bed next to Trish, his bodyguards spread about the room in chairs. My quick count tallied up three black eyes, two sprained fingers, a swollen nose, and an assortment of abrasions and contusions. Brazos had managed to escape with only a few scratches to his face and arms and bruised ribs. Darn.
“Was it wrong of me to have hoped he’d lose a toe or a testicle?” I asked. “Maybe one of those waxed nipples he seems so proud of?”
“Nope,” Nick said. “Seems fair to me.”
Seemed fair to me, too. After all, Lu and I had risked our own safety to rescue the guy at the photo shoot, and I’d hurt my ankle trying to track him down at his parents’ place.
The camera closed in on Brazos, his face filling the screen.
“Like I said before, I’m lucky to have such dedicated fans.” He sounded less convinced this time. “They just get a little overexcited on occasion.”
He offered viewers that seductive smile and those bright blue eyes that used to turn my insides to butter. Now, though, my insides stayed solid and unaffected.
I stared at the screen. “What did I ever see in that guy?”
Nick snorted. “Beats the hell out of me.”
We flipped through the other news stations to watch their reports on the fan mob. I noticed that none of the other reporters had gained entry to Brazos’s private room. All of them reported from outside the ER when the star was released. Had Trish charmed a doctor and finagled her way into the recovery wing? Or had Brazos willingly invited her in?
Only a short time ago I would’ve been crazy with envy. But now? Not at all. Trish could have that overrated, oversexed man-whore.
* * *
Friday night, Eddie and I were back on the trail of Russell Cobb. This time, rather than drive all the way out to Palo Pinto, we positioned ourselves in the airport’s long-term parking garage where we found Cobb’s Mercedes on the second level. I took a spot on the third floor where I had a partial view of his car—the front right fender, enough that I would be able to tell when it was moved. Eddie waited in his G-ride on the first floor. Given the near misses I’d experienced backing out last Friday, both of us had positioned our cars with the front end facing out so that we could quickly exit our spots.
A few minutes after eight, the headlights lit up on the Mercedes. I punched the button on my phone to call Eddie. “Cobb is headed your way.”
“I’m ready for him.”
I pushed the speaker button, sliding the phone into the windshield phone mount and keeping the line open so Eddie and I could stay in constant contact. I pulled out of my spot, going slow at first to ensure a reasonable distance between my car and the Mercedes. When I reached the exit line, Cobb was paying the attendant. Eddie idled directly behind Cobb. A Dodge sedan waited between me and Eddie.
Cobb completed his transaction and pulled out. Eddie drove up and handed the attendant exact change. Through my phone I could hear their exchange. Eddie de
clined a receipt and drove out, following Cobb.
I sat in my car, waiting impatiently and cursing under my breath as the driver of the Dodge and the attendant engaged in a conversation that seemed fairly involved. The driver was apparently having trouble coming up with the funds to pay his parking fee. He climbed about inside the car, emptying cup holders, the ashtray, and looking under the floor mats for spare change. Jeez.
“Cobb’s heading to the north exit,” Eddie said through the phone.
“I’ll be on my way,” I said, “as soon as the idiot in front of me scrounges up his fee.”
I waited another full minute before shoving my gearshift into park, climbing out of my car, and marching up to the window of the Dodge. “I don’t have all night. How much do you need?”
The disheveled guy at the wheel looked up at me. “Three bucks.”
I handed a twenty to the attendant. “Here.”
The attendant raised the arm and let the guy go. He drove off without thanking me. Turd.
I climbed back into my car, got my change, and drove as fast as I dared to the north exit. I put the pedal to the metal and a few minutes later I caught up to my partner and Cobb on the freeway. Eddie and I tag-teamed each other, taking turns being the lead car as if we were playing a vehicular form of leapfrog.
We followed Cobb east on 635 for approximately seventeen miles, then south on Central Expressway for a short distance. He took the Park Lane exit and turned into the prestigious Preston Hollow neighborhood that was currently home to former President George W. Bush. The houses here were generally large and pricey, ranging from lows in the $250s to upward of $5 million.
When Cobb turned down a street called Cavendish Court, I fell back even farther. Following him down the cul-de-sac would be too obvious. Instead, I pulled to a stop in front of a house and cut my engine and lights, using my night-vision scope to keep a close eye on Cobb. I kept Eddie informed through my phone.
“Hang back,” I told him as I saw Russell Cobb exit his car and walk up to a house. “Cobb is going into a house on Cavendish Court.”
“Is he carrying the cash envelope?” Eddie asked.
“I’m not sure. He’s got a briefcase in his hand but that’s all I can see.”
There was no way of knowing whether the cash envelope was inside Cobb’s briefcase. Too bad I didn’t have Superman’s X-ray vision.
A sliver of light shined out as the front door of the house opened inward. Given the angle, it was impossible for me to see who had opened the door to let Cobb in. The porch light next to the door illuminated the house number. I grabbed my tablet and typed the address into the Dallas County Appraisal District’s Web site search function. According to the information that popped up, the house was valued at $467,000 and belonged to Harold and Trudy Craven.
I read the names out loud to Eddie. “You search Harold, I’ll search Trudy.”
A few seconds later, Eddie said, “All I’m getting on Harold Craven is his lousy score in some golf tournament and a Web site listing him as some big muckety-muck with Frito-Lay.”
The potato chip manufacturer was one of the area’s major employers and was headquartered in Plano, a Dallas suburb fifteen minutes to the north.
“You think Cobb is handling PR for Frito-Lay?” I asked.
“Could be,” Eddie said, “though I’m not finding anything online that links the two. Got anything on Trudy?”
I typed Trudy’s name into my browser and a long list of entries popped up. I pulled up the first one. “Looks like she’s a state district court judge,” I told Eddie. “You think that means anything?”
“I think it means she might be one of Cobb’s clients.”
Eddie could be right. After all, Cushings, Cobb, & Beadle handled public relations for several elected officials. Then again, if Judge Craven was one of Cobb’s clients why would they be meeting on a Friday night, after regular business hours, at her house? Could they have some type of personal relationship? I asked Eddie whether he had any thoughts or theories about that.
“You know how busy judges are,” he said. “Maybe Cobb’s just trying to accommodate her schedule.”
Could be. Eddie and I had spent enough time waiting our turn in busy courtrooms to know firsthand about overbooked dockets.
I tried searching Judge Craven’s name again, along with the name of the PR firm. Sure enough, a couple of entries popped up, leading me to Judge Craven’s now dormant campaign Web site. She smiled at me from the page. The flattering headshot depicted a fiftyish black-haired woman with straight hair cut in one of those chic, short, slanted styles that was mostly bangs. She smiled just enough to appear pleasant while maintaining a professional demeanor. The backdrop behind her consisted of legal casebooks with tan and red bindings, the Southwestern Reporter, third edition. An entry on the contact page advised those interested in arranging speaking engagements with the judge to contact Russell Cobb at Cushings, Cobb, & Beadle.
This lead appeared to be another dead end, like the seafood restaurant flyers. We could be totally wasting our time here. For all we knew, the buck stopped at Cobb, anyway. Maybe he and Larry Burkett were the only two involved. But what were they up to?
Cobb stayed only a few minutes before exiting the Cravens’ residence with his briefcase again in hand. I ducked down in my car as he drove past, and let Eddie take the lead again. Cobb drove from the judge’s house to a nearby restaurant.
Eddie parked in the restaurant’s lot, while I pulled into the parking lot of a wine store a half block down.
My dashboard clock read 9:38. “Seems a little late for dinner,” I noted.
Eddie’s voice came through my phone. “Maybe he’s meeting someone for drinks or dessert.”
Again, Cobb carried his briefcase inside.
“I’ll go in and scope things out,” Eddie said, climbing out of his car. I heard a rustling sound as he tucked his cell phone into the inside pocket of his jacket.
A few minutes later, he emerged from the restaurant and returned to the line. “Cobb’s meeting a client for drinks in the bar. He’s spread his firm’s brochures on the table.” Eddie said he’d managed to snag a table nearby and overheard Cobb expounding on the many ways his firm could enhance the status of the client’s medical practice.
We decided to call it a night. This felt like another pointless fishing expedition. We couldn’t follow Cobb 24/7, and unless we actually saw him hand the cash over to someone we wouldn’t get anywhere anyway. Our hard work didn’t seem to be paying off. I hated it when that happened.
chapter twenty-six
A Sad Saturday
I spent the night at Nick’s Friday night. Before Nutty’s condition had deteriorated, Nick and I used to switch off sleeping at his town house and mine. Now, though, it seemed to make more sense to stay at Nick’s, where Nutty would feel more at home.
I fixed Nutty a fried baloney sandwich, and Nick and I fed it to him by hand. The dog licked our fingers afterward in a show of gratitude.
“Ready for bed, boy?” Nick asked.
Nutty closed his eyes and released a long, slow breath.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Nick gently scooped up his pet and carried him upstairs.
After giving the dog his usual good-night kisses on the snout, we went to sleep with Nutty lying on the bed between us, snoring softly. Both Nick and I had an arm draped over the dog. I found myself wondering if this is what it would be like if Nick and I married and had children. Would we one day fall asleep with our child cuddled between us?
When I woke the next morning, I noticed that Nutty was sleeping peacefully and quietly.
Too peacefully and quietly.
I put a hand to my mouth to stifle my gasp. Oh, no. No, no, no! Gently, I laid a palm on Nutty’s side but felt no movement.
He wasn’t breathing.
He’d passed in his sleep.
Hot, prickly tears sprang to my eyes and I had to fight not to cry out. As sad as I was to see Nutty go, Nick wou
ld be hit a hundred times worse. Rather than wake him, I decided to let him sleep in blissful ignorance until he woke on his own. Until then, I wept quietly into the back of Nutty’s soft, furry neck.
When Nick stirred, I lifted my head.
He opened his eyes, his expression startled when he realized I was crying. He sat up immediately. “Are you okay?”
I looked from Nick, to the dog, and back again. “Nick—”
“Is he … gone?” Nick had yet to look down, as if he couldn’t bring himself to face what he feared to be true.
I nodded.
Nick swallowed hard, closed his eyes, and pressed his fingertips to his eyelids for a moment. When he’d managed to compose himself, he retrieved one of Nutty’s blankets from the floor. He looked down at his beloved pet, his eyes dark with emotion. Gently, he wrapped the dog in the blanket, leaving his face exposed. When Nick spoke, his voice was raspy with emotion. “I’ll bury him in my mom’s garden. He always liked digging there.”
Silently, we dressed. Nick carried Nutty to his truck and laid him on the front seat between us. Tears continued to stream down my face as we drove to Bonnie’s house.
As we came in the front door, Bonnie stepped into the hallway from the kitchen. “Why, hello, you two! This is a nice sur—” She noticed the blanketed form in Nick’s arms. “Oh, Lord. Oh, Nick. I’m so sorry, honey.”
Nick cleared his throat. “Can you get me a shovel?”
“Sure, hon. Sure.”
I followed Nick out back to his mother’s vegetable garden. He laid Nutty on the grass next to the bed. Bonnie met us there a moment later with a rounded shovel. Nick took it from her and began to dig in an area where nothing was currently growing.
“Not there,” Bonnie said. “Nutty used to dig up my peas. Made me madder’n hell, but he’d look up at me with those big brown eyes and I never could bring myself to punish him for it. Let’s put him there.”