[Cutthroat Business 01.0 - 03.0] Boxed Set

by Jenna Bennett

  “I’ll find out,” Tamara Grimaldi said soothingly, “and have a stern chat with them at the same time.”

  “Thank you. By the way, how did you come by Gary Lee’s DNA? Originally, I mean? Does he have a criminal record, too?” He had brown eyes, anyway, although no one could mistake his scrawny bass-playing frame for Rafe’s, not even in padded coveralls.

  “Someone sued him for child support. There was paternity testing done.”

  “And was it his baby?” I caught myself and blushed. “Never mind. It’s none of my business. I was actually thinking about someone... I mean, something else.”

  “I see,” Tamara Grimaldi said. “Is this imaginary pregnancy of yours taking on a life of its own, Ms. Martin?”

  She waited politely while I ground my teeth. A few weeks ago, when I first met her, I had told the detective that Tondalia Jenkins, Rafe’s grandmother, was confused as to who I was, and for that matter who he was. Some of the time she had no idea that she knew him at all. Other times she knew exactly who he was, and the rest of the time she thought he was his father. During those times when she thought Rafe was Tyrell, she also thought I was LaDonna, and that I was pregnant with Rafe. Horribly confusing, I know. Also untrue, of course, but the detective liked to yank my chain.

  “No,” I said eventually, when I had pried my teeth apart. “It’s just that my... um... Todd told me about someone who supposedly got pregnant back when we were in high school, and there were some rumors at the time about the paternity of the child. It’s on my mind, that’s all.”

  “I see.” She waited. I knew what she was doing, and I really didn’t want to respond to it, but eventually I felt compelled to speak.

  “Todd is worried that I’m developing an interest in Rafe. He’s been telling me horror-stories. One of which concerns a girl named Elspeth Caulfield, who had some association with Rafe back in high school. She won’t tell me what it was.”

  “She might tell me,” Tamara Grimaldi suggested.

  “She might. Or not. It happened twelve years ago, and I’m sure you have more important things to do than tracking down something like that. It’s not like I care.”

  “Of course not,” the detective said.

  “You said you were going to have another talk with Malcolm Rodgers. With everything that’s been going on, I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to do that?”

  “Actually, I have.” She shuffled some more papers. “Mr. Rodgers has an alibi for last night. He was with his buddies at a local bar, waking his ex-wife until closing time. They poured him into bed at three in the morning. He has an alibi for the robbery, too.”

  “Well, phooey! I liked the idea of Malcolm doing it.”

  “You like the idea of anyone but Mr. Collier doing it.”

  “No, I...” I stopped when it became apparent I couldn’t even convince myself. “Well, yes. I’d rather have it be someone else. Someone I don’t know. I mean, I spend time with him. I don’t like the idea that he’s capable of something like this.”

  “Understandably,” Detective Grimaldi conceded. “The M.O. for yesterday’s theft of the O’Keeffe was different from the other robberies. It might be the same group of people, who have decided to change their modus operandi now that everyone is aware of the open house threat, or it could be a copy cat, someone who decided that he or she would take advantage of the open house robberies to stage a small coup of their own. I’m looking for links.”

  “Like the fact that Rafe visited the Fortunatos’ house on Sunday?”

  “Or like the fact that Heather Price worked for both the other sellers, and was a friend of Connie Fortunato’s.”

  “Did she really?” I said. “I started to ask her about it at the funeral yesterday, but we were interrupted.”

  “She did. And her boyfriend Julio is connected.”

  I wrinkled my forehead. “Connected to what? The robberies? The murders?”

  “The mob,” Detective Grimaldi said. “Or rather, since we don’t have a true mafia here in Tennessee, a large criminal organization with ties to a lot of different illegal enterprises.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I wish I were.”

  “Why don’t you arrest him?”

  “Other than that I work homicides, you mean? And until the time he kills someone, he’s none of my business?”

  “Well, yes. Aside from that.”

  Detective Grimaldi hesitated for a moment. “It’s a TBI thing,” she said. “The Tennessee Bureau of Investigations. We handle local law enforcement, but they handle anything statewide, just like the FBI handles anything that crosses state lines. I’m sure they’re working on it. But in the meantime, we leave him alone. Unless he trespasses on our turf, of course. If I can pin Lila’s or Connie’s murder on him, I’ll nail him to the wall, and the Teds can just learn to live with it.”

  “The Teds?”

  “You’ve heard of the Feds? It’s what they call FBI-agents. A Ted is a TBI-agent.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Funny.”

  “No, not really. Anyway, Julio Melendez has connections. He owns an import/export business, so he’d be able to move the merchandise that was stolen from the two houses. Maybe even the O’Keeffe, although that may be a little out of his league. Still, I’m not certain it was stolen by the same group. I think I’m going to have to have a talk with Julio.”

  “That sounds like it might be a good idea. Is he by any chance tall and dark with brown eyes?”

  “Now that you mention it,” Detective Grimaldi said, “I do believe he is. Interesting.”

  I nodded. “I’ll talk to you later, Detective. Good luck.” And I hung up, leaving the detective to think happy thoughts of putting one over on the Teds.

  .

  Chapter Fifteen

  A quick check of the phone book showed me that Julio Melendez’s import/export business was located not too terribly far from my apartment. I got in the car and headed out.

  As I had explained to Todd a week or two ago, Historic East Nashville no longer enjoys the distinction of being the worst neighborhood in the city. People don’t take their lives in their hands whenever they cross the Cumberland River anymore. At least not usually. We still have our share of murders, rapes, burglaries, and thefts, but no more than any other part of town.

  Demographically, East Nashvillians are a diverse bunch. There’s a high concentration of gays of both sexes, and various sorts of artists and musicians, with a growing population of young professionals and families with kids of school age. Racially, it’s also a mixed bag. Old-time blacks and poor whites still cling to the neighborhood where they were born, trying to withstand the onslaught of the terminally young and hip. They’re fighting a losing battle; East Nashville has been ‘discovered’ by the upwardly mobile, and the old guard is being squeezed out by higher property taxes and dirty looks.

  Julio Melendez’s business was located beyond the renovated areas, in an industrial park down by the Cumberland River. And in contrast to the picture in my head, all it was, was a warehouse. No storefront, no fancy sign, no architect-designed landscaping; just a square box with a single door and no windows. A tractor trailer was parked on the side of the building, being loaded. I pulled into the parking lot across the street – it belonged to a charitable organization –nosed the car into a spot facing the import/export business, and killed the engine. Then I slunk low in my seat and stared at the front door of Melendez Import/Export.

  I was still sitting there an hour later, but I admit I was thinking about leaving. I was bored out of my skull, and beginning to be in need of a ladies’ room. The door across the street still hadn’t opened. Nobody had left or arrived. The same four cars were still parked in the lot. (A black Mercedes, a yellow VW Bug, a ten-year-old burgundy Dodge, and an older pick-up truck.) The tractor trailer had left, but had not been replaced by another. The loading dock door had been closed after it drove off. Nobody had come out of either building – the import/export one, or the one beh
ind me – to ask what I thought I was doing there.

  It was starting to turn darker, and I wondered if maybe I ought to go home. It wasn’t the kind of neighborhood I’d want to be caught dead in after dark. Literally. But then the door across the street opened. I sat up in my seat. A middle aged woman came out, followed by a younger woman and a man. They stood for a minute in the lot, talking, before they got into their respective cars. The older lady took the Dodge, the younger woman the Beetle, and the man the truck. And then they drove off, leaving the Mercedes where it was. Neither of them looked my way. I slouched back down in the seat.

  The man hadn’t looked anything like a Julio Melendez – or, as Connie Fortunato (bless her heart) had put it, handsome or Latin – so I assumed my quarry was still inside. The Mercedes must be his. Maybe, if I stuck it out just a little bit longer, he’d leave work too, and I could get a good look at him.

  But thirty minutes later, he still hadn’t appeared, and I was really starting to need a lipstick break. I’d never make it on an all-night stakeout. And there wasn’t even anywhere close-by I could go and beg the use of a facility. Unless I wanted to run around the corner and squat under a bush, of course, but that wasn’t a possibility I wanted to entertain. My only option was to drive a mile to the nearest restaurant or grocery store and then come back, but by then Julio Melendez might have left, and I would have missed my chance to get a look at him.

  I was just about to give in to the inevitable (the restaurant, not the bush) when there was a rap on the window. I sat up with a jolt and a squeak, and came close to – pardon my vulgarity – letting it all out right then and there. Under the circumstances, it would have been mortifying beyond belief.

  “Open the door,” Rafe ordered. I did, and he slid into the passenger seat next to me. Beyond him, I could see that monstrous Harley-Davidson he drove everywhere. I hadn’t even noticed him pull up.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurted, plumbing-problems momentarily forgotten in the surprise of seeing him. He arched a brow.

  “Had some business to take care of. You?”

  I hesitated, and then decided I may as well tell him the truth. “I’m trying to get a look at Julio Melendez.”

  “Why?”

  “To see if he looks like you. Enough to be able to pass for you in coveralls and a ski mask.”

  He stared at me. “You’re joking, right?”

  I shook my head. “Whoever killed Lila dressed like that – someone saw him leaving after the murder – and he probably managed to fool her for long enough to get her to open the door for him. She thought he was you.”

  He didn’t say anything, and I continued.

  “Julio’s girlfriend worked for both the houses that were robbed, and he has the ability to move the merchandise that was stolen, so he’s a logical suspect. Plus, Detective Grimaldi says he’s connected.”

  Unlike me, Rafe didn’t need to have the word ‘connected’ explained to him. I waited for what seemed like a long time for him to say something, and when he didn’t, I added, “I notice you’re not denying that you’re who he’d have to look like in order to get Lila to open the door for him.”

  He glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes. “No point in denying it, is there?”

  “Not really,” I said apologetically. “There never was much doubt, at least not in my mind.”

  We sat in silence for a moment or two. Then Rafe added, with another flash of brown eyes, “I didn’t kill her.”

  “I never thought you did. By the way, Tamara Grimaldi wants to talk to you again. She said if I saw you, to let you know. And to hold yourself in readiness for a lineup.”

  He grimaced, but didn’t comment on the news that he’d be asked to parade in front of a potential witness. I wondered if Grimaldi would bring Kieran Greene in at the same time as whoever she’d found in Lila’s building, and whether Kieran would be able to pick Rafe out of a lineup. “What does she want to talk to me about?”

  It was my turn to grimace. “To see if you can provide an alibi for yesterday afternoon. I hope you can.”

  “What happened yesterday afternoon?”

  “There was another murder. Connie Fortunato was killed and her Georgia O’Keeffe painting stolen.”

  “The woman we saw on Sunday?”

  I nodded.

  He didn’t say anything else for a moment. “When?” he asked finally. “How?”

  “The same way as Lila. Tied to the bed and strangled. At least I assume so, although the detective didn’t go into detail. And it was sometime yesterday afternoon or early evening. She was at Lila’s funeral, and Detective Grimaldi said she thought Connie might have come home and surprised someone in the process of robbing the house. Apparently Perry had gone off somewhere. A woman named Heather Price – Julio’s girlfriend – found her around 7:30 or 8:00.”

  We both watched the building across the street as if something was actually going on over there worth watching. Time passed. Quite a lot of it, while we just sat there without speaking.

  “You know,” I said eventually, my mouth moving without much conscious thought, “I just don’t get it.”

  He glanced over. “Get what?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.” I blushed.

  “You sure?”

  I sent him a sideways look. It was difficult to communicate this way, side by side, when I couldn’t see his face and gauge his reactions. On the other hand, it might make it easier to discuss touchy subjects. And I did want to know.

  “I don’t understand the whole tie-me-to-the-bed thing. It would never cross my mind to let anyone tie me down. Especially someone I didn’t know. Yet Lila seemed to think it sounded exciting.” Unless she’d been fibbing. “She did ask you to tie her to the bed, right?”

  Rafe shrugged. “Some women seem to get off on it.”

  “Some men too, I’m sure.” I hesitated. “Have you ever... um...?”

  “Been tied to my bed for some woman to have her way with? Can’t say as I have, darlin’. But if you’d like to change that, I’d be happy to oblige.”

  “No,” I said, blushing, “that won’t be necessary.”

  “You sure? Might be fun.”

  “No thanks. I didn’t mean that, anyway. I was wondering if you’d ever... you know...?”

  “Tied someone up? Not that way. I prefer to leave a woman’s hands free. Things get more interesting that way.”

  “Right,” I said weakly. And I admit it, I went a little cross-eyed at the thought.

  Rafe chuckled. “Good thing you’re sitting down, or you’d be passing out right about now. Relax, darlin’. I ain’t fixing to seduce you tonight.”

  “Thank you. I mean...”

  “I know what you mean. Though I don’t know what the hell you’re so afraid of. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

  “I know that,” trembled on my tongue. I bit it back. I might think I knew that, but did I really?

  “I saw a couple of your old girlfriends today,” I said instead.

  He sat back. “Yeah? What were you doing? Looking for recommendations?”

  “Not exactly.” Although, come to think of it, wasn’t that exactly what I’d been doing?

  “Who d’you talk to? And what did they say?”

  I took a deep breath. “Elspeth Caulfield, for one.”

  “Who’s she?” He sounded sincere, like he really couldn’t remember. I wasn’t sure whether that was a good or a bad thing.

  “She was your girlfriend in high school,” I said.

  He shook his head. “I didn’t have a girlfriend in high school.”

  “Fine. She was one of the many girls you dallied with.”

  He laughed, a genuine, amused chuckle. “Dallied? Darlin’, that’s a fancy word for what just comes naturally.”

  “Not in Elspeth’s case, I think. Look it up in the dictionary sometime. Supposedly she had a nervous breakdown when you dumped her. Either that, or a baby.”

  His whole demeanor changed. His eyes tu
rned sharp and he straightened up. Not an easy thing to do in the front seat of a Volvo. “What the hell?”

  “Well, that’s what they said, anyway.”

  “They, who?”

  I explained what Todd had told me, and what Dix had gleaned from listening to Cletus Johnson rant. Rafe snorted when I mentioned Cletus’s name.

  “So I drove down to Damascus this morning,” I finished, “to talk to Elspeth myself. And while I was at it, I talked to Yvonne McCoy, too.”

  His lips curved. He may not remember Elspeth, but Yvonne obviously rang a bell. “I bet Yvonne gave me a good review, didn’t she?”

  I turned sideways in my seat and watched him. “Pretty much. She said you only got together once, to pass the time, and it never happened again. She seemed disappointed.”

  He grinned.

  “Elspeth wouldn’t talk about you at all. Said we were ladies and didn’t talk about things like that. Which I take to mean sex, or worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “Well... rape.”

  Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. “You think I raped her?”

  No. But I wasn’t sure how much of that instinctive rejection was because it was what I wanted to believe, and how much was accurate. So to be safe I said, “I’m not sure what I think. Did you?”

  He contemplated me for a second before he answered. “I’ve never forced myself on a woman in my life. Never had to.”

  “Not even Elspeth?”

  “Least of all Elspeth. She had this thing for me. Something about saving me from myself, or something. Or maybe she just wanted to walk on the wild side. Nice, properly brought-up Southern girl and LaDonna Collier’s good-for-nothing colored boy...”

  His voice was hard, and who could blame him?

  “Sorry,” I said, inadequately.

  He didn’t pretend not to understand what I was apologizing for. “Ain’t no big deal. I’ve heard it enough that I should be used to it by now.”

  “That doesn’t make it right.”