by Randy Rawls
Tom hung up the phone from his conversation with Richards, smarting from the policeman’s attitude. He’d made it clear Tom should be drawn and quartered for withholding information. In retrospect, he understood. He’d have felt the same when he was on the force. Civilians just didn’t understand it was their civic duty to help solve crimes.
He sighed, pulled off his right boot, then slipped the elastic band of his ankle holster over his foot. It was wide enough to provide stability for his revolver, which solved the irritation of other types of rigs. He stopped, reflected a moment, then took it off. Best not to set off the metal detector at the police station. Although Tom had a permit for concealed carry, Richards was upset enough without giving him another excuse. He would put it on after the meeting, before looking for Johnny.
An hour later, he sat in front of a clearly pissed-off detective. Since he might need Richards’ assistance in the future, he had to find a way to reduce the tension. “Look, all I can tell you is I thought it best to let her father make the identification. I didn’t feel it was my place to do so. Sorry if you think I withheld info, but that’s the way I see it.”
“Bullshit, Jeffries. You lied and wasted my time. I oughta throw you in jail.”
“Come on, Richards. I’m not some homeless guy you can spook. Think back. I never lied, maybe evaded, but didn’t lie. That’s yesterday’s news. I came in to apologize and try to explain, but if you don’t want to hear it, I can leave.”
They locked eyes.
The door opened and Phil Summers stuck his head in, then chuckled and entered the room. “You two look like a husband and wife on the warpath. Should I call a divorce lawyer or be ready to referee? Who gets choice of weapons?”
Tom turned toward the door, the truth of the words striking him. “Who the hell are you?” he said, working hard to suppress a grin. He glanced at Richards who continued to stare as if he hadn’t heard. “Oh, come on, he’s right. We’re acting like a couple of three-year olds. Okay, I admit it. I threw sand on your toy fire truck.”
Summers burst out in laughter, soon joined by Tom.
Richards continued to stare, but the corners of his mouth quivered. Then he gave up and laughed with them. “Damn you, Phil. I almost had him.”
“Oh, bullshit,” Tom said. “I’ve out-stared harder cases than you. You’re nothing compared to a Special Forces DI. You’re just a fuzzy, oversized teddy bear.”
“He got you,” Summers said. “Better give it up while you have some dignity left.”
Richards relaxed. “Alright, Jeffries. This clown that interrupted one of my best techniques is Phil Summers, my partner. His sense of timing might be lacking, but he’s a darn good cop. Phil, this is Tom Jeffries, the PI I told you about.” He concentrated on Tom. “Now, what’s your excuse for not identifying the body when I asked you?”
Tom shook Phil’s extended hand, then said, “Hang with me. This might take a bit of telling.” He rubbed his forehead, thinking of how to share a principle of his life. “I’ve known Charlie Rogers for a long time. He’s one of the most decent people ever born. All his years in the Army, he remained single, joking that if he needed a wife he’d draw one from the supply room. Truth was, he wouldn’t risk leaving a widow. Not long after he retired, he met Lonnie Smithson.” He shook his head and chuckled. “If you don’t believe in love at first sight, don’t mention it to either of them. They didn’t just sight one another, they tumbled off a cliff and landed in a pool of love. But there was a problem. Lonnie had a daughter from a previous marriage. Mary Lou was thirteen at the time, and every move Lonnie made depended on what was best for Mary Lou. She came first.
“Charlie loved the idea of a ready-made family, but deferred to Lonnie. There could be no them unless Mary Lou wanted it.” Tom stopped, looked at Summers and Richards, then smiled. “That’s the kind of guy Charlie is. His generosity goes well beyond the norm. He’ll deprive himself if it will make others happy. Anyway, he finally summoned the courage to ask Mary Lou for Lonnie’s hand. She threw her arms around his neck and exclaimed, ‘It’s about time. I thought I’d never hook you as a daddy.’ And that’s the way they’ve been for the last seven years. If I had made the identification, it would have cheated Charlie. While I know it ripped his guts, it was the right thing to do.”
Richards tugged at his earlobe. “You’re either a really fine friend or one of the biggest con artists I’ve met. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt…this time. Now get out of here. I’ve got work to do.”
“Before I go,” Tom said, “will you call me when you get the autopsy results?” When there was no response, he added, “Professional courtesy?”
“If I happen to remember,” Richards said.
“I’ll remind him,” Phil said.
Richards looked at Summers, then at Jeffries. “Looks like you made a fan.”
FOUR
Abby and Bert sat at the conference table in Bert’s office at BGE&B opposite one another. The office was nice, lots of polished mahogany and brass. Not as well-furnished as his father’s but enough to impress clients with his status in the firm.
Bert tapped the file he picked up upon entering. “Do you know Tom Jeffries?” He opened the folder and thumbed a page.
“One of the PIs who does our legwork?”
“That’s him. This is his personnel record.”
She frowned as if in concentration. “As far as I can recall, we’ve only had one real conversation. I had some questions on a surveillance he ran for one of my cases. Seemed bright enough to come in out of a monsoon, but a bit adversarial. Had a chip on his shoulder every time I asked a question. I was satisfied with his answers and would use him again if the need arose.”
“So, you have nothing against him—no prejudices, no reason not to work with him?”
She stared at Bert. “What are you up to? You forget, I’ve known you too long. And what does Jeffries have to do with my special assignment?”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “He is your assignment. Dad and I are concerned about him.”
Abby frowned. “Somewhere near the beginning would be a good place to start. The closer the better. I don’t take on clients who withhold information. In case you don’t get my thrust, that’s you.”
Bert chuckled. “Such a way with words. You must be a lawyer.”
“Knock off the cutes. And before you try, flattery doesn’t impress me.”
“As you wish.” He slid the folder to her, then leaned away from the table, studying the overhead recessed lighting. “I’m sure you’ve heard the office scuttlebutt about Jeffries saving my daughter, Debbie. It’s true. Of course, we have no way of knowing what those two vermin were after, but… Anyway, if he hadn’t intervened, any number of things, none of them nice, might have happened. Because of that and the fact he’s been a loyal employee since we recruited him, Dad and I are supportive of him.” He stopped and took a deep breath.
She looked up from the folder. “So…”
“A good attorney knows when to listen and when to interrupt. That was not an interruption point.” He grinned. “Jeffries called and asked if I’d give him cover if he needs it, if I’d say he was on a case for us. I told him yes. But I fear he may be heading for trouble. When I asked who might be inquiring, he said the police. Now I don’t think he’d do anything really bad, but I don’t want to see the cops down on him.” He paused, deep in thought. “It’s strange, but my gut is telling me Tom might be biting off a large chunk of something. Can’t say why, but that’s how it is.”
“So what—”
“Too soon again,” he chided. “What Dad and I would like you to do is get close to him. Be there if he needs an attorney. Scream attorney-client privilege while you’re bringing in any support you need.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean, close to him? Are you intimating something?”
“I’m not intimating anything. But he is an attractive bachelor, and you are—”
“Don’t say it, Bert. And where do you come off trying to arrange my life? If I want a man, I’ll damn sure get one for myself—one that moves in my social circle. Right now, I’m happy with the life I’m leading—no males to clutter my emotions.”
“Hey, that part’s not my idea. However, Pat did say you need a good man. Someone who measures up to me. But, with that aside, all I need is someone to keep an eye on Jeffries.”
“Tell your darling wife… No, I’ll tell her myself the next time I see her.” She hesitated and pursed her lips, then in a musing tone, said, “Of course, Jeffries is a hunk. Or maybe I have him confused with the janitor. According to his résumé, he was a non-commissioned officer.”
“Is that a problem?” Bert asked, an eyebrow raised.
“I was an officer. We don’t fraternize with enlisted personnel. Military tradition, and I see no reason to change it.”
“Don’t go highbrow on me.” He tapped the folder. “This is everything we have on him, including the pre-employment investigation.” He grinned. “Says he’s never been married.”
“Go to hell, Bert.”
* * * *
Tom drove home from the police station thinking about what he needed to do. He may or may not have gained some degree of cooperation from Richards. Only time would tell, but he couldn’t allow that to slow him down. Mary Lou’s death begged for vengeance. He’d done it before. He would do it again.
After pulling into the garage and raising the top on his Sebring convertible, he crawled into the back seat and inspected the storage well with a flashlight. He slipped his finger into a small slit at the rear right corner, and lifted a flexible false bottom from the well. Underneath was an area about four inches deep, perfect for the Mossberg 590 pump-action shotgun with its short barrel. Smiling, he dropped the flap back into place.
He twisted around and inspected the special roll bar he had installed in Texas, especially the two eyelets welded onto it. Giving it a stout pull, he grinned when there was no give. Then he lifted the floor mats and checked a small ring connected to the seat belt retention bolt on each side of the hump.
Pushing the seat forward, he climbed out, reached under the dashboard on the driver’s side, and flipped open a panel alongside the center console. The cover dropped away easily, bringing another smile to his lips. After checking another compartment along the outer wall of the driver’s side, he climbed out of the car, locked it, and went into the house.
“Sis, this might turn out to be a long night. I’d better eat something,” he mumbled as he rummaged in the refrigerator, pulling out ham, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and a beer. From the breadbox, he selected three slices of bread and built a tall sandwich. After grabbing the phone, he augmented his dinner with a bag of potato chips and sat at the table. Taking a big bite, he dialed.
“Hello.”
“It’s Tom. Give me a minute,” he garbled through a mouthful of food. He chewed, swallowed, and washed it down with a large gulp of beer. “Sorry. Didn’t expect you to pick up on the first ring. How’s Lonnie?”
He ate as Charlie explained that Lonnie had awakened, but was still so distraught he gave her another sleeping pill. She was asleep again, and he hoped she’d stay that way until morning.
“Did you come up with Johnny’s last name?” Tom asked.
“Maybe. I looked in Mary Lou’s room. On her desk blotter, she wrote the name Johnny. I make the last name Crayson, Drayson, Grayson, or something like that. I can’t be sure. There’s a smear on the first letter like a drop of water fell onto it.”
“Think she cried over it?”
“I’d like to say no, but I don’t know. Right now, I don’t know shit. My head is so muddled I don’t know which end is up.”
“Understood, friend. Crayson, Drayson, or Grayson. Are you sure about the rest of the letters?”
“As sure as I can be. They’re pretty clear.”
“That’s close enough then. I’ll take it from here. You get some rest—maybe take a sleeping pill.”
“Can’t. Gotta be alert for when Lonnie wakes up. I’ll be okay.”
Tom hung up, his heart heavy and his mood angry.
After finishing his abbreviated meal, he went into the bedroom, collected his weapons, and installed them in his car—the shotgun in the convertible top well and the .45 under the dash on the driver’s side. Satisfied that things looked normal, he re-entered the house and pulled down a box from a shelf, dug under military souvenirs, and came up with a survival knife.
He had it made while stationed at Fort Bragg. It was black with a nine-inch stainless steel blade and a hollow, leather-covered handle. The cutting edge was hair-splitting sharp as he discovered when he tested it with his thumb, drawing blood. The back was a marvel. It swept upward from the point with a cutting edge, Bowie knife style, for three inches before straightening. The next three inches were a standard saw blade that changed into a hacksaw the rest of the length. With it, he felt confident he could cut his way in or out of almost any situation.
He unscrewed the handle cap and dumped a length of piano wire into his hand—another keeper from his days in Special Forces. It was a garrote, also made to his specifications. After reassembling the knife, he recovered the black leather sheath, carried both to the car, and mounted them under the dash on the left of the driver’s side. The sheath fit perfectly in a small compartment designed for it. When needed, it would also fit inside his boot.
Tom smiled. With his car outfitted and the name and contact point for his prey, he could begin the hunt. He held his hands out and examined them. Rock solid, no jitters. He was ready and anxious to launch.
But first, he had one more phone call to make—to an old friend from his Special Forces days, a full-blooded Seminole Indian who now ran an alligator farm in the Everglades. The conversation was short, as Tom expected. His friend seldom had much to say.
His next step was to lay the groundwork for a meet with Johnny. He walked into the house, through the living room into the kitchen. The clock on the stove read seven. He had plenty of time. First thing to do was find out if Johnny was at work. From a counter drawer, he withdrew the yellow pages and looked up the listing for Publix. After finding the right address, he reached for the phone. Before he could pick up the hand set, it rang.
“Damn.” He stared at the offensive instrument, then checked the caller ID. Not Charlie, his first guess, and not a number he recognized, although it was local. At least it wasn’t some telemarketer. On the fourth ring he answered. “Hello.”
* * * *
Abby Archer grimaced. “Is this Tom Jeffries?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Abigail Archer. I’m an attorney at—”
“I know who you are. You’re the snooty redhead. We talked once. You didn’t trust that I knew how to run a surveillance. You held your nose so high in the air that the inside would have been sunburned if we’d met in the park. Why are you calling? If it’s about a case, I’m working for Bert now. Can’t help you. Now, I have to—”
“Don’t hang up. And disappear that attitude. Bert told me about your…uh, arrangement. He’s assigned it to me.”
“Assigned? Look, lady, I don’t have time for games. I have to be somewhere, and I’m late.”
“Believe me, I’m no happier than you are. And, this isn’t about games, it’s about my career. I’ve been given an assignment, and I intend to carry it out. And, for your future reference, I don’t play games—any kind of games.” She paused and swallowed the caustic comment she wanted to add. Something in the neighborhood of Especially with the likes of you. “Bert thinks we should meet and discuss how I can…uh, help you. He says—”
“Bullshit,” Tom said. “Bert hasn’t said a damn thing.”
“Look, Jeffries. I wouldn’t be doing this if Rubin Bernstein weren’t involved. It’s not for my pleasure, I assure you. Frankly, I don’t give a damn if you fall in a canal and never come up. But I was given a job, and when I accept a job, I
finish it. Now shut your mouth and give me a chance to explain. If it’s important to Mr. Bernstein, it’s important to me and, if you want to keep collecting a monthly retainer, important to you.”
The voice was a growl. “Okay, talk. You’ve got one minute.”
“Not on the phone,” Abby said. “Look, in the spirit of compromise, I’ll buy you a latte. Surely, whatever you have to do can wait until you hear what Bert asked me to do.”
There was silence on the line, and she let it grow. She had groveled as much as she intended. She wouldn’t crawl for any man. Bernsteins or no Bernsteins, she’d only go so far.
“Okay,” he said, “but first we get a couple of things straight. I don’t work for you, never will. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just another stuck-up broad with woman’s lib tattooed on your forehead. You wanna work with me, you dance to my tune. That means I put up with none of your crap, lawyer or…otherwise. If you understand that, we might be able to get along.”
“You’re a son-of-a-bitch.”
“Damn right I am. It keeps me alive. Here’s the deal. You want to talk, we talk, but not in some pussy coffee shop. We meet on my grounds—a sports bar. One with enough TV’s blaring and loud drunks that anyone wearing a wire won’t get a damn thing. You got it?”
“I don’t—”
“Fine by me. I told you I have better things to do tonight.”
“Hold on.” Her breath was heavy as she fought for control. “Okay, let’s compromise. I haven’t had dinner. Let’s meet at a restaurant where—”
“The place I have in mind has the best burgers in South Florida.” Tom chuckled. “Two bites and the grease is dripping off your chin. With your burger you can have onion rings or cheese-fries, both designed to pad your hips. From what I remember, you could use a few pounds.”
“Well, I—”
“And the beer is one degree above freezing. I’ll meet you at Hank’s Sports Bar and Grill on University in thirty minutes. Dress casual.”
There was another silence as she counted to ten—three times—before replying. “Eight o’clock.” The ice in her voice was natural, not feigned.