In It for the Money

by David Burnsworth

  He wondered how long she’d worked on that one. Hopefully not too long. He decided not to correct her spelling of his name. “I really appreciate the gesture, Ms. Rhodes.”

  “Call me Cynthia.”

  Her driver had called her Cynthia. How close were they?

  He didn’t mention that either. Instead, he said, “Okay. And you can call me Blu.”

  “Good.”

  “Cynthia?”

  “Yes?”

  “How long has your driver been working for you?”

  “Rick? Around two years. Why?”

  If Blu handled this poorly, it could jeopardize being able to continue calling her Cynthia. He said, “Why isn’t he looking for your son? I can tell he believes he’s capable.”

  After a pause, she said, “Mr. Carraway. That is precisely why I hired you.”

  The call ended.

  And Blu wondered if he could still call her Cynthia.

  Chapter Four

  After a shower and change into linen slacks and a linen shirt, Blu headed out in his two-decade-old Land Cruiser to drop in on another source before meeting Billie. The large behemoth of an SUV had no AC and a bunch of miles but didn’t seem to mind accumulating more. Unlike himself, who had begun taking steps to ensure he kept his edge, like jogging around his island with an old Army pack filled with fifty pounds of junk. And lifting weights at the gym.

  The first call he made on his new phone was to Hope, his twenty-year-old daughter.

  “Dad?” she answered. “Oh, thank God you’re alright. I was going to come out after class today to make sure.”

  “Ye-ah.” His thoughts stumbled around until he got them settled. “I’m good. Didn’t know my phone wasn’t working is all. I’ve got a new number too.” He realized he didn’t know what it was, except the last four digits of course which spelled the color blue.

  She saved him. “Is it the one you’re calling from now?”

  “That’s right. That’s the new one. How are you doing, honey?”

  His ex-wife, Hope’s mother, had taken her away to the big city of Charlotte, North Carolina after the divorce, and Blu rarely got to see Hope afterward. But then Hope decided to attend the College of Charleston and moved back to the lowcountry, much to her mother’s disappointment. Blu couldn’t have been happier since he now got to see her every other week.

  But with his job came risks. And he’d learned last October she wasn’t immune from those risks when she got kidnapped. With Crome incommunicado, Blu had partnered with another man who’d gotten his daughter back safe. Many guilty lives were lost in the process. And Hope seemed to have rebounded without any side effects.

  She said, “I’m good now. Let’s do dinner sometime soon, okay?”

  He smiled. If the only good thing to come out of meeting her mother was Hope, then it was all worth it. Even though her mother was a real piece of work.

  The call ended just as he pulled into a parking spot off King Street. It was here he hoped to speak with Andeline, another of his sources.

  Up until the crash of 2008, Andeline had run a high-end brothel for the top one-percenters in the city. And then she went to prison for it. But she kept her mouth shut, got out on a technicality, and opened a high-end restaurant.

  Because Andeline moved in many circles, she knew more about the sins of the city’s elite than most. It might not be a straight line to blackmail, but Blu knew a call from Andeline to certain powerful individuals was always answered, and a request from her was usually fulfilled one way or another. He was just glad she considered him, if not a friend, someone she was willing to help. After all, he was the one her lawyer had contacted to find the technicality that got her out.

  One of the nice things about Charleston was the casual manner in which people dressed. The heat kept even business casual at bay, allowing enough leeway for Blu to walk into a five-star restaurant without a jacket and tie.

  Andeline stood next to a podium facing the door. Mid-fifties, she had let her once-hourglass figure get soft. Working in a great restaurant would probably do it to anyone. She was looking down at a computer monitor when Blu approached.

  Blu rotated his sunglasses on top of his head. “Table for one.”

  Andeline’s naturally blue eyes left the monitor and landed on Blu. She had her dark hair down, resting on her shoulders. “Do you have a reservation?”

  She had a habit of manipulating men she could control. Blu wasn’t one of them. He said, “Do I need one?”

  She put a hand on a hip. “Now, Blu Carraway. Just because you got me out of jail doesn’t mean you have unlimited access to my tables.”

  “How’s it going, And?”

  “It’d be better if my friends didn’t just come by when they needed something.”

  She’d caught him in his game, just like Billie. Blu wasn’t a very good friend, but he did tip well for information.

  And lucky for Blu the restaurant wasn’t busy yet.

  Andeline asked, “Who are you looking for this time?”

  Blu slipped a notepad out of his back pocket, opened it, and tore off a page with “Jeremy Rhodes” written on it. He offered it to Andeline. “I’ve got a picture in my truck if that will help.”

  She held it, rested a finger on her lips as she read it, and said, “Assuming it’s the same family, I recognize the name. His mother is, let me think, Cynthia.”

  Bingo.

  Andeline smiled at him. “She comes in here once a week.”

  The front door of the restaurant opened and Andeline folded the piece of paper with Jeremy’s name written on it and slid it underneath her laptop. Blu stepped out of the way and observed a couple in their fifties nod at him and approach the hostess. She picked up two menus and batted her eyes at the man before leading them away.

  Blu had a habit of counting seconds when there wasn’t anything else to do. Andeline returned when he got to forty-five.

  He borrowed her pen, wrote the new number he’d finally memorized on another piece of paper, and handed the pen and paper to Andeline. “I’m sorry to bother you at your restaurant. I’d appreciate anything you can tell me about the mother or her son. Call me when it’s a better time for you to talk.”

  Andeline waved the paper at him. “Let me see what I can do.”

  He smiled, turned, and walked toward the door.

  To his back, she said, “Talk to you later, Blu. Say hi to Billie for me.”

  Blu stopped and turned back. “That’s where I’m heading next.”

  Andeline asked, “You got reservations somewhere?”

  “No.” Of course he didn’t. His plan was a low-key dinner involving a whole lot of peel and eat shrimp with a big roll of paper towels to clean up the mess. It was his favorite meal.

  Andeline smiled and tapped on the screen in front of her. “You do now. Say in an hour and a half?”

  “Thanks. That’s really nice of you.”

  “You’re welcome. Looks like I can say hi to Billie myself.”

  Blu pulled to a stop behind a newish Honda Pilot SUV and put his truck in park. He reached over to the passenger seat and picked up the dozen roses and box of Godiva candies he’d purchased at a local gourmet food store after leaving Andeline’s restaurant. Given the lingering heat of the evening and his vehicle’s lack of a working air conditioning system, he hoped the chocolates hadn’t already melted.

  The concrete sidewalk curved from the drive to the lighted front patio of a quaint ranch-style home. Two rocking chairs stood guard in front of an expansive bay window overlooking large trees in the front yard and the street. Billie’s house was all brick on the outside and seventies kitsch throughout. Blu was born in the early part of the decade. Yet not disco nor anything else from that time except punk had made too much of an impact on him. Billie, born in the latter half, surely would only know about it th
rough pictures and television.

  She opened the door before he could ring the bell and Blu took in the mocha sundress showing off every one of her curves.

  He said, “Wow.”

  Billie laughed and spun around for him. “You like it?”

  Did he ever! “You look great, babe.” He handed over the floral and cocoa peace offering. “These are for you.”

  She held them. “Of course they are, and you’re so sweet for bringing them. Let me set them inside and we can go.”

  Blu looked at his watch, a real Rolex Submariner his father got in Vietnam during the war from some street kids who rolled diplomats for just such trinkets. “We’ve got some time.”

  She stopped. “We do? You mean you made reservations?”

  “Of course.”

  With a hand on a hip, she said, “Don’t ‘of course’ me, Blu. This is a first. You’re more of a peel and eat shrimp and paper napkin kind of guy. Does this mean the restaurant we’re going to has real cloth napkins?”

  “And a classy hostess.”

  Her face became one big smile. “Andeline! I should have known you had some help.”

  Friday morning, Blu sat in a chair on the back porch overlooking a good part of the wetlands surrounding his little island home and took a hit on his vaporizer. Dragonflies, his favorite insect, buzzed around looking for errant mosquitoes to feast on. The horses munched on marsh grass in front of him, the smell of saltwater and brine heavy in the air. Ice settled in an otherwise empty glass on a small table next to him.

  Dinner with Billie had gone better than okay. He’d actually behaved himself, keeping his reaching hands at bay and all discussion away from sex, and he was rewarded with a goodnight kiss at her front door and the request for a second date. She’d even handed him a jump drive loaded with jazz she’d picked out for him, though she knew it wasn’t his first genre choice. He’d need to find a way to play the music as his old truck did not have a USB port.

  She also said she’d put some feelers out for Jeremy Rhodes.

  Even with the information Gladys had provided, he really didn’t have much. Blu pulled his new phone out of his pocket and dialed a number from memory, his source to get him access to the car.

  It was answered on the second ring.

  “Powers.”

  “It’s Blu Carraway.”

  “Blu? Didn’t recognize the number. Haven’t heard from you in a while. What’s up?”

  Powers was Detective Roger Powers of the Charleston Police Department. Over the past few years, he’d helped Blu out on a few of the insurance scam jobs he’d worked to stay solvent.

  Blu asked, “Have plans for lunch?”

  “You buying?” he asked.

  “Yes, but there’s no such thing as a free one, ya know.”

  “I figured as much. Usual place?”

  Blu said, “See you there at noon.”

  He ended the call, looked out across the marsh, and the phone vibrated in his hand. A name displayed on the screen and he answered.

  “Hello, Cynthia.”

  “Mr. Carraway?”

  He took a shot at brevity. “I thought we decided if I was to call you Cynthia, you could call me Blu.” After their last conversation, he wasn’t sure she’d even keep him on the payroll.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” he said, relieved she didn’t blast him out. “You’re the client. I’m afraid I don’t have anything new to report just yet.”

  “I understand.” She paused. “Mr—I mean Blu, I was wondering if you would like to join me for brunch?”

  Not expecting the invitation, especially with lunch plans, Blu stumbled out an, “Um, okay.”

  “Wonderful!” She sounded relieved he had accepted. “Could you be here at eleven? Would that give you enough time?”

  He checked his watch. “Ninety minutes. At your place?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  The call ended.

  Chapter Five

  Dressed in his trademark black jeans, a plain t-shirt, Rolex, and vintage Doc Martens, Blu wheeled his Land Cruiser onto East Battery and parked in an open spot a few houses down from Cynthia Rhodes’ three story mansion on one of the most famous streets in the country.

  He unlatched the gate of the wrought-iron fence he would bet the entire retainer Cynthia Rhodes had paid him was made by the talented Charleston blacksmith Philip Simmons. Stepping onto the column-lined front porch, he noticed stained glass windows crowning the entry surrounded by light brown plaster and stone. The large polished-brass knocker thudded against a stop mounted on the solid wood front door.

  A young African-American woman, dressed much like Cynthia Rhodes had been when she first showed up at his home, in a sleeveless blouse and slacks, answered the door. Her hair was pulled back in a clip, her eyes brown and clear, she greeted him with a smile of perfectly white teeth.

  Giving him a quick once-over, she seemed pleased. “Mr. Carraway, I’m Rebecca Morn, Ms. Rhodes’ assistant. She’s expecting you.”

  He said, “Call me Blu.”

  The wide smile she gave him showed her perfect teeth again. “Well, please come in, Blu.”

  Blu stepped inside and found himself in a spacious receiving room, a large crystal chandelier hung from a chain above his head.

  After she shut the door, she gave a light touch of his shoulder. “This way.”

  She led him into a sitting area off to the right of the entrance. “Please have a seat. Ms. Rhodes will be with you shortly.”

  He watched her walk away and noticed she was solid in a personal-trainer kind of way. As she was about to leave the room, she turned and gave him another smile, catching him looking. He gave her a smile back and she exited stage left.

  Then he took in the room—hundred-year-old burgundy wall paper, large crown molding, patterned ceiling detailing. Thanks to his fancy new phone, he was able to research the home before he got there. It had been built in 1858. Cynthia Rhodes must have gone to considerable expense to preserve it. Others would have attempted to update if only because it was the easier and less costly approach.

  And the home was furnished with antiques, from the vintage carpet to the tapestries hanging down the walls. Like all old homes, the musty smell was there, but she had taken steps to mask it as much as she could with jasmine-scented candles. He liked it.

  From the doorway, Cynthia Rhodes said, “Thank you for coming, Mr. Carraway.”

  He looked over at her and noticed she wore a very nice, pale green sundress and matching shoes. Her hair was pulled back, yet the casual vibe she gave was more relaxed than when she’d visited his home yesterday.

  She put a hand to her mouth. “I meant, Blu. I’m sorry, it is just hard for me to call you by your first name.”

  Blu stood, wondering if Trigger Rick was around but didn’t ask. Instead, he went with, “It’s okay. Call me whatever you’d like. I’ve been called a lot worse,” the whole time thinking, “You’re the paying client.”

  “In your line of work, I can imagine.” She approached him. “It is nice to see you.”

  He took her offered hand. “Thank you for the invitation. You have a very nice home.”

  The handshake was firm yet soft.

  “This home has outlived six tenants and four families. I bought it twenty years ago and have been undoing a lot of the previous owners’ changes. Aside from a few modern conveniences, I want it the way it was.”

  He wondered if she was talking just about the house.

  “It shows,” he said.

  She smiled at him. “Can I interest you in a drink?”

  “Iced tea if you have it.”

  “Of course. Follow me. We’ll have pre-brunch libations in the living room.”

  Pre-brunch libations.
Whatever the heck that was. What he really wanted was a tour of the place, but it was her home and it would have been too presumptuous of him to ask.

  She led him to the back of the mansion. The living room was less formal than the sitting room, but was also furnished with antiques.

  They sat on a sofa. The woman who’d answered the door brought a tray with a pitcher of iced tea, a bottle of vodka, a small bowl of lemon wedges, and two glasses.

  “Would you like me to add a cocktail to your tea, Mr. Carraway?” Cynthia asked as she poured vodka into a glass.

  “Not while I’m on the job.” Or anywhere else, really. He didn’t drink.

  Rebecca Morn filled the other glass with tea and handed it to Blu. She offered lemon before she turned to leave the room.

  Cynthia topped her spiked glass with tea and lemon and sat back.

  “Probably a wise decision,” she said. “I’m not normally a talkative person, but I find myself filling in the silence with my babbling in your presence. And I’m thinking it’s part of your tradecraft.”

  He squeezed two lemon wedges into his tea, sipped the beverage, and set the glass down on its coaster. “What would you like me to talk about?”

  “You said yesterday you didn’t have anything new to report. I wondered where you’ve gone to look so far.”

  Not wanting to divulge he’d found the kid’s car yet, he dodged her statement with, “To be honest, I’ve got a few questions for you.”

  She nursed her drink. “Of course.”

  “Can you tell me exactly when the last time Jeremy accessed the account and from where?”

  She shifted in her seat. “Um, I’m not sure. I could find out.”

  Blu felt compelled to ask, “Is there anything you’re not telling me?”

  “Nothing that I can think of.” The smile she gave him seemed genuine, if guarded.

  No matter who the client was or how much money they had, they always tried to hide something.

  Whatever secret they kept to themselves sometimes turned out to be a clue. Or sometimes not. Either way, he spent a lot of time filling in holes he didn’t need to fill if they had just been forthcoming.