Blu got in the other truck, the one the guy brought with him. It was the same make and model but a different shade of gray.
Crome said, “Harmony gave us the name and address of the stripper we need to go talk to. You sure you’re up for it?”
“Of course.”
The stripper’s name was Angel Feather and she got off work at three.
There was a lot to do. And why Skull had branched out to the lowcountry was another mystery Blu wanted to solve.
Blu needed another phone and picked up a burner. The first call he made while sitting in his rental SUV in the parking lot of the store where he’d just made his purchase was to Billie.
She answered the call and he said, “It’s Blu.”
There was no reply.
He said, “I’m sorry for the way I’ve been handling things.”
With an eerily even voice, she said, “You don’t even know why I’m upset, do you?”
Blu thought hard about the answer, running several angles through his mind. After about five seconds of internal deliberation, he figured he had to say something. He decided to go with the absolute truth. “No, I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
She said, “Thank you for not trying to shoot some angle at me.”
“Okay.” It was all he could offer without the risk of digging another hole.
“I’ve always loved you, Blu. Even when you married someone else. Even when I married someone else.”
“Me t—”
She interrupted him. “Don’t. You were doing so well there for a minute. You and your wife made Hope. I don’t believe there is any love equal to the love of making a child. But I love Hope and I love you. And I know you love me.”
Taking his cue from her, he remained silent this time.
After a sigh, she said, “I’m upset with myself for acting the way I did.”
Blu opened his mouth to speak, remembered at the last moment how that worked the last time, and continued to keep quiet.
She said, “I haven’t ever been the jealous type before. But seeing you with Tess like that brought out the wrong side of me.” A pause, a deep breath, and then, “I’m sorry.”
He really didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry too.”
“And to show you and me I’m better than I’ve been acting,” she said, “I want to give you the freedom you need to finish this job.”
All his radars went on full alert. He said, “What are you saying?”
“You need to finish this job.”
“What about us?” he asked.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “But the next time I see you, I don’t want you burdened with finding Jeremy Rhodes.”
Blu didn’t know what to make of this. Why in the hell did women, okay, this woman, have to speak in so many riddles?
He said, “I don’t like this, but if that’s what you want, I’ll respect your wishes.”
She said, “I want you. But I want you all to myself. It’s unfair for you and for me. So I’m going to use this to learn to share you with your work. It’s the only way I can see us making it.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Friday, early morning
The woman who called herself Angel Feather took a deep drag from a Marlboro red and exhaled. “Jeremy did something he shouldn’t’ve.”
Blu said, “Like what?”
Another drag of the cigarette. “You really are a Boy Scout, ain’tcha?”
It was after three a.m. They were on the concrete slab patio of this dive bar named Pete’s in North Charleston. All the other patrons and all but two of the wait staff had left for the night. Angel’s friend sat with them at the picnic table and smoked a joint while they talked. Blu was wired in, with Harmony and Crome parked at a convenient store two blocks away listening to the conversation. The news girls had appropriated the hardware from a police officer friend of theirs. Such was the power of Harmony and Tess.
Blu said, “You told Harmony you wanted to talk off the record.”
Angel exhaled a cloud of smoke and stubbed out her cigarette. “Yeah, I did. But now I’m not so sure I wanna say anything.”
The woman clearly did want to talk. And Blu needed her to talk. He had no other sources at the moment. And Jeremy Rhodes was not being forthcoming about his whereabouts or even his status as living or otherwise.
Blu reached into his pocket, peeled a bill off the fold, and laid it on the table.
Angel said, “What’s that for?”
“Your inconvenience.”
“My inconvenience, huh? That all you think it’s worth?” She slid another cigarette out of the pack and put it to glossy lips.
Blu lit it with a red lighter from the table. “How much do you think it’s worth?”
Angel took a long drag on the new cigarette. With an exhale of smoke, she said, “Ten thousand dollars.”
Either she had something really good or she was scamming him, or both. He couldn’t take the chance of passing up the former for the latter. Cynthia Rhodes had deep pockets. Blu said, “With that kind of figure, I expect something worth the money.”
Angel leaned forward as if to tell him something in confidence.
Blu moved forward, tilting his head to hear her better, the same move Tristan’s guard had fallen for before Blu knocked him out. He realized how gullible his desperation made him.
She touched her cheek to his and whispered, “You won’t be disappointed.” Straightening back up, she took another puff. “Like I said, Jeremy did something he shouldn’t have. I know what it is.”
Realizing he wasn’t going to get anything else out of Angel Feather until she was paid, he said, “I don’t have that kind of money on me.”
She stood. “Call me when you do.”
“Why don’t you come with me and we can get it together?” he asked.
Laughing, she said, “You must think I’m some kind of stupid. I go with you and maybe I don’t come back.”
“Come on, Angel,” he said. “You know I’m not like that.”
Angel’s friend had finished her joint. She now giggled. “Hear that, Angel? He’s not like that.” Her lazy gaze fell on him. “Like what, exactly?”
Blu noticed an interesting tattoo of Lou Reed on the woman’s right bicep as he ignored what she said and spoke to Angel. “Okay. Where can I meet you?”
The friend said, “He sure is desperate. He must really want what you got, girl.”
“Call me when you get the money,” Angel repeated, “and I’ll let you know.”
Blu handed her one of his cards with his new burner’s number written on the back. “In case anything comes up.”
Sitting in his rental SUV, Blu used the burner to call Cynthia Rhodes. When she answered, he explained his conversation with Angel.
Cynthia said, “Do you believe her?”
“I don’t think we can afford not to. But I’ve got an idea on how we can minimize the risk.”
After a pause, she said, “I’ll pay it. Come over and get the money.”
They hung up and Blu called Crome, who said, “Sounds like a setup.”
“Could be.”
“You need backup.”
Blu smiled to himself. “Of course.”
“Well,” Crome said, “okay then. I’ll be waiting to hear back from you.”
The call ended. Blu drove to Cynthia Rhodes’ house.
She met him at the door herself with a small bag. “I hope this will tell us something.”
He met her gaze. “Me too.”
She handed him the bag. “Good luck.”
“Thanks for trusting me with this.”
“Mr. Carraway,” she said, “you don’t strike me as a man who would risk his reputation for ten thousand dollars.”
He smiled, held the bag up, and
nodded. “I’ll call you when I know something.”
“Do that, but from the phone I gave you so I know it’s you calling.”
“It was stolen.”
She gave him a tight-lipped grin, then said, “I’ll arrange for you to have another one. Just promise you’ll not lose this one, okay?”
“I—” He stopped himself. She wouldn’t understand any explanation. Instead, he said, “Thanks.”
She gave him a wave as he drove away, thinking, I wouldn’t sell my reputation for ten grand, but I might for ten million.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Blu called the number Angel had given him. It went to voicemail. He left a message saying he had the money and would be waiting for her call.
At eleven a.m., he called Crome and they met at a bar downtown, the money in a satchel between them the whole time. Crome sipped a dark microbrew while Blu drank sweet tea.
Crome looked at the screen on his phone. “I gave that doctor who looked you over a bunch of crap, but I just got a text from Patricia. He said he thought it was etorphine they shot you up with and the tox screen agreed. You should be okay, but she wants me to keep an eye on you.”
Blu smiled and patted Crome on the back. “I feel so much better knowing you’re my babysitter.” Then he sipped his drink.
Crome looked at Blu. “Shut the hell up.”
And they waited like that for two hours, needling each other.
Another call to Angel led to another voicemail.
Blu said, “This isn’t right.”
“Ten grand for some sketchy information from a stripper,” Crome said. “I’d say you’re speakin’ the truth.”
“No. I mean she wanted the money this morning. Why doesn’t she want it now?”
Crome took a long pull on his beer.
Blu’s phone buzzed. He looked at the number, didn’t recognize it, and answered.
A voice on the other line said, “Is this Blu Carraway?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Detective McDere. North Charleston P.D. Homicide. I’m holding a business card with that name and this number handwritten on the back.”
“You got me.”
“Mr. Carraway, do you know a woman named Joanna Klipp?”
The name didn’t ring a bell. “Not that I can think of.”
“Also goes by the name Fallen Angel.”
Fallen Angel. Angel.
He said, “I know an Angel Feather. Could be the same person.”
“That would explain why your business card was found on her person.”
Blu exhaled slow and long. “You said you’re from homicide?”
“Yes. Do you think you could extend some professional courtesy and come out here and meet me?”
“Yes. Where’s here?”
Detective McDere, North Charleston P.D. Homicide, gave Blu an address and asked him to come right away.
They hung up. Blu looked at Crome.
Crome said, “Homicide?”
“I get the feeling Angel won’t be calling after all.”
Blu left the money with Crome and drove into North Charleston. He parked outside a line of three police cars behind an older strip mall, drank greedily from a bottle of water he’d brought, got out of his truck, and walked to the line of crime scene tape. Detective McDere had told him to wait and someone would meet him there.
The place smelled like spoiled garbage thanks to three overflowing dumpsters nearby.
He used the time to take a hit off his ecig. The nicotine helped calm him down. After all, his only source of information was dead mere hours after talking with him. It couldn’t be a good omen.
A man with a slight build, white shirt, and blue slacks approached. Graying and thinning hair along with crow’s feet put him a few years older than Blu. He held identification up. “Mr. Carraway? Detective McDere.”
From the ID, Blu noted McDere was a lieutenant. “Thanks for calling me.”
McDere wiped sweat off his brow. “Sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
Not knowing what to say next, Blu nodded.
The detective said, “When was the last time you saw Ms. Klipp?”
“This morning, about three.”
“Where was that?”
“The back patio of Pete’s Bar. She’d just gotten off work.”
McDere pulled a notepad out of a back pocket, slid the pen out of the spiral holding it together, and asked, “Any witnesses?”
“A friend of Angel’s was there, but I’m not sure how reliable she’s going to be.”
The detective looked up from his notepad. “Why not?”
“She smoked a joint while Angel and I talked.”
He flipped the notepad shut. “Just great. Did you get a name?”
“No, but I think she works with Angel. It wouldn’t be hard to track her down.” Blu knew he should have gotten her name. If he were honest with himself, he’d say Angel’s request for ten grand had rattled him, because it felt like it could’ve been a turning point for his investigation. But he wasn’t going to admit it to this detective, high rank or not.
“I suppose you’re right,” Detective McDere said. “Normally I wouldn’t ask, but with time a premium I need to. Can you ride with me and my partner out there and point her out?”
It would have been nice if he could have caught the woman alone before the detectives got a hold of her. But at least this way he might be able to observe while they questioned her. There was no way he was going to tell McDere about the Lou Reed tattoo just yet. They’d cut him out right here. He said, “I’ll follow you.”
The detective scrunched his lips as a form of response.
It looked like displeasure. Blu let it pass.
“The thing is,” McDere said, “we can chat on the way.”
“Yeah, well I’m looking at it from a timing angle as well. See, I ride out there with you, then afterwards I’ve got to ride back. I lose like thirty minutes of my day. Maybe an hour.”
“Still, I’d rather you agree to come with us on your own.”
There it was. The implied threat. Agree to be interrogated while locked in the back of their car, or—behind door number two—be forced to.
“Since you put it that way, there’s nothing I’d rather do.”
Detective McDere smiled. “Good. Thanks for cooperating. I’ll make sure that goes in the report.”
He thought, Gee, thanks for giving me a choice.
“Gee, thanks. Just let me get a bottle of water out of my truck.”
“Suit yourself. We’ll roll in five.”
Blu walked back to the SUV and got the water bottle he’d been drinking from earlier. While he did so, he pulled the burner and made a call.
Crome answered with a, “Yo.”
“Cops want me to ID Angel’s friend.”
He snorted, “And I’m sure they want you to ride out there with them in the backseat of their cruiser.”
“You got it.”
“Sneaky bastards,” Crome said. “Whattaya want me to do?”
“Get over there to Pete’s Bar. Look for a woman half our age with a Lou Reed tattoo on her right bicep. There’s bound to be only one of those.”
“Lou Reed? Really?”
“Don’t take your panties off yet,” Blu said. “I did say she was half our age.”
“With a tat of Lou Reed, I’d like her if she were a hundred.” He ended the call.
It was now time to stall the little road trip. He walked back toward the crime scene.
Detective McDere said, “Who’d you call?”
“My partner. Told him I’d be with you for a few hours.”
“Partner?” McDere said. “You mean Mick Crome?”
Of course they’d already know about him. “Yessir.”
Pete’s Bar was sixteen miles due south. He figured he could make it in fifteen minutes with no traffic and gave the bike a serious workout. The custom pipes roared with each gear change and twist of the throttle.
Fourteen minutes and thirty seconds later he dropped the kickstand in the lot of the bar. There were three cars in the parking lot, a faded gray Nissan Altima, an orange Miata, and a lifted F-150. Crome guessed they belonged to people who worked there and walked to the front doors which swung open.
He entered a black hall and was greeted by Tupac Shakur’s “California Love” echoing off the walls, a song that brought with it memories of being a bouncer back in the nineties. Crome passed the booth where a scantily-clad vixen would normally make the first withdrawal from the patrons’ wallets in the form of a cover charge. The booth was empty. At the end of the hall was another set of doors. He did not hesitate as he entered the bar as if he owned it.
The volume of the music doubled.
The house lights were on full.
A naked African-American woman spun around a pole on stage, which impressed Crome. It took a lot of physical strength to hold oneself horizontal at the waist like that.
A voice to his right said, “Can I help you?”
Crome turned to see a short bald fat man. “I’m looking for a woman who works here.”
“Aren’t you all,” the man said. “Look buddy, we’re closed. Come back at six.”
“She’s got a tat of Lou Reed on her arm. I just need to talk to her.”
The man opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then said, “Get outta here.” He jammed his thumb in the air toward the door.
“Is she here?”
“No, she isn’t,” he said, his voice now whining.
“She going to be here tonight?”
“No, she isn’t. Called in sick.”
“What’s her name?”
“Get the hell out of here.”
In It for the Money Page 19