“I just stopped in for a sandwich. But as I was eating and saw Lindsey, I said to myself, that’s her. That’s the face of my spokesmodel. And when I noticed a Derma-Zing design on her shoulder, I took it as a sign.”
Lindsey sat up. “Really? You want me to be your model for, like, Derma-Zing?”
“Well, yes, as long as the test footage looks good. Though I can’t see why it wouldn’t. I imagine you’re still in high school, but we can work around your schedule and do both the magazine photo shoots and the TV commercials right here in Wilmington. And the money the job pays would be enough for a year’s worth of college tuition.”
“Sweet! What do I have to do?”
“Whoa, hold on,” I said. “Before you agree to anything, Lindsey, you’ll need to ask your father.”
“Sure I do, but he’ll say yes as long as I keep my grades up!”
“Of course we have to get parental-consent forms signed. But let me assure you that this is a legitimate product and a legitimate company. And as the mother, you’d get to approve everything before we print or air it. We can put that in the contract.”
“Oh, she’s not my mom,” Lindsey corrected. “She’s my dad’s business partner.”
“Is your father or mother here?”
“Not right now.”
I held up a hand to slow things down. “Why don’t you leave all the information with us, and Lindsey and I will talk it over with her parents. Somebody will get back to you in a day or so.”
He agreed, produced a pile of information from the guts of his briefcase, and answered Lindsey’s questions for another half-hour before standing to leave. We learned that Derma-Zing is one division under a large umbrella of products that his company manufactured.
“By the way,” he said. “What is your nationality, Lindsey? Well, you’re obviously an American so I should say, what is your heritage? You have a most unique look, but I can’t quite place my finger on it.”
Lindsey displayed a brilliant smile. “I’m a card-carrying Indian, Doc. My mom is purebred Californian but my dad is a full-blooded Lumbee.” I didn’t bother to explain her reference to the fact that Lumbees carry identification cards, issued by the tribal council. It was Lindsey’s way of expressing that she is the real deal—a genuine Lumbee—and proud of it.
“Super, that’s super. You’re the opposite of all these generic girls the agency keeps trying to push on me. You’re the face I’ve been searching for.”
“Thanks, Doc.” Lindsey shook his proffered hand. “Hey, by the way. I do get all the free Derma-Zing I can use for me and my friends, right? I mean, the stuff isn’t cheap.”
He chuckled. “Absolutely.”
“Sweet. Well, I’ve to get in on the poker game before Spud blows a gasket. He keeps waving me over. Later,” she said and hurried to the corner booth where the card game was in progress, leaving me to deal with the stack of print collateral and the Derma-Zing president.
“She plays poker, too?”
I nodded.
“She’s priceless! She’s going to be just perfect. I hope her parents will agree, and please do let them know that I’m available to meet with them anytime.”
“Sure thing,” I said and walked him out of my bar.
Living with my capricious father over the past few years had proven to be interesting, but living with Spud and a spirited teenager might be downright challenging.
THIRTEEN
I received Lady Lizzy’s confidential e-mail, and as promised, it contained enough details to fully round out Soup’s list of events. Now I just needed a MOTSU shipment schedule, and John was one person who had access to it. I might have been on the wrong track altogether, but I had to do something to stay sane. Even after I’d reported that John suspected I worked for Homeland Security, Ashton instructed me to continue what I’d been doing: observe and report. Unfortunately, doing that had become repetitive and boring. Plus, Ox had said I had good instincts, and something told me that the detected terrorist chatter was indeed tied to a Sunny Point shipment.
Soup’s background check on John Mason revealed some interesting details, but nothing out of the ordinary other than his twin brother had died in combat, fourteen years into a military career. It was his only brother—the one he’d saved when they were kids by cutting the boy loose from a corn chopper. After earning a two-year college degree, John went through police academy training and had gone to work in law enforcement. He became a detective and later moved to SBI, North Carolina’s State Bureau of Investigation. It was shortly after his twin brother died that he went to work for AJAT Security. I’d spoken with John’s former boss at SBI and learned that John left because he needed a change of pace, but that his work ethic had been exemplary. Very disciplined. I decided to throw caution to the wind and ask for John’s help. The worst thing that could happen was that Ashton would find out and fire me from an assignment I hadn’t wanted to take anyway.
“So, what say you give me a peek at your incoming and outgoing shipment schedule?” I said to John, going for broke as I refilled his coffee. It was time to shut down the roach coach for the day, send my report to Ashton, return the truck to the warehouse, and head home.
“What say you tell me who you work for?” he countered, eyes bright.
I finished cleaning up, secured all containers and bins, and stepped outside the truck. Stacking the plastic chairs, I sighed as loudly as I could. “John, you know I can’t do that. So don’t even ask.”
He blew on his coffee, sipped. “Why do you want to see the schedules? And why don’t you just get the information from whomever you work for? Surely they have top-level security access to the terminal.”
I loaded the chairs into the rear cargo bay and leaned against the truck to rest, on the shaded side. The morning was rapidly growing hot as the sun centered itself above North Carolina’s lower coast. “To answer your first question, I just want to see if anything appears unusual or abnormal. As for your second question, no, the folks I work for don’t have access to the internal workings of MOTSU, believe it or not.” I hoped he believed me. SWEET was privy to anything and everything happening at MOTSU, including details on toilet paper usage, if they wanted it.
Arms crossed over his chest, John gave me a blatant once-over, but the look was more playful than crude. “Okay, no problem on the incoming shipments schedule. I’ll give you everything, rail and road. But what do I get in return?”
I morphed into bimbette mode and threw a sexy smile his way. “Free sausage biscuits?”
His eyes moved to my chest. “Doesn’t seem like a fair trade to me.”
I breathed deep, to give him a better look. “And free coffee?”
“How about a real dinner date? Maybe somewhere in downtown Wilmington so we can walk around, catch some live music. You’re not married, are you?”
“Nope. But I have this rule about mixing my personal life with my work life.”
He smirked, slid on a pair of mirrored shades so I couldn’t see his eyes. “Yeah, well, I have this rule about sharing confidential information.”
I imagined that John was too much of a professional to hand over schedules to a near stranger. On the other hand, he probably expected sex as a return favor. He wasn’t going to get it, but I could certainly play along for now. Besides, Ox had tossed me to the proverbial curb ever since Louise came calling. If nothing else, John might give me something else to think about. “Elijah’s, tonight, seven thirty? I can meet you there.”
He finished his coffee, handed me the empty paper cup. “That’s more like it.”
“And you’ll bring my schedules?”
“Yes.”
“Outgoing, as well?”
He shook his head no. “Incoming schedules are reliable and usually on time. Outgoing shipments are much more unpredictable. Besides, outgoing cargo is containerized and sent by ship. If you’re worried about an ambush or something, it would happen while a shipment was being transported to the facility, don’t you th
ink?”
I wasn’t so sure, but agreed with him anyway.
“Don’t be late.” Only slightly swaggering, he headed to his car with a backhanded wave.
Elijah’s is a waterfront restaurant and oyster bar in downtown Wilmington that is a short distance south of the Block. John waited for me in the parking area and acted as though he’d just arrived. He probably got there early to get a look at my vehicle and tag number. In case he had ideas of perusing my true identity, I’d put a fake license plate on the X5, and covered the VIN by stashing a spiral notebook on the dash.
Greeting me with a kiss on the check, as though we were a couple, John handed me a folder containing the inventory printout of product coming to MOTSU. I secured it in the glove compartment and locked my doors.
“Sweet ride,” he said, checking out my auction car. “Selling biscuits must pay more than I imagined.”
“Oh, it’s just a lease,” I fibbed. “Life’s too unpredictable to not enjoy a few material pleasures.”
“I agree. Though carnal pleasures are always good, too.”
“Right,” I said, ignoring his reference to sex. “I can’t wait to eat. The food here is terrific.”
We ended up sitting on the outside covered deck to take advantage of the fresh breeze, even though the humidity level hovered at the top of the register. A server found us almost instantly and we ordered a crab dip starter and stuffed shrimp entrees. Without looking at a wine menu, John ordered a bottle of white Bordeaux.
“You copycatting me again?” I teased. “You chose the same thing I did at Fishy Fishy, too.”
“I guess we have similar tastes. Besides, that’s the only way I can guarantee that I won’t have to share my food. Order the same thing your date does and she won’t be asking to taste yours.”
We worked our way through the crab dip that was served with giant croutons in lieu of crackers and half a bottle of the wine when John’s phone buzzed. He consulted the caller ID display and his watch. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this one. You mind?”
“Not at all.”
He headed toward the walkway by the water—either for privacy or politeness—and when he returned ten minutes later, our shrimp had arrived. He apologized for taking so long.
“But the good news,” he added, spreading a napkin over his lap,” is that the problem is resolved, so I don’t need to head in to work.”
“And I thought I might get to eat two plates of shrimp.”
“No such luck.” He held his wineglass up and we clinked to good food and good health.
I didn’t learn much about MOTSU, AJAT Security, or John—other than the fact that he didn’t like to talk about himself and immediately redirected the conversation whenever I steered it toward him. Even though the dinner was a waste of time from an intel standpoint, John turned out to be a witty conversationalist as long as we discussed movies or books or restaurants. He refused to let me chip in on the tab and, gentlemanlike, walked me to my car.
Before we reached the X5, somebody let out a sloppy cat whistle. “That is one major piece of fine-looking ass.”
A group of men—six to be exact—stood around a beat-up work van, smoking cigarettes. I guessed them to be either dock workers or perhaps fishermen just in from several days at sea. With slurred words, another man joined in, ignoring John and leering at me. “Man, would I like to get me a piece of that. Maybe she’d do us both.”
“Maybe she’d do us all, being as though the rest of you assholes wouldn’t be but ten seconds apiece,” another said, and drank straight from a brown-bagged pint liquor bottle. “I’ll take up the rear.”
“You so horny, you’d take one up the rear,” somebody said and they all laughed, much louder than necessary.
“You ought to be a little more respectful around a lady,” John said calmly, “before you get yourselves in trouble.”
“Guess he wants to keep his piece of ass all to himself,” the first one said to the others.
“Oooh, I’m scared,” another said. “I’m so scared I might just piss my pants.”
The six men banded into a tight group and walked our way, slightly off-kilter. They were drunk enough to lose all sense of reasoning, but sober enough to connect fists with a target. And all were laden with the wiry type of hard muscle conditioned by a labor-intensive job.
“Get in your car, Jill, and lock the doors,” John said. He carried an autoloader in a shoulder holster the times I’d fluoroscoped him from the roach coach, so I figured him to be carrying now. Still, there were six of them. And I wasn’t in a mood to dodge bullets. If John pulled his gun, one of the bullies might respond in kind.
“No, thanks,” I replied. “Think I’ll just hang right here.”
John moved in front of me, in a sweet, protective sort of way. “You boys have had too much to drink. Why don’t you head on home?”
“Seems to me,” one said, “you ought to head home and leave her with us.” He shoved John, hard, in the chest.
“Shouldn’t have done that,” John said and threw a punch to the fisherman’s jaw that put him on the ground. Thinking they were supposed to back up their buddy, the other five came at us.
“Get in the car, Jill!” John repeated and ducked beneath a swinging fist.
I threw a high roundhouse kick over John’s back and clipped a man in the face, spun around and placed a low kick into the knee of another drunk who’d picked up a tree limb and was preparing to swing it. Stunned, both men dropped out of the fight and one went down with a groan. John did a quick double-take before launching himself into the remaining drunks while I stood back to watch. No need to ruin a good manicure if I didn’t have to. There was a flurry of fists, grunts, and moans as he took the remaining three men down, one at a time, with practiced precision. The brawl was over in less than thirty seconds.
“Nice moves, Jill,” he said, brushing himself off and smoothing his shirt. “Now I’m really curious who you work for.”
“I told you, I lead a simple life selling biscuits. And, thanks for the compliment. You’ve got some great moves, yourself.”
He rubbed his knuckles. “I could have handled them all, you know.”
“I’m sure. But why should you have all the fun?”
Either too stupid or too stubborn to stay down, one man lumbered upright. “Try an’ take me now, you son of a bitch.” He held a long-bladed fishing knife with a curved tip. Confident of John’s hand-to-hand abilities, I moved out of the way.
John waited for the attack and when it came, he used the man’s momentum to disarm him by sidestepping the weapon and pressure-twisting the wrist. In the next instant, John held his attacker by the throat, one-handed, his thumb and fingers squeezing from opposite sides. The fact that it was his left hand, the one with the damaged finger, didn’t affect his strength and I became alarmed when John didn’t let go, even after the man’s knees buckled from a lack of oxygen. He was going to choke him to death. I started to intervene when John snapped out of it and released his grip. The man melted into the asphalt, coughed once, and started wheezing. At least he still breathed. Being around a dead person completely creeps me out.
“Let’s get out of here,” John said.
“No argument from me.”
We walked the rest of the way to my car and once there, he gave me a strange look that I couldn’t quite read. “Feel like a drink or a cup of coffee somewhere? Might catch some live music.”
Anything to keep me from envisioning Ox and Louise together, and feeling sorry for myself. I’d never been jealous of a woman with Ox before. Not ever. But that was before I’d given in to my cravings and slept with the man. And, Louise was different. He had a history with her. The thought of Ox planning a future with the woman was something I wouldn’t allow myself to consider. The more I thought about it, the better an after-dinner drink sounded.
“That works for me.”
I rode with him to the Rusty Nail, where we sipped coffees laden with Godiva chocolate liqueur and
took in some live jazz music. When the clock approached midnight, he drove me back to my car and kissed me on the lips. It was a quick kiss, one that stopped before I had a chance to think about it. Or protest.
“We should go out again,” he said. “I had a great time.”
“It was a lot of fun,” I said, realizing I’d only thought of Ox and Louise once. Or maybe twice. “Thanks for dinner.”
“You’re welcome.”
I stepped into the X5. “See you around.” I drove to the Block, taking several unnecessary turns to ensure that he wasn’t following. Just because I was starting to like the AJAT Security worker didn’t mean that I could let my guard down. I had a job to do, and gleaning information from knowledgeable sources was simply part of the deal.
FOURTEEN
High school classes started in two days, on Monday, and Lindsey’s life was jam-packed. Ox and Louise agreed to let her contract with Derma-Zing and, with help from Spud—self-appointed agent—had negotiated the fee up to an even eighteen thousand dollars. The advertising brains decided on a “down-to-earth real look with jazzed-up graphics” for both the print ads and the television spots. They’d also decided not to use a studio, opting instead for several Wilmington locations, including the riverwalk, the Cape Fear Run bicycle route, and the Block.
Holloman, or Doc, as Lindsey called him, had joined us at my bar to watch a video shoot, and we’d taken a break for lunch. Between his efficient-looking associate, Ox, the media project director, the creative people with lighting and camera equipment, and the extras—teenagers from a local modeling agency with parents in tow—we had a big crowd. Louise—who’d just breezed in fashionably late—added to our number. Only Spud and his poker group were absent because they’d gone shopping, or so they said.
As she professionally schmoozed her way through the crowd, I studied Lindsey’s mother. She was a beautiful woman, in a very well-kept sort of way. I recognized the sexy poof of an injected upper lip because I used to have one just like it, back when Uncle Sam was paying for it. I also recognized the store-boughts. They accented her full, curvy hips very nicely. But Louise had much more: flawless tanning-bed tan, styled short blond hair without an iota of dark roots showing, laser-whitened teeth, California-casual bead-trimmed outfit, and a surgically lifted face that caused the corners of her mouth to upturn just a fraction. She caught me looking and headed my way.
T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 02 - Southern Poison Page 8