The huge red brick house was flanked by massive oaks and a magnolia tree that had to have been a sapling during the Byzantine era. Creamy white blossoms that smelled lemony and sweet were just beginning to open, spicing the soft night air.
Divided into apartments, the gracious house had a stately air of dignity that appealed to her, and when she’d seen the ad offering to lease to suitably qualified tenants, she’d known it was perfect. Only five tenants occupied the house, none with children, pets, or substance abuse problems. That were obvious, anyway. It was quiet and serene and answered her need for peace and an orderly existence that Diva said was sterile and depressing.
Her apartment was on the second floor, with a small terrace that overlooked Overton Park Zoo. At night she laid in bed, listening to lions roar and pretending she was in the African delta. At first she’d thought they must be feeding the lions live meals, for the most piercing cries could be heard. When her landlord, Mr. Lancaster, had told her it was only the peacocks strutting their stuff, she’d felt much better. A vivid imagination could be so disruptive at times.
High ceilings and glossy wood floors gave her apartment a spacious feel. French doors opened onto a terrace that could also be reached by the hallway doors. White concrete planters divided her side of the terrace from her neighbor’s, and verbena and ivy spilled over the sides. On her side of the terrace she’d put a comfortable chair and a small table just large enough to hold a cute little metal frog and a glass of wine or iced tea.
The silence and serenity did a lot toward relaxing her. No incense cloyed the air, no crystal beads and dream catchers dangled from ceilings or in front of windows. The only coverings on her windows were white, sheer draperies that let in welcome breezes when it was cool enough to leave the doors and windows open. When it wasn’t, she had a 220 air conditioner that simulated the Arctic tundra in January. Feast or famine. So far, it hadn’t been hot enough to use it. When it did get hot—as it certainly would, for after all, this was Memphis, Home of Heat and Humidity as well as the Blues and Barbecue—she’d get out her flannel nighties and thick socks and crawl under a blanket to sleep comfortably. The grim alternative was boiling in her own sweat.
But for now, the ceiling fans and tabletop fans kept it pretty comfortable. She flipped on an oscillating fan to circulate cool air in the living area, and then crossed to the kitchen to see if there was anything appealing for supper.
She put pasta on to boil and made pesto sauce, then slathered a slice of French bread with lots of butter. While waiting for the pasta, she poured a small glass of Chablis. A light meal might just make up for the Burrito Supreme she’d had for lunch. Working close to Taco Bell could be deadly to a diet plan.
After finishing off the pasta and pesto, she took the glass of wine out to the terrace, flopped into a wicker chair and propped her feet up on the wide balustrade. A nice breeze blew and the mosquitoes weren’t a problem yet. Street lights gleamed like a string of pinkish diamonds down Poplar Avenue, visible through the tree leaves in the park.
She thought of the jewelry on Bruno Jett’s coffee table. There wasn’t really a plausible reason for it to be there unless it was stolen goods. What other reason made sense? He had to be involved in some kind of jewelry theft, especially with his rap sheet. So why did she keep thinking differently? It was possible he was a jewelry salesman, but not probable. That was just a cover. Just something he’d let her think to keep her from asking more questions. There were only a few reasons for a man to do that, and she didn’t think the reason he’d given her was the right one.
And then there was Yogi and Diva’s unexpected disappearance. If they were innocent, why’d they run? And if they weren’t innocent—but that was unlikely. They may be a lot of things, but they weren’t murderers. Either of them. Yogi had made a career out of avoiding violence except for the occasional dispute with authority figures over environmental issues or animal rights or human rights—and once, a zoning ordinance gone badly. But that was mostly it. It was really odd they’d take off like they had without a good reason, but she couldn’t think of one. Not a logical one, anyway.
She poured a second glass of wine. Music seeped from next door, violins and piano. It must be another romantic night for the Spragues, a newly married couple that were so cute she wanted to puke. Their balcony joined hers, and she heard them far more than she wanted through open doors—throaty moans that made her want to take a cold shower. In between bouts of hot sex—or during—they listened to a lot of New Age stuff, with panpipes and dulcimers and bells. That usually reminded her of her parents, and often left her feeling caught between affection and irritation. There were times she enjoyed the reminders, and times she wished they’d play rap or heavy metal instead, anything but New Age. It wasn’t very reassuring that she was still so conflicted about her parents, but her love and concern for them was never in doubt. Her telephone rang and she grabbed the cordless, hoping it was Yogi and Diva. Tootsie said, “Hi baby,” then launched into a recitation of information he’d ferreted out about Bruno Jett. Grabbing for a pen, she scribbled what she could, stopping short when he finished with, “and is currently in Federal custody in Virginia.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“Baby, this is the only Bruno Jett I found that fits your specs.”
“Damn. There’s got to be a mistake. I mean, I saw magazines at his house with his name on them. Could you check to see if there are two men by that name? Or if Jett made a deal with the Feds?”
“You’ll owe me some sexy lingerie next,” Tootsie said, but didn’t sound too put out. He’d do it if he could. He was really efficient that way. Harley had told him more than once he’d missed his calling, but Tootsie preferred to work on his own terms, and he only kept his job at Memphis Tour Tyme for a steady income he could invest in his real love, computers. It also left him plenty of free time to indulge in his off-duty pastimes as well, dressing up in women’s garments and strutting runways or singing at local clubs. As conservative as Lester Penney could be, he’d never care what Tootsie did on his own time unless it directly affected the company. It was a symbiotic relationship that worked rather well, she thought.
She hung up, confused and oddly perturbed as she took the cordless out to the terrace. Something wasn’t right. All her antennae were quivering with suspicion.
Another bell trilled as she sat down, this one insistent and playing Dixie. Her cell phone. Damn. She should have brought it out, too. Sighing, she went back inside and found it still lying on the counter by her keys. Hope soared. Intuition suggested it was Diva.
Intuition was mistaken.
Bobby Baroni demanded, “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Uh, nice to hear from you, Bobby. I’m drinking wine. It’s okay. I’m over twenty-one.”
“Look, smartass, you know exactly what I mean. Jett. I told you to stay away from him.”
“He called in another complaint?” That was a surprise. A man in Jett’s line of work should hardly be so chummy with cops that he’d keep complaining—oh, of course. All the pieces clicked into place. She must be some kind of idiot. Why hadn’t she figured it out before?
“Dammit, Harley, I warned you about—”
“So, he’s undercover, huh. Why didn’t you tell me? It would have saved me a lot of worry and you a lot of trouble, and you’d have probably saved yourself a few explanations, too.”
Silence answered her. She smiled. She could read Bobby so well at times. It was nice to be right. That probably shocked the shit out of him. Frankly, it did her, too.
“What the hell are you talking about,” Bobby said then, but she knew she had him. It was in his voice.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Bruno Jett’s in Federal custody. That means the new neighbor’s undercover. What I don’t know is how he figures into all this. Why don’t you enlighten me?”
“There are times, Harley Jean, that your imagination works overtime. What’s in that wine y
ou’re drinking, or are you smoking Yogi’s funny cigarettes?”
“You’re so amusing and so transparent, Bobby Baroni. Any time you call me Harley Jean, I know I’ve got you. So come on. Tell me. What’s Jett up to? What’s his real name, anyway?”
“Look, you can screw everything up if you don’t watch your mouth. Even hinting that a man is undercover can get him killed.”
“Bobby, Bobby, you know me better than that. I won’t say anything to anyone. Other than Mister Jett, that is. You should have told me, you know. I would have stayed away from him if you had.”
A derisive snort indicated disbelief on Bobby’s part, but all he said was, “Keep away from Jett and your mouth shut, Harley. I mean it. Or I could always bring you in for questioning and forget you’re here for a while.”
She made a face at the cell phone, but couldn’t help saying in her slowest drawl, “Why Bobby dahlin’, you know I’d nevah let anyone find out you blabbed police business. Bye now.”
Quickly hanging up while he was still shouting something nasty at her, she smiled again. It was really nice the way some things clicked into place on occasion. Now she had to figure out just why Jett had moved next door to her parents, and if he was somehow involved in Mrs. Trumble’s murder. Was there some sort of connection? If so, what? He must be investigating the jewelry thefts, or he wouldn’t have had that big pile of stones on his table, but how did that mix with Mrs. Trumble? Maybe they weren’t connected. It could be two different cases. Possibly. Or not. And how were Yogi and Diva involved?
Oh, if only Diva were here. Sometimes she had an uncanny knack for putting things together, no matter how she claimed it happened. Too bad Rama and Ovid didn’t moonlight.
Within five minutes she’d poured out her second glass of wine, grabbed her backpack, and was straddling her bike. Time for a little visit with Bruno Jett, or whatever his name was. This should be good.
Sometimes, luck was really with her. Tooling down Highland Avenue on the way to Jett’s house she happened to pass a very familiar silver Jag parked in front of Newby’s. How absolutely fortuitous. There were times it was good to be alive.
She parked behind the bar next to a Dumpster overflowing with cardboard boxes, taking a spark plug with her to ensure the bike would still be there when she returned. It was pretty well lit back here where employees usually parked, so she wasn’t too worried, but still, some people had a rough time resisting temptation.
It was darker inside than it was in the back alley, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. It had the usual crowd of college kids, and not many empty tables. On one side, an English style red telephone box sat against the wall under a moose head. The moose looked rather glum. The long bar was backed with the usual mirrors and rows of liquor bottles. She nudged close and ordered a beer, looking casually around the packed room until she found him.
Bruno Jett sat alone in front of the low windows, watching the traffic and nursing a beer. If he’d seen her, he gave no indication of it. Was he waiting on someone? Was he on the job or off the clock? It was hard to tell with undercover guys. She’d heard Bobby say on more than one occasion that some of them were pretty crazy. On the edge a lot, getting so far into their roles as one of the bad guys that it was hard to separate the two. She figured this cop had it down pat about being a bad guy. It was the good guy part that made her hesitate.
Still . . . .
Grabbing her beer, she shouldered her backpack to saunter over to the booth.
“Well, well, what a nice surprise,” she said, and ignored Jett’s uninviting stare as she added, “Mind if I sit down? Thanks.”
“I’m expecting company,” he said shortly, but she smiled.
“Of course you are.” She slid into the seat and tossed her backpack to the floor under the window, leaning over the table a little to say, “So, Bruno or whatever your name is, whazzup?”
“Obviously, not you. That’s an old catch-phrase.” His eyes narrowed at her.
“Really?” Annoyed, she slid her beer onto the table and some of it sloshed onto her hand. “Since you’re so up on trends why don’t you tell me what’s new in jewelry these days? Rings? Necklaces? Do I place an order, or just wait to see what you drag in—Officer?”
It was sort of like throwing out a fishing line to see what bit, and he bit quick and hard.
Before she could sit back to watch his reaction, he reacted.
Jeez, she didn’t know any guy could move that fast, but he was up and out of his seat in a heartbeat, his hand clamping down on her right wrist and pulling her up with him, her arm bent behind her back at an odd angle as he escorted her across the crowded bar toward the restrooms at the rear. There was a narrow opening between the end of the bar and the wall, ending in two doors, one for the men, and one for the women, marked with those cutesy little stick figures.
It happened so fast she couldn’t form a proper protest, only made some kind of squeaking sound like a baby chick. Witnesses . . . why weren’t people paying attention?
Shoving open the door to the Ladies room, Jett pushed her inside and went with her, the door slamming shut behind them. The lock clicked ominously. Only large enough for one stall, a sink, and a metal trash receptacle, she was forced into such close proximity she could feel the heat of anger coming off him.
“Management probably won’t appreciate you terrorizing a paying customer in their bathroom,” she pointed out for lack of anything better to say.
“I don’t,” he said softly, “give a damn. Are you following me?”
“You sure do think a lot of yourself.” He loomed over her like Bigfoot, too big, too angry, too . . . male. Waves of testosterone hit her, and she did her best to hold her ground. It was more difficult than she’d anticipated.
Pushing her up against the wall between the vending machines dispensing condoms and fake designer perfumes, he held her there for a moment, staring at her with those ice-blue eyes that made her nervous. Her stomach plummeted to her toes and she shivered. None of which made him back off.
“Just why the hell did you call me ‘officer?’”
Might as well go for broke. “Aren’t you? I heard that Bruno Jett’s in Federal custody. Yet here you are, plain as day. So—you’re a cop.”
The heels of his hands dug harder into her shoulders. “I don’t like snoops. Know what happens to snoops? Curious little girls who stick their noses where they don’t belong? It’s not a happy ending. Tell me who’s been giving you information, and why you’re so damned curious about me.”
“No one has to give me information. I know how to get it on my own.” At his look of disbelief, she said, “What? You don’t think I’m smart enough? I can be quite resourceful, Mister Jett, or whoever you are, believe me.”
“Yeah, I can see you think you are.” He gave her a narrow look, easing back some on her shoulders. “If you know that Bruno Jett’s in custody, you’ve got an inside source. Who is it?”
When she didn’t answer, he said ominously, “I’m sure I can think of a few charges that’ll get you some jail time while you try to remember.”
She said something that sounded like “Eek!” then clamped her lips tightly together. She wouldn’t rat out Tootsie. She never ratted out friends.
His eyes narrowed even more, and a muscle leaped in his clenched jaw. He looked mad. Really mad. Harley tried to blend into the wall, but the cold white tiles stayed firm. Her head bent to one side a little because of the vending machine that dispensed fake Giorgio, Beautiful, and White Diamonds perfume, and she tried to ignore the condom machine that advertised Ribbed Lambskins for Added Pleasure on her other side.
“You’re irritating me, Miss Davidson,” he said again, softly this time. It was eerie how he could sound like a cobra. She closed her eyes when he put his hand up to her throat, his fingers closing gently on it, his thumb pushing her chin up so that she had to face him. “Open your eyes. Tell me what I want to know and you can go.”
She opened her eyes, bu
t kept her lips firmly together. He was a cop. He couldn’t really hurt her. Then again, Bobby hadn’t actually affirmed that Jett was an undercover cop. What if she was wrong? The thud of her heart sounded suddenly too loud, thundering in her ears, so that she could only watch his lips move without hearing a word he said, lost in the loud buzz in her head. She understood he was threatening her. Wild threats. An occasional word slipped past the high-pitched whine in her ears: “. . . incarcerate . . . obstruction . . . prison . . . .” She hoped Tootsie appreciated her stab at courage and loyalty. It was waning fast.
Then, remarkably, he released her and stepped back, though the space between them was still close enough she felt his breath on her face. The small confines of the Ladies room felt like a sauna. The mirror was probably fogged, and she wondered if he could see his own reflection in it anyway. She sucked in a deep breath.
“You’re doing a sting operation, aren’t you? I won’t tell anyone. I can be trusted. I’m bonded.”
He leaned a hand on the door, looking down at her. “And that’s supposed to impress me?”
“I was hoping.”
He was quiet for a moment. Maybe he was thinking about it.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said, and she straightened with hopeful anticipation. He leaned close, his hand catching her chin between his thumb and finger. “Keep your mouth shut. Or else.”
Not exactly what she had in mind.
“How can a girl refuse an offer like that?” she cooed, batting her eyes at him and resisting the urge to bite. “But I’ve got a better deal. We can help each other. Think of it this way. We both have something to gain, so why not turn this little inconvenience to both our benefit? I want to keep Yogi out of jail, and you want to catch some bad guys. If it works out, we both get what we want. Deal?”
Hound Dog Blues Page 8