“No, you’re more like a one-night stand-off that never ends.”
“I need my car back.”
“It’s at the station.”
“I know.”
“So go to the station and pick it up. No harm, no foul.”
Oh, there was harm. There was the hundred and twenty-four dollars a day I was paying for the rental car, and Lieutenant Allen was going to be getting the bill.
“Night—”
“Must you refer to me by my last name?”
“Madison, it was for your own good. You interfered with a crime scene when you went to Thelma Johnson’s house. You’re lucky I put my ass on the line to take that stuff back. Just call a girlfriend and get a ride to the station. You could probably walk it if you wanted. It’s only a couple of miles from your studio.”
“You’re going to pay for this, Lieutenant Allen,” I said with abstract grim determination, and jabbed at the disconnect button.
For my own good, he said. Call a girlfriend, he said. You could probably walk, he said. He might have done a background check but there was so much he didn’t know about me, not the least of which was that I had no one to call in the event of an emergency.
SEVENTEEN
As a small business owner, I had clients. I had contacts. And because I believed in customer service and referrals, I maintained good relations with all of them. When I moved to Texas with the plan to start over, I had startup cash, a loan from the bank, and my business strategy for Mad for Mod. The income from the apartment building kept me afloat during the months where appointments were slim. By now, I had quite a network.
What I didn’t have were people to call spontaneously and ask if they would give me a ride to the police station.
I had friends, but they remained in Philadelphia. We all still rooted for the Phillies but they did it from the home section and I did it from the away, and in Dallas, when you root against the Rangers, you’re not doing yourself any favors in the Making Friends category. I stopped going to games because I tired of the heckling. So I was in need of two things: a person who would give me a ride to the station and a good ballpark frank.
Reluctantly, I looked up the number for the closest cab company and requested a pickup. Tex’s “not that far” translated to three and a half miles on foot and while the feet might be up for it, the knee was definitely not. I hated to admit it, but more likely than not there was a cortisone shot in the very near future.
It was afternoon and it was hot. If the temperature was this unbearable in May it would be insufferable by summer. Quite a city I had chosen to live in.
I refilled Rocky’s water bowl from the sink in the small bathroom and let the cool stream of water run over my wrists and hands. It was refreshing. I pressed cold wet hands against the back of my neck and against my forehead. The straw hat tilted backward then fell to the floor behind me. I turned around to pick it up. It had fallen with the tassel side down, the inside exposed. On a small white label that marked which side was the back it said, Property of Jan Randall.
I picked up the hat and faced the mirror, first smoothing my choppy blonde hair off my face then setting the hat back on my head. I still remembered the day I’d found it, at one of my first estate sales. I had a less practiced eye back then and had tagged way more merchandise than I could ever use. The surviving family had made it easy on me, or so I’d thought. “At this point it would be easier for you to take everything.”
I’d been about to flip through my agenda for the number to the nearest women’s shelter, who would not only be happy with the donation but also would make the pickup, when I got a glimpse into the deceased woman’s closet. The first shelf was lined with pristine hatboxes. The second shelf held a row of Styrofoam heads that showcased an assortment of the wildest wig collection I’d ever seen. Her clothes, hung on kaleidoscope-patterned padded hangers, were treasures: Pierre Cardin, Biba, Mary Quant. The woman had even owned a pair of white Corregés boots.
I accepted the family’s offer to let me have it all and wrote a nice fat check to the women’s shelter to assuage any feelings of guilt. The clothes now hung among the other items I’d accumulated on buying trips but were saved for special occasions. You could learn a lot about a person by the contents of their closet and it almost saddened me to know that Jan Randall had passed away. I would have loved spending time with her. Based on what she wore, I’d bet she was a heck of a woman.
I heard a repeated car horn out front and looked through the front windows. A taxi sat at the curb. “Come on, Rocky, time to undo Lieutenant Tex’s mess.” I met the taxi driver by the curb and told him it would take me another minute or two to lock up.
“Whatever you want, lady. Meter’s running.”
One more thing to add to Tex’s bill. I didn’t expect him to actually pay for this, but the idea of sending him an invoice was mildly satisfying.
“Since you’re already running the meter, my dog can sit in the back. I’ll be out in a second.” I set Rocky inside the back seat and he poked his little black nose through the open window. “Wait here,” I instructed.
I flipped the Open sign to Closed and locked the front door, then pulled the office door shut and locked that, too. Unnecessary precaution but I did it all the same. I flipped off the lights from the back of the store and left, locking the back door behind me. When I returned to the front, the cabbie was bent over, nose to nose with Rocky. It was hard to say which was having more fun.
“Cute pup you got here.”
“Yes, he is, though he’s also a troublemaker.”
“It’s easy to forgive when they’re this cute,” he said and ruffled Rocky’s fur. I got into the cab and Rocky jumped onto my lap. The driver got in also and made a show of resetting the meter.
I glanced at his license mounted on the glass partition behind his headrest. Maxim Smith. But by the sound of his accent, Smith was short for something Russian.
“Take me to the police station off of Loop 12,” I said.
“You’re taking cab to the cops? You’re not bad lady, are you? Turn yourself in?” he joked.
“No, but it’s a long story.” I leaned back against the torn seat. “Loop 12 is going to be murder right now. Can you take the shortcut by White Rock Lake?”
“Fine by me,” he answered.
Rocky hung his head out the window while the passing air created by our speed whipped his fur away from his face.
I’d left the notes on the murder victims on my desk at the studio, buried under swatches of five different shades of yellow, but the questions that I’d been thinking about were still weighing heavily on my mind. Pamela. Sheila. Thelma. What did these women have in common? I stared out the window as we drove around the lake. Sheila Murphy’s body was found somewhere around here. This was where Hudson had picked her up. But still, aside from knowing that she had dated Tex, I knew little else. If only there was a way to learn more about them. But deceased, with no surviving relatives, left me with no direction to turn. Unless...
Like I’d learned with Jan Randall, you can learn a lot about a person by looking in their closets: how they lived, what they spent money on, what was worth keeping out on display and what they kept hidden out of site.
And then my brain exploded and I knew why Tex had taken my truck. He wasn’t covering for me, he had found a way to gain entry into an investigation he wasn’t supposed to be working. He’d had the same thought as me, and by taking my truck back to Thelma Johnson’s house, he had access to what I already had taken from her estate and access back into her house.
By leaving me behind, he was one step ahead. Tex’s motivation may have been rooted in solving a homicide but mine was rooted in a little something I liked to call Not Becoming the Next Victim.
“Here you are,” the cabbie announced. I’d been so lost in my thoughts I hadn
’t realized we’d covered the three and a half miles already. I fished into my wallet for a couple of bills and paid him.
“Can I get a receipt?”
His brow pulled together. “What are you paying me for? It’s already taken care of.”
“By whom? I called the cab company myself.”
“Lady, I was sent out to studio by some guy Allen. He gave me credit card number for to pay.” I was more confused by the content of his message than his improper English.
“But I called for a taxi. Isn’t that you?”
“Another cab showed up when you were inside. I told him to hike. I thought I was supposed to take you home, but you want for to be here, that’s fine by me.”
Tex’s arrangements completely took me by surprise, they didn’t seem his style. I handed the driver a five, a generous tip if I did say so myself, and opened the car door.
“May I have your card?” I asked.
“What for?”
“In case I want to hire you again.”
“I’m out. Sorry,” he said, feeling around the dusty dash and center console.
I pulled Rocky out of the back seat. Together we walked to the front doors of the police precinct and, after more sarcasm than I wanted to acknowledge, I drove away in the dark blue Explorer. To get back at them I let Rocky leave a small present next to a row of squad cars.
I stopped at CVS for a bottle of water and swallowed the maximum dosage of anti-inflammatories. My knee was swollen and straining against the elastic bandage. Instead of driving home like I really, really, really wanted to, I drove to Thelma Johnson’s house. I didn’t know if what Tex had said was true or not. I didn’t know if I had a right to be there or not. But I wouldn’t sleep until I had a chance to walk through her house and look at it with a different perspective.
The neighborhood was quiet, though people would soon be arriving home from work. Rush hour was full-on. Soon, the street would be lined with luxury cars. Most of the houses in this neighborhood were owned by secondary owners. Thelma Johnson must have been one of the last of the original residents.
The house looked vacant. I parked in the driveway and walked Rocky around back, where I found the spare key under the Dracaena tree by the back door. We went inside and I flipped the deadbolt behind me. Locking doors behind me seemed like a good habit to keep up these days.
There wasn’t much left in the kitchen, and I hadn’t touched the living room on my last trip. But that wasn’t where I wanted to go. I walked further down the hallway. The pull-down steps to the attic confirmed my suspicion that Tex had been here earlier. I eased past them to the master bedroom and crossed the room to the closet. What could I learn from Thelma Johnson’s belongings?
A call from Tex interrupted my project.
“Night, I hear you got your car from the lot.”
“Yes, I did, and as much as it pains me to admit it, I suppose I owe you a thank you.”
“I told you I did it for your own good.”
“I don’t really know what you mean by that, but I do appreciate the cab.”
“What cab?”
“The cab, the cab. The taxi,” I said.
“You called a taxi?” he asked.
“You sent a taxi to pick me up from the studio.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You can stop playing dumb. The driver told me. He said you’d made the arrangements to pay the bill.”
“Night, are you at home?”
“No, I’m at Thelma Johnson’s house,” I said.
“What the hell are you doing there?” his voice snapped. “Get out of that house!”
“What? Why? I know you were here today. Are you afraid I’m going to discover something you didn’t?”
“Night, that house is a crime scene. You should not be there, you have no authority to be there. I took your car because it was filled with stuff you took out of that house, and I don’t care how much you like that stuff, it’s evidence in a homicide investigation.”
“I wrote a check for this estate,” I said, but my sentence fizzled as I remembered that the Steve Johnson who took my check wasn’t who he said he was. “My check hasn’t been cashed, has it?”
“No, and it’s not going to be. Now get out of that house before the cop that’s watching the residence calls you in for B&E. Drive to the nearest police station—Highland Park. I’ll meet you there.”
“No, Tex, I’m tired of playing games. I want to go home.”
And then I heard footsteps in the attic above me and realized I wasn’t alone.
EIGHTEEN
I scooped Rocky up in my arms and moved to the hallway. The fold-down attic steps bisected my path to the front door. Silence surrounded me, and I wondered briefly if I’d imagined the sound. Tex is playing with me, I told myself in an attempt to calm down. I eased sideways past the collapsible staircase. As I passed it, I looked up at the black hole of the attic. The tip of a man’s rubber sole hung over the top step, the rest of him lost in the darkness.
Adrenaline propelled me to the front door, despite the pain in my knee. Clumsy footsteps thudded down the wood stairs behind me. I didn’t look back. Rocky whimpered as his tail knocked against the small counter in the kitchen. I pushed against the door and hobbled through the small, enclosed porch. My fingers threw the deadbolt and I yanked the front door open. I stumbled down the three front stairs and ran to the Explorer, fumbling with the keys for the remote.
I slammed my palm on the lock switch once we were inside. Rocky’s leash was caught on the other side but I didn’t risk opening the door. I unclipped it from his collar. My eyes flicked up to the house, back to the ignition, checking to see if anyone was there, if anyone was coming to get me. I jabbed the key at the ignition. On the third try it slipped in. I tore away from the sidewalk, tires squealing. I drove fast—too fast for a truck this size—out of the small neighborhood. Twice the truck swayed dangerously to the side. I had to slow down but I had to get away from that house.
My cell phone flew from the passenger seat to the floor, the screen still a blue glow. I hadn’t hung up when I ran. Tex was probably still on the line, but I couldn’t take my hands off the steering wheel.
“I’m out of the house!” I shouted at the floor. “I’m out of the house!”
His reply was lost in the sound of the vibrating floorboards and the pulsating rush of blood in my ears.
I didn’t drive directly home for fear I was being followed. There was no mistaking the fact that someone had been in Thelma Johnson’s attic and they’d started to come after me. That much I knew. I checked and rechecked the rearview mirror. Something, a blur of a memory I couldn’t focus on, told me he’d stopped his pursuit at the threshold of Thelma’s front door, but I was still scared. He’d had a clear view of my car; if he wanted to follow me, he could. If he didn’t want to follow me tonight, he’d know what to look for tomorrow. And if he knew who I was, he probably knew where to find that car, and therefore, me.
I turned up and down side streets, constantly checking the rear view mirror. Occasionally a car appeared behind me, and I took a series of right and left turns to ensure their presence was coincidental. I turned onto Mockingbird and drove the length of it until I arrived at the Highland Park Police Station.
I pulled into the lot and stared at the army of patrol cars. Shiny, clean. Newer than the cars that were parked in the station north of White Rock Lake, but Highland Park was the richest area in Dallas. The women and men they protected and served were of a different social background than the ones Tex’s team watched over.
I didn’t get out of the car. Just being there, in the well-lit lot, surrounded by cop cars, allowed me to low down for a moment. Rocky thwomped his furry paws onto my lap and he looked up at me, fear visible in his giant brown eyes. I kissed the top of his head
and ran my hand over his fur. He was trembling as much as I was.
I fished the cell phone off the floor. The call had dropped. I called information and asked for the number to the Budget Rent-a-Car. They were closed for the night. Tomorrow morning I would trade the SUV in for something else.
I called Tex back.
“Madison, where are you?” he asked.
“I’m at the police department in Highland Park, like you said. I don’t think I was followed.”
“Good. Stay there. Tell them I’m coming to get you.”
“I’m okay now. I just need a second to calm down. I want to go home.”
“Not in that car, you’re not. I’ll take you home. You can leave that car there.”
“No! You are not placing me under house arrest!” I flipped the phone shut and threw it back to the floor. Immediately it rang, but I ignored it.
I reached across the passenger seat and opened the door, freeing Rocky’s leash. The handle had become frayed from dragging outside of the car, but it was still in one piece. I wound the leash into concentric circles and set it on the floor, then kissed Rocky’s head again and positioned him on the passenger seat. “Time to go home, Rocky.”
I rebuckled my seat belt and started the ignition. As I released the parking break, knuckles wrapped against my window. I jumped, despite the cross-chest seatbelt strap holding me in place.
An officer dressed in an immaculately cleaned and pressed navy blue uniform stood next to the car. His mirrored aviators were both clichéd and unnecessary with the waning sun.
“Ma’am?” he said, to the shut window.
“I’m just leaving, Officer,” I yelled at the glass.
“Turn the car off and come with me,” he said.
“No, thanks, I’m fine.”
“No you’re not. I booted your car.”
Pillow Stalk (A Mad for Mod Mystery) Page 13