The Kill Radius

by Nichole Christoff

  “I talked with Jamie late last night,” my father lied.

  Of course, even in the best of circumstances, my father rarely called me. After all, he had staffers to do that sort of thing for him. But he wasn’t the kind of man who let reflection or unpleasant facts get in his way. So, he plowed on. And somehow, he managed to take a stand on the bombing of the Lady Luck while speaking in perfect little sound bites.

  “My daughter’s a trouper. The man or men who committed this indecent act are cowards. But this nation will remain strong against acts of domestic terror.”

  “Domestic terror, Senator?”

  “Domestic terror is the worst kind.”

  I couldn’t disagree with my father on that point.

  But then he said, “At this moment, a joint task force made up of agents from our Department of Homeland Security, National Security Agency, and others are raiding twelve homegrown terror cells, located in seven states across this great nation of ours—”

  And I bet Mississippi was one of them, though I doubted Eddie Jepson was part of any organized terror cell. The man hadn’t been organized enough to zip his own fly before the police caught him fifteen years ago on the back stairs of the Grand Key Hotel. No, something about his involvement in the Lady Luck bombing was all wrong.

  Something about Monique Wells’s disappearance was even more so. That both had run afoul of Bran—and that Bran was tied to both Ray and Corinne—troubled me even further. And that meant to learn more about Monique and Eddie, it was time I stirred up a little trouble for Bran.

  Chapter 8

  Dawn had come and gone and the Walther house still stood in shadow. The mighty trees that shaded it from the harsh heat of summer also blocked the light on this cloudy winter’s day. And maybe that’s why the windows on the starboard side of the house were ablaze with lamplight.

  I should’ve rolled right into Ray’s driveway. I should’ve marched up the front steps of his house and rung the bell. But after startling Corinne the day before—and catching her allegedly doing home repairs with a hunk ten years her junior—every instinct in the base of my brain warned me to choose another course of action.

  Listening to that warning, I left my rental car under the spreading arms of a Spanish oak and tramped through Ray’s yard. The soil was sandy and the grass was sparse, as it so often is when lawns are allowed to do their natural thing in the Deep South. Still, it cushioned my footfalls as I circled the house. I was glad of that. Especially when I spied a white Toyota Tundra parked in front of Ray’s detached garage.

  The truck, I knew, didn’t belong to Ray. It didn’t belong to Corinne, either. Creeping up to it, I peeped into the cab, and on a hunch, tried the door handle. It gave way, and so did the hatch to the glove box. Inside, I found a tire gauge, packs of salsa from a fast-food joint, a leatherette case holding a set of pretty decent lock picks, and the vehicle’s registration.

  Bran Laurent’s name was listed front and center.

  And so was his address.

  I shoved the document into its compartment, closed the truck quietly, and eased toward the house. Ray had added a fancy deck to the back of it since my last visit. It was a multilevel affair with a fire pit at the far end and a pergola to keep the harsh sun from beating against the French doors that led into the kitchen. More light poured from these doors. And though Corinne’s cheery chintz curtains with hens and chicks scurrying across them were drawn, they weren’t drawn tight.

  Uncovered windows are a security hazard few of my clients ever consider. But just such a window gives a potential housebreaker an unimpeded view of your valuables and more. A burglar really doesn’t like to tangle with people or pets, but if you’ve given him the ability to see you’ve headed off to work and that you’ve confined your Doberman to his crate for the day, he’s going to take that as an invitation to come in and help himself.

  Like a thief, I peered into Corinne’s kitchen, wished I had my glasses to help me zero in on fine details in the distance. But fine details seemed to be few and far between given the view. I saw only the back of a chair, part of a granite countertop, and a cabinet.

  I heard Ray’s voice. It was a warm rumble. I couldn’t make out his words, however. A second voice chimed in, calm and conversational. It carried the tenor of a younger man with just a hint of the South under his tongue.

  Silently, I wrapped a hand around the French door’s handle and gave it a twist. I strolled into the kitchen, found Ray at the sink with a coffee cup in his hand. Bran, in the same chinos and sports coat he’d worn the night before, jumped up from his stool at the breakfast bar.

  “You’d better hit the showers,” I told him. “Otherwise, you’re on your way to radiation poisoning.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Ray demanded. “And what in the Sam Hill are you wearing? You escape from a chain gang or something?”

  Like a runway model, I turned in a slow circle, showing off my ugly jumpsuit. “Don’t you like it? Bran bailed before the docs at Fort Donovan could check him out, scrub him down, and stuff him into one of these. But you weren’t the only one in a hurry to get away from the Lady Luck last night, were you, Bran?”

  A deep dent of irritation settled between Bran’s brows. He might have been about to reply. But Ray beat him to it.

  “You’re talkin’ nonsense, kid. Have some orange juice before you wake up Corinne.”

  Ray grabbed a tumbler from a cabinet. Bottle upon bottle of prescription medicines were lined up on the shelf below. From where I stood, none of them looked like prenatal vitamins.

  All of these medications had to be for Ray.

  Ray crossed to the fridge. But in the corner alongside it, where one length of countertop met another, images flickered across the screen of a small TV. Set to mute, it still flashed footage of the Lady Luck incident. And it broadcast a new story, too. According to the caption scrolling across the bottom of the screen, federal agents had just raided a small farmhouse on the outskirts of Beauville. I looked on while a man, his wife, and his brother were marched, handcuffed and hooded, from their home and loaded into a dark gray van to face domestic terrorism charges. But judging by the grainy images shot from a distance and the imperfection of my vision, neither man resembled Eddie, and the woman sure didn’t have Monique’s figure.

  Bran said, “I’ll call you later, Ray. You take care, Jamie girl.”

  “Now, hold on,” I protested.

  But Bran didn’t do any such thing. In a wink, he shot through the French doors and halfway across the deck. Angry as a hornet, I pursued him.

  On the threshold, Ray snagged my arm.

  He wasn’t gentle about it.

  He said, “I think you’d better tell me what you’re up to.”

  My hands tightened into fists—not that that would do me any good. I wasn’t angry with Ray. Only frustrated with his blindness.

  “Me? What about you? You know about the bombing and you know more than that,” I told him. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

  Ray released me and returned to the refrigerator to pour me that juice. But really, he was stalling. I knew this tactic. After all, Ray had taught me everything I knew about interrogating a suspect. And how to tell if that suspect was lying.

  While he fiddled in the fridge, Ray must’ve been dreaming up a whopper.

  Meanwhile, Bran made his getaway as his truck crunched down the drive. But that was all right. I could corner him later. I knew where he lived. And I knew he’d be back. Ray or Corinne, one or the other, kept drawing him to this little house under the oaks.

  Ray said, “Bran came straight here in the wee hours, said he saw you on the riverboat. I was worried sick for you, kid, but Bran said you and that soldier of yours made it to shore all right.”

  “How would he know?” I grumbled.

  Ray set my juice in front of me on the breakfast bar with a snap. “That boy’s a born observer. So are you, and you know it. But you’ve got more going on.”

  “Like wha
t?” I asked. “Gumption?”

  And without wanting them to, my fingertips dredged up the kinetic memory of clutching that stupid newspaper bearing Ray’s advertisement all those years ago. Confronting Ray on his doorstep that day, I’d held onto that paper so tightly, I’d crimped the print. Because, though I hadn’t understood it at the time, I’d been clutching at straws. I’d wanted to do more with my life. I’d wanted to be more. Thanks to Ray, I had and I was.

  “You and Bran both got gumption,” Ray said. “And you’ve both got smarts. But you’ve got something that boy hasn’t got.”

  “Really? What’s that?”

  “You’ve got heart.”

  Yeah, well, my heart hurt with the suspicion that Bran had screwed Ray over. That he’d been sleeping with Corinne behind Ray’s back. That he’d somehow drawn Eddie Jepson’s ire. That he’d cornered Damon’s date, Monique. And that he was somehow a player in the bombing that had murdered Damon and forty other soldiers and civilians who’d been innocently minding their own business.

  “What was Bran doing on the Lady Luck, Ray?”

  Ray reached beneath the breakfast bar, snagged a bottle of vodka. He poured a snoot full of the stuff into my orange juice, raising the liquid level to the brim. “Working.”

  “With you? This is a case of domestic terrorism. The feds are going to catch up with Bran and demand the name of your client.”

  “Let ’em demand all they want.”

  Ray crossed to the cabinet where he and Corinne kept the glasses. He grabbed a tumbler for himself and filled it with three fingers’ worth of vodka, even though it was barely 9 A.M. He scowled at my untouched glass still sitting on the counter.

  “You’re not gonna make me drink alone, are you, kid?”

  With a sigh, I toasted Ray, just as Eddie Jepson had toasted me.

  The first time I’d had a drink with Ray was the day I got my mitts on proof that nailed a crooked Beauville councilman to the wall. Dixon Boudine had been secretly buying up slums, then publicly pushing rezoning legislation. The scheme had made him a fortune when he sold his properties to developers—and those developers handed him additional kickbacks for changing the law.

  But the plan also left nearly eighty widows, veterans, and other tenants on fixed incomes homeless. And thanks to the paper trail I’d tracked down, Councilman Boudine lost his seat, his fortune, and his credibility. He also spent ten months in prison for larceny.

  To celebrate, Ray had reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. Any private eye worth his salt stashed a bottle of booze in a drawer, Ray had told me. He’d poured a measure into a coffee cup for me—and drinking it had felt like a rite of passage.

  Fifteen years later, that rite felt like it had taken place long ago and far away.

  “How well do you know Bran Laurent?” I asked. “And how well does Corinne know him?”

  If looks could kill, the one Ray sent me would’ve rendered me dead on the spot. His jaw clamped shut and his face flushed a dangerous shade of purple. But I wasn’t afraid of Ray’s temper, so I opened my mouth to press the question—and that’s when Corinne’s voice wafted downstairs.

  “Ray, darling? Is that you?”

  “Go back to sleep,” Ray growled with a familiar mix of gruffness and concern. But his words were edged with anger. “It’s only Jamie.”

  “Jamie?”

  Hearing movement upstairs, I imagined Corinne leveraging her pregnant form from the comfort of her bed and struggling into her bathrobe. Stepping into her slippers would be a challenge since she certainly couldn’t see her feet. And Ray wasn’t any happier about my disturbing her than I was.

  “Well, kid, now you’ve woken Corinne. She’ll be down here in a minute, so start talking. What’s this really about?”

  “Eddie Jepson,” I told him. “He carried that bomb onto the Lady Luck last night. And he muscled in when Bran cornered a soldier’s date named Monique Wells.”

  Ray turned away from me. He dug in the lower cabinets for pots and pans and pancake mix. And while he banged cookware together, Corinne breezed into the kitchen.

  “Jamie,” she teased, her black eyes shining with a smile. “What are you doing out of bed so early after your big date last night?”

  But Corinne’s grin faded as she took in my frizzy hair and horrid coveralls.

  I didn’t want to tell her that murder and a radioactive bomb blast have a way of ruining a romantic evening. Of course, she’d hear about the blast soon enough. But in the meantime, I chose my words carefully.

  “There was a mishap on the boat last night. But don’t worry. Barrett and I are fine. And so is Bran.”

  “Bran?” Corinne turned her questioning face to Ray. “What does Bran have to do with this?”

  “Nothing,” I said, “as far as I can determine.”

  Ray scowled at me.

  Leaving his cooking behind, he tucked a supportive hand under his wife’s arm and steered her into a seat at the table.

  I said, “Corinne, do you remember Eddie Jepson?”

  “Eddie…the name’s familiar. Was he a client?”

  “Maybe Bran’s mentioned him.”

  “No, I don’t think—”

  “What about Monique Wells? Does Bran know her?”

  “How would I—”

  “Kid,” Ray snapped. “I suggest you quit while you’re ahead.”

  But that was the problem.

  When it came to Ray, Bran, and Eddie, I couldn’t shake the sense that I was far behind.

  “Well, I know one thing,” Corinne said, lumbering to her feet with a laugh. “You can’t run around town looking like that, Jamie. The good folks of Beauville will mistake you for an escapee from the women’s penitentiary. Come upstairs. We’ll find you something to wear.”

  That would be easier said than done. Compared to Corinne, I looked like I’d stumbled into the land of Lilliput. But I welcomed the opportunity to talk to her one-on-one, so I followed her from the kitchen and felt Ray’s hot glare on my back.

  At the top of the stairs, I got my first glimpse of the room Corinne and Ray had made over to welcome their little one. Pale green walls and a white crib decked with happy yellow bedding stood ready for the newcomer. In a rocking chair, a plush stuffed frog prince, complete with a gold lamé crown as big as a Boston terrier, would bid the baby welcome. So many hopes and dreams waited in that room, and so much love, and that made me sad somehow, though whether for Ray and Corinne or for myself, I didn’t know. Maybe I didn’t want to know.

  Across the way, the grown-ups’ bedroom was more my speed—and a study in sophistication with simple lines and saturated shades of gray, plum, and mauve. In the design, I saw Corinne’s taste. And a more personal stamp as well. The bookshelf built beneath the window seat held Corinne’s well-thumbed novels by the likes of Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters. Before she came along, Ray’s idea of style leaned toward broken-down recliners and unobstructed views of the TV.

  “My brush and flatiron are over there. Help yourself to anything you need,” Corinne said, waving me toward her elegant dressing table. She disappeared into the closet built under the eaves.

  I perched on the vanity’s bench and stuck out my tongue at the reflection in Corinne’s silver-framed mirror. A collection of frosted glass boxes graced the tabletop. One cradled Corinne’s cellphone in a kind of crystal docking station. In another, I found elastic bands and bobby pins. I set to work putting my frizzy, dark hair in order as Corinne called to me from the closet.

  “This Eddie Jepson,” she said. “Is he involved in a case Ray’s handling now?”

  “I don’t know.” I fought my hair into a ponytail, gave it a twist, and pinned the resulting knot to my head in a soft, casual updo that wouldn’t look awful when my locks decided to rebel. “I saw him last night, on the Lady Luck, with Bran. I take it you’re not handling much of the firm’s paperwork these days?”

  “No.” Corinne emerged, carrying a stack
of black knits. “Ray asked me to stop working when we found out about the baby. He didn’t want anything to stress me.”

  That was so like Ray. He’d want to protect his wife at all costs. Private investigations can certainly be stressful. An office manager often has to bear the brunt of hostile targets, crabby clients, and bouncing checks. Which, considering I’d chased my own office manager out of her bed on a Saturday morning, made me think Laura could be overdue for a raise…

  “What about Monique Wells?” Corinne asked. She handed me a pair of yoga pants that had no chance of accommodating my left foot, let alone the rest of me. “Is she a client?”

  “Monique Wells was onboard the Lady Luck, too,” I said. “Bran was pressing her pretty hard about something. And then she disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  Corinne’s slender hand flew to her throat, and I kicked myself for scaring her.

  “She and Eddie Jepson probably found another way off the boat,” I said.

  “But you think there’s a link. Between this Monique, Eddie Jepson, and something bad.”

  And between them and Bran.

  But I didn’t say so.

  Instead, I said, “You’ll hear more on the news, but people were injured on the Lady Luck. Some even died. Monique’s date, a young soldier Barrett respected, got killed, and it looks like Eddie is to blame. So I’d love to get a line on either one of them at this point.”

  “And Bran?” she asked. “What’s his role in this?”

  Carefully, I folded the yoga pants, handed them back to her.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I’d like to find out.”

  Corinne dumped the rest of the clothes into my lap.

  “Would you excuse me a minute? The baby has no regard for my bladder these days.”

  “Of course,” I said, fumbling with all that fabric.

  But Corinne didn’t hear me. She was already in the hall and halfway to the bathroom—and probably dialing Bran. Because as I set the pile of clothes on the tabletop of her pretty vanity, I couldn’t help but notice she’d swiped her cellphone from its charging cradle.