by Tracy Clark
“I’m worried about that black car you saw,” Barb said. “I wish I’d seen it.”
“You would have, if you hadn’t fallen asleep in the front seat.”
She stuck her tongue out at me. “You travel eight thousand miles and see how long you stay awake.”
“I got a partial plate,” I said, eyeing Ben. “And a quick look at a decal.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “Uh-oh.”
“I could ask Marta,” I said.
He snorted. “No, you can’t. Marta’s pissed at you. You know how I know? Because she called me to tell me just how pissed she was at you.”
“Are you going to run it?”
He grimaced, sat up. “Suspicious vehicle hanging around an active crime scene?” He rose from the couch, groaning with the effort. “I think I can spin that.”
I relayed the numbers from the plate, then watched as he stepped into my dining room to make his call, closing the sliding doors behind him. I stood, paced nervously, waiting. Someone in that car had a vested interest in what I was doing, in what the police were doing. They took my picture. Why? My money was on Stephen Ayers. He was making himself scarce, avoiding me, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested in seeing that his brother’s case stayed closed. Maybe Felton had been in the car, gathering evidence to sue me for something. Was there something on that boat Stephen was willing to kill his brother for? And where did Jung fit in? What had he done? Where the hell was he?
“It’s good to see you again, Sister Barbara,” Pouch said, grinning widely, filling the silence. “And from halfway around the world, too, isn’t that amazing? What brings you back?”
I could have sworn I saw Barb draw herself in, which was not like her at all. Normally, she was as open as they come. She said what she thought; she didn’t mince words or beat around the bush. Her answer to every experience and every need was always yes. She chuckled, put a gentle hand on Pouch’s shoulder. “Anyone want something from the kitchen? I’m headed that way.”
Everyone declined. I watched Barb go. She was walking too fast. Not so much heading to the kitchen as fleeing from the living room.
Whip chimed in. “Maybe you should go after Spada. He seems to be the guy with all the juice.”
“He’s clean, at least on paper,” I said. “Maybe he has no idea Darby’s been squatting on his boat. Darby could be running some kind of side game. He is a con man, after all.”
“Or maybe he’s just an innocent boat sitter, like the guy said. Like a house sitter, only on water?” Pouch chimed in. “I was thinking of doing something like that, but, well, I got kind of a record.”
Whip balked. “Kind of? You were in the joint, same as me. You have a bona fide, black-and-white record, with an ugly mug shot to prove it.”
“Point is,” Pouch said, “they don’t usually give gigs like that to guys like me . . . or him. They’re scared we’ll make off with the whole shebang.”
I turned to Pouch and Whip. “Then how’d Darby get so lucky?”
Pouch and Whip shrugged. Neither had an answer. Ben walked back into the room, sliding his phone back into his pocket. Pouch grimaced, whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Can it about the record, bro, not in front of the H-E-A-T.”
“Well?” I asked.
“First things first. Do we have an ETA on that pizza? I’m starving.” He drew his phone out again. “I’m calling them.”
“Nuh-uh,” I said. “Info first, then pizza.”
Ben grinned. “Yep, that’s the partner I remember.”
Barb eased back into the room; I watched her every step. She was empty-handed.
“The car is registered to a company called Fleet Transports, so it could have been anybody inside.”
“Not anybody,” I said. “Somebody connected to Tim Ayers. Somebody worried about what I’m doing. The name could fit with what I saw of the decal in back. It was white with, like, a winged foot.”
Whip suddenly found nonexistent lint on his shirt, which he began to pick at. I watched as he paid it more attention than it needed, then slowly rose and padded into the kitchen. Why was everyone suddenly finding my kitchen the place to be? Like with Barb, I tracked his exit.
“Whip?” I called after him, but he didn’t stop.
“Yeah, back in a minute. Need some water.”
Ben and I exchanged a look. We recognized evasion and knew squirrelly when we saw it. I followed Whip back, Ben on my heels. We caught up to Whip at the fridge, where he stood with a glass of ice water held to his forehead.
“Start talking,” I said.
He looked at me, then Ben, then gulped the water in the glass. “About?”
“I’ve known you since you were twelve,” I said. “The look on your face now is the same one you gave Mrs. Lembeck when she caught you trying to swipe the answers to the algebra test off her desk. What do you know about Fleet?”
He slid Ben a skittish look. “Maybe we can do this in private?”
Ben gave Whip “the face.” The face offenders saw right before the cuffs went on and the back door to the squad car opened up to greet them.
“Ben’s with me,” I said. “We don’t keep secrets.”
Ben faced me. “Oh? Then where are we with the Weber situation?”
I shot him a dangerous look. “Really? We’re doing this now?”
Ben shrugged. “There’s a lot I don’t know, that’s all I’m saying.”
Whip tried to quietly ease between us and escape, but I caught him before he hit the door. “Freeze. Sit.”
Whip plopped down on a kitchen stool, sulked. “Yep, there’s the cop in you. I can’t say I like it. Brings back bad memories.”
Ben and I sat down, flanking him. “What do you know?” I asked again.
Whip paused before speaking. “What I say isn’t for cops. It’s only for you, for your case.” He held Ben’s gaze. “No busting through the door, no anonymous-tip shit.”
I knew Ben couldn’t promise not to be a cop. It wasn’t in him. Yet, to his credit, he sat freakishly still, his face completely blank. Whip was my friend. This was my case. He’d hang back and follow my lead. I also saw the struggle in Whip’s eyes and felt for him. He was obviously torn, but a man was dead. That trumped everything else. Whip would have to decide here, now, who he was: one of us, or a con with one foot still in the game.
“Whip, I need to know,” I said gently.
He drew out a long breath. “All right. Fleet? It’s run by a buddy of mine, and by ‘buddy’ I mean ‘former cellmate.’ Maybe his operation’s not completely on the square . . . maybe it’s a front.”
Ben didn’t move, not so much as a twitch. I, on the other hand, relaxed some, relieved Whip had made the right choice.
“A front for what?” Ben asked.
Whip shook his head. “We’re wandering into snitch territory. Look, I know the place, okay? I know the guy. Maybe I can find out who hired that car. That’s all I’ve got for you.” He read the look on my face, held his hands up to fend it off. “Best I can do, Bean.”
I stood. “Who’s the buddy?”
Whip pressed his lips tight.
“I can find out,” Ben said.
Whip shook his head. “Won’t be from me, and even if you do, he’s not going to talk to anybody with a badge.” He slid me a look. “Or anyone who used to have one.”
“Are you involved with this front?” I needed to know that Whip wasn’t involved. I wasn’t about to lose him to the streets again.
“I’m out of the life, like I said. Now I cook. If you want the name, I can get it. You want it?”
“No,” I said. Just the one word. I screamed it in my head, but it flew out of my mouth quieter, but firm. I was doing it again. Involving my friends in work they maybe weren’t up for. “I’ll get it on my own. You stay away from it.”
Whip smiled. “You wouldn’t get two feet in before they made you, and whether I go or not isn’t up to you.”
The doorbell rang. The pizza. Whip s
tood, gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I got this. Now I’m going back out there and eat some greasy pizza, and if I were you, I’d do the same before Pouch starts in on it. He’s a bottomless pit when he gets going.”
He walked away. Then Ben walked away. I stood for a moment in the kitchen alone. The scream was back, but no one heard it but me.
Chapter 24
It was well after midnight when things finally wound down. I’d been quiet most of the evening, not in a party mood, worried. I walked my guests to the door, knowing I wouldn’t sleep. Whip was going to Fleet Transports to ask his old prison buddy about the black SUV I’d seen at the marina, and it wasn’t sitting well. What was I going to do about it? What could I do? I noticed then that Pouch’s pack hung heavy on one side. “Pouch?”
He turned, startled. “Yeah?”
“Don’t make me frisk you.”
Ben took a step forward, towered over the little man. “Or me.”
Slowly Pouch reached into his pack and pulled out a crystal doorstop that’d been sitting behind my bathroom door. He sheepishly handed it to me. “I’ll get a handle on this eventually.”
Whip grabbed him by the back of the collar and lifted him up off his blue suede shoes. “What’d I tell you before we got here, huh? Cass is family. My family. You steal from her, I break your little legs.” He glanced over at Ben. “He’s got to learn.”
Ben held his hands up, leaving the discipline to Whip.
Whip set Pouch down. “Now say you’re sorry and get out.”
Pouch bowed low with all the regalness of a knight in shining armor. “My sincerest apologies, Cassandra. It will likely never happen again.”
I watched as he strolled out the door.
“‘Likely’?” Whip called after him. “It happens again, and you’re a dead Pouch, how about that?” Whip gave me a conspiratorial wink. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Whip, we need to talk about this,” I said.
“We did. I got it. Don’t worry.”
Then he was gone. I stood at the door and listened as everybody made their way down the stairs and out the front door. I closed the door, locked it.
“He’ll be in touch about what?” Barb asked. “What went on in the kitchen?”
“Nothing. I’m beat. Going to bed.”
I headed down the hall to my bedroom.
“I know you’re hiding something,” Barb said.
I stopped, turned to face her, tired of all the tiptoeing around. “What are you hiding? What is it you’re not telling me? Are you in some kind of trouble? Do you need help?”
Her eyes widened. “No. NO. It’s nothing like that.”
That was a relief, one less worry. “Then what is it?”
She didn’t answer. She just stood there.
I sighed. “Then I’m going to bed. Good night.”
Behind me, I heard the door to the guest room open, then softly close.
Maybe I’d sleep, maybe I wouldn’t.
* * *
Barb wasn’t there when I woke up. She’d taped a note to the guest room door that kept it simple: Have a thing. Back later. We’ll talk. I had no idea what constituted “a thing” to a nun, and the possibilities for a nonconventional one like Barb could be varied and wide. And again with her wanting to talk? Was I really going to have to worry about all of my friends at the same time? I shoved the note in my pocket, and turned on my phone to find a text from Whip waiting for me.
He was planning on taking an early run at Fleet, the text said, and that he’d call me when it was done, but despite what he’d asked for, that he be allowed to go it alone, I showered, dressed, and headed for the West Side, determined to be there.
I found Fleet on West Armitage sitting between a shuttered auto parts store and an empty lot filled with weeds and garbage. Across the street, a block-long warehouse on the verge of ruin looked out onto the cracked sidewalks. I knew the area. A cab company used to operate out of the garage Fleet now called home. There’d be no foot traffic. You’d have to have a death wish to walk these streets alone without a canister of pepper spray and a weapon in your pocket. It’s probably why Fleet was here and Ikea wasn’t. I idled at the corner, well away from Fleet’s front door, and waited for Whip, checking my rearview every few seconds. He wasn’t going to be happy to see me, but I didn’t care.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I answered it.
“Raines, you’ve still got it.” It was Detective Beth Renault, one of the cops I called about Cap’s back room. “Guess what we found? Go on. Guess.”
“Drugs? Bootleg liquor? Designer puppies?”
“Nope. The bastard’s a friggin’ Peeping Tom. He’s been snapping pics of all the comely ladies on the boats, most of them naked, and posting them online, the sleaze. Eldon Reese helped him scope the women out. Reese was even looking to move a young divorcée he knew into the slip next to his when Ayers’s boat moved out. There’s tons of stuff, videos, photos. Cap rolled on Reese in record time, but he couldn’t beat Reese, who rolled on him first. Both of them must have sweat off ten pounds while we had them cuffed in the car.”
“Just women?” Maybe Cap and Reese spied on everyone. Maybe Tim? Maybe Tim confronted them. Maybe they didn’t like it.
“Yep,” Renault said. “The more naked, the better.”
Then nothing to do with Tim. It was disappointing. Cap and Reese were voyeurs, but likely not murderers. I’d have to keeping looking. “How’d you work out probable cause?”
Renault chuckled. “Don’t insult me. How long have I been doing this? Let me tell you, these fancy people are not going to be happy when this shit hits the fan. Stop by Sal’s anytime. I’ll buy you a Coke.”
I smiled. “You got it. Thanks, Renault.”
“No, thank you. Nothing’s better than busting a couple of old pervs.”
I punched END and tossed the phone down. Cap was a Peeping Tom? I had a feeling something was off with him, but hadn’t thought that would be it. I’d hoped whatever he’d been hiding had something to do with Tim. It didn’t surprise me that Eldon Reese was involved. He was a strange man. That’s why he wanted Tim out of his slip so badly. I didn’t feel bad for either of them.
I checked the rearview again, still no Whip. Twenty minutes into my idle, I spotted his gray Hyundai turn the corner and head toward me. I flashed my lights to draw his attention, and then watched as recognition dawned on his face and he glowered through his windshield at me. I rolled my window down when he pulled up alongside.
“What are you doing here? I thought we decided I’d take this.”
“You decided, not me,” I said. “I go in with you, or neither of us goes in. I’ll give you a moment to wrap your head around it.”
“What am I, a child?”
“No, you’re my friend, and I’m going with you.”
He softened. “You look like a cop.”
I gave myself a quick once-over: jeans, T-shirt, Nikes, sunglasses, baseball hat. Work clothes. Whip caught me looking, and pulled a face.
“It’s not your shoes. It’s the eyes, the way you walk, talk, move, like you own the place.”
“Pull over, give me a minute. I’ll leave my car and ride the rest of the way in yours.”
Whip threw up his hands. “Am I talking to myself?”
I rolled my window up and put the car into park. That was my answer. I got out, lost the hat, fluffed my hair, rolled up the bottom of my shirt and tied it into a midriff, then slid the top of my jeans down a bit past my hips. “You have any gum on you?”
Whip stood watching, mouth open. Slowly he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Juicy Fruit and handed it to me. I wadded a couple sticks into my mouth, worked it around, then reached into my back pocket and pulled out my earbuds. “Let me see your phone.” He handed it over, but my buds weren’t compatible. Didn’t matter. Who’d check? I stuffed the phone into my back pocket, then stuffed the end of the earbuds in after it. The business end of the buds I stuffed into my e
ars. “Okay, let’s roll.”
He shook his head, looked a little frightened. “Who are you?”
I slipped my arm in his. “I’m your girlfriend, Brandi. You’re here to see an old pal, ask him a question about a hired car. I could give less than a shit about being here. You promised me breakfast at the White Palace, so I’m going to keep rushing you along. I won’t be listening to your conversation. I’m addicted to music. If anything goes hinky in there, stand behind me.”
Whip yanked his arm away. “Like hell I will. I’m a grown-ass man. I bench-pressed two-fifty in the joint. And you still look too damn smart. Stop looking all tuned in. These are crooks, not CEOs. This is not going to work.”
I smiled, started walking. “It’ll work. By the time we hit the door, I’ll have lost several IQ points. Let’s go.”
Chapter 25
The front door was locked. We had to be buzzed in. The wide, brown face peeking through a tiny peephole in the reinforced door did a quick survey before unlocking it. The man who peered out at us from the doorway was massive. He looked as though he weighed three hundred pounds or more. He stood there, wheezing, ratlike eyes taking a slow and thorough survey, like a black Buddha standing at the temple door, waiting for baskets of tribute.
“I’m a friend of Leon’s,” Whip said, his voice a few octaves lower than his usual tone. “Name’s Charlie Mayo.” He paused for a moment when Buddha’s eyes slid my way. “This here’s my girl, Brandi.” I let out a deep sigh, checked my nails, the very picture of disinterest. I gave the gum a couple of pops.
Buddha stood there for a time, then turned his head ever so slightly and bellowed. “Leon. Door.”
The garage smelled of old rags and even older dust, and there were only two cars parked in the bays, neither of them the SUV I saw at the marina. I kept my cop eyes to myself, to all outward appearances, but I’d already scoped out the garage and everything in it, finding nothing outwardly illegal. I bopped to music that wasn’t playing from Whip’s phone in my pocket.