The last thing I saw before I blacked out was the trunk of a large pine veering up in front of us. There was a screech and a crash in slow motion and everything went black. For an instant I woke up, my head resting on the air bag. I don’t think I moved, but through the haze, I thought the barrel of a paramilitary-style rifle swung by the fractured window.
But then I could have been dreaming—or dead.
CHAPTER
SIX
WHEN I WOKE UP I WAS NAUSEOUS AND LYING IN wet grass behind the car. Two beautiful brown eyes were looking into my face. I squinted and Tony Vargas came into view.
“Don’t move,” he said. “EMTs are on their way.” He was kneeling next to me.
“Someone shot at us,” I said, not thinking about how out of it I sounded. Blood was running down the right side of my face.
“About twenty rounds,” Tony said. “High magazine clip. The right side of the car is like Swiss cheese.”
“Where’s Rodney?”
Tony pointed toward something I couldn’t see. “Dead. Two bullets to the head.”
That jolted me awake. I lifted myself up on my elbows.
“Take it easy,” Tony said. “You’re cut up pretty bad on the right side of your face. I don’t think you’ve been hit. Maybe a concussion.”
I looked to my left. A woman was standing next to a man sprawled in the overgrown grass and dead weeds. I could only see the soles of Rodney’s shoes.
“Abby,” Tony called out. “Don’t make yourself sick.”
“Oh, give me a break. I’ve seen worse,” Abby said. “The wounds are pretty clean.”
I must have looked incredulous because Tony said, “Abby’s my sister. She works with me. Rodney thought he was getting two for the price of one. I was paying her on the Q-T to keep an eye on him. She heard the shots and the crash.”
“Two private dicks on a prick,” I said and immediately regretted it.
“Yeah, and one of them cooks.” Tony laughed and then turned solemn. “No love lost on Jessup. About a million people wanted him dead. I guess our jobs are over now. Glad I got paid a week in advance.” He rose up and he looked like Gargantua hovering over me. “I feel sorry for his wife and kids, though. They’re going to take it hard.”
Rodney’s wife, Carol Kingman Jessup, was the icy blonde I met in New Hampshire, along with Janice Carpenter, Rodney’s PR rep. I remembered Carol as being very pretty and very reserved. She was a master at “if-looks-could-kill.”
Sirens blared down the road and soon a few hunky EMTs were bending over me, asking me where it hurt. I was tempted to tell one in particular that my crotch throbbed, so I must not have been hurt too badly. One took my blood pressure, one studied the wounds on my face, another amused himself by examining my lower legs and thighs for possible fractures.
“You’re going to the hospital to get cleaned up,” Tony said. “Then every law enforcement officer in the county is going to question you. Probably the FBI, too. Depends on who gets involved. I’d prefer it if all this stayed local and the Feds stayed away.”
“And what about you?” I asked. “Are you beyond the veil of suspicion?”
Tony grinned. “Rodney paid my salary. Why would I want to kill him? Besides, I’m an ex-cop.”
“They’re the worst,” I said. “Remind me to tell you my horror stories about cops.”
A couple of the EMTs brought over a stretcher.
“No thanks, guys,” I said. “I can walk on my own power.” The hot one looked at me askance, but I insisted I was all right. “I’ll sign the waiver.”
I got to my feet and my head swam a little. My legs seemed a bit unsteady, but I made it to the ambulance. I took a seat on the padded cushion inside and the looker crawled in next to me.
“Have fun,” Tony said, as he closed the doors. “See you later.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Seeing you, that is.”
He waved at me as the vehicle sped off down the road, sirens blaring.
Tony was right.
Every Tom, Dick, and Harry cop in western Virginia talked to me. But first, a trip to the hospital, a short drive away, was in order. The visit was perfunctory—a pretty nurse asking me if I could see and hear, or if I was dizzy. I guess she asked the questions because I kept holding on to my head. The magnifying glass came out to see if pieces of glass were embedded in my skin. She took a few slivers out with tweezers. After a few swabs of peroxide, antibiotic cream, and a bandage session, I was out the door, but an hour and a half had slipped by.
A couple of cops stood by their shiny patrol car, waiting to hustle me to the police station. They both had name badges on, but I had no intention of wedding myself to Virginia police so I made up some suitable monikers.
Billie Bob, with the superior paunch that hung over his bulging belted waistline, shuffled me down a miserable hall. The lovely fluorescent lighting did nothing to accent my skin tone or my swathed face. I looked like the mummy in half drag.
Billie led me to an interrogation room that resembled a holding cell. A green metal door with a combination lock and chicken-wired window blocked the way to my personal Shangrila. The room was furnished with the requisite round vinyl table and black plastic chairs. Surprise! Two other cops waited inside. I hated to reinforce the “good ole boy” stereotype, but all the cops in the room looked as if they had spent a good deal of their time in fast-food restaurants scarfing down greasy burgers and fries. Billie Bob pointed to the one empty chair and I slid into it. I was about as comfortable as a cat on a diving board. They stared. They were checking me out, as wary of me as I was of them. I wondered what they would think of Desdemona. They viewed me as an oddity, a distraction, a snotty New Yorker who stuck his nose in a shit-pile and got more than brown nostrils, to stretch a metaphor. My inquisitors seemed mostly benign, but they weren’t waving their pom-poms at a Pride Parade either.
Billie chewed on his pencil and eyed me uneasily. A lazy smile spread across his face. He bit into the yellow wood one last time and withdrew it from his mouth with a slurp. The first question was coming. God, cops made me nervous. I held up my hand and Billie stopped before he could get out a word, his mouth half opened.
“Can I smoke?” I asked. There was no ashtray on the table. Billie Bob nodded at Jimmie Ray and the second cop got on the phone and called someone in the building. To be fair, the cop that arrived with the glass ashtray looked like he was about eighteen and a member of the high school track team. I gave him the once-over. He bolted from the room.
Billie Bob was about to speak again when I held up my hand a second time. “Can I bum a cigarette?”
“Good Christ,” Billie said. “You want me to smoke it for you, too?”
Hardy har har.
I rolled my eyes and relaxed in my chair. Jimmie Ray obliged by pulling a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket.
“Light, too?”
Billie sighed as Jimmie lit my fag.
“Okay, can we get started now?” Billie asked. “Are you all comfy?” He slurred the question as if mimicking a Southern drawl. Maybe the hick had worn off these guys. I decided not to push my luck.
“First off, why were you driving Rodney Jessup’s car?” Billie asked. He rested his pencil, poised to write on a white pad of paper.
I took a drag, inhaled deeply, and blew the smoke toward the corner. “We were going to breakfast.”
Billie scowled. “Can I get a little more than that? You New Yorkers do know how to talk don’t you?”
“Guess you’ve seen my DL,” I said.
“We know a hell of a lot more about you than you think!” Jimmie Ray chimed in.
I had no intention of telling them about the “something” that Rodney had discovered near Lynchburg. As far as I was concerned, everything that went down in this room was going to be strictly Rodney’s confidential business. He was my employer, after all, and I had two hundred and fifty grand to prove it.
“We were going to breakfast and then back to the h
ouse to discuss his personal protection. Ask Tony Vargas.”
Billie Bob clucked. “Think you did a good job?” Jimmie Ray chuckled.
I was tempted to say, “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think,” but I kept my mouth shut.
The door opened and the track star entered with a “suit.” The track star bolted again, and the suit leaned against the wall. He was slickly dressed in black tailored clothes and a gold tie. He was the brick shithouse type—with a broad chest and thick legs. He opened his jacket and sported his shield.
“Waters,” he said calmly. “FBI. Just here to observe.”
Billie Bob, Jimmie Ray, and the third cop, Cyrus, gave the suit a look and then turned their attention to me.
Cyrus, another large cop with squinty eyes, spoke up for the first time. “How come two fags are working for Rodney Jessup?”
The question caught me off guard because I wasn’t sure of Tony’s reputation in town. Coming out is nobody’s business but their own, unless they wield power over a defenseless individual, or they make laws that harm others of like persuasion. I resisted the temptation to punch Cyrus’s face.
Waters pushed himself away from the wall. “Anthony Vargas is a friend of mine. He’s a good man and a fine investigator.”
I was thankful for Waters’s endorsement of Tony, but I could feel the hate spread around the room like a plague.
“Whatever,” Cyrus said and then clammed up.
“All right,” Billie said. “Just tell us what happened.”
I relayed the story—as much of it as I could without throwing myself or Tony into jeopardy—how Rodney hired me, my trip to the house, and my short time with him and Tony.
Billie Bob seemed satisfied, but I never quite got over the feeling in the room that I might be a suspect in Rodney’s killing. I was certain they were trying to peg me as the accomplice to the hit man.
Waters walked behind my chair. “You know who Cody Harper is, don’t you?” He seemed proud of the question from the tone of his voice.
“Think so,” Billie Bob said. He moved his notepad and lifted a file the paper had been hiding. His eyes narrowed in that “I’ve got you by the balls” way. Billie flipped through a couple of pages, nodding his head before he spoke. “Drug time, fleeing the scene—later dropped—small-time hustler, suspected connection to a cop’s suicide, likes to dress up.” He threw the file on the table. “All-round nice guy. Runs with a good crowd.”
“That’s ancient history,” I said. “And the cop killed himself.”
“He found the Combat Zone Killer,” Waters said.
Looks of approbation around the table were underwhelming.
“He was dead,” Jimmie Ray said.
“Yes,” Waters countered, “but he found him, which was more than New England law enforcement could do.” The suit stepped back to his place near the wall.
A face appeared through the chicken-wire window. I did a double take at first, wondering if my eyes were playing tricks on me. The face was there for only a few seconds and then it was gone. Anthony Vargas. I was sure of it.
Waters nodded his head at me, and then the questions resumed.
My headache continued for most of the day. I saw local, state, and federal police. My cop quota for life had been used up. By the end of my interrogation everyone seemed satisfied that I hadn’t killed Rodney Jessup. The onus was now off me and on some unknown suspect. The door finally opened and Cyrus led me down the hall, past the front desk, and to a waiting patrol car in the lot. The surrounding mountains looked like dark lumps in the night. It was chilly outside after 8:30. He smacked on the heater and we took off.
Cyrus had a smaller and less colorful vocabulary than a parrot.
I asked him where we were going.
He only grunted and spit out, “Jessup’s.”
The gate was open when we arrived at Rodney’s. No need for extra security now. The cop stopped under the portico and the residence door opened. Tony stood there, wearing jeans and a black wifebeater. He was holding a Bud. I was sorely tempted to ask him for a beer when I got out of the car, but sobriety extended its siren call as it had so effectively done in the past few years, especially when the chips were down. Cyrus and I dispensed with social pleasantries. The patrol car sped off and Tony and I stood alone at the door.
“Have a rough day at the office, dear?” he asked.
I wanted to smack him, but he was too cute and sexy in the tight jeans and undershirt. Tufts of black hair curled up from under the neckline. As I got closer I noticed he was wearing a linked gold chain, pretty standard for ex-cops.
“Witty,” I said, “but you don’t know who you’re playing with.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist. I’ve been watching too many I Love Lucy reruns.”
Lucy. That was a good sign. If he was a Lucille Ball fan, I had him in bed—as good as in the bag.
“Where’s Abby?” I asked.
“I gave her the night off. She’s been busting her ass for Jessup. All he gave her were orders and a bad case of nerves. Never a compliment.”
I flopped down in one of the overstuffed chairs, exhausted from my day. Tony took a seat in a lounger opposite me.
“So, why do we get the house for the night?” I asked.
“Courtesy of Carol. She wants me to stay until she can get here with the kids.”
“How long will that be?”
“Tomorrow. They were on a cruise, but they should be in by late afternoon.”
“Well, how will we amuse ourselves this evening?”
“Maybe you can tell me why you hate cops.” He sipped his beer. “By the way, I do know quite a bit about you. You don’t drink. You smoke more than you should. You used to hustle in New York. Did drugs. Sold some coke to make money. Sounds like a hard life.”
“That’s the abbreviated version.”
“Talk,” he said.
He crossed his legs and leaned back in the lounge chair. I thought the buttons on my jeans were going to burst open. He put the beer on a side table and folded his arms over his chest. His biceps bulged along with other areas of his body. Sitting in my chair and watching Tony was like being in an old James Bond movie. I was Dr. No, Goldfinger, Largo, or Blofeld admiring my captured spy. His good looks were nearly swallowed by the darkness beyond the huge picture window, but I could see every detail of his body clearly. I could feel his beating heart pounding against mine.
“You give orders, too,” I said. “There’s only room for one top in this house.”
Tony arched an eyebrow and shot me a casual smile. “You move fast don’t you, Mr. Harper.”
“Only if I know there might be a mutual understanding.”
“Why do you hate cops?”
I arched an eyebrow. “Speaking of . . . Who is the fed dick, ‘Waters,’ and what’s he to you?”
Tony fingered the beer can and looked thoughtfully in my direction. “A friend—nothing more. I’ve known him for a few years. He almost got me into Quantico, but I changed my mind.”
I nodded. “Sounds innocent enough.”
“He’s straight. Got a wife and three kids.”
“Am I imagining things, or were you at the police station?”
“Just making sure you were okay. I sent Waters there to help keep the peace. Never know what can happen around here.”
“So you sent him around to keep the cops from hammering me?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“That’s the reason I hate cops.” Tony listened for the better part of two hours while I filled him in on my dreary past, including my distaste for the former Boston police detective Chris Spinetti. I watched him the whole time, judging his reactions, except when I stepped out in the backyard to smoke a couple of cigarettes. He was engrossed by my story, and although he had another beer, he never acted like he was bored or wanted to drift off to sleep. He appeared to be genuinely interested in my tale of woe, and, frankly, quite impressed that I had overcome it.
“Now, it’s your turn,” I said.
Tony looked at his watch. “Much too late. I need to get to bed.”
“Where are you sleeping?”
“In a guest bedroom. You know where yours is.”
He might as well have thrown cold water in my face.
I yawned and said, “I guess you’re right.”
He got off the lounge and walked toward me. “Let me look at your face.”
The right side was covered in bandages, but the bleeding had stopped long ago. I had a purple robin’s-egg-sized bump on my forehead that hurt more than the cuts. “The friendly local doctors and nurses say I’m going to be fine. They expect all my organs to make a full recovery.”
“I’m sure,” Tony said. He gently touched the side of my face and then backed away. “Good night, Cody.”
“Good night.” I wasn’t about to let him get away so easily. “Two questions before you turn in.”
“Shoot.”
“Rodney mentioned that he wanted us to go someplace today. He didn’t say what the destination was, just that it was near Lynchburg. Any idea what that was about?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, second question. Are you gay?”
His lips parted in a sexy smile. “I never mix pleasure with business.” He turned and walked toward his bedroom.
I, on the other hand, had never had any prohibition about mixing business and pleasure. I hardly knew what the man was talking about. However, I knew that it might take me a while to fall asleep, and, knowing that, I might have to take matters in hand.
I wouldn’t try the Jessup trick of sneaking into someone’s bedroom. Even I had standards.
I drifted out of bed about eight thirty and took a leisurely hot shower and changed the bandages on my face. When I opened my door, I heard voices in the dining room. Abby and Tony were sitting at the long table enjoying Danishes and coffee.
Abby waved and pointed to one of the six empty chairs. I took a seat next to Tony.
An Absent God Page 6