You Can Run

by David Banner

  “Police,” she said, knocking on the door a few minutes later. A few seconds went by before she heard footsteps approaching the doorway. She stepped back, watching his shadow cross through the peephole. The handle turned quickly.

  “Detective.” He opened the door.

  He stood shirtless in the doorway, his dark red pants unbuttoned but still zipped. She caught him, it seemed, in one of those private moments. He was changing, or perhaps he’d decided to hang around his home without the restraint of clothing. Her eyes scanned his body. He was younger than her, but only by a couple of years. His tanned skin and toned chest were nearly perfect in proportion to his angular and good-looking face. That was beside the point, though. What mattered now was that he’d lied to her.

  “Can I come in?” she asked, her eyes locking onto his.

  “Sure,” he replied as she brushed past him. “One minute. You caught me as I was about to shower. Let me turn the water off.”

  “Sure.”

  Taylor made his way into the bedroom before emerging a few minutes later, this time having buttoned his pants and put on a plain white T-shirt. He walked to the kitchen and turned on the coffee pot. Soon, the sound of dripping water and the smell of fresh hot coffee permeated the air. It was a welcome change from the smell of stale marijuana and whiskey.

  “What can I help you with?” he asked, plopping himself down on the couch beside her.

  “Your article.” She dropped a printout on the space between them. “I read it.”

  “You like it?” He gave a wicked smile.

  “Informative,” she said. “I was just wondering, though. Do you know the punishment for lying to a police officer during an active murder investigation?”

  “I wasn’t lying,” he lied.

  “Its obstruction of justice. Unless, of course, I find that you had even more to do with the crime than you said.”

  “More to do with the crime?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Clarke. You’ve obviously lied to me. How do I know you didn’t enter the crime scene before officers arrived? You would be an accessory to murder. Wouldn’t that be a story . . .”

  “Hey,” he snapped. “What are you getting at? I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Then why lie to me?”

  “I . . . maybe I wasn’t lying. Maybe I just didn’t remember until after you’d gone.”

  “Bullshit.” Virginia stood and headed for the door. “You’re going to make this so hard on yourself.”

  “Wait,” he called out. “Stay. I’ll . . . I’ll talk. I have coffee.”

  A couple of silent minutes passed before Taylor emerged back from the kitchen and handed the detective a fresh cup of piping hot coffee. The dark and intoxicating scent wafted up, playing her senses like a zither. She hadn’t tasted it yet, but she could already tell it was quality stuff. The kind of coffee her department would never approve of. The kind of coffee she would have to pay eight dollars a cup for in one of those pretentious downtown restaurants she hated so much.

  “You’re a waiter.” She looked at him, finally remembering where she’d seen those clothes.

  “Yes.” He nodded. “Ale & Bone. You know it?”

  “I’ve been there once,” she said. “Not really my scene.”

  “Mine either, but the tips are good.”

  “Tell me why you withheld information. And don’t fluff the truth. I won’t turn around again.”

  He sat back in his chair and wrapped his hands behind his head. His large arms flexed, rippling under the thin white cotton of his shirt. Maybe he was a good guy. Maybe he’d had his reasons for lying to her. It was too early to tell. It didn’t matter, though. She was there for one reason and one reason only. To solve the case.

  “I need it.” He gave a slow, weighted sigh. “I need it for my article. I was afraid if I told you, then you’d tell someone else and it would get out before I could publish it.”

  “Listen.” She took a sip of the dark coffee. Just as she’d suspected, it was high-quality, much better than she’d have expected from Taylor Clarke. “I know your job is important to you, but this is life and death. This is murder. Withholding information will only help him to stay anonymous. It will only—”

  “Them,” he interrupted. “There were two of them.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I read that.”

  “I’m a waiter. I bring people food I could never afford and then watch as they eat half of it then go on about their successful lives. I want something else. I want my name to have clout in journalism, and I can’t do that if I don’t have good information. I was lucky enough to get in on the ground floor of this thing,” he said, his voice speeding up with every word. “No one in this city besides the killers knows more than I do about this crime at the moment. That’s big for me. You get that, right?”

  “I get it,” she said. “But still, if you keep hiding things, they’ll keep killing.”

  “It was one time,” he said.

  “Was that it?” she asked. “Or is there more information? Something you left out of the article?”

  “Honestly?” he asked, though she could tell from his tone that he was still holding something back. “That’s not the way it works for me.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, nearly ready to throw cuffs on the man and bring him into the station.

  “I studied investigative journalism. My mind doesn’t work that way. The truth is I really didn’t even realize it was more than one person until after you’d gone. I tend to replay things in my mind, each time stitching another piece together. Tomorrow . . .” He looked dead into her eyes. “Tomorrow, I may know more.”

  “You can see where that’s problematic for me, right?”

  “Tell you what,” he began. “Let’s make a deal.”

  “I don’t make deals.”

  “Just listen. I have contacts, good ones. Maybe they know something. I’ll agree to tell you everything I find out in exchange for your giving me all the gory details, all of the shit no one else knows from the behind the investigation.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Wait . . . listen. I promise you I won’t publish any of it until after the investigation. But once it’s over, you give me an exclusive interview. Until you catch them, I’ll publish the same crap everyone else knows. But when it’s over . . . what do you say?”

  It was uncharted territory for the detective. She’d always hated the media and would have never once considered a deal with them. But she had to play her cards right in every investigation. What if the man was telling the truth? What if his contacts had information that might lead to solving this thing? Was it wise to turn away help?

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll keep you up to date. When it’s done, you can have it all. Providing, of course, that your contacts actually turn up anything.”

  “Oh.” He smiled. “They will.”

  Chapter Eleven

  TUESDAY, 4 PM

  VIRGINIA

  The evening sun shone hot on the streets of the Victorian District, one of Savannah’s most prestigious and wealthiest suburbs. It was a place where Taylor Clarke didn’t really belong but often found himself hanging around. That’s the thing about the wealthy, though. As long as you look the part and don’t say much, it doesn’t take long to blend right in. And with his good looks and Southern drawl, Taylor Clarke fit the small suburb like a glove.

  But while she wasn’t the attention seeking, fame-loving norm of the people in this particular suburb, Virginia Nixon did come from a pretty respected family, though she’d managed to lose a few points the day she’d decided to make it as a homicide detective. Dead bodies and murder scenes weren’t really the kinds of things her friends liked to talk about over brunch.

  Elysium wasn’t your average kind of club. Not a true strip club nor a true nightclub, Elysium carried a reputation all its own. Membership fees were known to break the bank, and the client roster was known to be more exclusive than anything else in
town. It was the kind of gentleman’s club only the richest and shadiest of men could slither their way into. And women . . . well, unless they were dancing or serving, they didn’t stand a chance.

  Virginia followed closely behind as Taylor pulled his black SUV to a stop near the rear entrance. They stepped out and headed for a small back door. It was very obviously too early in the day for such a place to be open, but that didn’t seem to bother the young journalist.

  No names . . . it was standard practice. He’d found out early on that no member of Elysium enters by their actual name. They simply chose a new one upon joining the club. To the young journalist, it was just a name, he explained to Virginia. It was just something to say upon entering the building. But for others, it was an entirely new persona. The detective knew how just a simple name change can cause people to change everything else about their identity. It seemed a silly thought at first, but Taylor had been around long enough to see the reality behind it, and if he was being honest with himself or the detective, he was even beginning to appreciate it.

  Virginia stood next to him as he knocked his fist hard against the door. She’d seen this place, of course. But because she was both a woman and not too crazy about nightclubs, she never actually went inside. She did find it odd, though, now that she thought about it. If this place was going to be as important as the young man said, if the client roster was really that impressive, then why hadn’t it popped up on her radar?

  “Stone,” he said to the bouncer.

  “No ladies,” the large, muscular bouncer replied.

  “She’s looking for a new place,” Taylor answered. “She moves like water.”

  The large man scanned Virginia up and down. She knew what he was thinking. She was too plain. She wasn’t sexy enough. She also knew that one flash of her badge could get in the door without issue, but it wasn’t worth blowing her cover. She wanted to stay anonymous. So she did the only thing she could. She played along.

  “I could get your blood flowing.” She let down her hair and traced the bouncer’s thick chest with her hands.

  To most female officers, strip clubs were a sad place, ones filled with broken dreams and regrets. But Virginia Nixon really didn’t see them that way. She’d always rather enjoyed watching the girls dance. It wasn’t sexual and it wasn’t to study them for her work. There was something else there, something artful in the way they moved. At least, when they wanted to.

  “It’s okay.” A young woman came to the door. “They’re with me.”

  She was tall with a thin frame and long, dark hair. Her blue eyes caught the Georgia sun as she stepped toward the door and then back again. A few moments later, the trio found themselves sitting at a bar, each one slowly nursing a small and probably overpriced mixed drink. It was still early, though, and Virginia would have much preferred a cup of fresh coffee.

  “Who is she?” the young dancer asked.

  “This is Virginia Nixon,” Taylor replied, then turned to the detective. “Virginia, meet Liliana Frank.”

  “We needed to talk to you,” Taylor said to her.

  “Virginia Nixon . . .” Liliana mused. “Wasn’t that the name from your article? She’s a detective.”

  It came as a surprise to the detective that the young woman had actually read the article. This, paired with the way Taylor looked at her, made Virginia wonder if the two were more than just casual acquaintances. For a moment, she felt something run through her. It was a feeling she wasn’t very familiar with and one she hadn’t felt in a very long time, though she couldn’t really place it.

  “Is it about the murders?” Liliana asked, taking another sip of the bright red drink then setting it on the bar.

  “Yes. It’s about a guy named—”

  “Hey,” A well-dressed man came from behind the bar. “Just because it’s before hours doesn’t mean time isn’t money. Know what I’m saying?”

  “I was just talking to—”

  “Doesn’t matter. Pay up or get out. Either she dances or you walk. Got it?” he said, nodding to the large bouncer then disappearing behind a door near the rear of the building.

  “Private dance?” She raised an eyebrow.

  Taylor looked through his pockets and pulled out a small stack of bills. To the detective, it didn’t look like much. Not that she was surprised by that. The man was, after all, a waiter and part-time journalist, neither one a high-paying career.

  “This won’t get you private.” Liliana quickly counted the cash. “You know that.”

  “It’s all I have.”

  “He’ll be back out here in a minute.” She looked at Virginia. “What about you, sweets? You got cash?”

  “What?” she asked. “Are you serious?”

  “Hey, babe, you’re the one needing information. Like the man said, pay up or walk out. Your choice.”

  “Fine.” Virginia reluctantly slammed the bulk of her cash down on the bar. “You’d better get me something.” She looked at Taylor.

  “Don’t worry.” He smiled, taking the young dancer’s hand and heading for a small room along the side wall. “I will.”

  Chapter Twelve

  TUESDAY, 4 PM

  TAYLOR

  The room was round, with black and gold painted walls and a gold velvet wrap-around couch. In the middle hung a dark crystal chandelier, the kind that cast more shadows than actual light. The whole place smelled of musk and cedar, a scent that always carried memories of home.

  “Really?” She stopped and pulled the drapes closed behind her. “A detective?”

  “It’s okay,” he replied. “Trust me.”

  The young woman, tall and slender with shimmering brown hair that hung like silk against her face, looked at him and smiled. There was something kind about her, though it was clear from her careful movements and quick scan of the area that she was smarter than most.

  “I need information.”

  “What kind of information?” She slid the wad of cash into her boot.

  “Maynor. Who is he?”

  “No,” she said flatly. “You don’t want this. Don’t get involved with him, Stone. He’s hardcore.”

  “And you’re saying I’m not?” He grinned.

  “I’m serious. You don’t want this.”

  “I do,” he insisted.

  Liliana brushed a strand of loose hair from her face and sat back. Taylor knew her hesitation to speak about the man meant he was dangerous. It didn’t matter, though. He could take care of himself. He’d been doing it for years. Besides, he finally had a real chance at making a name for himself, and nothing worth having ever came easily.

  “Maynor,” he asked. “Have you slept with him?”

  “What?” Liliana snapped. “What business is that of yours?”

  “It was just a question, Lil.”

  “Who I do or do not spend my time with is none of your business. Don’t mistake this thing for something it isn’t. Don’t think that because we had a thing once you can just—”

  “I don’t. I don’t think that,” he clarified. “I was curious. That’s all.”

  “What about her? Who is she? Are you guys . . . ?”

  “No,” Taylor snapped. “I’m working her for the story. I need her to trust me, and in order to do that, I need information. Don’t worry, she’ll be with me the whole time if anything goes wrong.”

  “With you the whole time?” she repeated. “So what you’re telling me is that you’re not sleeping with her, yet . . .”

  “I never said that.”

  “And I never said I’d been with Maynor, but something tells me you don’t believe me either.”

  Taylor leaned back on the overstuffed couch and sighed. He wasn’t sure what had spurred this on or why Liliana was suddenly acting this way. She’d always been so cool, so disconnected from everything. Now, though, after seeing Virginia, her whole attitude seemed to have changed. She was more defensive, more guarded than he was used to seeing her.

  “We’ve kind of stru
ck up a deal. A compromise. I just need to give her something,” he said after a long pause.

  Time was running short. Soon, he would either have to pay again or leave, and since he was out of cash, he needed to get to as much from her as he could and he needed to do it fast.

  “Come on, Lil. What else do you have?” he placed his hand on hers, lightly cradling her soft fingers in his. He remembered their times together before everything got so complicated. Before all of the mistakes.

  “I won’t do it. It’s too dangerous. For you and for me.”

  “Lil, I’ll be okay. So will you.”

  “I don’t trust her.”

  “You don’t know her,” Taylor replied.

  “Do you?” The young dancer scoffed.

  “I’m a pretty good judge of character. I trusted you, didn’t I?” He looked into her soft eyes. She’d been playing it hard ever since he’d known her. That was her thing, tough as nails with a chip on her shoulder. Still, he couldn’t help but believe there was more beneath the surface than she was willing to let on.

  “A good judge of character? Really? That’s what you’re coming at me with?”

  “Lil, we don’t have all day. I need this if I’m going to become a serious journalist. You’ve got to trust me. Just once. Will you trust me?”

  “He’s been coming here for years,” she answered slowly. “Uses the name ‘Merchant’ at the door. I think he’s a lawyer or something. A lot of the girls here go to parties he hosts in some house near Tybee Island. I’ve never been to one myself, but I hear they get pretty hardcore. And I hear that’s the way he likes it.”

  “What about his business?” Taylor asked.

  “Money,” she nodded. “Accounting or taxes . . . something like that. I just know he handles a lot of money for a lot of people and that he’s good at what he does. Too good.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Some of the girls here were working one of his parties a few months back. They said a guy busted in saying Maynor had taken their money and screwed them over. The girls said some guys took him in the back. They heard a couple of shots but the party just kept going.”