Devil's Deal

by Terri Lynn Coop

  Stella’s stern visage relaxed. “Now it’s my turn to apologize. If what you say is true, then this must be quite a shock.”

  “If what I say is true?”

  “You need to go inside, Miss Martin.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know everything in this life, but I know your uncle loved you. Now, I’m going to go. If you need anything, call me. The number’s on Del’s bulletin board. Otherwise, follow the signs to the office. Simon knows the way.”

  A moment later I was alone on the patio. All I could hear was the whisper of the wind in the trees and faint music from one of the campers.

  Simon broke the spell. He whined and twisted in my arms until I let him down. Immediately he ran into a tiny doghouse, turned twice, and settled into the cushion with a satisfied snuffle.

  There’s no place like home.

  I let the irony of that thought simmer for a while. Where was my home? My Dallas loft with the amazing view belonged to the firm, which meant it was currently in federal hands. Right now, this camper was the only thing in the world I could lay claim to and it was inhabited by the ghost of the late James-Jimmy-Jaime-Jim-Jamie-Del Delgado.

  It was time to meet my fate. Mentally flipping a coin, I fumbled through the keys until I found one fitting the back door of the camper. I’m not sure what I expected. Uncle Jimmy was not neat and he had died suddenly. I braced myself for a blast of stale cigars, laundry, and trash.

  The interior was spotless.

  The cramped space held a galley kitchen, a table with two bench seats, and a small sofa. Lace curtains hid a bed in the section overhanging the truck cab. Silk flowers adorned the table and faint scents of pine cleaner and potpourri filled the air. There was a bathroom smaller than a phone booth in the back corner. I was in a doll house. A rather charming doll house on wheels.

  My first thought was Javier had brought in a cleaning crew, but that faded quickly. This place wasn’t just immaculate, it was loved. Either Uncle Jimmy had connected with his inner Martha Stewart as he got older or there was more to this puzzle.

  I couldn’t wait to check out his office.

  Another fumble through the keys and the double doors groaned open on rusty tracks. In the gloomy interior, I could make out a desk, some chairs, and a couple of filing cabinets. A string with a shiny glow-in-the-dark star hung from the ceiling.

  Always a quick study, I yanked the cord and the overhead fixture sizzled to life. On my right, in the shadows, was an old-fashioned wooden desk flanked by a pair of metal filing cabinets. On the left, under the glaring fluorescent light, arrayed over a pair of armchairs, was a gallery of photos and a large oil painting in an elaborate molded frame.

  Not any painting. It was a really bad painting of me.

  Well, of my law school graduation photo, to be exact. Someone had rendered the photo in oil with all the tacky glory and none of the skill of a paint-by-number set. My almond-shaped eyes looked like almonds—big white almonds with black dots in the center. With much amusement I realized the portrait’s hands were tucked into the sleeves of the graduation gown like a Chinese character in an old cheesy Western.

  Well, to be fair, hands are hard.

  Even with the red and yellow streaks painted in the corkscrew hair, the damn thing was recognizable. No wonder everyone was looking at me so strange. Shock gave way to laughter that shook me until tears ran down my cheeks.

  I made my way around the acre-sized desk and sat in the squeaking chair. From this vantage I could see all the photos on the wall and the ones on Uncle Jimmy’s desk. There were photos of him and fish, him and friends, and him and me. It was sweet. Stella was right. He’d loved me very much.

  Leaning back in the old chair, I let the memories flow and I came to a decision. Before I did anything permanent, I would check his files and take care of any of his business that I could. I owed it to his memory. It would be my legacy to him.

  I wonder if he kept to his other tradition?

  My hand slid down the desk’s pockmarked drawers to the bottom handle on the right side. Uncle Jimmy had kept his good whiskey there. It was barely lunchtime, but I had a sudden urge for a drink. A toast. The drawer slid smoothly for about three inches and caught.

  I tugged harder, but the drawer refused to budge. I started to give it a final hard pull when I heard a click and something moved against my right knee.

  Freezing, all the breath left my body as I leaned over. A metal spring stretched across the span of the open drawer and attached to the drawer front. A hint of red paint on the spring was barely visible under the edge. A warning. Still holding my breath, I eased the drawer closed and again felt movement against my right leg.

  Pushing the chair back, my situation became clear. A sawed-off shotgun rested in a bracket with the spring around the trigger. When I’d opened the drawer, the tension in the spring tugged the gun taut against the desk. A fraction of an inch more and my portrait, along with a portion of the wall, would’ve been scraps and splinters in the neighbor’s yard.

  Holy shit.

  These motorhome people were tougher than they looked, or Uncle Jimmy had yet another secret. Once I’d disarmed the weapon of mass disruption, I was heartened to know at least one thing hadn’t changed. The good stuff was in the right drawer.

  CHAPTER 12

  The second whiskey was having its way with me when my phone buzzed. Since burners are typically outgoing calls only, the harsh electronic ring startled me. I flipped it open without looking at the Caller ID.

  “Juliana Martin.”

  “How very nice it is to hear from you, Miss Martin. I guess your vacation is going well.” Gerald’s voice was tinged with stress and sarcasm.

  Shit.

  In all that had happened I’d forgotten to call. My light whiskey fog lifted at his clipped tone.

  “Hey, stuff got a little weird. What do you have for me?”

  “I take it you haven’t checked your e-mail. The indictments were unsealed and served.”

  “Um, no, I haven’t. Internet is sketchy down here.”

  “Yeah right. I’ll let you read the details, but here’s the guts of it. Two indictments: one federal and one state. The federal is RICO, no big surprise there.”

  Okay, no huge deal. A lawyer with clients at Dad’s level got up in the morning with RICO nipping at his heels. That pesky client-confidentiality thing usually won out. There were negotiations, fines, and maybe a short stay at a Club Fed. The lawyers always skated.

  Silence.

  Finally, I gave. “And the state?”

  “Murder-fucking-one. Capital. Served up Texas-style.”

  The whiskey and coffee in my otherwise empty stomach threatened to erupt.

  “Juliana, are you there?” His voice gentled.

  “Yes.” I didn’t like my strangled, squeaky tone. More like a little girl than a professional.

  “I’m sorry. I’m shocked and I took it out on you. That wasn’t fair. He’s my best friend. I momentarily forgot he’s your father.”

  His kindness gave me the second I needed.

  “I’m okay. Do you need me back in Dallas?”

  “Oh, hell no. There’s nothing to do now but go through the outrage motions. Tommy is doing fine. He knows the drill better than anyone. The press is still quiet, so officially you don’t know anything. You are out in the sticks taking care of family business and hiding in plain sight. Read the docs and call me in a day or so.”

  “I promise.”

  “And take care of yourself. I have a feeling I’m going to need you at the top of your game before this is over.”

  I closed the phone.

  Murder One. What the actual hell is going on? Dad, what did you get us mixed up in?

  I wished I could say I had no knowledge of any bodies. But they had fallen in places far away from Texas in countries with unpronounceable names. They had been business and none of them were on my hands. And they certainly weren’t on my dad’s.

  I tri
ed to organize my thoughts, but they eluded me. The whiskey had painted a fine haze on my memory and composure. A nudge at my ankle broke my reverie. I’d forgotten about Simon. Snuggling my dog, I locked the office and walked toward the camper. The empty food and water bowls by his doghouse mocked me.

  “Dammit. I am the worst mom ever. Let’s see what Javier packed in your magic tote.”

  With speed driven by guilt, moments later Simon was happily snarfing down kibble in between bigger slurps of water than I thought he was capable of. I had to get my head straight. It was time to get to work.

  CHAPTER 13

  The miniature stove in the camper resisted my every effort to get it started. After I’d reached the definition-of-insanity stage, I assumed it had something to do with the fuel supply and my utter lack of knowledge about it. Luckily, the microwave worked and there was some soup and only slightly stale crackers in the cabinet.

  In between bites, I read the indictments, starting with the federal RICO documents. The language was familiar. Dad was accused of participating in a continuing criminal enterprise that ate kittens for breakfast and stole old ladies’ pension checks in between burning flags and gut-punching endangered species. Even for a compulsive overachiever like my old man, the magnitude of the alleged malfeasance was impressive.

  I quit laughing as I clicked the other file. Unlike the florid language of the federal indictment, this one was a single page and it said, in essence, that the great state of Texas accused Thomas William Martin of intentionally causing the death of one Camille Josephine Floyd during the course of a felony kidnapping in violation of statute blah-blah-blah. The key phrase was “felony kidnapping.” That meant the Dallas County DA intended to seek the death penalty.

  Fuck.

  The name didn’t register right off the bat, but the on-or-about date sent me to the closet-sized bathroom to offload my lunch. Some days are impossible to forget. That one had been ugly even by my standards. But, the DA had it wrong. This wasn’t Dad’s mess. It belonged to Rockhound. I knew because I cleaned it up. But that smarmy little bitch had been alive when I paid her off. Now they were saying she was dead.

  This was a setup. But who was the target? Was it Dad, Rockhound, or me?

  The whiskey tempted me. Instead, I opted for a box of generic tea bags from the cabinet and nuked a cup. As I sipped the bitter brew, I remembered the old adage, “Nothing kills a man’s career faster than a live boy or a dead girl.” Well, apparently Camille, who danced under the name “Cami Jo,” had crossed the border from career nuisance to ballistic missile. And what the hell was this about a kidnapping? She’d left under her own power after I’d convinced her that what she had in mind was a very bad idea.

  CHAPTER 14

  Simon’s barking announced the visitor’s arrival moments before the soft knock. Doorbell was another of his talents. I blanked out my computer screen and fumbled with the latch on the back door.

  “Need some help? It’s tricky.” The smooth voice told me it was Stella.

  “Evidently. Is this some sort of south Texas intelligence test?”

  She laughed and popped the door open from the outside. I stepped back and motioned her inside both touched and instantly relieved that she was carrying two bags of groceries.

  “I had to go to the market and thought you might need a few things. Del, bless his heart, ate out of a can unless one of the ladies cooked for him.”

  As she put the groceries away without even looking in the cabinets, it struck me that she was likely one of the ladies who had cooked for him. Given how at ease she was in the tight space, I wondered if she spent more time here than was necessary to cook. My suspicions were confirmed when she caught me watching her and a flush crept up her dark skin. I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t my business and I couldn’t fault Uncle Jimmy for his taste in women.

  “Thank you so much,” I said to break the awkward silence. “I’m afraid I inherited his starvation gene. Maybe it’s something we pick up in law school. I didn’t know your park manager job included babysitting services.”

  She relaxed. We both knew and it was okay. If I didn’t act like an ass and embarrass her, this lady could become a real friend. I didn’t have any close women friends, only competitive acquaintances that I exchanged lunch checks and favors with.

  She waved off my attempt to pay her. “No need. A few things to tide you over. You can bring something to the potluck on Sunday.”

  Potluck? Crap.

  “You’re a Heaven’s Gater now. Failure to appear at the Sunday potluck is guaranteed to both spur gossip and bring out the nosy-bodies. Sorry, sweetie, as Del’s niece, your appearance is the social event of the season. For your first week, a salad will suffice. After that, you’d better polish up your casserole skills.”

  “Stella, I have to warn you. You were nice to me, so now you’re stuck with me. Would you please show me how this damn thing works?” I gestured at the kitchen and bathroom.

  “It will be my pleasure to put you through RV boot camp. Come to the bus when you’re ready and we’ll get started. Until then, you and Simon have a good night.”

  Even after she left, her mellow vibe lingered. The mystery of Cami Jo, the dead stripper, would have to wait until tomorrow. Surveying my grocery bounty, I selected yogurt and graham crackers. While fresh tea steeped, I swept the patio and set up the furniture. With Simon on my lap, the food stayed put as my mind calmed down.

  CHAPTER 15

  After fielding a few waves from passersby who lingered a bit too long, I decided to take another look through Uncle Jimmy’s office. Mellowed out, this time the whiskey went down smooth instead of making me feel fuzzy. I opened the file drawers and jotted down some names. I flipped through Danny Pearson’s file. With amusement, I noted it dated back several years.

  Still raising hell after all this time. I have to respect that.

  A few files were in a neat stack on the desk. I had a feeling Stella had left those out to get some attention from whoever took over the office. I quickly leafed through them. All were in order. Javier had filed continuances for the clients, pending entry of a new lawyer. I wondered if that would be me. The cases were generic and the expected array of typical small-town traffic violations, low-end civil cases, wills, and real estate transactions. One divorce and someone who was in some deep water on an old child-support debt. Most of this, if I had even touched it, would have been handled by Anthony, with me making the final phone call or court appearance before signing off.

  So why the sawed-off shotgun under the desk?

  That’s the question plaguing me. The answer certainly wasn’t in these files. A search of the desk drawers yielded nothing except the cheap bourbon he pulled out for casual acquaintances and a box of cigars. One thing missing from his home and office was the pervasive smell of smoke. Stella must have broken him of the habit indoors. Good for her.

  As I searched his desk, I rolled his chair back and forth, and one wheel kept snagging. That’s a pet peeve of mine, so I pushed the chair back and folded up the rug. A loose section in the cheap wood-grain-laminate flooring was catching the wheel. As I tried to snap it back in, I realized it wasn’t fastened and lifted it out. Underneath it was plywood with a neatly cut loose panel. Using a screwdriver I found in the center drawer, I pried it up.

  Damn.

  Underneath this two-layer-deep hidey-hole was a metal safe door embedded in concrete. A little over two feet long, with no visible hinges, two keyholes and a pair of recessed handles. Somehow I didn’t think he stored traffic tickets in there. My curiosity raging, I tried every key on the ring. Nothing fit.

  I resisted the urge to tear the office apart. The safe’s hiding place wouldn’t stand up to a professional search, but it was a good ruse to keep out the merely curious or random thief. He’d rolled over it every day. It obviously contained something he not only wanted to keep close, but was willing to defend with extreme prejudice. Logic told me the key would also be someplace handy and hiding
in plain sight, but protected.

  I saw it.

  Everyone has at least one quirk, some obnoxious little tic that drives everyone else crazy while serving its owner well. Mine happens to be noticing when things have been moved and not replaced exactly the same. If I pick up a glass, it has to go back on the same ring on the table or coaster. A line in the dust showing where a book has been replaced askew or a slight fade mark on the rug where a chair used to be tends to draw my attention like a flashing neon sign. Messing with my desk is a hanging offense.

  The dumbass portrait of me had been moved. Not once, but many times. From my perch, the minute scratches on the wall at the corners were clear and the whole thing hung slightly off-kilter. Only the overwhelming newness of the situation kept me from noticing it earlier.

  The shotgun made more sense. Only two things would move that safe door: dynamite and the key. Blow the key through the wall and Uncle Jimmy simultaneously stymied and either scared the shit, or shot the shit, out of a would-be intruder.

  I pulled the portrait down and flipped it over. Nothing along the edges of the stretcher bars. Nothing affixed directly to the canvas. I ran my fingers along the inside of a wooden strut across the middle, about the level of the portrait’s not even remotely swan-like neck.

  Bingo.

  The key was in a tiny manila envelope glued to the wood. I fished it out and returned the painting to its place on the wall. This time it hung straight and true.

  The key made a satisfying click as the first and then second set of latches released. I grabbed the handles, but all I accomplished was a warning pain in my back.

  Damn. This thing must weight ninety pounds.

  No dead-lifting for me. Instead, I straddled the safe and lifted one end until it rested on the edge of the floor opening. I was working on the other end when Simon barked. My little doorbell had rung cherries again. I had a visitor.