by Hugh Dutton
“That’s my brother. He works for the Feds, some kind of watchdog department, mostly banking and stocks. I’m not sure exactly. But if you can find any dirty laundry on Leo, call Grant and tell him, he’ll know who you are. He’s the guy you want, he loves a crusade, and the bigger the fish the more he loves it.”
“He loves crusades against guys like Leo?” he asked, trying to judge whether this was a put-on or a set-up. His every instinct said she was as straight as anyone he’d ever met, though maybe using him as a way to exorcise her own demons. Then again, his track record on instincts sucked lately.
She gave a sad little smile of acknowledgment. “Yeah, well, like I said, we had a father just like him. Some of us chase our ghosts and some of us try to drown them in a Mai Tai.”
“Okay, supposing your brother is my get out of jail free card, and assuming I can get dirt on Leo, which I don’t see how, why are you doing this? I thought you were one of the Heron Point disciples, you know, just another day in paradise and all that jazz.”
“I was, I really was.” She reached up with both hands and flicked her short blond hair back, behind her ears. “But I don’t need to tell you things are going crazy around here. Like some horrible disease catching up to us. I can’t get over what happened to Lexy. She was okay, you know? Whatever she was wasn’t her fault. And I know Leo Burgess is too busy feeding his ego by proving he can walk all over anyone he wants to even stop and grieve over her, because deep down he doesn’t really give a shit.”
She stopped for a breath, touching her fingertips to a spot between her breasts. “I know, because I watched it happen just like this to someone very close to me, and it’s just not right.”
“Well hey, thanks then,” he said, startled by the husky passion in her voice and the sudden flood she was blinking against. “That sure is a heavy load you’re carrying around in there. You going to be okay?”
“Yes, I am.” Another hint of a smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. “See what I mean? You’re a nice guy, Brady, too nice to get ground down by one of these cold-hearted, phony patriarchal types who should spend a little of his precious time loving his daughter who already has to survive carrying his bad blood inside her. Makes me wonder how I ever thought the Burgesses were so great.” She shuddered and pushed away from the counter like it was a starting block, patting his arm as she breezed right on out the door. “Good luck, Brady,” she called over her shoulder as she went.
Thanks, I think I’m going to need it, he thought, and good luck to you too, Maggie. He glanced again at the note and tucked it in his pocket. She did seem to mean well, but what kind of Federal finance regulator would be interested in the sad story of a jobless, penniless, homeless dude with a felony hanging over his head? The emptied house felt depressing after Maggie’s animated presence, like a gutted testimonial to his failure. Time to get the hell out of here.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Brady ignored pretty much the entire traffic code in his drive back to the Suncrest, making it just in time to catch the news. His belly churned at the possibilities of something so dire that Maggie wouldn’t tell him. Was he a fugitive? She’d asked about Lexy, did that mean he was wanted for murder? He felt giddy and lightheaded at the idea. It was all too Monty Python to be real.
He waited through the weather forecast and some idiocy about how local drivers were coping with rising gasoline prices, pacing his cramped cubicle. His mind wandered, speculating on what a lawyer might cost, until the sound of his own name snapped him back to the television. The face of Nick Burgess filled the screen, looking all clean-cut and wholesome in his white shirt and Ray-Bans, talking to a reporter.
“. . . can’t understand why the police haven’t talked to Brady Spain about my sister’s murder,” Nick was saying. “This man had motive and opportunity, and I am deeply disturbed to see our law enforcement community so far behind in their investigation.”
“Can you tell us if the police have any other suspects in the case?” asked the frosty-blond talking head sharing the screen with Nick.
“To my knowledge, no,” Nick replied, his delivery projecting the perfect image of a righteously outraged and grieving brother. “And this Spain character is unemployed, with no permanent residence. He’s not even from this area. He could disappear on us if something isn’t done quickly, and I want justice for Lexy.”
“Can you describe their relationship?” Blondie asked, a bogus expression of concern creasing her plastic brow.
“Spain had a bad debt my sister was trying to collect. He wouldn’t pay it, and it’s pretty well known that they argued about it. Doesn’t that sound like motive to you?”
“Asshole,” Brady screamed, unconsciously echoing Lexy’s reaction to Nick’s scheming. He flopped backwards onto the bed and hurled the remote at the wall, making a dent that would never be noticed among all the others.
The reporter went on to recap the facts of Lexy’s murder with no further mention of Brady, probably to ensure that the slander liability was all Nick’s, then moved on to another topic. He got up to retrieve the remote and used it to punch off the set, then hurled it at the wall again.
Okay, Brady me boy, what now? It might not be a police manhunt yet, but it sure was all but. And who said money can’t buy everything? Only someone like a Burgess could get a news station to interview him about who the hell he wanted investigated. That asshole Nick was such a weasel too, and here he comes off like John F. Kennedy on camera. The worst part was that everything Nick had said was true. It sounded terrible laid out cold like that. Homeless, unemployed, and debt-dodging, like some migrating serial killer. Oh boy, you are so screwed now, Brady. And dear Lord, please tell me they cannot get that news channel in North Carolina.
Pete Cully swung full speed and put his shoulder in it, burying the hammer so deep into the ground that only the handle showed. Damn it, damn it. He had hoped to finish repairing this blasted fence of Leo’s today, but now he completely surrendered the idea. Hard to give a crap about something like this in light of what happened to Lexy. You would think Leo would be unable to even notice this kind of thing right now, but he had been nagging Pete nonstop. And now, after two days jacking around with it off and on—even leaving his truck overnight to skip the hassle of unpacking everything twice—he wound up right back where he started.
Getting the posts to stay true required cementing, something he had tried to avoid. Should have cemented it to begin with, but that made it a bitch to ever move the cussed thing and you never knew when Leo would want him to. Lightweight decorative fence like that ought to be fine without it, but it was another victim of the hill they had built for Leo’s house to sit on. Come a good rain, the water sucked the sand right out from around the posts, and she’d start leaning. And soon as she started leaning, Leo would be wearing out his redial button until Pete fixed it.
What griped him the most was that concrete meant a trip into town. No mix on his truck, and he had to go right now or closing time would slip on by. He yanked the hammer out of the sand, wiped it off, and wrapped all his gear in a tarp in case of a sudden thunderstorm. Fired up the truck and hit the gas.
Passing Mangrove Street on his way to Shoreline reminded him that he wanted to check out twenty-nine, see if Brady moved out. Funny he didn’t mention anything, but the house looked vacant from the street. Pete hated to think the boy left, they needed more folks like him. He’d seemed some upset about the murder. Which they all were, Lord knows Pete could not stop seeing her lying there. In fact, he had a recurring nightmare that she had still been alive, that she died while he was out puking in the yard, that he could have saved her. But Brady didn’t know her very well, did he?
Also odd that Leo had not told him to inspect the place if Brady was gone. Usually Pete got sent in right away. Nobody got a deposit back until he checked the house over. Did Leo put it off in an attempt to avoid Pete becoming privy to the heat they had on Brady? Knowing Leo, probably. Damn if it didn’t sound like him.
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Time had made it clear; Brady was not going to back up Lexy’s alibi for Nick. The only reason Pete held off talking to the cops was Gerry. Gerry would handle things right. Said he had another suspect in mind, too. That would move a big load of guilt for Pete. And truthfully, no matter how resolved he believed himself to be, his guts got a little weak and watery at the thought of crossing Leo Burgess.
When he pulled up at the intersection of Palm and Shoreline Drive, Pete noticed that his brake pedal sank almost down to the floorboard. Felt spongy too, as if he had lost pressure, or maybe fluid. Wonder why the warning light hadn’t come on? He turned south on Shoreline, toward town, mindful not to tailgate in case he had a problem here. By the time he came to the sharp curve where the road veered away from the coast, he knew he did. Had he not eased into that curve he would’ve driven right into the drink. He managed to bring the truck to a stop on the shoulder by standing on the brakes, finding just enough pressure to keep it out of the Gulf.
The shoulder was too narrow there—his door would open right into traffic. He slid across the seat and exited on the passenger side, giving that door a disgusted bang when he closed it. “Well, that’s just peachy,” he bitched to himself. What could possibly go wrong next?
He glanced back the way he had come and thought he could make out a trail of fluid there, but he had no intentions of going for a closer look in the middle of Shoreline Drive. He walked around the front of the truck, toying with the idea of crawling up under it to see if he could find a quick fix. Decided that lying on the ground that close to that road was just asking for death by tourist. “Better safe than sorry,” he grumbled.
He edged around the front left corner on the truck, wary of idiots whipping into the curve, and made his break for the sidewalk on the inland side of Shoreline. What he did not see was the Georgia-tagged carload of partiers ripping out of a side street without giving the stop sign there anything more than the briefest tap of the brakes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Brady took it as a good omen when he found Gerry Terence’s office without trouble and scored a parking space right in front of it. He had felt goofy calling the guy, but in his desperate thrashing about for what to do next he’d remembered Pete’s recommendation. To his surprise, Terence said he would make time available, come right now.
He climbed a narrow, musty staircase to the second floor and zigzagged the dim hallway until he found a time-stained door that read Terence Investigations. He tapped on it and entered when he heard a summons from within.
He’d seen Terence around the neighborhood enough to recognize his short, stocky appearance, but it was Brady’s first contact with the quick gray-brown eyes that seemed to examine him thoroughly in a glance. Nothing shifty and oily about him the way Brady expected a private detective to be, instead more of a serene, placid air. Once they swapped names and shook hands, Terence sat and regarded Brady expectantly.
“I don’t know if you can help me,” Brady said, “but Pete Cully said if I ever got jammed up, you were the man.” Terence’s quick smile of genuine friendship at the mention of Pete’s name helped erase any lingering doubts Brady had about coming.
“Pete may have exaggerated my talents a bit, but that is exactly what I do for a living,” Terence said. He clasped his hands on top of his desk, leaning into it. “Why don’t you tell me about the jam you’re in?”
“Oh boy, where to start.” Brady fidgeted for a minute, then made a snapshot decision to not skate over the worst parts in an attempt to pretty up how he’d screwed himself. He just told it, all of it—the job, the money, the murder, Nick’s interview, Nick’s alibi, even the Suncrest.
At the end of the saga, Terence settled back in his chair and fixed the probing eyes on Brady’s. “The first step is this; if you’re guilty of more than bouncing a check, anything you haven’t told me, you need a lawyer, not a detective.”
Brady waited for more, but the guy just sat there watching him. So he answered, “No, there’s nothing. Speeding, maybe.”
“Fine. You may need a lawyer anyway, but I hear you on the money situation. Step two is some pretty personal questions. Ready?”
Brady nodded.
“Did you ever, even once, have a sexual relationship with Lexy Burgess? And I mean even Clinton stuff.”
Brady felt the blush coming, unable to stop it. Too young to have much memory of that scandal, he nonetheless knew enough to catch Terence’s drift. He shook his head.
Terence picked up a pencil from his desk and slid his thumb and forefinger down the length of it, flipped it over, and slid them down the other direction. His eyes stayed on Brady’s. “You sure?”
“Well, yeah. How could I not be sure about something like that?”
Terence cracked a smile. “You’d be surprised how many people will tell you they simply forgot, once they’re stuck trying to explain a picture of themselves in the act. That’ll help, that you didn’t. I know alibis are a sore subject, but do you have one?”
Brady thought back, feeling stupid for never considering it. Remembered. “No, that’s the day I got canned. I can show that I was on my computer, but I was alone. No way to prove it was me using it.”
“Better than nothing. At home, right?” said Terence, making notes as they talked. Or maybe just doodling, for all Brady knew.
He nodded and Terence asked, “Are you checked into this motel under your own name?”
Brady nodded again. “Is that bad? I didn’t think of it, and they make you run a credit card anyway.”
“No, that’s good,” said Terence. He shook his head and laughed softly, as if to himself. “Mr. Spain, I do believe you might be an innocent man.”
“Well, good. I mean, I am.” Pleased as he was that Terence seemed to believe him, he somehow felt like a kid listening to grown-up jokes. “What about this news thing with Nick? Should I do anything to address it?”
“No, ignore it for now, see if anything gets made of it.” He flapped a hand, and then eyed Brady with a curious expression. “You realize if you had reported the assault, Nick wouldn’t have dared to shoot his mouth off like that, don’t you?”
Brady just nodded dumbly. He had figured that one out, been kicking himself ever since. Reporting it now would look like some lame attempt to discredit Nick. And not having reported it right away made him look guilty of something, as if he was avoiding all contact with the cops. Probably what Terence thought.
“Well, forget about it now.” Terence flipped his pencil up in the air and caught it, a glint of malice in his eyes. “I may have a little special something cooking up for old Nicky-boy. So do I understand you right, you’re just about flat broke?”
“Yes, but I’ll sign a contract or IOU, whatever you want,” Brady said, not wanting to get blown out now. This felt too much like his last hope for any help. “You can run my credit report. It’ll show I’m good for it.”
“That’s not what I’m getting at,” Terence said with another fleeting smile. Evidently that came across funny too. “You said you need income to survive while we hash this out. I agree, because regardless of the bad check problem, you do not want to skip town if you are even remotely considered a suspect in a homicide, not even to find a job. Are you willing to work, and I mean hard work?”
“Sure, anything,” Brady said, but his mind filled with visions of washing bedpans or prepping bodies for embalming. Oh well, gotta do what you gotta do.
“We’ll figure out the money later. Your situation might be tangled up in something else I’m working and there wouldn’t be any fee. If not, we’ll work something out. Be at the plant nursery on the corner of Riverside and Eighth at seven in the morning. You’re looking for a fellow name of Chaz Martin. He’ll be driving a white truck, I don’t remember the brand, but it’ll have JTA Greenscapes on the side of it. He’ll put you to work if you can hack it. And he’ll come on tough, but underneath he’s practically Mother Teresa. I’ll call and tell him you’re coming. Fair enough?” He s
tood and held out his hand.
Brady rose too, and took the hand. “More than fair, I owe you one for this,” he said, flashing back to Lexy using the same phrase on him. “Do I call you if anything else happens?”
“You mean as in your one phone call from jail?” Terence smiled. “Yeah, anything critical or newsworthy, call. Otherwise, I’ll find you.”
During the drive to the motel, Brady worked the Pollyanna angle, telling himself to stay positive about the future with Gerry Terence in his corner, but that closing reference to jail kept popping up to remind him how bleak things really were. At least now he had a job, regardless of anything else Terence could or couldn’t do. As he walked past the office on the way to his room, the manager, a big fat chick with a Winston wheeze and at least fourteen rings on her fingers, stuck her head out the door and called to him.
“Hey, you’re lucky I don’t believe everything I see on the news, Mr. Spain, or you’d be outta here. But I’m warning you, the first time any cop shows up looking for you, you’re gone.”
Wonderful. Now he was considered a lowlife even in a garbage can like the Suncrest.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Leo Burgess sat in his Florida room, eyeing the thunderheads building up inland with the promise of a coming deluge. The air already carried a heavy, sticky smell. He felt old and enfeebled, weary from replaying the same depressing scene with his son, this time blistering the boy for violating his directive regarding the Brady Spain affair. Yet his anger had been a pretense, for privately he viewed Nick’s news conference as a bold, expedient strategy, one he might have concocted himself. Perhaps genealogy had not failed him after all. But he did believe he should be unforgiving for Nick’s disobedience, thus the show of temper.
In reality, the publicity helped the agenda. It would certainly cripple any attempt on Spain’s part to present himself as anything other than the disreputable malcontent Leo’s legal team would describe. The only potential backlash Leo anticipated was publicity itself, anything that drew attention to Nick at a time when the police seemed to have eased their focus on the rape of Sara Zeletsky. They were concentrating their energies on solving Alexandra’s murder, which was exactly as Leo would have it, indeed as he insisted. It was even possible Nick’s public challenge could further increase that diligence.