Bad Blood

by Hugh Dutton

  He rang up a traffic cop who remembered him from his days in harness and talked him into running down the name of the mechanic assigned to the inspection, storage, and/or disposal of Pete’s truck. That name turned out to be Doug Ridings, a guy he did not know well, but well enough to know how to bribe him. He merely offered to pay Doug’s bar tab for an evening in exchange for looking the truck over for any mechanical failure and then talking about it. Since Gerry never considered himself a reformed drunk, more of just a lucky one, he didn’t have any of the knee-jerk need to reform other drinking men who could handle it.

  They met at Spahn’s, and after the usual stilted greetings between two guys pretending to be closer than they were, Doug got right up in Gerry’s face. “So, how did you know?” he asked, almost a whisper. His eyes glistened with excitement at being on the inside of intrigue.

  “Know what?” Gerry countered, backing away from the whiskey breath.

  “You know, that somebody jinked up the truck?”

  Gerry grabbed the other man’s wrist, clenching it. “Are you sure?”

  “ ’Course I’m sure.” Doug snatched his arm away, looking offended. “I ain’t been turning wrenches for no twenty years to go and make a mistake like that.” He polished off his drink and waved for another.

  Gerry should have felt triumphant, but he just felt tired. Damn it, Pete, what did you get tangled up in? “Run it down for me. What, how, maybe a when.”

  “It’s kinda crazy, if whoever did it wanted it to look like an accident,” Doug said, making a slashing motion across his fist. “They just cut the brake lines, plain as day, couldn’t miss it. No way those lines could get cut that clean right there by accident.”

  “How did he keep from running off into the bay with his brakes gone?”

  “Vehicles nowadays have emergency braking power, like this one, it runs off the vacuum system. So you’d have enough juice to stop it once anyway.” Doug leaned back in, lapping up his chance to play detective. “Anybody knows cars, they’d know that. But whoever did this knew enough to pull the fuse for the warning lights. The driver wouldn’t get any idea of something wrong until the pedal went to the floor. So I bet you’ll find out it was done by somebody who knows cars, but ain’t been around ’em for quite a few years. Late models, anyway.”

  Gerry sat back and kicked Doug’s logic around, amused by the mechanic’s smug expression. Fair enough, he thought, for even though it was far from being the only possible deduction, it did click. He waited as Doug ordered another Jack on the rocks. Gerry knew damn well the guy wouldn’t be slamming down Black Jack at this rate on his own budget. Oh well, still a cheap price for the information.

  The drink arrived and Doug’s attention returned. Gerry asked him again for the time frame of the tampering.

  “No way to tell, looking at it,” he answered, shaking his head and sucking down the Jack. “But I bet the diagnostic computer in that truck would log a major system failure like this. ’Course, it would only register it from the first time it was started up with the lines cut. So all you’d get is a no later than. You want me to hook it up, see if it’s recorded?”

  “Do that. Call me when you find out.”

  “Can do.” His face bunched up, the sun-leathered forehead folding like a road map. “We gotta tell the suits assigned to the case. You gonna do it?”

  “No, I think it’d be better if they get it straight from you,” Gerry said. He did not want it known that he was even interested, leave alone snooping around their investigation. Part of why he was getting Doug oiled, counting on him to be closemouthed about his drinking. He also realized that Doug seemed to think Gerry was still on the job. No reason to explain all that now.

  After yet another double Jack went down the hatch, he convinced Doug that four was enough and shooed him on home. He settled the tab, frowning at his own unfinished drink. He would like to have enjoyed his customary one-and-done glass of hooch, but watching Doug pour it down had made him queasy. Nothing wrong with Jack Daniels, Gerry had never met a whiskey he didn’t like, it was picturing how Doug’s mornings must feel. Brought up some rough memories. He collected his change, figured a tip, and left, returning to the office instead of going home.

  He sat at his desk in the near dark of just his reading lamp, dealing out a hand of solitaire. He hoped no one ever caught him playing cards, since it fit the stereotype of the hokey B-movie private eye all too well, but it never failed to help him think.

  Okay, Pete, who could you anger enough for murder? Or to whom could you have been such a threat? Someone with outdated automotive knowledge, or someone scatterbrained, who might forget an important step. The ghoulish joke of it all was that it would have been a botched murder attempt even had the brakes failed completely. Pete was just not driving fast enough to suffer a fatal injury. He could have driven right into the four feet of surf in the bay and walked off. Gerry had worked enough traffic fatalities to doubt that even a head-on collision would be deadly at those speeds. And the wannabe murderer apparently never thought it out, considering there were no roads near Pete’s home or work with a speed limit over thirty. Sufficient incompetence to laugh at, if not for the fact that the sabotage put Pete in the path of a drunk driver. Gerry feared that the person responsible would never go down for anything heavier than attempted, but he was going to nail the peckerhead and take his chances.

  So who, Pete? Family is the first place to look in this kind of sneakiness, but Pete had none. Gerry had caught a definite whiff of conflict between Pete and Leo, as well as the obvious one with Nick, but he couldn’t imagine Leo bungling anything this badly, and no way Nick had the guts. Instinct said it was connected to the Lexy Burgess homicide, maybe a cover-up kill by the same guy. Okay then, Pete, what did you see, hear, or know that was worthy of murder?

  His hand of solitaire was going nowhere, stuck needing a red ten. He collected the cards, shuffled, and re-dealt. He absolutely did not want to horn in on the Lexy Burgess investigation. Despite grudging appreciation for his work on the Zeletsky case, which ought to shake out any day now, none of his old buddies would take kindly to a private license sniffing around a homicide. Especially without a client, ex-cop or not.

  He could give Brady Spain’s name as a client, but that would be the precise opposite of what he wanted, drawing attention to Brady as someone who needed a detective. Like shouting, “Here, look at me, I’m a suspect.” As yet, he had drawn a blank finding out if Brady was on the short list. He had wheedled enough to learn that the investigating team was dead-set on the theory of a lover’s quarrel, chiefly because they had found champagne for two all set up and waiting by the tub. So they were running down everyone who looked like a possible bed-mate. Had to be nothing pointing at Brady as such yet or he would be sweating it out in the fishbowl already.

  Gerry did believe Brady’s claim of no sexual relations with Lexy, but he had met too many impressive liars over the years to assume his nose to be infallible. One thing for sure, though; if Brady Spain had the ability to lie that convincingly about his sex life, Gerry was going to like him very much as the guy who tore out Lexy’s throat with a fire poker.

  He gathered up his cards and put them back in his lap drawer, ready for home and bed. Maybe Pete Cully and Lexy Burgess would talk to him in his sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  At the end of his fifth day with Chaz, Brady drove back to the Suncrest through the heavy, humid September twilight, arriving to find a dusty red Corolla in his parking space. His mind careened at the possibility of a police officer coming in a two-door compact to serve a warrant. Surely not, he reasoned.

  Leaving the Jeep in a visitor slot, he crossed the pavement in a half-circle to see around the Corolla. A woman was sitting quietly in a lawn chair by the door to his unit. Brady’s pulse hammered in his neck, his throat swallowing convulsively against the sudden case of dry mouth.

  The yellow glare of the security lamps caught the auburn highlights in her dark hair, giving
it the deep luster of polished cherry wood. As he came nearer, he could make out that she had a boss figure—rounded and soft, yet tight and solid, the kind your eyes keep wandering back to so often, you wind up walking into a wall or something. She had gray-green eyes and a spatter of freckles across her strong nose. He knew she also had a light trail of freckles between her breasts, but absolutely none on her legs, unless he was hallucinating.

  “Peggy Donellson,” he exclaimed, not yet convinced this wasn’t some seriously weird mind trip. “Is that you? What are you doing here?”

  She bounced out of her chair and smiled at him, the happy one that turned her eyes up at the corners. “Yes, Brady Spain, it’s me. Is that any way to greet someone who drove eight hundred miles to see you?”

  “No, no. I’m sorry, it’s awesome that you’re here, I mean, to see you. I’m just a little wigged out. I’d give you a hug, but you really don’t want to,” he said, gesturing at his sweaty, muddy, grass-stained clothes.

  “Yeah, really, where have you been, dumpster diving?” She wrinkled her nose and then smiled again. “But I’m going to do it, anyway. It’s not like I’m what you would call shower-fresh after that drive.”

  “Okay, you talked me into it,” he said, wrapping around her perhaps a bit tighter than he intended. Dang, she smelled good. Felt pretty righteous, too.

  “Pee-yew!” She laughed, pretending to struggle against his clasp.

  He broke away before he wanted to, before old muddy-lungs in the office called the cops on him for being too excited. He unlocked the room and led her inside. “Don’t look at it, don’t ask, I don’t even want to talk about it. You never did answer why you’re here.”

  She sat on the bed, thank God it was made up, and accepted the beer he offered her from the cooler that served as his refrigerator.

  “Do you remember my cousin Zoe?” she asked. At his head-shake, she continued. “Well, she remembers you and she lives in Clearwater now. So she calls up to tell me about this news thing she saw and what did I think about you being investigated for murder.”

  “I’m—” Brady started, wanting to defend himself. He realized how stupid he’d sound and put his head in his hands instead. If he ever did commit a murder, it was going to be Nick Burgess.

  “So I went on their website and watched the segment,” she continued. “I know you’re capable of a lot of crazy things, Brady, but I’m sure you wouldn’t kill someone. And even though we don’t see each other anymore, you can’t have changed that much.”

  “Thanks, Peg. I can’t tell you how good that feels,” he said, wishing he knew a better word to describe the massive morale boost of just sitting in the same room as her, hearing her voice. Still not quite believing she was here, and lightheaded with the feelings it awoke. “That’s a hell of a drive you made to join my fan club. You’ll be the second member, me being the other one. How the heck did you find me?”

  She sipped her beer and glanced around his room, making him cringe inside at what she must’ve thought of it. “Well, I wanted to call you, find out if you were in trouble and needed help. Your mom had given me your home number and the name of the place you worked. I didn’t want your cell to ring at work, so I pulled up their number. Then when they said you weren’t there anymore, I knew things couldn’t be going too well.”

  “But they don’t know I’m staying here,” he protested. Watching her talk, he noticed an elegance about her, a poised, confident air that he didn’t remember. Probably just from looking at her through fresh eyes, having seen her only once in the past year. It made him see how she was every bit as captivating as Lexy, just in a different kind of special Peggy way. It also gave him a grasping sense of loss, like he no longer really knew her. “How’d you figure that out?”

  She blushed and lowered her gaze to her fingers picking at the label on her beer bottle. “I tried to think like Brady Spain would. When I discovered your home phone was disconnected, which your mom doesn’t know, by the way, I remembered that I kept all the receipts from special dinners and things you took me to.”

  She glanced back up and her blush deepened at his raised eyebrows. “Well, I did. And some were old enough they had your whole credit card number on there instead of just the last four digits. So I figured you would still have that card for the reward stuff you get. I called them and told them I was your wife and I had lost the card. The security questions the woman asked were a breeze, I know you so well. She said this was the last place it was used, no charges, just an inquiry. I told her I remembered it now, and I’d call her back if we needed to cancel the card. I hope you’re not mad at me for doing all that.”

  “How could I be mad at you?” Just totally blown away that you worked so hard at giving a damn about your blind ex-boyfriend. “Though I am torqued at that fat liar in the office here for calling on my card when she said she wouldn’t. Peg, why didn’t you just call my cell instead of going to all this hassle? Not that I’m not happy to see you.”

  “I almost did.” She set her bottle on the floor and pulled her legs up, tucking them under her in a yoga-like position. “But talking to your mom, even though she didn’t exactly say this, I could tell she doesn’t think you have anyone real close here that you can trust, like someone to get your back, as they say.”

  “Oh, shit, you didn’t tell her anything, did you?” He bolted upright in his chair, picturing Mom getting just the jolt her high blood pressure needed to kick up to stroke level.

  “Sure, I gave her the whole story.” Peggy rolled her eyes and then laughed at his relieved expression. “You know better than that. Anyway, I realized that if I called, you would tell me everything was fine, don’t worry, I’ll call you later, all the usual Brady stuff. And everything can’t be fine if you’re on the news as a murder suspect. So I called the motel and the woman said you were registered.”

  She paused, wrinkling her nose. “She asked me if I was with the police, do you believe it? So I came on down without giving you a chance to tell me not to. Even if you have a new girlfriend, honest, I just want to help. I’ve even already got a room, though not here. I have to tell you, Brady, I was scared to check in here.”

  He laughed, wondering how, in the midst of the impossible odds he faced in the struggle to salvage the rest of his life, it could feel so lucky to be Brady Spain. “So was I, girl, so was I.”

  He moved over and sat beside her, picked up her hand, and held it in both of his. “You are some kind of unbelievably wonderful person, you know that? By the way, I’ve been reading up on criminal statutes, and the penalty for lying about being someone’s wife is that you have to go out for a late dinner with him. Let me wash up real quick.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  They selected a steak joint with red-checked curtains, faux-oak tables, and the deserted air of being a week away from bankruptcy, but then, privacy was why they picked it. While Peggy studied the menu, Brady studied her, this girl whom he had assumed he knew so well.

  “Penny,” she said, looking up and catching his eye.

  “Thinking about you. About how fast a year goes by, but how long it is looking back. Are you still teaching?”

  “I am. Even finished my master’s this year, so now I make a smidgen more than I would as a Walmart greeter. But I don’t like the new administrative team, and the district does, so I may have to move instead of transferring within the district.” She picked up a breadstick and pointed it at him like a pistol. “Now talk, Brady Spain, before I have to get out my rubber hose. I want to know how all this happened to you.”

  He raised his hands in the classic surrender pose. “Don’t I get a blindfold and a cigarette?”

  She just aimed the breadstick at him again and shook her head. He knew he had been avoiding the subject. But the thrill he got from her unexpected company, this person whom he could trust unconditionally, who also trusted him, was a mood he wanted to prolong, not ruin with a bunch of raggedy-ass drama that would surely make him look like a loser. That dri
ve, though, and all the work to be here—she had earned the right to hear it.

  He waited until they ordered, Cobb salad for her and a Philly for him, then told her the whole sordid sequence of disasters. He could tell she felt embarrassed for him when he got to the part about the yard work, an emotion he too would have felt in his previous life, which seemed much farther in the past than a week. But living at the Suncrest and trying to stay one step ahead of prison changed a man’s idea of embarrassment. In telling it he found out that, clichéd or not, it really did feel good to unload it all on someone who believed you.

  “You really should tell all that to the police,” she said when he finished. “Why haven’t you?”

  “Well, I missed my chance to do it before Burgess and son set me up as a liar,” he said. “Now, no one is going to believe my word against theirs, and I can guarantee you Leo Burgess will have me in jail the minute I open my mouth.”

  “You can’t know that. I still think you should talk to someone official, it’s the only way you’ll get to tell your side.” She cocked her head and raised a suspicious eyebrow. “You’re not getting hardheaded about this, are you?”

  “No,” he lied. “Why would you think that?”

  “Whatever.” She brandished her fork this time, a shred of lettuce dangling from its end. “I know you, Brady Guillermo Spain né Torres. ‘Oh, I can’t go to the cops, Peg, they won’t believe me. Oh, I don’t want a lawyer, it’ll make me look guilty.’ What you won’t say is that you want to fight this out yourself, just you on your trusty white charger.”

  Brady sat back, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb to hide his eyes. Busted. He had not yet even admitted it all to himself, consciously.

  Once he had his poker face reloaded, he stalled some more by working on his last bite of sandwich. Funny how he had thought of her as sweet but hopelessly small-town compared to the glamorous girls of the Florida beach scene. Yet here she sat, and the reality was that she made the women of Heron Point look neurotic and shallow. And behind those freckles hid an intuitive brain that proved faster than the ones in paradise. Made him wonder if everyone’s perceptions of others were clouded by their own personal discontents.