Bad Blood

by Hugh Dutton

  “Well, at first I really did just want to get untangled any way I could,” he said after swallowing. “But now I can’t see a way out unless I do something. And I guess I do want a certain amount of satisfaction. My name clear, anyway. I still can’t believe you actually drove all the way down here, it like totally made my day. Heck, my month. What made you so sure I would still be here, and not skipping town ahead of the posse?”

  “Based on that news story, I figured you couldn’t.” She pushed her plate aside and picked up her napkin, twisting it around in her fingers. “Besides, like I said, I know you. You’ve never run away from anything in your life other than me.”

  He just stared at her, unable to speak. Kind of felt like getting slapped with a wet catfish, but she was dead-on as usual. And he was a dumbass.

  “Hey, don’t get that beat-up look on your face,” she said, reaching across to pat his hand. “Just because you’re done with me, it doesn’t change the fact that I couldn’t stand the idea of you going through something like this alone. Being accused of something this scary, something I knew you couldn’t have done.”

  “Stop the presses. I never said I was done with you. Being a total moron is not the same thing as being done, okay? In fact, if you’re not too over me and my brain-dead self, I don’t think I’ll ever be done with you. But I need you to do me a favor.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.” Her eyes had darkened to a jade green, a depthless shimmer in them that he couldn’t read.

  “I need you to go back home and stay there until I call you, okay?”

  The shimmer gave way to a high-voltage flash of anger. “That was a dirty trick, Brady.”

  “I know it was. But I really need you to. There’s nothing you can do for me any better than you’ve done by coming. I need you to go because I’m scared to have you here.” And I want the chance to come to you, without any baggage, show up on my knees and ask for another shot.

  “But why?”

  “You deserve the truth, but you have to promise that it won’t send you off the deep end about what I’ve got to do, okay? These guys are so outrageous I don’t trust them not to do something to you as a way of banging on me. I take that back, I do trust them to do exactly that. Like what they’ve done to me, or worse. And to me, that would be harder to live with than that prison cell I told you about.”

  Digger Carrero drummed his fingers against the edge of the table, putting all his attention into the rhythm, because he knew it would annoy the narrow-ass smart-bitch cop questioning him. He’d done this scene before, make a statement and listen to a bunch of stupid questions. Probably this same room, too. Couldn’t tell ’cause all they junky-ass rooms looked the same, furnished from the same garage sale. He knew they only asked questions when they ain’t got shit on you, and he wanted old redheaded beast sitting across from him to know he wasn’t listening to no woman cop.

  He sneered for the camera, wondering who all was watching, while she droned on and on about his car being placed at the scene of this, that, and the other. All of which told him he was here because of that whacked-out smiley cop who came to see him. Get out of this, he would hunt down old fat boy and dust him up. Then he remembered the eyes in that smiling face and decided it might not be so easy. Seemed like maybe those eyes weren’t as fat, dumb, and happy as the rest of his act. Shoulda never figured him for a mental without looking closer, Digger. You got to check out a man’s depth. His attention snapped back to the female when he heard her say some shit about first-degree homicide and a death penalty.

  “The hell you talking about, homicide?” he interrupted, terror mushrooming in his chest. No way he was letting this skank put him in that frame.

  “Gee, Albert, I guess you weren’t listening,” she said, bullshit innocence on her face and using his real name for the first time. “I told you, we’ve got witnesses who saw you cruising the neighborhood where Lexy Burgess was killed. You admit you have no alibi, and considering your history with the ladies, a jury wouldn’t even leave the stand to think it over.”

  “No fuckin’ way,” Digger yelled. “You got to have evidence, and you ain’t got none, ’cause I ain’t do no homicide. I want me a lawyer. I ain’t never even heard of no Lexy.”

  Bitch cop smiled at him, a nasty smile like a Doberman’s. “I checked your sheet, Albert. You never know any of your victims. You went too far this time. I can’t believe some of the plea deals you’ve gotten. You should’ve pulled a big number a long time ago. Maybe you’ll get lucky again, talk it down to life without parole. Somehow I don’t think so, though. Anything else you want to say before I call the public defender?”

  She placed both hands against the table, did a brief fingertip drumroll of her own, and shoved her chair back to stand.

  “Wait,” he blurted.

  She eased back down into her chair and leaned all up in his grille, just looking, not saying shit. He turned sideways in his seat and pulled his head as far away from her nasty ass as he could. Damn, his skin got all cold and tight-feeling at the idea of going back to the joint, having to wear make-up and perfume, and spending his nights on his knees. But he could do it, long as he knew he was getting out at the other end alive. No way he could do life like that, and he damn sure couldn’t face the needle. And he couldn’t be sure Roni would come and visit him on no murder stretch. So forget the PD, they just always want to plead to any damn thing. Better off to cut a deal with this old snake-mean heifer here himself.

  “Look, you get off me on this bullshit murder if I give you something?” he said. “You know I ain’t do it.”

  Now she finally leaned back, crossing her arms and looking at him like he was a dumb fuck. “I don’t know, Albert, I think we’ve got you cold on this one. But I’ll listen to anything. Whaddaya got?”

  “How ’bout if I cop to doing a ponytail girl and maybe dime a couple of parole busters y’all ain’t never found?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Leo Burgess stood at the head of the steps leading down from the lanai, hands on his hips, surveying the disgraceful excuse of a pool party below him. No more than twenty guests in attendance, milling around and pretending that it did not feel like a fat kid’s birthday party, while sixty pounds of prime beefsteak rotted away in the ninety-degree broiler of sunset in September.

  After an initial flash of alarm that he had committed a social blunder by hosting it so soon after the deaths of his daughter and his maintenance man, he decided that was not the issue, disloyalty was. After all, Alexandra’s tragedy had taken place almost two weeks ago, and Anna could not lie in bed forever. Pete was not even a member of the family. No, these people needed to be here paying their respects, appreciating his strength in a time of sorrow. He would simply make note of those who did not attend and remember where they really stood with him.

  The most egregious offense was the glaring absence of any of the members from the executive team at Beach Haven Resorts. He had invited them as a show of his appreciation for their cooperation in the Brady Spain matter, planning to reassure them in person that the deal was still a green light, the county commission would rubber-stamp any zoning exception or permit Leo Burgess requested. Yet not even a token appearance from a lone representative.

  He descended the five steps to the cobbled brick path, almost missing the last one and falling flat when he spotted Brady Spain crossing his lawn, coming toward him. He tasted the bitter bile of anger rising in his throat. Who in God’s name did this fellow think he was?

  When Brady Spain got the call from Gerry Terence informing him of Albert Carrero’s confession to the assault on Sara Zeletsky, he had to sort through a maelstrom of emotions and reactions. Jubilation at being free of Leo Burgess, gratitude toward Terence, residual anger at Burgess for holding him hostage, an urgent regret that Peggy had done as he asked and was now not here to celebrate. Plus a flutter of anxiety up his spine when Terence cautioned him that the police had not zeroed in on a suspect for Lexy’s murder.
/>   Already in the Jeep when he took the call, driving back to his roach hole after taking advantage of an option to work on Labor Day, he ripped a U-turn and sped back north toward Heron Point. Showing up at the Burgess estate covered in a day’s sweat and grime couldn’t be good politics, but too bad. Brady wanted to get in front of the guy right now and find out if the good news would bring a cease-fire. Underneath his euphoria, he recognized the hard truth that shaking loose of the bad check rap was only the first step in getting his life back to anything remotely like six weeks before, when he had moved into Heron Point.

  He almost made another U-turn at the Burgess home when he saw a dozen cars lined along the curb and what looked like a grill-out shindig happening at the pool. Then he saw Leo Burgess standing alone at the edge of the veranda and reminded himself, too bad. Let’s get this done.

  He double-parked and cut across the yard, hustling to catch Burgess before anyone else came within earshot. Christ, but the man possessed a powerful, intimidating presence, especially for someone that old. It hit Brady that it was more than just Burgess’s imposing size creating that aura; something about the stoutness of his size made his age feel like a source of strength and toughness, like with a giant oak or sequoia. The impending confrontation turned Brady’s insides hollow and breathless, and there was no other word for it but fear.

  “Mr. Spain,” Burgess said as Brady approached. “This is a function for residents and invited guests, of which you are neither. There is only one thing I am interested in hearing from you, so that had better be your purpose here.”

  “Yeah, well, so I’m a gate-crasher, too.” The challenge helped smooth Brady’s jitters back into resolve, though his pulse continued galloping. “Figured I might be invited if this was a wake for ol’ Pete, but I can guess he probably didn’t score enough society points. I take it you haven’t heard the news, then.”

  Burgess’s brow drew down low enough that he stared at Brady through the shrubbery growing up there. “I find your impertinence most irritating, and I do not think it wise of you to antagonize me, with what you have to lose. To what news are you referring?”

  “Nick’s off the hook. They got the guy who attacked Sara.”

  The momentary spasm of relief that crossed Burgess’s face looked like it packed such a punch that Brady thought the man’s knees would buckle. Then the harsh face reset into its rigid lines.

  “I am afraid you misunderstand,” Burgess said. “He was never on the hook, as you put it. No one except perhaps you could imagine him guilty of such savagery. You have attempted to incriminate my son by lying about his presence that night, for what motive I cannot hazard a guess. Perhaps jealousy of a man your age who is more fortunate than you. Now you are in your current predicament because I refused to allow you to do so. Don’t you feel quite stupid to have brought this trouble on yourself, Mr. Spain?”

  Brady stared at him, openmouthed, imagining that his eyeballs were sticking out like a Looney Tunes character. Who was this guy kidding? “Well, that sure cleared up a lot for me,” he said. “I’m glad you got all that worked out. But what I want to know is, are we done? You don’t need to squeeze me anymore, and you bagged a free month’s rent in the bargain.”

  “I suppose now you would like your money returned and all criminal proceedings dismissed,” said Burgess, smiling like a vampire eyeing an open vein.

  “I couldn’t care less about the money as long as you’ll drop the whole matter and call us all square,” Brady retorted, stunned by the vicious contempt visible in Burgess’s features. What more could he possibly want?

  “First, I am going to tell you something,” said Burgess, looming huge in the halo of the porch lights behind him as the dusk deepened. He waggled his forefinger at Brady.

  “I suspect you see yourself as brave for resisting me in this matter. You are not. You are a scared little rabbit, unable to think clearly when faced with any threat. I find it amusing that you lacked the chutzpah to challenge the fraud charge. With the prevailing sentiment in courtrooms today, it is doubtful that you would have been jailed, though you certainly will be convicted of the offense. Yet you allowed yourself to be cowed by an irrational fear of a nebulous threat. So no, Mr. Spain, I will not drop the matter, for if nothing else it will create embarrassment, inconvenience, and expense for you. You have annoyed me, Mr. Spain, and you will pay for that. In addition, your foolhardiness and insolence have convinced me that you are capable of all manner of irrational behaviors. I believe I will join Nicolas in personally calling for a thorough investigation of you for the murder of my daughter. Now, I have guests to tend to, and you must leave.”

  Anna Burgess balanced the tray of canapés on one arm and reached for the doorknob with her other hand. Though they had staff there to handle food preparation, she always made up a supply of her own salmon and cream cheese hors d’oeuvres for party guests. She had not felt up to doing so for this event, but Leo had insisted, and in truth the ritual had improved her spirits. It did not change the fact that no party would ever feel festive again, without her Lexy.

  She managed the knob and eased the door open with her foot to avoid jostling her tray. She paused there in the doorway when she noticed Leo at the bottom of the steps, talking with a young man she did not know. She set the canapé tray down on the occasional table by the door and closed her eyes to enhance her hearing.

  Once she tuned into the conversation, she realized with a flinch that the stranger was Brady Spain, the boy who was supposed to help Nicky. She heard Leo ask about news and Spain’s answer sucked her breath away. She waited long enough to be sure, but she never got a chance to savor the joy of hearing the answer to her prayers.

  Feeling her mind darkening as vertigo crowded in on her, she ran out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and flung herself across the bed—the party, the hors d’oeuvres, and Brady Spain all forgotten. She could not bring herself to even ask God to forgive her for this. She had committed the most damnable of sins, willingly as an act of love for her son, but to find out it was a needless act removed all right to pray for absolution. It was her punishment for not believing in her Nicky.

  Now the only penitent course left to her was public confession of her sins, to let others judge her in the hopes that she could earn back the privilege of asking for God’s grace. She knew she should tell Leo first, but he would prevent her from carrying out her duty. She must go now; her sin demanded it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Jeanette Voyes looked nothing like what Brady had imagined. After hearing her deep voice over the phone, he’d pictured a bulldog-faced wine barrel of a woman, banging out her purple prose on an old-fashioned Underwood as she smoked her way through half a carton of Camels a day. The woman who waved him over to a table at the coffee shop they’d agreed on turned out to be a short, slight, intense-looking Mediterranean type with dark curly hair and restless brown eyes. No Camels in sight, though the dark roast or espresso that sat steaming in front of her smelled strong enough to be just as deadly.

  After introductions and seating, he thanked her for meeting him and then hesitated over picking where to start.

  “So you believe you can help me find the source of our silt runoff,” she said before he could get his mouth open. “How?”

  Okay, start there. “I’ve taken a crash course in this stuff, so I may not have it all straight, but I think I do. Most of the biology part I’ve gotten from you, and I’ve been boning up on tides and currents. Have you ever considered Heron Point as your source?”

  The restless eyes locked in on him, narrowing into slits. “There aren’t any estuaries near Heron Point. Nothing that feeds into the ocean. No construction, no nothing.”

  “That’s why I’m learning about currents. What would you say if I told you that the computer model shows it to be as a feasible scenario, given the prevailing current? Wouldn’t it be worth doing a study?”

  She took a measured sip of coffee, holding her gaze on him. “I would say, whose co
mputer model?”

  Brady felt a trickle of sweat running down his ribs despite the air conditioning. He was betting a lot on this woman he’d just met. “Let’s say I know at least one of the models the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration uses would show that, if you knew someone authorized to access it. I’m equally positive the University of Florida’s would corroborate the results.”

  She raised her eyebrows, setting her cup down. “And you know this how?”

  He drew a deep breath. “Look, maybe I gambled wrong on you, but I’m betting you wouldn’t have bothered to meet me without researching me first.” He saw a twitch at the corners of her mouth and plunged on. “So you at least know I have the background to possibly be capable of doing what I’m not telling you I did.”

  Another twitch of the lips and a small nod. “And you’re one hundred percent certain that a certified, authorized programmer will get the same results you would’ve gotten if you did what you didn’t do?”

  Brady grinned. As smart as he’d believed her to be. “Well, no. I can only promise ninety-nine percent, because I’m not an oceanographer. But I am one hundred percent good at what I do. So, worth getting a study done?”

  She let out a bitter-sounding snort of laughter. “Sure, like I can afford to finance a study. Apparently no one else gives enough of a damn to do anything. I’ve busted my ass trying to get the DEP on it, but so far, no soap.” She paused and stacked both hands under her chin, giving him the narrow eye thing again. “Who are you trying to hang?”