CAPTURING CLEO

by Linda Winstead Jones

  Russell dropped his feet from the table and sat up straight. “Edgar?”

  “Makes sense, in a way. Let’s say he calls his victim over to the club on a Sunday afternoon, when no one else is there, to discuss... whatever it takes to get them there. Something tempting. He might have offered to help Tempest run Cleo out of business, for the right price. He might’ve apologized to Webb for the shoddy treatment he received, and offered them both a beer on the house.” Luther closed his eyes and shook his head. “Edgar was outside the club when Webb gave me his name. The old man even put the drunk in a cab. Finding his number would’ve been as easy as picking up a phone book.”

  “So, is he going to call you this afternoon and invite you over?”

  Luther stood up, snatching Edgar’s file from the top of his desk. “I don’t think I want to wait around and find out. Let’s pay the old man a visit.”

  Cleo usually loved Sundays. She slept late, took Rambo to the park if the weather was nice, watched old movies on television, and hung out with Syd. It was her recovery day, her only day off.

  But she didn’t mind that Edgar had called. She hadn’t been able to rest, anyway, not while sitting around wondering if Henry, a customer she’d recognized when Luther showed her a photograph, was the man who’d killed Jack and the heckler, or if Luther was right in remaining cautious. If the killer was still loose would he manage, despite all their plans, to run Luther down in the street? Luther, who wouldn’t give up. Who wanted to fight for her. For them. He said he’d be back, and in spite of everything she wanted that to happen.

  She unlocked the door and stepped into the club. Boone was right behind her. Edgar stood at the bar, his hands on his head as he leaned over a sheaf of papers.

  “This could’ve waited until tomorrow,” Cleo said as she locked the door behind her. “You need a day off, too.”

  “I know,” he said. “But I was sitting at home and I kept thinking about these numbers, and I didn’t want them waiting on us tomorrow. I just can’t get everything to add up right.” Edgar lifted his head and frowned, as Cleo walked toward the bar with Boone at her back. “You look different.”

  “It’s my day off, too,” she teased. Of course she looked different. Her face was scrubbed clean, her hair was pulled up off her neck, and instead of a snug dress made for an audience, she wore well-worn jeans and a deep blue sweater, perfect for a cool February day.

  “You’re short,” he said.

  Cleo smiled as she glanced down at her rarely worn sneakers. “I am.”

  Edgar snarled at Boone. “Unless you’re an accountant, back up, sit down, and entertain yourself for a while.” Boone didn’t move from her side.

  “Okay,” Edgar said when he saw that Boone wasn’t going to move. “Have a beer and stay out of my way.” He grabbed a glass and drew beer from the tap, banging the drink onto the bar before Boone.

  Boone looked at her. “We shouldn’t be here,” he said. “We should’ve, at the very least, called Malone.”

  Cleo wrinkled her nose. “He doesn’t need to know where I am twenty-four hours a day.”

  “I believe he thinks differently.” Boone pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “I’ll just give him a quick call and let him know—”

  “No,” Cleo said, reaching out and laying her hand on Boone’s wrist. “By the time he gets here, we’ll be finished. There’s no need to waste his time with this.” Besides, she didn’t want to be the one to draw him out of his apartment. He was safe there. She had this horrible vision of him laying in the street outside her club, the third victim of the killer who was making a career of taking out the men who made her life miserable. Much as she wanted to believe the customer who’d sent her roses was the killer, she wasn’t willing to gamble with Luther’s life.

  She shooed Boone down the bar. “Go. Drink your beer. By the time you’re finished we should be done, or close to it.”

  Edgar placed the papers on the bar, and as Cleo pulled herself up and onto one of the stools, Boone obediently moved to a nearby table, taking his drink with him.

  Cleo checked Edgar’s figures on the inventory and found everything no more of a mess than usual. He’d ordered too much Scotch and not enough vodka, but she checked and double-checked his figuring and found nothing wrong. He urged her to look again, telling her that he knew something wasn’t right. She started at the top and went down each column.

  “It looks fine, Edgar,” she said, shuffling the papers into a neat pile and smiling. “I’m going to get out of here, and I want you to do the same. Go home and watch sports on television or take a nap.” What he really needed was a lady friend, but since his wife had died more than a year ago he didn’t seem interested. He was too young to give up on life, but at times it seemed that was just what had happened.

  “I think your bodyguard is taking a nap right here,” Edgar said, nodding his head.

  Cleo swiveled around to see that Edgar was right. Boone had his head down on the table, an empty beer mug sitting beside the long strands of hair that hid most of the PI’s face. Something grabbed at her heart. It wasn’t right. Boone rarely slept, and she couldn’t see him falling asleep here and now.

  “Boone?” she called. He didn’t move.

  Edgar walked around the bar and came up on Cleo as she slipped from the stool. She took a step toward Boone; Edgar stopped her with a quick hand that closed tightly around her wrist.

  “He’ll be all right,” Edgar said calmly. “He’ll just sleep for a while, that’s all.”

  She turned terrified eyes to the bartender, a man who continued to look calm and friendly.

  “He has no reason to fear, because he didn’t hurt you.”

  “Oh, Edgar...”

  Edgar dragged her to the table and made her sit down across from an unconscious Boone. He snapped up Boone’s cell phone and handed it to her. “Call Malone and tell him to come here. Now. Alone.”

  She shook her head. “No.” She wouldn’t be responsible for bringing Luther into danger, where Edgar could finish his work. “You have it all wrong. Luther never hurt me. There’s no reason—”

  “You’re only saying that because you care for him, in spite of everything he did to you,” Edgar snapped. “He treated you badly, and still you have feelings for him.” He took a deep breath, as if trying to calm himself. “I saw you last night, letting him kiss you. Letting him hold you. And all the while you wore my white rose in your hair. I knew what you were trying to tell me by wearing that white rose.”

  “I wasn’t trying to tell you anything,” she said softly.

  “It was my cue to continue, my reassurance that you wanted Malone dead.”

  “No!” she said. “I… I love him. If you care for me at all—”

  “Care for you?” Edgar said darkly. “You’re my entire life. You’re the daughter I never had, my reason for living. I was brought here to protect you, Cleo.” He gave her a small smile. “Sometimes when you sing I know in my heart that you’re singing to me.”

  Cleo’s world tilted and spun. Her vision narrowed. She’d never fainted before, but right now she felt she might. She shook off her fear and did her best to regain control.

  “Edgar,” she said evenly. “Please don’t do this.”

  He placed the cell phone on the table before her with one hand and reached behind his back with the other, pulling out a revolver. He pointed the weapon at Boone. “Make the call, or I shoot.”

  “No!” She picked up the phone and dialed Luther’s number, her hands shaking. The phone rang four times, and then his answering machine picked up. “He’s not there.”

  “Try his cell phone.”

  Her hands shook so hard she wasn’t sure she could dial again. “Edgar, I don’t understand...”

  He leaned down close, but the gun remained pointed at the head of an unconscious Boone Sinclair. “After my wife died, I thought I should die, too. I kept waiting, to die in my sleep, to walk in front of a bus, to just… die. But I didn’t. Finall
y, one night about six months ago, I decided to end it myself. I had this gun in a safe under the bed. All I had to do was go home, put it to my head and...” He swallowed hard. “It seemed like such a simple solution. But that same night you sang to me. I glanced up, and my eyes fell on you, and I knew you were singing to me.” He reached out and touched her cheek. “You saved me that night because I suddenly realized why I was here, why I lived. You sang to me, and I swore that I would watch over you forever, that you would be the daughter Susan and I never had.”

  “Edgar,” Cleo said, trying to remain calm. “You’ve always been my friend. Please, please don’t hurt anyone else.”

  “You were glad when I killed Jack. I could tell, even though you didn’t say you were glad. And then Malone came along.” His eyes flashed, then darted this way and that. “He… he touched you and he kissed you, and you allowed him to take advantage of you. I wasn’t pleased by that, Cleo. I was very disappointed. I thought when I showed how much I loved you by killing that heckler, you’d appreciate the sacrifice and realize that you’re too good for the likes of Luther Malone.”

  “Edgar—”

  “No more talking,” Edgar said gruffly, pressing the muzzle of his revolver against Boone’s head. “Call Malone. He’s to come here, and he’s to come alone. He’ll be sorry if he doesn’t follow my instructions.”

  Edgar rented an apartment not far from Cleo’s club. The ancient, yellow-brick building had seen better years, but wasn’t exactly a rat trap. Some efforts had been made to make the place suitable.

  There were six units in the long building. Edgar lived on the top floor. The closer they got to the door of Edgar’s apartment, the antsier Luther got. Something wasn’t right. His gut told him something was terribly wrong. He reached inside his jacket and retrieved his six-shooter. Behind him, he heard the unmistakable scrape of metal on leather, as Russell unholstered his own weapon.

  At the top of the stairs, he stood aside and banged on the door. “Edgar!” he shouted. “Police. Open up.” There was no response. He banged again, standing to the side of the door, which needed painting. “Edgar, it’s me, Malone. I just want to ask you a few questions.” Still nothing.

  “Hey!” a strident voice from the bottom of the stairway shouted. “What are you doing?”

  The overweight woman wore a housedress so brightly colored, it put his Valentine boxers to shame. And she was annoyed.

  “Who are you?” Russell asked.

  “I manage this apartment building,” she said sharply. “You two are making entirely too much noise! This is a nice, quiet neighborhood.”

  Luther flashed his badge. “We need to get into this apartment.”

  “What for?” she shouted, unimpressed.

  “I’m afraid something might be wrong with Edgar.” That was the truth. No sane person would kill the way their perpetrator had. If Edgar had killed Tempest and Webb, there was definitely something wrong with him.

  “Oh,” she said, sounding deflated.

  “Do you have a key?”

  “Of course I have a key.” She drew a key chain from a deep pocket in her housedress, and tossed it to Mikey. “The keys are labeled,” she said. “I’m in 1A. Just drop the keys off when you’re finished.” She waddled off, apparently not concerned enough about Edgar to stick around and see what they found. Just as well.

  If Edgar was here, he knew what was happening. The manager hadn’t kept her voice down and neither had Luther. But the place was so quiet, he didn’t think Edgar was in. He had to be sure, though, so he found the proper key and inserted it into the lock.

  “Edgar?” he called, his voice somewhat friendly. “Are you here?”

  The apartment smelled of week-old garbage and stale booze. And something else, some sickly-sweet odor under it all, as if the old man had tried to cover his bad cleaning habits with a hint of perfume.

  “Edgar?” Luther moved through the living room and glanced into the kitchen. The garbage can overflowed, the sink was piled high with dirty dishes.

  Russell moved down the hallway and glanced into the first bedroom. Luther was right behind him. Unmade bed, clothes on the floor, half-empty bottle of Scotch on the bedside table. The bathroom was even worse.

  Luther passed Russell and opened the last door off the hallway. The sweet scent hit him full in the face, the aroma of oft-burned scented candles and a spray of perfume. Cleo’s perfume.

  His heart almost stopped. This room was spotless. No dust, no litter, no signs of neglect marred it. Two walls were plastered with photographs of Cleo, some old and some new. A long table had been set against one wall, and on it sat a framed picture of Cleo flanked by two fat candles that had been burned more than halfway down. Red roses, half a dozen of them, sat in a crystal vase behind the photograph.

  A pair of red spike-heel shoes—Cleo’s, he was certain—were displayed on a shelf in a place of honor. She’d mentioned, once, losing her best pair of red shoes. A cassette player was placed just beneath it. A stack of cassettes sat beside the player. No doubt her single release was in there, along with recordings of nights at the club. Nights when Cleo had no idea she’d been recorded.

  Luther uttered a foul word. Russell reacted in the same way. Since it was obvious Edgar wasn’t home, Luther holstered his six-shooter and reached for his cell phone, dialing Boone’s number from memory. Busy.

  “You go to Cleo’s and check on her,” he said to Russell. “I’m…”

  “No,” his partner said crisply. “I’ve got your back. Where you go, I go. Where do you think he is?”

  There was only one place he could think of. The club. “We’ll swing by Cleo’s house first, check in with Boone, get a patrol car on her place, and—” His cell phone rang, cutting him off in mid-sentence.

  Boone’s number came up on the caller ID. Thank God. “Listen,” Luther said as he answered, in place of his usual “Malone.”

  “Luther?”

  His gut clenched when he heard Cleo’s voice.

  “Where are you?” he snapped.

  “I didn’t want to call,” she said, “but he held a gun to Boone’s head. He wants you to come here, but don’t, Luther. Don’t—” There was a sharp intake of breath. When she said, “Don’t” the second time, Luther knew she wasn’t talking to him.

  “Are you all right?” He could hear her shaking. Of course she wasn’t all right!

  “We’re at the club. Edgar says come now, and come alone. If you don’t, if he sees anyone else or hears any sirens, he’ll kill me and then himself.”

  “I’m coming,” he said. “Hang in there. Everything’s going to be—”

  The phone went dead.

  “All right,” he finished softly.

  “What’s up?” Russell asked.

  Luther looked at his young, enthusiastic, never-say-die partner. It was no longer a matter of whether or not he trusted the kid. Cleo’s life was on the line.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Once she’d made the phone call Edgar took Cleo’s keys, in case she should decide to run. He then dragged Boone’s body out of the chair and to the rear door, and dumped it unceremoniously in the alley. He maneuvered the big man with no apparent effort. Of course Edgar was strong! He’d have to be, to drag Jack all the way to the top of that building and toss him over. Cleo shuddered at the thought.

  With Boone disposed of, Edgar sat in the PI’s place and gave her a wide smile.

  “Will he really be all right?” she asked.

  “Sure. He might have a headache when he wakes up, but he’s a big guy. I don’t think I gave him too much.”

  Cleo’s insides quaked. “You don’t think?”

  Edgar shrugged, clearly unconcerned.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “Malone shows up, alone as I requested. He drinks, and when he’s unconscious, I’ll lay him in the street, and you and I will get in my car and run him over a dozen times.”

  “No,” she said hoarsely.

  “Yes,” Edg
ar snapped, his smile gone. “That’s the way it has to be, Cleo. You and I can’t make things right as long as he’s around.”

  She swallowed hard. “Edgar, you and I can’t ever make things right.”

  His face tensed, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “We’re family, Cleo. We can’t let a man like Malone come between us.”

  She prayed that Luther wouldn’t come. She didn’t want to see him die. Enough people had died in her name. What had she done to make Edgar believe that there was anything between them aside from friendship? “I didn’t mean to mislead you,” she said, trying to remain calm. Inside she didn’t feel calm at all. Her heart hammered, and she couldn’t manage the deep breath she felt she needed.

  “You didn’t mislead me,” Edgar said. “You just don’t understand, yet. But you will. Once we’re together, you’ll realize that I’m right.” His eyes went dreamy. “You sang to me. I looked at you and I could tell that you were looking right back at me. No one else mattered. Nothing else mattered. There was a connection in the air, an electricity. I know you felt it, too.”

  “I didn’t,” she said softly. “I just... Oh, Edgar. Let’s end this now, before anyone else gets hurt.”

  He shook his head. “It’s too late for that. We’re going to get rid of Malone, and then you and I are going to keep on driving.”

  “Where will we go?” she asked hoarsely.

  “I don’t know.” His lack of direction didn’t seem to bother him. “I’ll let you decide.”

  How was she supposed to reason with a man who wasn’t rational? The minutes ticked past. “He won’t come, you know,” she said. “Luther won’t come. He knows you plan to kill him. Why should he put himself in that position?”

  “I’m sure he believes he can save you and himself. His kind always does.”

  “This place will be surrounded by cops before you know it,” she said. “You should go, now, before they get here.”

  Confident, Edgar shook his head. “He won’t risk your life like that. I told him what I would do.”