Tried & True (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 5)

by Jerusha Jones

  Des picked me up shortly after noon, and I spent a couple hours riding shotgun in his official Jeep Grand Cherokee. I had my array of phones in my tote bag, but I was hoping against hope that Tank Ebersole wouldn’t choose this particular afternoon to extend our acquaintance. Try chatting with an outlaw biker president while the sheriff is all ears right beside you.

  Consequently, I was rather taciturn, chewing on my lower lip and studying the scenery. Des kept darting worried sideways glances at me.

  Finally, he spoke. “So you and Walt—you, uh, make a good pair.”

  “Oh no.” I frowned at Des’s profile. “I do not plan on ever having to respond to a kidnapping again. We’re not some commando recovery team. That episode was way outside my comfort zone.”

  This time Des’s glance was both quizzical and slightly amused. He stretched the fingers of his right hand then rewrapped them around the steering wheel. “I wasn’t talking about that. Walt’s the right age for you.”

  The right age for what? I shifted in my seat and brought my stare fully to bear on him.

  Des always looks a little weary. But this time, when his mossy green eyes swung in my direction, they held sadness behind the smile he gave me. And the realization hit me like a punch in the stomach.

  “I don’t want to be treading on another man’s territory,” he murmured.

  Clarice and Loretta had teased me about Des’s attentions, but I’d brushed off his motive as neighborliness. And the fact that he was concerned about the safety of his county’s residents, of which I was one—the one who probably demanded more of his law enforcement efforts than all the others combined.

  I’d also been counting on my married status to act as a sort of immunity to romantic interest. Not that my husband was present or available to truly function as a marriage partner.

  My mouth was open for a long time before I could actually speak. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. I was desperate that I had disappointed Des. I respected him far too much to intentionally trifle with his emotions.

  But why had he mentioned Walt? If anything, this conversation should have been about Skip.

  Des shrugged. “Wishful thinking on my part.” He reached over and squeezed my knee. “A woman like you doesn’t come around too often. It’d have been stupid not to at least throw my hat in the ring. So, did you ever get a handgun?”

  I blinked to clear the hurdle of this shift in topics. “Um, I have a gun, yes.” I had no idea if it had been obtained legally, but it was on the top shelf in my bedroom closet, courtesy of Josh.

  “Good,” Des said firmly. “I’m going to teach you how to shoot. We’ll start tomorrow.” He told me where the shooting range was.

  Trees are gorgeous. I mean real trees—not the kind that are dwarfed by drought and the decorative whims of landscapers, but the kind that grow wild and free in a crowded forest. All different shades of green, shapes, bark textures, needle lengths, scents. There’s as much variety in trees as there is in humans. But they had the advantage that you couldn’t hurt their feelings. I pressed my lips together and returned to staring out the window at the wall of trees on the edge of the highway.

  To say I’d been blindsided by Des’s remarks would’ve been an understatement. Walt? Like Des, Walt had only treated me honorably. I didn’t think the fact that Skip had returned his wedding ring to me was public knowledge. Besides, I wasn’t even sure what—if any—symbolic meaning that act portended.

  But rumors get around. Boy, do they ever. The tiniest details moved at light speed to tickle every ear in May County.

  By the way,” Des cleared his throat, “that switchblade you and Walt used to cut your way out of Ace Trailer Repair’s storeroom—it’s illegal. I’m not going to ask where you got it. But in Washington a knife like that is only approved for members of law enforcement and the military, while they’re on duty and for use in an official capacity. You can’t get a concealed carry permit for it. Which is kind of crazy since it’s no more or less lethal than a gun. So there you go—” Des directed an amused tilt of his chin toward me, “another one of the laws I have to uphold. Which means if it’s in your bag, don’t let me see it. And definitely don’t try to take it into SCORE with you.”

  “I don’t suppose anyone will be breaking into a marked sheriff’s vehicle in a jail parking lot, will they?”

  Des chuckled. “Probably not.”

  Just like that, he reassured me, gave me comfort, let me know he was okay—that we were okay. I was only in May County because of my mess, my problems, but I’d certainly overflowed to infect the good people around me. Where would I be without their support? I was flooded with gratitude. Des was the best of men.

  Then he talked me through the protocol of a jail visit, which seemed to consist of signing a bunch of record logs, presenting my ID, clearing a security inspection, and waiting.

  The SCORE facility was built like a concrete industrial park secluded deep in the woods. But the architects had put a good face on the unpleasant reality—the main entrance was coldly welcoming in a soaring, multi-angled, steel and glass sort of way.

  Des ensured that I received VIP treatment—as much as such a thing was possible—which meant I was afforded the luxuries that the occasional high-powered attorney received and didn’t have to use one of the phones in the long bank of metal, not-exactly-private cubicles in the regular visiting area.

  I was ushered into a small room bare except for a stainless steel-topped table with four round seats orbiting it like satellites, all welded to the same base. Similar to the permanent, weather-resistant furnishings in the outdoor seating area of a fast food restaurant, except not as cheerful.

  The air was stuffy with a pervasive odor resembling the sweaty mold and chemical scent of a locker room, but worse. It gave me the creepy feeling that the room was coated with a nervous detritus—prisoners’ skin cells and dandruff and tears—the kind of stain a janitorial crew could never fully bleach away. All that suffering piling up, layer upon layer, passed down among the generations. Even though the building was only a few years old it reeked of apathy and misery.

  Des kept me company while we waited. We didn’t talk, just sat on the uncomfortable seats with our elbows on the table and breathed. I wanted to thank him, but I felt as though our words were worn out at the moment, and touching him, even an innocent hand on his arm, wasn’t a good idea. Nonetheless, our silence wasn’t awkward.

  Perhaps because the jail around us supplied more than enough noise. Clanging, shouts, echoes. Squeaky shuffling down the linoleum hallway, chains jingling. An orange jumpsuit—

  I shot to my feet.

  Lutsenko scuffed into the room, followed closely by a pudgy guard in a navy blue uniform. The guard and Des exchanged knowing, stern nods. The guard pushed Lutsenko onto a seat and hooked his chains to an eyebolt embedded in the floor.

  “We’ll be just outside.” Des squeezed my shoulder and closed the door behind him.

  I could still see both Des and the guard through the wire-reinforced glass in the door’s window. Which was a relief because suddenly this was all too real.

  Viktor Lutsenko—Numero Dos, casino boss, and human trafficker—was three feet away. It was the closest I’d ever been to him.

  The last time I’d seen him, he’d promised to kill me—at least that was how I’d interpreted his words—if there was ever a next time. I reminded myself that he was shackled to the floor, did a quick calculation regarding his chain-restricted arm span, sucked in a deep breath and held it.

  “Ms. Ingram-Sheldon,” he said curtly. “What a surprise.” There was a trace of defiance in his flat tone.

  “Thank you for meeting with me.” If I was going to negotiate with an outlaw biker president in the near future, surely I could converse civilly with a fettered prisoner.

  Frankly, Lutsenko looked horrible and not terribly threatening. Des had told me that he was being held in a single cell for twenty-three out of every twenty-four hours to minimize his contact wi
th other inmates. The last thing anybody wanted was Lutsenko recruiting for his particular flavor of organized crime among the receptive jail population.

  Lutsenko’s spray-on tan was long gone, but his skin still seemed to match his orange jumpsuit. Maybe it was the fluorescent lighting. Stubble filled the valleys in his jowly face. He was saggier and slumpier than I remembered him, his former swagger buried under an attitude of sullen, impatient disgust.

  I needed him to still have an outsized dose of pride. I was counting on it. At least he wasn’t bombarding me with protestations of innocence.

  Now or never. I clasped my hands behind my back but decided to remain standing. Not that I would ever be able to intimidate Viktor Lutsenko, chains or no chains. “I’d like to talk about revenge. Comeuppance. Retribution. Leveling the playing field. Whatever you want to call it. You interested?”

  An evil sneer cracked one corner of Lutsenko’s face. “Not so lovey-dovey with your husband anymore, huh?”

  It was a reasonable assumption, and I tried not to let him see me flinch. “I was thinking of Ochoa—Felix Ochoa. You entertained thoughts of supplanting him, didn’t you? It’s not too late to see that he suffers too.”

  “Ochoa?” Lutsenko snorted. “The man lives in a barricaded fortress. He’s afraid of his own shadow.”

  I didn’t think it was a good time to point out that Lutsenko was also now living in a barricaded fortress. The only difference was that he was provided room and board at the taxpayers’ expense, whereas Ochoa was living off the proceeds of extortion, drugs, prostitution, kickbacks, bribes, and too many other illegal enterprises to name.

  “So I’ve heard. And yet he refuses to retire and live an easier life, a life with less risk of being assassinated. Because that would also be a less lucrative life.” I tipped my head and peered at Lutsenko. “He has a weakness.”

  Lutsenko nodded in grim agreement. “Besides the fact that he’s a megalomaniac.”

  Said the pot of the kettle—again—but I let that particular irony pass without comment. I’d known there was no love lost between these two organized crime kingpins. Time to play upon the idea. “It’s never enough, is it?” I said.

  Lutsenko shifted forward and looped his elbows onto the tabletop. The chains were too short to afford his wrists the same luxury, so he tucked them against his chest. “He filched the entire slot trade in southern Idaho out from under me. Pulled a heavy-handed fast one. Turned my manager and all the joints in a matter of a few hours. Probably cut their takes as soon as they were secure, too.”

  “Think he’d be interested in a business opportunity in car wash franchises?” I asked.

  Before Skip’s company, Turbo-Tidy Clean LLC, had gone bankrupt because I’d drained all the bank accounts, it had owned about half of its branded car wash locations. The other Turbo-Tidy Clean locations were owned and managed by independent franchisees.

  But given the nefarious activity they’d all been involved in, it was safe to assume those franchise owners weren’t upstanding citizens in their communities. The car washes had functioned like relay stations for the network of couriers who’d collected and delivered the funds that Skip laundered for his blacklist clients. On the surface, those franchises were a nice cash cow business. Underneath they were even better, if you measured by off-the-books net profit and return on investment.

  Lutsenko crimped his fleshy lips into a sly grin, and his eyes focused on a spot in the far corner of the room.

  I found his contemplative glee disconcerting. He would need to be in the right frame of mind to seed the necessary rumors, and that would require some emotional restraint on his part. I waved a finger to get his attention. “I’m not sure how reliable Freddy Blandings is anymore. What’s his story?”

  “Pffft. Pompous ass.” Lutsenko shook his head. “Idiot.”

  Aha. I agreed with all those sentiments, and the fact that Freddy’s name hadn’t prompted a blank look in response meant that Skip’s suspicions were grounded in truth. “But he’s still leaking information.”

  Lutsenko showed me his palms and shrugged.

  “He’s not your lawyer,” I pressed. “What do you owe him?”

  Loyalty has never been a strong point between rival criminals. I could see a hint of the joy of betrayal working its way into Lutsenko’s psyche as he squinted at me through his eyelashes.

  “I’m in solitary,” he muttered, but it was a flimsy objection.

  “You’re creative. Connected.” We both knew he could do it if he wanted to. And that he had a legal defense team to whom he was paying a great deal of money and were, no doubt, already privy to a great deal of information they could never legally divulge. I waited for a couple beats. “Do we understand each other?”

  “I think we do, Nora Ingram.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The truth was, I didn’t quite understand it myself. Skip’s criminal enterprise was complex and convoluted and intertwined, and his activities were only one aspect in the larger picture that included all the Numeros—his former money laundering clients.

  But I was okay with that. Implosions don’t have to be perfect. I only needed the pebble that would start the avalanche. And then I should probably run for my life.

  After obtaining Lutsenko’s tacit agreement, I’d picked his brains in what I hoped was an ambiguous way about the possibility that my husband had hired a hit man to eliminate Numero Tres. Lutsenko had appeared to give the matter serious thought—which scared me. So deeply that my knees had almost buckled. I’d secretly been hoping that he’d laugh in utter disbelief.

  Instead, he’d shrugged. “Possibly. Or Ochoa. Or Zimmermann. I would’ve done it myself if I’d thought it necessary. Joe Solano was a pain in the ass to all of us. Skip—yeah, he could’ve.” Lutsenko shrugged again. “Contract hit men are a dime a dozen. Easy.”

  Looking back, I think it was that nonchalant shrug that got me most. And which legitimized Ebersole’s apparent fear. Hit men running around like free radicals. It was just a matter of time before one of them was given your address and a breakdown of your daily routine and his pocket was lined with cash. To expect that that kind of risk was normal—what a lifestyle. I wanted no part of it, and yet I was embroiled in it.

  I sighed and recrossed my legs, settling the tote bag more firmly on my lap. What I wouldn’t give for a return to innocence, to a blissful ignorance of the criminal underworld operating all around us.

  Des broke into my thoughts. “Did Lutsenko answer your questions?”

  We were headed back toward May County. It was dark now, with no scenery visible as a distraction. Passing headlights raked over Des’s calm visage.

  I sighed again. “We’ll see. But I gave him some questions of his own. Thanks for making the meeting possible.”

  “Tarq know about today?” Des asked quietly.

  “Not yet. I’ll go visit him tomorrow.”

  Des fiddled with a defroster vent in the dash and tapped the thermostat up a bit. “He’s hanging on for you, but there’s not much gas left in his tank.”

  “I know,” I whispered.

  My attorney has terminal liver cancer. It was one of the reasons I’d hired him, because being my attorney was a risky job. I’d wanted someone who wouldn’t be afraid of the challenge, who wasn’t at the stage in his career where preserving a reputation was paramount. Truthfully, there hadn’t been a lot of lawyerly options for me to choose from in May County, but Tarq had been a godsend. He’d gone to the mat for me—many times. He was one of my saving graces.

  “Maeve told me he’s redone his will. She witnessed it for him,” Des said.

  I slumped deeper in my seat. Maeve Berends is the county clerk and a fellow member of the local Alcoholics Anonymous chapter along with Tarq and my mother-in-law, Loretta.

  Tarq wasn’t hiding from his disease. We all knew he was dying. But the fact that he’d updated his last wishes meant he knew the end was near. Probably nearer than he’d admit to anyone because he wouldn’t w
ant us fussing around him.

  I’d try to wrangle a private chat with Loretta tomorrow. As his caretaker, she had an intimate view of his physical deterioration. Maybe there was something I could do to help—both her and him. Tears sprang up, and I was grateful for the darkness as I rubbed them away with the heel of my hand.

  Des reached over and silently patted my knee.

  oOo

  It’d been a rough day. So the cheerful warmth of Mayfield’s kitchen was a welcoming scene. Two of my favorite people were engrossed in domestic activities when I walked through the door.

  Clarice was just pulling a turkey—all brown and glossy with a crackly skin and lots of rosemary sprigs—out of the oven. I just about fainted from the olfactory awesomeness.

  Emmie was attempting to fold cloth napkins into some kind of origami animal shape, but they weren’t cooperating. She had an adorable concentrated scowl on her face as she fiddled with the obstinate fabric. Her new pixie haircut was starting to curl a bit at the edges, and she was quite possibly the cutest little girl I’d ever seen, if I do say so myself. But I was going to have to ask her to explain her art project to me because if I ventured a guess as to the subject matter, I was sure to be wrong.

  “You should have invited Des to stay for supper.” Clarice whisked the gravy on the stove and bumped her hip against a drawer to close it, performing her usual vigorous kitchen ballet. She holds internal contests with herself, trying to rack up the total number of people she’s fed.

  “Not tonight,” I said quietly.

  She shot me a stern glance over the tops of her burgundy-framed cat’s-eye glasses. “Had a long talk, did you?”

  “Rather short, but sufficient.”

  Clarice grunted. “Thought I saw that coming.”

  “Do you have any more insight you want to share with me?” I asked.

  “In due time.” Clarice slapped potholders down the center of the table in preparation for our feast. She tipped her head toward Emmie and gave me a meaningful glare.