by Lee Bellamy
Barnicut said nothing, just grunted again and wrote something down. "So okay, who else you got? What about Velia?"
"Velia?" I stifled a laugh. Now it was my turn to be skeptical. "What motive would she have? She had a low opinion of Rudy—thought he was crude—but that's hardly a reason to shoot him in the head."
"Maybe she's the one he tried to blackmail."
"Oh, great theory," I commented skeptically. "Tell me why."
"The usual motives—love, revenge, greed, jealousy, you name it. She's human, isn't she? She wouldn't be the first wife who cheated on her husband while the poor slob was thousands of miles away fighting for his country. Maybe Rudy found out somehow and tried a little blackmail. I can see where she'd want him dead."
"Not Velia. I refuse to believe it." I surprised myself, the way I rushed to her defense. "She's one of the nicest, sweetest women I ever knew. Love? She loves her husband. Revenge? She's a turn-the-other-cheek Christian. Greed? She lives out on the Bluffs, for heaven's sake, in this gorgeous house. She's got a brand new Lexus, beautiful clothes...what more could she want? And jealous? Who would she be jealous of? Jay's madly in love with her. I can't imagine his having an affair with another woman."
I sat back expecting an argument, but Barnicut didn't push his Velia theory. "Next?" he asked.
"How about Bill Hatcher?" I pulled out my WorldSearch report and scanned page one-of-six. "His record runs from petty larceny to grand larceny, including the year he ran an auto theft ring down in San Diego." I turned to page two. "And how's this for sleazebag-of-the-year? He's a con artist. His specialty is charming little old ladies, then bilking them out of their life savings."
"The police picked him up this morning," Barnicut said, dropping his little bomb shell with a triumphant twitch of his lips.
"They did?" I could not conceal my surprise. "For Rudy's murder?"
"Nope. Diaz called a while ago. Seems they've nailed Hatcher for the Champion's trailer robbery—both he and Rudy were involved. Diaz says they haven't connected him with Rudy's murder yet. They're working on it."
My enthusiasm took a nose-dive. "So maybe it really was a falling out of thieves. Bill kills Rudy because he didn't want to divide the loot. That lets us out, doesn't it? If the police discover Bill killed Rudy—and there's a good chance he did—then we're out the fifty thousand."
"Just so." With a heedless flip, Barnicut tossed his nail clippers into his open desk drawer. "Fifty thousand down the toilet unless you prove someone did it besides Bill. What do you think? Can you do it?"
"Maybe."
He eyed me over the top of his glasses. "Who did you have in mind?"
I pursed my lips and for a moment didn't answer. "There's another suspect I haven't discussed yet."
"Like who?"
"Like Sereno Ghimenti." I paused to get my scenario together. "How does this sound? Rudy takes the lie detector test and dredges up those old snuff movie memories. He can't get it out of his mind—keeps thinking about Crystal. Suddenly realizes—Doris is Crystal. So what does he do? We know he needs money, so naturally he's going to get the most he can. He could blackmail Crystal, but she's not rich. Or he can sell his information to Sereno. He knows the gambling kingpin of Nevada can come up with a bundle."
Barnicut looked skeptical. "So then Sereno orders Rudy killed? That doesn't make sense."
"Sure it does." I sounded more confident than I felt. Analyzing mobster thinking wasn't my line, but my theory seemed plausible. "Rudy was about as trustworthy as Osama bin laden. If Sereno planned to kill Crystal, he might have ordered Rudy killed, too. Maybe he was mad because he thinks Rudy lied to him the first time. Or maybe he was afraid Rudy would turn informer."
"You don't really believe that."
"Why not? It's far-out, but it's possible. I only hope it isn't true. If Sereno killed Rudy, then I'd have a hard time proving it, wouldn't I? After last night I really wouldn't care to tackle the mob."
"Hmmm...anybody else?" Barnicut was quick-changing the subject again. "What about Champion's kid? I heard he's a trouble-maker."
"Tyler?" Inside I bristled. I liked Tyler and didn't want him to be guilty of anything bad. "That's reaching awfully far. Sure, he's caused some problems, but he's only a teenager. He couldn't have murdered anyone."
"Rudy knew Tyler, didn't he? Maybe he had something on the kid. Maybe he's the one Rudy was trying to blackmail."
"Blackmail a kid? That's ridiculous," I spouted, before noticing the little gleam of triumph in Barnicut's eye. He had managed to pull my chain again. I forced myself to calmness. "Tyler and Rudy were friends. I refuse to believe... it makes no sense. Tyler's a nice kid."
"Nice," Barnicut mocked. "Velia is 'nice.' Tyler is 'nice.' He rested his chin on his fist and gave me a cold, hard stare. "You're a cream puff, Holly. You want to be a private eye, quit thinking everyone is 'nice'."
I didn't know which I wanted more—to tell him off, or hang in there for the money. Then I remembered the bills and the money won. "I really don't think—," I began, just as Tish poked her head through the door.
"Holly, you got a phone call. Jay Champion is on the line."
Barnicut shoved his phone across the desk at me with his newly clipped index finger. "Hello, Jay?" I said, "Have you got good news?"
"The best," he answered in a jubilant tone. "Tyler's going to make it."
"That's wonderful! I'm so happy for Tyler—and you."
"It's been one hell of a leave. Looks like I won't get any peace and quiet 'til I get back to Afghanistan."
I couldn't laugh very hard at his little joke, not when I thought of Tyler's struggle last night—how he was trying so desperately to tell me something when a bullet interrupted. Coincidence? I didn't think so. In fact, my intuition was screaming that Tyler knew something dangerous, and vital, and I'd better get to him fast. "Jay, can I see him?"
"He's pretty blurry yet."
"I'll only stay a minute."
"Hmmm, well of course, sure. He's got a private nurse, Miss...Lovelace? No. Miss... Oh, hell..." His voice faded as he queried someone on his end of the line. Dimly I heard, "Honey, Holly's coming to see Tyler. What's that nurse's name?"
Seconds later, Velia's sweet, euphoric voice bubbled over the phone. "Hello, Holly. Isn't it wonderful? Tyler's going to be fine."
"Wonderful, Velia."
"Miss Lovelady. Isn't that a pretty name? But I warn you, she's a tough old bird. She won't let you stay very long."
"All right."
"If you're coming now, we won't be here. We spent the night at the hospital, so we're going home. We'll rest a while, and then some of Jay's friends are giving him a luncheon at The Athenian downtown. I guess it's all right...do you think?"
Naturally, Velia would feel guilty. I could almost see her worried frown. "Of course, it's all right," I answered, giving her exactly what she wanted to hear. "Tyler's okay, so go relax a little. Have a little fun. You earned it."
"Why yes," her voice had brightened, "I do believe we did."
After I hung up, I fired my parting shot. "I'm off to St. Agnes, Reece. I'm going to solve this case. Whether I think someone is nice or not has nothing to do with it."
"Wonderful," he answered. As I left the office, he called, "Make some money for us, Holly. Try not to get yourself kidnapped again."
I clenched my jaw and kept on going. Was I a cream puff? I mulled it over. Dammit, he was right. From now on, I'd get tough. Velia and Tyler joined my suspect list. No more judging someone innocent because they were nice.
Out in the parking lot, I was unlocking my car when Perez rolled in on his motorcycle.
"What are you up to?" He stood looking at me, relaxed, yet alert and waiting.
"Hi, Gil. I don't have time to talk." If he thought I would fall into his arms he was wrong.
"Where are you going?" He appeared only mildly interested.
Had we really engaged in a steamy embrace last night? "To St. Agnes," I said coolly. "Tyler's consci
ous. I want to talk to him."
"You be careful." Employer to employee.
"I will, but with Crystal gone—"
"Maybe Crystal's gone, but there could still be a murderer running around out there."
***
Velia was right about Miss Lovelady. When I walked into Tyler's private room on the third floor of St. Agnes, I found a starched, pinch-faced nurse standing beside his bed. She was all in white, even her stockings. Perched atop her head was a skinny cupcake of a cap that was very English, very Florence Nightingale. Miss Lovelady had a lot of mileage on her. If she'd told me she and Florence worked the Crimean War together, I wouldn't have been surprised.
"I'll give you five minutes," said Miss Lovelady.
I told her five minutes was fine. I wished she would go away, but she stationed herself at the foot of Tyler's bed, glaring suspiciously, as if maybe she'd seen me profiled on America's Most Wanted but wasn't sure.
A lump rose in my throat when I saw Tyler, his face white as the covers, an oxygen tube up his nose, his arm strapped to a board so that an IV hanging on a pole could drip a clear solution into his vein. He lay totally still, eyes closed, his blond hair spread over the pillow. I bent over the bed and whispered, "Tyler?" He didn't move. Louder, "Tyler?"
His eyelids fluttered open, revealing pupils glazed from whatever pain killer they were pumping into him. Blankly, he stared at me. "Hi, remember me? I was at the demonstration last night, standing next to you on the corner."
From a million miles away he mumbled, "Oh, yeah...Holly...you were there..." His lids slid down. Off he floated to narco dreamland.
"Tyler?" I nudged his arm. "You wanted to tell me something, remember?"
He opened his eyes halfway. "Oh, yeah...I wanted to tell you..."
"What? Tyler, what?"
"It's so damn shitty—" He choked. Tears sprang to his eyes.
I took his hand and squeezed it tight. "Tell me about it. Whatever it is, I'll handle it, okay? You stop worrying and just get well."
"I wasn't prying. I wanted to dig out the cans and bottles."
"Cans and bottles?" He wasn't making sense.
He almost drifted away again before he came around and answered, "From our garbage...the deposits. She wasn't giving me any money." Despite his grogginess, his resentment came through crystal clear.
I made a stab at guessing what he was trying to say. "Velia wouldn't give you any money, is that what you mean? So you were poking through the garbage for cans and bottles you could get a refund on."
"Yes."
"This was the garbage in your own back yard? He nodded. "And you found something?"
"I found...I found..." He choked up again, and turned his face towards the window.
"Tyler, can't you tell me?"
"It's in my tackle box," he whispered, still turned away from me.
"Where's your tackle box?"
"In my closet on the shelf. It's..."
"Tyler... Tyler?"
No use, he had drifted off again. I didn't want to bring him back. He needed to be out of the world for a while.
Fine with Miss Lovelady. "Time's up," she announced briskly. She marched around the bed and started fiddling with the I.V. "You may come back later." She didn't bother to look at me.
"Yes, I'll do that." I didn't leave, though, just stood there stalling for time, wondering what Tyler had found that so upset him. I would have to get into his bedroom, but how? I considered calling Barnicut and asking what to do. Then I thought, are you loony, Keene? No way! I would rather go through bankruptcy than give him the satisfaction.
Break in maybe? Jimmy the door with a credit card? Dump that idea, I wouldn't know how. Besides, with my crummy luck I would surely get caught.
I couldn't be up-front with the Champions, either—explain that I needed something out of Tyler's room. He spoke to me in confidence. If he wanted Jay and Velia to know, he would have told them.
What then? How could I get to that tackle box without getting arrested and without blabbing everything to Tyler's parents?
I remembered his keys. Tyler would have been carrying a house key. I checked the room. The corner held a small built-in closet. If his clothes were in there...
I would have to outfox Miss Lovelady.
The occasion called for authority, making me wish I wasn't wearing Grandma's no-power sweater. What I needed was my corporate black suit. I'd make do, though, with what I had.
I reached into my purse, pulled out my wallet, and psyched myself into my role. Holly Keene was out of there. Now I was Angelina Jolie facing the assassins. Drawing myself up, I flipped the wallet to my P.I. license and shoved it under the taciturn nurse's nose. "I'm a private investigator." My voice rang loud, clear, and an octave lower. "I'm working on this case. I will require your cooperation."
Miss Lovelady's fingers flew to her throat. "Mercy me, what did you want to know?" Poor woman, her tough facade had crumbled instantly. Too many years of buckling to despot doctors.
"I need to check his clothes." I nodded towards the tiny closet. "They're in there?"
"Yes indeedy, let me get them for you."
Miss Lovelady trotted to the closet, pulled out Tyler's bundle of clothes, and dropped them in a chair. My heart sank as I rummaged through them. His jacket wasn't there. Of course it wouldn't be. The police would have kept it because of the bullet hole. Only his Adidas, socks, and jockey shorts were there, along with his ratty old jeans. But maybe? I reached into the right deep pocket of his jeans, encountered something metal and pulled out his keys.
An "all right!" leaped to my lips, but I squelched it. "Hmmm," I murmured for Miss Lovelady's benefit, "I'll have to take these." I dropped the keys in my purse and gave a perfunctory search to the rest of his pockets. "That's all. You may put the clothes away now, Miss Lovelady."
I got out of there fast. Got back to the parking lot. Rolled out of there, buoyed up by my little triumph. I checked my watch. Twelve-thirty p.m. If the Champions were lunching at The Athenian, they'd be long gone from home by now. All I had to do was unlock the door with Tyler's key, walk in, and find Tyler's room.
My right foot had a mind of its own. It kept pressing hard on the accelerator, making me surpass the fifty-mile-an-hour speed limit. Keeping the speed down was almost hopeless. I was too anxious to find whatever was in Tyler's tackle box.
Chapter 17
No sense sneaking. I swooped boldly into the Champions' circular driveway and parked the Camero close to the big red and yellow banner welcoming Jay. My scenario was ready. If by chance they were home, I had simply dropped by for a visit. If they were not, I'd zip in, zip out, horribly embarrassed if I got caught. Otherwise, home free.
I stood on the wide front portico and rang the doorbell. Silence inside. No one appeared to be home. For the benefit of the neighbors, I yawned, waited, and rang again. Impatiently I glanced at my watch. Hand on hip, foot jiggling, I acted out a hurry-up-and-answer-the-door routine of Academy Award quality. After a minute, maybe longer, I decided I'd waited long enough. I looked around swiftly—no one in sight—slipped Tyler's key into the dead bolt lock and turned it. It clicked and I twisted the knob. The door swung open. Like a nervous doe about to flee, I poised on the threshold, peering tentatively into the dim, winter afternoon light of the foyer. My heart raced. My palms got sweaty. I came close to bolting, thinking, this is madness. Holly Keene doesn't do this sort of thing.
She didn't, but she was going to. Trespassing might be a crime, but curiosity alone would have driven me to break the law. I stepped inside and shut the door, acutely aware that as of that moment, I was a criminal.
Don't waste time. I hustled up the front stairway to the second floor. I knew where Jay and Velia's bedroom was, I'd been there. I found Tyler's room farther down the hall. It was instantly recognizable, furnished with a lovely walnut bedroom set—what you could see of it—but otherwise, so trashed out it could easily qualify for every mother's worst nightmare. Unmade bed...compact d
isks lying around, grubby shoes, dirty laundry, assorted stuff littering the floor...posters of heavy metal rock groups covering nearly every inch of the walls and ceiling. Way to go, Tyler. Great job. Must drive the impeccable Velia nuts, as well as Jay.
I sped across the deep pile carpeting to an open closet. Inside were shelves piled high with junk, and clothes jammed every which way on tacky wire hangers. I searched the shelves, looking for anything that resembled a tackle box, keeping in mind the green hinged box that belonged to my father. I spied it at the back of the closet on the highest shelf—a green hinged box, just like Dad's, only smaller.
I climbed upon a low stool, reached for the box, and brought it down. I carried it into the bedroom, set it on the floor, knelt and opened it. Inside were hooks, sinkers, flies, lures, blue nylon fishing line, etcetera...all stored neatly in plastic trays. What a contrast to his room. Tyler was neat, but only where it didn't show. One item in the box appeared out of place—a plastic bag marked "Thriftys," jammed in a corner.
I pulled out the bag and peered inside. Nothing breakable that I could see, just a small pink and white box and two sales slips stapled together. I turned the bag upside down and dumped the contents onto the carpet. The slips fell out, along with the box. I picked up the box and took a look. Printed on the side was: First Response.
A pregnancy kit? I rocked back on my heels. Pregnancy kit? I read the sales slip. Dated two weeks ago, it listed aspirin, ice cream, and the First Response kit for a total of $22.55. A VISA charge slip was stapled to the sales slip. The total on the VISA slip was $22.55. It was signed by Velia Champion.
"Good afternoon, Holly."
My heart jumped. I gasped and looked up. Velia stood in the doorway. As usual she looked beautiful and impeccably turned out in a wool dress of light cream with a velvet-trimmed collar and oversized buttons of luminescent pearl. The turned-under ends of her blonde, smooth hair brushed against the velvet. A choker of pearls circled her neck. Her expression was quizzical, but otherwise serene.