“I bet that guy made more in ten minutes than you make in a month.”
“Yeah,” Ronnie said. “I bet.” The previous evening’s conversation entered Ronnie’s head. That was what Ronnie wanted to talk about. If they were going to steal the restored Bronco from Saylor—Ronnie’s uncle—they needed a plan, and they needed a plan that wouldn’t get them caught.
“It’s what we’re going to do,” Marl said.
“What?”
“Up our hourly wage, that’s what.”
“You don’t even have a job,” Ronnie said.
“You’re damn right about that.” Marl lit another cigarette and smiled. He had straight teeth, not like some of the other Mesa folks. Part-Indian, Marl had free health care on the reservation. Ronnie doubted that heritage, he figured it was something Marl put together with fancy paperwork. The smile disappeared into Marl’s stiff pull on the cigarette.
“Dude, when you want to do this?” Ronnie said. “You know, the thing.”
“The thing?” Marl stood and walked across the yard. He stepped over piles of crushed beer cans and cigarette butts, leftovers from his parties. He leaned against the Plymouth, took another drag from his cigarette and tilted his head. “I’m ready when you are.” Then, to imitate Ronnie, he added, “Dude.”
That damn twitch.
Jennie felt it just below her skin, a phantom needle inside her face.
She tried to ignore it while the fat cop explained everything to her, but still the twitch was there. She stood outside her mom’s prefab. Mid-afternoon and the sun was hard and hot on Jennie’s shoulders. Yellow crime scene tape wrapped the house. The neighbors were out for a look—the jarhead lounged in a lawn chair and the family across the way gathered like a posse. Mom, dad, and three spit-mouthed toddlers watched the cops move in and out of the house. Two detectives—in ill-fitting Sears suits—pulled onto the scene and marched inside with legal pads. An ambulance and the volunteer fire department and a state trooper showed before them, a real big show for all the neighbors.
The fat cop—not a trooper, but a local cop with the county sheriff—waved his hand in front of Jennie’s face. “Hey there,” he said. “You’re still with me, right, Jennie?”
Jennie nodded and crossed her arms over her chest. “Yeah.”
“We won’t know cause of death for forty-eight hours,” he said. “When we know, homicide will give you a call.”
“Cause of death? Someone fucking beat her to death.”
“That’s what it looks like, but we need specifics, Jennie, that’s all. If you want, I can help you call somebody to pick you up.”
“My car is right there,” Jennie motioned toward her little Honda. “I can drive myself.”
Fat Cop nodded and walked back into the house.
Jennie kept seeing the black-blue bruises on her mom’s face and naked body. Dark splotches marked her mom’s pale, translucent skin.
Naked. My mom died naked.
Jennie used the jarhead’s cell phone to call around town, but nobody had seen her mom for a few days. So, Jennie broke a window over the kitchen sink. She saw the blood as she tried to shimmy in through the window. The blood was black and sticky and thick. Jennie thought of blood as red, but her mom’s blood was deep and dark like motor oil. Naked. Her mom died naked. Climbing through the window, Jennie saw the long, thin scar across her mom’s stomach. It was the scar Jennie left when she was a baby—she’d marked this woman for life, her mother.
Jennie used the jarhead’s phone again. She called the cops. And now, here she was, standing outside her mom’s prefab while detectives dusted for prints and looked for evidence.
Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.
Jennie walked to her car. She collapsed inside and locked the doors. There was her face, it stared at itself in the rearview mirror. It was an older face than Jennie felt, wrinkled from smoking cigarettes and far too pale. “Mom,” Jennie said, “I’m pregnant.” There was that twitch again. It burned the corner of Jennie’s eye.
Her gaze shifted to the house, to the crime scene investigators marching in and out her mom’s front door, to the neighbors lounging in lawn chairs and smoking their cigarettes. And then, without Jennie noticing, two salty tears rolled down her right cheek and dripped from her trembling chin.
Ronnie parked his Plymouth behind Jennie’s Honda. Past her car, he could see the lights on inside their single-wide mobile home—well, not theirs exactly, but they lived in it. They rented it from Marl who, one way or the other, had a few properties he rented out across The Mesa. The mobile home was newer, not bad for what they paid, but Ronnie was fed up with paying rent. Seemed to him that he and Jennie could find a way to buy their own land. They could get a prefab home or maybe build their own place over a couple years.
For now, though, this was it. A single-wide with one bedroom and one bath, a little patio out front covered by a Walmart tarpaulin.
Ronnie wasn’t sure what was up with Jennie the past few weeks. She’d spent less time drawing and more time watching cooking and reality shows. Shit, one night she stayed up past midnight playing Nintendo. Nothing wrong with that, but Ronnie could tell she was drifting. She was somewhere else, not there with him at all. Ronnie knew things bore down on relationships. He knew that not having enough money stressed them both until they were at each other’s throats. With Ronnie’s first check each month they paid Marl his rent money. Then, they paid utility and cable bills—two weeks late—with the second check. That second check left them with $150 to get through three weeks of food and gas and whatever else they needed. They did it. It was possible, but it wasn’t pleasant. And for Ronnie, each month seemed to add more and more pressure until their relationship wouldn’t hold together. Sometimes Jennie could make some cash babysitting or from a tattoo she put on somebody, but it was never enough to save anything—that was just money to catch them up on bills.
He was kidding himself. No, lying to himself. How would he ever buy land? He was lucky to have a bank account. He was lucky to have a car that started when it was cold. He was lucky to have Jennie, a girl who would laugh with him at stupid jokes and watch cartoons when he wanted.
Ronnie locked the Plymouth. It was dark out, but he could make out the Joshua tree silhouettes in the distance. The trees pointed at the sky like jagged fingers on the horizon and for a moment Ronnie could feel that firm and certain pull deep inside his chest—this was home, his place.
He unlocked the door and found Jennie sitting on the sofa. She had a beer in one hand and she was, Ronnie could tell, crying. He let the door slam behind him and sat down next to her. “Rough day?”
“You could say that,” Jennie handed him the beer. “Went over to my mom’s house today.”
“How’s she doing?” Ronnie took a long swig from the bottle and finished it.
Jennie laughed.
She let it out first like a secret sound, but it built and built until she was crying again. Ronnie watched her without moving. Times like these, he didn’t know how to react. Jennie wiped the tears away and stared at the ceiling, that leaky ceiling with its brown-black circles where the rainwater pooled and seeped.
“She’s not doing too good,” Jennie said. “She’s dead.”
Ronnie felt a twist form inside his belly, a tear that started and stretched up into his heart and stretched down into his groin. He felt like cheap plastic ripped into nothing by a child’s hands. Heroin—that was Ronnie’s first thought. Maybe one load too many for Cheryl? It was cruel and he felt guilty at the thought, but it was a logical conclusion. “Sweetie, I’m sorry.” He moved closer to her and picked up her hands. They were limp and cold and pale. “Why didn’t you call me?”
Jennie’s eyes pivoted to Ronnie’s. The green inside them, somehow, seemed less olive-bright. Behind those eyes, something had given way and Ronnie could sense this burden hanging there in the darkness of Jennie’s mind. “Someone killed her, Ronnie. Someone beat my mom to death.”
The moment came
down on Ronnie like a shadow, a heavy-hot blanket that settled and suffocated him until breathing was work. The moment smothered him. They sat in silence. Then, Jennie cleared her throat. Ronnie watched as she inhaled and stretched her neck. There was something else.
“I’ve been waiting to tell you something, Ronnie.”
“Okay.” He squeezed her hands.
“Ronnie.” Deep breath. “I’m…”
She looked down at her belly. He followed her eyes.
Click here to learn more about Accidental Outlaws by Matt Phillips.
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Here is a preview from Bad Samaritan, a Nick Forte novel by Dana King…
PROLOGUE
Trouble is the residue of my design.
I could have left him alone. Should have, depending on who you ask. A long day ended on Rush Street, so I stopped for a beer and the beginning of the Sox game. Saw him slap the woman. Locked and loaded for the second when I slid my elbow under his armpit and grabbed a wrist. Pulled until the shoulder separated.
It took time for him to collect himself. “What the hell did you do that for?”
Already back on my bar stool. “You know why.”
Hard to sound threatening with tears in his eyes, arm pinned to his torso. “You have no idea who I am.”
It occurred to me he didn’t know who I was, either. I gave him my card.
1.
The water tower distinguished this cul-de-sac from the others in Downers Grove. It loomed over the brick ranch-style houses like a remnant of a long past World’s Fair: the Countersunk Screw Exhibit. A yellow hydrant at the edge of the driveway was cheery in the morning sun, a seed with hopes of growing into a mighty tower itself one day.
I parked in the driveway of the smallest house on the circle. Cool under the overhang that shaded the front stoop from what was shaping up to be a hot day. The neighborhood was quiet as a sleeping baby. I pushed the button and a standard two-tone chime sounded.
The door opened to show a woman of average height in her middle thirties. Dark hair cut in an unfashionable bob framed a round face with high cheeks and chocolate eyes. She held the door open and looked at me, her attention somewhere behind her.
“Rebecca Tuttle?” I said.
“You must be Nick Forte.” I agreed, I must be. “Call me Becky. Come on in. Thanks for coming by. I’ve got one home sick from school and this one doesn’t want to share the house.” She pointed to a child no more than eighteen months old standing in a plastic corral built into the corner of the family room. “Can you keep an eye on him for a minute? I think Sammie just sicked up on her bed. His name’s Alex, but he likes A.J. better.” She was gone before the door latch caught. The trusting sort.
A.J. gave me a look I’d seen before. I’m bigger than most, and a stranger. Whatever uneasiness that created fought with whatever quality I have that makes kids like me, the younger the better. He teetered on the edge of uncertainty for a few seconds before he extended his arms for me to pick him up.
“Sorry, big guy. I think you’re right where you’re supposed to be. I can level the field, though.” He stared at the sound my knees made when I squatted. I picked up a plush tiger that looked like Hobbes from the corral. Handed it to A.J. He threw it in my face with surprising velocity.
“You want to play rough, do you?” I sat Indian style where I could reach him and extended an index finger. Swirled it in a tight circle until I had his attention. Took my time moving it toward him. Waited for his eyes to cross before I touched the tip of his nose and pulled away before he could grab me. I knew he’d laugh. This was the only way Diane and I had been able to change Caroline’s diapers for quite a while. I distracted the baby with the Hypnotic Finger of Hygiene while Diane did the dirty work. Caroline never tired of it. Rare was the kid who didn’t engage.
Five minutes of sophisticated merriment passed before his mother reappeared, drying her hands on the tail of a Blackhawks jersey two sizes too large. I stood and A.J. slammed his hands on the top rail. “No!”
I jerked my head his direction. “First word I’ve heard out of him.”
“Count your blessings. Once he starts he’ll go for an hour. It’s cute until you remember how limited his vocabulary is. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Pop?” I said I was fine. “Toss Hobbes back to him and turn away. He’ll calm right down.” He did, too. Impressive.
We sat on opposite ends of a couch that showed evidence of children’s love. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Tuttle?”
“Please. It’s Becky. Mrs. Tuttle sounds like the nosy neighbor in a sitcom.” She fussed on her cushion as if her position had to be just so for what she had to say. “Have you ever heard of Desiree d’Arnaud?
“Should I have?”
“Not really, I don’t suppose. She’s an author, but I doubt you’d read much of the kind of stuff she writes.”
“What does she write?”
Becky said, “Mostly paranormal romantic urban fantasy,” like it had a shelf in every bookstore between science fiction and young adult. “Kind of borderline erotica, too.” Maybe not so close to young adult. “Modern-day bodice rippers, except that a lot of the bodices get ripped by vampires.”
Okayyyyyy. “Sorry. My taste runs more along the lines of Elmore Leonard and Charlie Stella.”
“Don’t feel bad. Ninety-five percent of my readers are women. The other five are men looking for a way into those women’s pants.”
“Whoa. Back up a minute. You’re Desiree d’Arnaud?”
“Right.”
“Is that a pen name, or is this—” I opened my arms to include the room, “—your cover?”
“Desiree is my nom de plume.” She exaggerated the French accent. “I’m just plain old Becky.”
“What can I do for you, plain old Becky?” I enjoy small talk as much as shoveling icy walks in sleet storms. She was the potential client. Up to her if she wanted to hide her nervousness by playing goofy. Her manner was childlike enough to be endearing, any erotic paranormal romantic urban fantasy bodice-ripping tendencies aside.
“First I want to make sure you understand the honor you’ve received. There are only four other people in the world who are supposed to know what I just told you.”
“What? That you’re Desiree d’Arnaud?”
She held up fingers as she counted off. “My husband knows. My sister, my brother, and my agent. My editor doesn’t. My mother doesn’t even know.”
“Why all the secrecy?”
“This.” Her turn to gesture around the room. “This is my life. This messy house, with these kids, and my husband. I’m a soccer mom. Desiree is someone I like to be from time to time, but she’s not who runs this life. Or even interferes with it.”
“No one ever recognized you on a book jacket? On a promotional tour?”
She got off the couch to take a book from the shelf. Handed it to me back cover up. A smoking hot woman wearing a garment that might have been a bodice and an expression that implied said bodice was primed for the ripping looked at me with eyes that belonged in no bedroom I’d ever been in. I looked from the cover to Becky and back again. “That’s not you. No offense.”
“None taken. That’s Kelsey Whitson, a professional actress, with lots of makeup, a wig, and fake boobs. She does other work, too, but when Desiree is seen in public, it’s Kelsey.”
“And she doesn’t know who you are?”
“A couple of times a year we get together for a weekend to talk about the books and what kinds of answers she can give to questions. We’re friendly—friends, even, in our way—but she doesn’t know my actual name. Or where I live. Anything real about me. She’s the persona.”
“Remington Steele.”
Becky brightened. “You heard of him? I was just a kid, but I loved that show. That’s exactly what we’re going for.”
“How’s it working out?”
Hesitation. “We…thought it was going really well until…some things happened.”
; I gave her every chance to continue. The spring had run dry. “What things?”
“I’ve been getting letters. Addressed to Desiree, in care of me at this address.”
“Letters, plural?”
“Four so far. From the same person. They have downtown Chicago postmarks.”
“You’re sure they’re from the same person.”
She nodded. “The handwriting is the same. The…voice is the same.”
“Do you have them?”
She took four letter-sized envelopes from the book she’d shown me a minute ago. I pulled away before she could hand them to me. “Have the police seen these?”
“I took them in after the second one. Showed them to a detective named Delauter. He said they looked like fan mail and that no laws were being broken.”
I took care to handle only the edges. The contents were the kinds of things people would discuss on FX but only HBO could show. No threats. No violence. Descriptions of how much he enjoyed—definitely a man’s handwriting—the way she portrayed certain acts. How they excited him. By the third letter I noticed what must have scared her: all the addresses referred to Desiree d’Arnaud, care of Becky Tuttle. The salutations read, “Dear Becky.”
“I’m guessing what he says here came pretty much straight out of your books?” I knew from her expression that hadn’t come out right. “I just mean to say I have the feeling he’s read at least one of your books. Am I right?”
“He’s read at least parts of all of them.”
I checked the postmarks and did some math. “They’re mailed from downtown, and always on a Monday. He either works in the Loop, or something takes him there on Mondays. Makes sense if he writes them over the weekend.” I perused the envelopes as if I might see something important. “You want me to find this guy?”
“Can you?” Said it like she was afraid to ask.
“Let’s say I do. Then what?”
“Get him to stop.”
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