She either hated writing, resented the homework, or was fighting some type of writer’s block.
“Need any help?”
“No.” She sounded like a grizzly bear.
“Okay.” I flipped another page in the magazine.
“Well, maybe.”
I closed the magazine, set it on the couch, and leaned forward. “Okay, what seems to be keeping that pretty little brain of yours from showing the world what a great writer you are?”
She tilted her head to the side. “Come on, Dad. Don’t try to butter me up. I know I can draw and paint, but writing really isn’t my thing.”
“That’s weird.”
“What’s weird?” she asked, a puzzled look washing over her face.
“Well, I recall you writing a nice summary of the sunset you painted a couple of weeks back.”
“Oh, that. Well, that’s different.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Just is.”
Little stinker. She wasn’t making this easy. “Work with me here, Mackenzie. Why is it different?”
She pressed the palm of her hand against her cheek until it smooshed into her nose. “I don’t know…maybe because I was writing about something I get?”
“Something you really like doing.”
“Yeah, that,” she said, more confident.
“Okay, so you’re a good writer.”
“But it’s still different.”
The negative anchors continued to weigh her down. I went in another direction. “So, what did your teacher…?”
“Mrs. Lambert.”
“Right, Mrs. Lambert. What did she ask you to write about?”
She curled her lips and then let out a sigh.
I couldn’t imagine what was creating such anxiety. “It’s just me, Mackenzie. No one else around.”
Another loud huff. I could tell she was biting the inside of her cheek, which was also a habit of mine. Part of me wanted to smile, but I knew better. She needed solid advice—not a doting father.
“Give it up, sweet pea.”
“Okay, already.” She took in a deep breath and diverted her eyes to the coffee table. “She asked us to write about our favorite things we do with our family.”
I went with a slow nod, taking in what she said as well as trying to understand the root of her anxiety. Then, it hit me. I reached over and put my arm on her shoulder. “Are you thinking about your mom?”
She nodded, her eyes still cast downward.
“I get it.”
She slowly turned her head in my direction and looked up. “You do?”
“Your mom was your world for the first nine years of your life. You miss her, and it’s probably hard to imagine doing those really fun things without her.”
She swallowed. Her eyes became glassy. “I know she had problems. And that made it kind of hard on me, you know?”
“Yep.”
“At times I felt like I had to be the parent.” She glanced away for a second. It seemed like she was probing her thoughts, unearthing feelings she’d yet to deal with. “She was there some days, and then not there some days. But she’d say she was sorry, and then we’d move on. I knew she wasn’t perfect, but she was my mom. Know what I mean?”
“I do, sweet pea.”
She started chewing the inside of her cheek again. “You know I like being here with you, right?”
I nodded and winked at her. “Me too.”
“So, that’s why I’m kind of stuck.”
I had an idea. “Why don’t you write about the things you love to do with all the members of your family?”
She scrunched up one eye.
“So, you might say that you’ve enjoyed going to the beach with your mom because you love to chase sand crabs. And you might say that you like to go on hikes with me because we always find cool sculptures. Or you could say that you enjoy sitting in Uncle Tito’s art class because you love to help him show the adults how to paint.”
She gave me a snaggle-toothed smile. “He’s not my uncle, silly.”
“Hey, who said your uncle has to be a blood relative?”
She shrugged and then put her pencil to the paper. She wrote for a good hour. She even went to a second page. She asked me to read it over. The tenses were all over the place—mainly because she had a difficult time understanding how to communicate the fun times she’d had with her mother—but the writing was straight from the heart.
“This is great, Mackenzie. I’m really proud of you.” I pulled her up on my lap and gave her a bear hug.
“Does this mean I get another scoop of ice cream?”
“Only if I can have one too.”
We gobbled up the ice cream and watched some TV, snuggled close to each other.
It was all about living in the moment.
38
The day was gloomy, but that suited me just fine. I dropped Mackenzie off at school. She actually skipped toward the front door, seemingly oblivious to the rain pelting down on her.
The chilly rain gave me a good reason to work from home…again. Some of my hesitation about heading into Gartner Automotive, though, had little to do with the weather. It was that damn ten-by-ten room known as my office. Its sour smell, the lack of space to simply walk behind my desk, the drabness of the décor, and the memories.
The good, the bad, and the evil.
Definitely needed more good memories. But to get there, I’d have to perform an exorcism, or at least clean the place up. I’d recruit Mackenzie and see what we could accomplish this weekend.
Back at home, I popped my knuckles and cranked up the devices. My phone came to life first. A text from Brook had come in late last night.
Kill me now. Captain Prick said he wants to partner w/me until we wrap up all the details on the Stuart Benson and Copeland murder cases. Save me!
I would have laughed had I not seen the guy in action. In some respects, I knew I was lucky. Since law school, I’d worked at a family-run business owned by my late father. Novak and Novak had been dissolved after his death.
But I really didn’t want that anymore. Besides, big-company politics and my sarcastic nature weren’t a good pairing. This PI gig would have to work for now. The fees were just enough to pay the bills. Not exactly how Nicole and I had lived.
My mouth instantly became dry. I knew I needed to do something on that front—call her, email her, see her. What I would say was another matter. And would she even listen? She might just trash anything I sent her.
I added that to my get-to-it-later list. Later this afternoon. Later this week. Just later.
I went back to Brook’s text and smiled as I thumbed out a response.
Let me know if you need me to break you out of prison, or if you just want to bounce around some ideas. Enjoy the torture.:)
I turned my attention to the computer screen, where I saw the open browser window to the Tracers Info website. My login credentials had timed out. No other clients were knocking down my office door—well, I couldn’t be certain because I wasn’t there, but I ignored that tiny fact—so I let my curiosity take charge.
I went back to the Tracers Info home page and reentered my login details. Based upon my previous online hunting expedition, I had a decent clue on how to navigate the site. It still wasn’t quick. I typed “Billy Dixon” into the search bar, along with the additional search criteria to narrow the results, and clicked “Submit.”
I found the detailed page where I’d left off. Touching my finger to the screen, I recapped what I’d learned. Billy had been born in Fall River, Massachusetts, not far from the Atlantic Ocean. I opened up the map application and reacquainted myself with the area. I spotted Martha’s Vineyard southeast of Fall River, on the other side of Buzzards Bay. I also found Plymouth on the East Coast, only about forty miles from Fall River.
I nodded, recalling the theory that I’d thrown against the wall: was there any way that Billy was tied to the Camp Israel leader—Eldridge Kaufman, who had been b
orn in Plymouth—or Kaufman’s protégé, Joseph Klinger? Billy didn’t seem like the type of person who would migrate toward a religious cult, though I knew that was just a generality. Still, the guy was all about his career and money and trophy wives. And, of course, bullying said wives.
You have no proof he’s bullied his current wife, Oz.
True. And the whole connection to the Kingdom or Camp Israel, at least at this stage, had no legs.
My finger continued walking down the screen. It stopped at the row with the name of the Delaware company, CEALDT. The owner was Sara Saunders. Couldn’t get any more generic. I reread the description of the company: focuses on the development of processes and procedures around the multiple layers of the governmental procurement function.
Could a topic be any more boring? Still, maybe Billy had found an investment that had brought in a sizable profit. Then I moved further down the screen and read that it was a nonprofit company.
A nonprofit. As in, “break even.” That ended the trail of profitability.
I put my hand on top of the laptop, about ready to close the lid. But I didn’t close it. I thought through the logic of what I’d just read. If this was the same company to which Billy had wired so much money in the last two years, what was the benefit for him to do so? In fact, Brook had said, his bank account had seen huge swings in the last two years, although not much in the last six months. From nearly bankrupt to sums in the six-figure range.
Maybe it was all about tax savings. This nonprofit could be nothing more than a write-off.
The cynical side of me took control for a second, and I wondered if Billy had somehow gotten himself involved in something illegal. Maybe this money was funneled into another company or set of companies that were very much for profit. This CEALDT firm could be nothing more than a dummy corporation used to launder money. Maybe it was part of a more elaborate scheme that sent money or goods offshore.
With anyone else, I might give the person the benefit of the doubt. But this was Billy. The same guy who’d crushed Rosie’s soul, just like the professor and Earl had done. But the professor was dead, and Earl would have been if Brook and I had shown up two minutes later. Yet, Billy was still alive.
Billy is still alive.
Why had she not unleashed any of her vengeance on the man who had done so much damage to her psyche, according to Rosie? We knew from Heather that Billy had not lied when he claimed Rosie had visited his family in the hospital following the birth of his son. Why would she even do that?
Hmmm.
I couldn’t get my interview with Billy out of my head. Once I peeled away all of his fake layers, his true self had come out. He’d essentially admitted to tormenting Rosie. And for that, I wanted to pound his head into the ground. Not so much anymore. But I still wasn’t fond of him. He just didn’t seem to be a likable guy. Except for the time when he took that call. The medical situation—the brain swelling.
I started to think through the common elements of what I’d been dealing with. It all went back to jealousy and greed and power. Well, Rosie’s craziness was right there in the mix. Earl and Billy sure did love their money. Could there be a connection there? One was a weathered old cowboy. The other was a chubby, prickly yuppie. They both loved money, power. They were abusers. But they didn’t roll in the same circles. Except for one: Rosie’s.
My mind went back to the picture Billy had shown me of his wife, Deborah. Helluva knockout, for sure. Maybe even more so than Rosie, and that was saying something. How was that possible? Billy was either hung like a horse, or he’d become the most charming, caring soul in all of Texas since he’d parted ways with Rosie.
Neither was likely. But what was it, then?
I put in a call to Brook. She answered like she was working the late shift at Domino’s Pizza.
“Yeah, what is it?” she said so quickly I could barely understand her.
“Having fun with your new partner yet?”
I thought I heard a growl. She was in no joking mood.
I got straight to the point. “I can’t get Billy off my mind.”
“That’s not a me problem. That’s a you problem. Hold on a second.”
I heard muffled voices and then Brook saying, “I’ll hunt that down while I’m sitting on the toilet, sir.”
I laughed. “Tell me you weren’t talking to Captain Prick.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you.”
“You were.”
She cleared her throat. “So, why do you have a hard-on for Billy? He’s a disgusting pig.”
“It’s not like that. And it’s not really Billy. It’s Billy’s wife.”
“So you have a hard-on for another woman now.”
“Brook…”
“Hey, you razzed me. I’m just returning the volley.”
“Fair enough.”
“Not that you’d be the first to be thinking about Billy’s wife. I mean, you showed me her picture. Just glad she’s not single. Then I’d have even less of a chance at finding my one and only. Hellooooo, centerfold.”
Centerfold. That was a term that had been floating around in my mind, but I hadn’t been able to grab it.
I took a picture I found off Billy’s church’s website, sent it to Brook, and asked if she could do me one more favor. “This could get Captain Prick off your back forever.”
“Sign me up.”
39
The Dixon house was, like many Texas homes in master-planned communities, cookie cutter. But this one was high-end cookie cutter. A soaring two-story home, with real wood shutters, lots of brick and stone accents, and landscaping that looked fake.
Brook and I had already done a quick drive-by, including a swing through the alley. Most Texas homes had alleys; this allowed for developers to squeeze as many homes as possible into a box-like “master-planned” community. It all made no sense. One of the largest states, with the smallest lots. Chalk another one up to greed.
When we drove by their back fence—it looked to be ten feet high—I asked Brook to slow down and roll down her window. “Hear anything?” I asked.
She stuck her head out the window for a moment and then turned to me. “I think I hear the sounds of a pool.”
Once we had parked by the front curb, we walked up to the porch. It was larger than most in the neighborhood, with four oversized blue planters and two rocking chairs that seemed to be more decorative than functional. I pointed at the upper corner of the porch. “Smile. We might be on camera.”
“Crap,” Brook said. “Element of surprise might be gone.”
“I saw three more in the back. Two on the fence and one by the garage.”
She did a double-take on me. “You’re Mr. Observant today. This PI thing is growing on you.”
“Hoping it’s not a wart.” I grinned.
She gave me a repulsed look and put her fingertip over the doorbell. Next to it was a sign: “No solicitation.”
“Wonder if there’s a double meaning behind that request.” Brook arched an eyebrow.
“Given what we learned, possibly.”
Brook not only rang the doorbell, she also knocked. No response.
“Maybe no one’s home,” I said, leaning back to try to see inside one of the windows, but they were all covered by high-end shutters or curtains.
“Well, if Captain Prick is right, I’d say she’s home,” Brook said. She took out her badge and held it up to the camera for a few seconds. When she put it away, she turned to me and said, “Remember, no speaking. You’re a mute.”
I gave her a quick salute.
About ten seconds later, the door swung open. It was Deborah Dixon, wearing a pink, frilly robe. It was wrapped tightly from her neck down to her calves.
“Yes? Is everything okay? There’s nothing wrong with Jared at his daycare, is there?”
Brook glanced at me. “Your son is fine, Mrs. Dixon. I just wanted to ask you a few questions. Can I come in?”
“Well…” She looked to the back of the h
ouse, tapping a finger to her mouth. She sported a perfect French manicure, with a sparkling green jewel in the middle of each nail.
“It will only take a few minutes.” Brook stepped into the foyer, and I followed, not saying a word. The foyer featured a chandelier that was big enough to crush a herd of cattle.
Deborah turned around. “I’m…” she stopped and let her arm smack the side of her leg. “Okay, if you must.” She shut the door and flipped her hair behind her head as she crossed her arms under her sizable chest. She was wearing an unbelievable amount of makeup, which I thought was a bit strange for mid-morning on a weekday. She looked like she was getting ready for a night out at the opera.
“Would you like to sit down?” Brook asked.
Deborah’s eyes shifted to me. She knew I was staring at her. I was expecting her to ask who I was, why I was there, but her expression seemed to change into something I recognized—a subtle flirtation in her eyes. In front of a cop, no less. I found this very odd. But maybe it was how she was wired.
“Mrs. Dixon?” Brook said, noticing the stare-off.
“Oh, sorry.” Deborah turned her eyes toward Brook. “Just a few questions, right? I need to get back to what I was doing.”
“Let’s start with that one. What were you doing?”
I could have jumped in and suggested that we replace what with who, but “self-discipline” was my middle name.
Deborah shuffled her feet, arms still crossed, and huffed. “Do I need to call Billy or our lawyer?”
“So when did your husband leave this morning?”
“Oh, same time. About six. He likes to get into the office early.”
“Ah, yes,” Brook said.
“Employee of the month,” I said.
Both ladies looked at me with equal amounts of contempt. I put my hands in my pockets and pretended to gawk at a series of iron bull statues on a table against the wall.
“So, you were saying?” Brook said to Deborah.
“I think I answered your question.”
“Part of it,” Brook said. “The other part…what were you doing when we arrived?”
Deborah licked her lips. “Just getting ready. Can’t you see that I’m half-dressed?”
ON The Rocks (An Ozzie Novak Thriller, Book 3) (Redemption Thriller Series 15) Page 17