by Matt Hilton
‘Does his protection extend to the bar staff?’ Tess asked.
‘Only when it suits him.’ Chris leaned in and Tess caught a whiff of his breath. She found the aroma of burning tobacco comforting, it evoked warm memories of her grandfather, but expelled from the lungs it wasn’t as pleasant. She averted her face but made out she was checking out the club again. Chris didn’t notice. He went on. ‘You noticed the wound to Max’s hand?’
‘Said he cut it on glass and you patched him up,’ said Po.
‘That’s only part of the truth. Have you heard of a guy called John Trojak?’
Tess checked Po for any sign of familiarity. Po pulled on his cigarette.
‘He came by a little while ago. He was also looking for Jazz.’
Tess felt the skin round her eyes tighten.
‘He’s a strange one,’ Chris said. ‘Comes over all pleasant and amenable, then he sticks a knife through Max’s hand.’
‘He works for Bruno?’ Po ventured.
Chris snuck a furtive look at the doorway, perhaps expecting to spot Max eavesdropping on their conversation. ‘I don’t know why Bruno is interested in Jazz; it’s not as if she was one of his girls. But he wants to find her badly enough that he had Trojak hurt Max.’ He appraised Tess. ‘You’re the detective who stopped Hector Suarez’s rampage, right?’
Tess shrugged, being slightly abashed by the notoriety her run-in with the crazy killer had brought her. She had only been one of a small group of people – including Po – influential in bringing him down, and for sending his brother Albert to prison for a long time, but in the media the focus of the story had been centred on her. As a once disgraced cop making heroic amends, she had been newsworthy.
‘Seems Bruno wasn’t impressed by Max for not telling him you were on Jazz’s case.’ Chris grimaced. ‘Maybe I’m courting danger just by speaking to you like this.’
Here we go, thought Tess, the moment Chris’s hand comes out for money. But that wasn’t it.
‘To hell with Bruno,’ he said, and ground out his cigarette on the sidewalk. ‘He doesn’t own me, and I don’t owe him.’
‘You think Jazz left because she knew Bruno was after her?’ Tess prompted.
‘There was no hint of interest from him until after Jazz went missing.’
‘She owe him money or something?’ Po asked.
‘Couldn’t say. Never heard anything like that mentioned. Can’t see Jazz taking a loan from him. She worked hard: I don’t think she was short of a dollar.’
‘Yet she worked bar at a strip joint,’ said Po.
Chris didn’t reply. He too worked the same bar. Perhaps he was offended by the suggestion that his job was demeaning. Po didn’t apologize. He was stating a fact.
Tess decided to get things back on track. ‘You mentioned Bruno wasn’t happy that I’m looking for Jasmine …’
‘Probably expects you’ll find her before Trojak does.’ Chris shook his head. ‘I overheard what Trojak said before he hurt Max. It wasn’t so much through discovering you were looking for her, but that Max had failed to mention it. Trojak knew you’d been to see Max before, and that Max had held back from telling Bruno.’
‘You know anything about Jasmine being attacked?’ Tess went on.
Chris frowned.
‘I don’t mean recently. A while ago.’ Tess touched her abdomen.
‘Oh, right. Yeah, I heard about that.’
‘Do you know who was responsible?’
‘Nope. She never shared the details; her scars were shameful to her for some reason. Didn’t want to talk about them. She only mentioned the attack after Max brought up the suggestion of getting her on stage.’
‘Did you see them? The scars, I mean?’
Chris shook his head. ‘I’m not exactly the kind of guy she’d have taken her clothes off for.’ He glanced at the door. ‘Look … I’d best get back.’
‘Thanks for your time,’ Tess said, and held out her hand. There was no need to stall him any longer.
‘Thanks for the smoke, buddy,’ Po added.
‘Yeah,’ said Chris as he briefly shook Tess’s hand. He wavered, as if he had a last thing to add, but heard the door squeak open and snatched away his hand. Max stood under the awning.
‘Coming, boss,’ said Chris and moved for the club.
Max whispered something out of earshot. Chris shrugged expansively, glanced back at them, then swerved around Max and out of sight. Max sneered and flipped Tess the finger a second time. He lurched inside, and the door bolts rattled. As he had said, they were no longer welcome inside his club.
‘Where are your thoughts taking you?’ Po asked.
‘Thinking maybe I should’ve let you twist Max’s hand a little longer,’ she said. ‘Maybe let you snap that middle finger off.’
‘Be happy to oblige.’
‘No. Let’s leave it. Max doesn’t know a thing. Chris I’m not too sure about; but I don’t want to press him.’ Tess suspected Chris was more inclined to supply information without prompting. ‘I gave him my card when we shook hands just now. He knows how to get in touch. I think we’d be better off going to see Daryl Bruin, and find out what his interest in Jasmine is.’
SIX
Flash showers continued to batter the sidewalks, and the heat frazzled the wet splotches to faded grey within minutes. Before long the hot spell would break and the rain would be more sustained. The rain would become sleet, and then the snow would fall. There was a time when Tess loved the snow, but that was before her life had almost been ruined one snowy night. The blizzard had killed her law-enforcement career, killed her engagement to her fiancé, and had come close to killing her. That same night she’d accidentally shot an innocent man. Now, with the first flurries, she couldn’t help recalling the horrifying events that had almost destroyed her, and she greeted the first snow with a sour taste in her mouth. Therefore, she was determined to enjoy the hot spell while it lasted, and the less time she must spend in darkened roach pits like Bar-Lesque the better.
Thankfully Daryl Bruin did business from a modern office complex, renting rooms on the top floor of a Fore Street three-storey building, commanding a view over the narrow-gauge railway that served the eastern promenade, and the glittering water of Portland Harbor. When she entered his office, with Po striding alongside her, she was happy to find an airy, well-lit space. Bruin was taking a call, but flapped a hand at them to sit. Tess took the proffered chair, Po didn’t. He stood with his sinewy forearms folded over his chest, peering down at Bruin with the slit-eyed gaze of a cat. Through the south-facing windows the sun bleached the office furniture and carpet, and caressed Tess’s back with its warm fingers. Ordinarily she would welcome the sensation, but she knew that within minutes, as the sun intensified its massage, she’d grow uncomfortable. She sat back, and placed a hand over the back of her neck.
Her move reminded Bruin she was there, and he made a curt goodbye and placed down the phone. He folded his hands on the desk that separated them, his fingers glittering with white gold, and an expensive wristwatch hanging loose on his bony wrist. He wore a double-breasted pinstripe suit with wide lapels. His brown hair was slicked back and he had a thin moustache reminiscent of Clark Gable’s. He was a good-looking man, but probably only to women of a certain age – over seventy. He appeared ready for a fancy dress party, one of those themed where partygoers turned up dressed as gangsters and molls. It made her wonder about his interest in Jasmine Reed and her own penchant for the retro look: maybe he had designs on her to help complete his image.
‘I’ve been expecting you, Miss Grey,’ he announced.
‘You have?’ she countered, and played surprised. It was apparent he’d been keeping tabs on her following her conversations with Max and Chris, but it did no harm to let him think he was a step ahead in the game.
‘Well, of course. We both have the same lady’s welfare in mind. It was only a matter of time until we met.’ He ignored her a moment to check out Po. Po’s features we
re still, but his turquoise gaze locked on Bruin’s face. Bruin snorted. ‘I’m only surprised that when you turned up you’d feel the need to bring along your bodyguard. Did you expect conflict between us? I’d rather we pool our resources; after all, a problem shared is a problem halved.’
‘Nicolas isn’t my bodyguard,’ said Tess. But she didn’t explain further. Po was her working partner, albeit in a silent, off the books capacity. He was also her lover. But Bruin needn’t know that. She made a point of looking towards the office door, beyond which she’d only seen a female receptionist on their way in. Speaking of bodyguards, she wondered where John Trojak was. Actually, the term was probably incorrect regarding the man who’d pushed a knife through Max Carter’s hand – she had no idea what Trojak’s position was in Bruin’s company.
Bruin offered Po a smile. ‘So what exactly is he?’
‘For one, I’m not deaf,’ Po drawled, ‘and I’m not dumb. You want to know something about me, then ask me.’
Bruin wagged a be-ringed finger at him, his watchstrap clicking on the desk. ‘That’s a Cajun accent if ever I heard it.’
‘Got something against Cajuns?’ Po inhaled slowly through his nostrils, and Tess recognized the slow intake of air as a sign Po was readying for action.
‘Nicolas works with me,’ she said quickly, to forestall the situation degenerating rapidly out of control.
‘He doesn’t look like a private detective,’ said Bruin.
‘He looks exactly like a mug,’ Po said, choosing to talk in the third person the way that Bruin did.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Tess, ‘I’m sure we can have a conversation without resorting to insults.’
Bruin sat back. ‘If I insulted anyone it was totally unintended. I was merely commenting on certain character traits I’d noticed.’ He tugged an earlobe. ‘I find accents fascinating. I hear Louisiana, but I also hear something else. How long have you been here in Maine?’
Po exhaled, and his arms unhooked to hang loosely by his sides. He leaned forward a few inches. ‘We came here to ask you some questions, not to answer them.’ He indicated Tess. ‘Listen to the lady, answer what she asks, and try not to insult anyone again, intentionally or otherwise.’
Bruin’s nose crinkled up, and he displayed teeth too white and straight to be wholly natural. He looked from Po to Tess, and gave a grunt of disbelief. ‘I’m sorry. Whose office is this again? What gives you the right to come into my office and demand answers from me?’
Tess pinched her lips. She still had a hand cupped to the back of her neck, and suddenly felt foolish. She lowered her hand, and smoothed the collar of her blouse before she laid the hand in a half fist on the desktop. She tapped the nail of her index finger on the wood. ‘You said you were expecting me, Mr Bruin. Why else would I visit your office if not to question you?’
Straightening his tie, Bruin said, ‘I thought perhaps you’d come about the reward.’
Tess glanced up at Po, and saw a flicker of confusion in her partner’s gaze. This was new information neither of them had expected.
‘I can see that comes as a surprise,’ Bruin said, and his lips quirked as if he’d won a small victory. ‘I’ve offered a reward for information leading to the discovery of Jasmine Reed’s whereabouts.’
‘What’s your interest in her?’ Tess asked bluntly.
‘It troubles me that nobody else seems to care for her welfare.’
Tess touched her chest. ‘I care.’ She gave a brief nod at Po. ‘He cares.’
‘Only because you were hired to find her. Otherwise you wouldn’t be looking. Nobody would but me.’ He raised his eyebrows, stared at her forthrightly. ‘Tell me I’m wrong.’
He was right, but only partly so. Tess’s detective skills had been purchased, but since she’d agreed to take on the task of locating Jasmine she had become personally engaged in the hunt. Having learned about the young woman’s tough upbringing, and the way her disappearance had been ignored by parties who should know better, then she’d grown determined to help. It wasn’t right that Jasmine had been written off as of no concern, simply due to her past. She deserved more. Tess couldn’t help feeling a connection: throughout her own life she’d been misjudged, especially after the shooting that had gone so terribly wrong that snow-filled night. Everybody deserved a second chance.
‘Who hired you?’ Bruin asked.
‘My client’s identity is not your concern, Mr Bruin.’
‘I’m guessing it was Jasmine’s grandmother.’
Tess didn’t reply, but her silence confirmed Bruin’s statement.
‘Aah, so now the old harpy is interested in Jasmine? That’s rich … considering Margaret never gave a damn about the girl while she was growing up. Has the wizened old tart suddenly found a guilty conscience?’
‘You speak as if you’re familiar with Jasmine’s upbringing,’ Tess said. ‘Yet I never heard your name mentioned in any of the background checks I ran. What is it I’m I missing here, Mr Bruin?’
‘Oh, I think it’s best you simply refer to me as a concerned member of the public.’
Po had returned to his station next to the window. Tess heard his scorn through the short exhalation he directed at Bruin. Bruin glanced over at him, but immediately his attention flicked back to Tess. ‘I know Jasmine in passing. She was an employee at one of my business ventures. When I heard that she’d gone missing it bothered me that nobody cared about her. I’m a wealthy man, and I have resources to hand: I thought that if nobody else was doing anything to find her, then it was down to me to do the right thing.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Po.
Tess ignored his bluntness, though she had thought the same.
Bruin lifted both cupped palms. ‘As unlikely as it sounds, it’s the truth. I’m a humanitarian at heart. I have philanthropic tendencies, and if my money can help locate a missing girl then it’s there.’ He leaned forward a tad. ‘Now, I’m guessing that Margaret Norris isn’t paying top dollar for your services, so here’s what I’m suggesting.’ He waited a beat. ‘You work for me.’
‘No,’ said Tess.
‘You haven’t even given my offer a moment’s thought.’
‘I don’t need to. The answer’s no.’
‘Margaret needn’t know, if that’s what you’re worried about. You can still take whatever she’s paying, and I’ll top you up. My only stipulation is that when you find Jasmine, then you tell me first.’
‘No deal, Mr Bruin. Maybe you’re used to buying people’s services, but that’s not what’s important to me. There’s something called professional integrity. Have you never heard of the concept?’
He shrugged off her question. ‘We’re all looking for the same girl. It makes sense that we pool what we know, and find her quicker. Surely that’s a concept you don’t find distasteful? I just thought that I might reward you for your cooperation.’
Po walked over. Bruin pretended to ignore him, his gaze fully on Tess, but the colour blanched in his cheeks and his pupils enlarged fractionally.
‘If what you say is true,’ said Po, ‘then start talking. You have some guy called Trojak looking for Jasmine. You claim to be a philanthropist, but from what I’ve seen Trojak isn’t flashing cash for information. He isn’t rewarding anyone; he’s dispensing punishment with a damn blade.’
Bruin finally looked up at Po. He leaned back in his office chair, smug as he rattled the gold watchstrap loose on his wrist, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. He was putting distance between them. His fingers curled around the lapels of his suit jacket as he returned Po’s stare. ‘That’s quite an accusation you’ve made there. Can I ask who told you such a nasty lie?’
He’d no loyalty towards Maxwell Carter, but neither would Po say anything that would endanger the man further. Sadly, Tess thought it might be too late, because it was apparent to all who was referred to.
‘Max didn’t say a thing. We saw what happened,’ she lied, to divert attention from Max. The guy had remained tight-lipped, an
d didn’t deserve to be punished for something he hadn’t done. Tess was also careful in phrasing her words: she hadn’t seen the act, only the aftermath, but if pushed on it she hadn’t actually clarified one way or the other. Let Bruin squirm, he might be more amenable to telling the truth if he thought they would go to the cops with what they’d witnessed.
‘I’ll have a word with John when he returns,’ Bruin offered. ‘Though I find it difficult to believe he’d hurt anyone. He’s a sweet guy.’
‘So am I,’ said Po, and allowed the irony of his words to percolate in Bruin’s mind.
Bruin squinted up at him again. ‘So you are a Cajun, right?’
Po didn’t answer.
‘This some kind of ancestral homecoming for you, buddy?’ Bruin went on.
Again Po refused to offer any information.
Tess wondered what the hell Bruin was getting at: some subtle threat of his own?
‘I read Evangeline in college,’ he continued. ‘Do you know it? If I recall it was about the expulsion of the Acadians from these lands.’
‘Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,’ Po said, and Tess watched Bruin’s eyebrows rise in surprise. Po looked like the mechanic he masqueraded as in his day job, but she knew there was much more to him than his skill with a wrench, especially that he was better read in the classics than most. Sometimes people checked Po out, noted the ingrained oil in his knuckles, his weathered features and laconic mannerisms and discounted him as some kind of slow-witted bumpkin. Usually it was to their peril. ‘I’ve read it. But it wasn’t while I was in college.’
Tess wasn’t following the discourse too well, and shifted uncomfortably. The intensified sun was doing its best to fry the back of her neck, and she surreptitiously placed her hand over the exposed skin. Po spotted her discomfort. He leaned and placed his knuckles on the desk, so that he negated the space Bruin had opened between them. ‘Like I asked already, d’you have something against Cajuns, buddy?’
Bruin forced a chuckle. ‘Nothing whatsoever.’
Tess stood.
‘Seeing as there’s nothing further to discuss, I think it’s time we left,’ she announced.