“That she is,” Zoey said with a giggle and a huge smile. “So what do you want to know about me? I told you plenty the other night. I’m pretty much an open book with blood on my hands that I wipe off clean.”
I felt certain Zoey Lane had plenty of secrets. “You’re so confident as a woman.”
“You mean, in spite of the fact I’m so damn fat? Or black?”
“No. Not that. Okay. You’re a woman of substance, but most women are so obsessed with having the perfect body, and yet here you are, happy and living a perfect life without the baggage women carry with every new issue of Cosmo.”
“I guess there were just too many euphemisms for me to keep track of. We’re plus-sized girls, or full-figured, or just plain woman-sized. I think I’m just plain voluptuous and I’m sticking to it,” she laughed on full throttle.
“Tell me about your work. Your family. Men in your life. Whatever. I don’t know very many people here.”
“Family. It’s not pretty. My momma had six kids and was on her own. She did as best as she could. My older two brothers were both killed in gang violence. Jamal was gunned down in front of our apartment. My older sister and a younger brother both disappeared. Some say prostitution. Some say drugs. No one says they made a clean break and are living happily ever after. I started cleaning houses when I was a wee one. Turned into cleaning up some crime scenes no one else wanted to touch and I figured out how to do the jobs right.”
“I’m counting. And the sixth child?”
“That would be Tommy. He was the youngest and he did make a clean break for it. Momma was so pleased. He joined the Army and on his first deployment he was shot and killed on The Gulf Coast.
“There’s no more about me you want to hear over cocktails and overlooking this lush golf course and magnificent water feature? I think it might put a damper on the day.”
“Just one more thing,” I said. “For one, I didn’t know you were such a whiz on the computer. I mean, that night over at Shirley’s.”
“I don’t have the computer skills. Shirley tells me what to type and I type. I’m a de-glorified cleaning lady with no education. It took me all of two jobs to figure out decomposed skin can stick to the floor. You use muriatic acid on the blood. Sometimes go back three times with a toothbrush if you have to. Neutralize it with an enzyme to bring it up. Sometimes I’m out on the streets or highway and you learn to do the job quick or get run over. Cracks are real hard. The police and sheriff started using me for all their jobs and now I get their patrol cars to clean. Almost as bad. Drunks that have puked. Scared punks that pee and drop their feces. That’s my education. How to clean up the ugly. Now it turns out I’m making good money and I’m able to help out a lot of folks along the way.
“I work with the real heroes. The police, deputies. I love the uniforms. They’re my friends, but sometimes I see stuff, and you know where I’m looking. I see stuff and the uniforms aren’t always interested. Romero was. Always. Detective Taylor is, too. We make a good team. With Shirley too, that is when she’s in town,” she winked.
“But how are you involved with Shirley, I mean, besides the crime cleanup? And what about those men in your life?”
Zoey, a woman of many words, stopped talking.
Chapter 14
Good Things Come to Those Who Wait
GAGE ARRIVED AS our check arrived. “I’m sorry, ladies. I got tied up on a conference call.”
I made simple introductions. We made simple pleasantries. And not five minutes later, Zoey announced it was time for her to leave.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I have a business to run and the night time is usually the right time for my business. I’m meeting Shirley tomorrow for a late lunch. Why don’t both of you meet up with us?”
Gage turned to me, his chin now dropped to the level of the table, but his eyes met mine. “I’m only here for the night. I’m sorry, Sweetheart. My work is selling and I’m not even dead.”
“Not yet,” I said.
“C’mon. This is huge. I can’t paint fast enough for this gallery.”
I glared at him. I’m in Tucson where he wanted me to be and he’s nothing, but gone. Finally I gave him the best and most kind words I had for him, “Then you should be home painting.”
“Come on. I’m selling. You’re selling. The only difference is you can sell right here. I need to go where the market takes me. Right now, that means I need to be in Chicago. It’s been our dreams. I’d think you would be happy.”
With the awkward moment, Zoey bolted. I didn’t blame her. I was glad Gage and I had two cars to return home in. I could cut the steam out of my system driving with the top down and my music blasting.
Gage followed me as we made the drive home from the restaurant. I had my keys in the lock at the front door when he tugged my hand free of them.
“Baby. You know I don’t want to leave you. I want to be with you. And I’m here now. In the flesh. And I want your flesh.”
“You want to kiss and make-up?”
He glided my hand down between his legs. He wanted more than a kiss.
In seconds, we were at the side of the house. A private courtyard with a double chaise we’d never sat on once. Both the courtyard and the chaise were about to get broken in.
We fell onto our outdoor bed in a mangled heap of desire. I didn’t know where my legs ended and his chest began. The wicker of the chaise lounge became as soft as fresh flowering seagrass, bending to our fluid rhythms.
Submissive. Aggressive. Gentle. A little rough and a whole lot of smooth. Pleasing and taking. Mission accomplished. I was no longer mad at him and his damn travel schedule.
We fell asleep in our bed with Earl Harry between us.
WITH A RED-EYE flight to catch, Gage left after a single cup of coffee. My knees, still wobbly from the night before, assured me he was with me even in his absence.
“I love you, Sterling,” Gage said.
He had never managed those words before and maybe he realized his slip of tongue. He blurted out, “Cheese puffs.”
“Lord. The happy game, again. Okay. Shooting stars.”
“Crabapples.”
“Crab legs. Make that Alaskan King crab legs.”
Gage was fishing for his keys when he said, “Mad Bomber hats.”
“What the hell are those?”
“Fair question. You know. Like the kind Walter Matthau wore out ice-fishing in Grumpy Old Men.”
“You mean with the dumb ear flaps?”
“You got it. And in leather.”
I kissed him goodbye and whispered in his ear, “Silly men in silly hats. And I love you, too.”
Chapter 15
Not Pro Bono
RACHEL HAD HAD TWO weeks to get her act together. A master at spending money, she did a quick phony-up with a good haircut and a few designer dress suits. As planned, she bumped into Gage in Chicago. Pleasantries were exchanged. She waited for the certain look of surprise on Gage’s face to find her doing so well. He asked her why she was there. She explained that they might be running in the same circles with her new career as an art appraiser and that she had a lot of work right there in Chicago. They did a little polite hug and she walked away.
First step. Accomplished.
According to Marcus, who seemed to know Gage’s schedule before Gage did, he’d be right there. Back in Chicago. In two more weeks. That was when and where the magic would happen.
DETECTIVE STEVE TAYLOR DROPPED in on Shirley at seven in the morning. He knew her schedule. He knew she’d have jogged, eaten breakfast, and showered long before he knocked on her door.
“What an unpleasant surprise,” Shirley said. Then she grinned widely, opened her door, gave him a squeeze around the middle, and led him out to her sunroom.
“And so to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Shirley asked.
“I’m a detective, Ms. FBI. As a favor to you I’ve come to tell you what I’ve detected.”
Shirley pulled back h
er head and widened her slate eyes in mock horror. “Favors from you scare the hell out of me, Steve, but first, I need to know if anyone else has made me.”
“Just the usual. Top brass, The Z, and our retired buddy, Victor Romero. Last I heard Romero was deep-see fishing off of St. Lucia. Now I need to ask you the same thing. Have you told anyone? You know exactly who I’m talking about.”
“She doesn’t know,” Shirley replied.
“Okay. So here we go, and remember I’m telling you this as a friend. Local crime. Local jurisdiction. This isn’t your case. I repeat. This isn’t your case. Got that?”
Shirley cocked her head and grinned. “Give it to me, bad boy.”
“The thug in Sterling’s jewelry store. Manual Perez. Pretty much makes no sense why he showed up there. He’s that one-in-a-billion kid that appears to have been turning his life around. He started with a big enough rap sheet, but now he’s clean from drugs and dealers. Enrolled himself in night school. Got a job flipping hamburgers in the day and somehow in between he’s fixing cars. Word on the street is he’s a damn good mechanic and plans to turn it into a full-time business. Goes to church on Sundays and volunteers at the local food bank.”
“Don’t forget he had about six fake ID’s on him.”
“Hear me out.”
Shirley shook her head. “What else?”
“I just gave you the mental, financial and spiritual. Physically he works out at the Y and got some pro-bono surgeries to remove a tattoo and two scars on his face.”
“The teardrop tattoo, I suppose,” Shirley said.
“Yeah, but just because a young kid gets a teardrop on his face doesn’t mean he really killed someone. You know that. Could mean other things these days.”
“But mostly a kill. How about hires?”
“First of all, a kid that removes a teardrop tattoo from his face doesn’t want to confront any gang member on the street, no matter what the hell is symbolized. Nothing on the mafias. Russians, or Italians. Absolutely nothing with the Mexicans. Zilch. Either the kid acted alone or, a better bet, some one person hired him out. That comes from another rumor on the street, but I think it’s a good one. Since we know he wasn’t doped up and we know he didn’t aim to kill, this looks like a scare job.”
“You confirm the kid knew how to aim?”
“Oh yeah. Fine little marksmen.”
Shirley removed herself to retrieve more ice cubes for the desert’s mandatory water glasses. Sitting back down in her chair, she put her elbows on the table and laced her fingers under her chin to hold her already weary head up.
“When I saw him he had his gun aimed at me. I thought he was crazed on dope, but maybe he was just scared.”
“You mean maybe he didn’t want to be there?”
“Maybe not. I know you believe it was a warning to Sterling, a scare job, but another conclusion, if we’re talking scare tactics, is that he was scared,” Shirley said.
“Throw it out there,” Taylor said.
Shirley cleared her throat. “The hire wasn’t to scare me. Absolutely no one knew I was going to be there. Someone paid this kid to scare off Sterling Falls. The question is why? And if he was scared doing the job, that’s a whole new bag of worms.”
“Shirley, I warned you. That’s my job. You can’t get involved in this case for more reasons than one, and you know that.”
“And I’m telling you I am involved, damn it. I shot the kid dead, Steve. Besides, what do you care? You get my free brain power.”
“Jesus, Shirley. You’re undercover as an undercover. Leave it to you to come up with that one.”
“Brilliant, I think,” Shirley said.
“And dangerous. And we still have nothing.”
“We have his dying words. The kid said ‘he did it,’ not ‘I did it.’ And he said that there was more trouble coming! Dying words, in my humble opinion, are something.”
Chapter 16
Getting to Know You
THIS TIME ZOEY arranged for our powwow, back at Shirley’s house in the Sam Hughes district. Zoey explained that Shirley was on an assignment, but would meet us at the house at around eight.
Once again it looked like both Zoey and Shirley were there before me. Two cars in the driveway. Instead of the white work van a late model yellow Corvette parked next to Shirley’s car. No detective work needed. The vanity plate read The Z.
I opened the unlocked door and Shirley ran to greet me; then thought better of the gesture.
“Sorry, hon. I was out on a job and haven’t had time to change.”
Not a bag lady. Not upper-crust society. Shirley wore a tinsel-looking cheap blouse and a pair of women’s shiny silver leggings, probably found in some thrift shop and two sizes too small. The visible camel toe between her legs made me choke back. Revolting.
She scurried toward her bedroom. “Fix yourself a drink.” And, “Oh, god. I’m really sorry you had to see me this way. This is my twenty-dollar whore look. I needed it today. I mean tonight. Oh, I’m so damn sorry.”
I turned to Zoey. “What was that about? The lady of steel actually seems nervous.”
“Guess she didn’t want you to see her all dressed up in her finest. I’ve seen her that way a dozen times and I still can’t hack it.”
Our poison for the night appeared to be the call-gin sitting on the counter. I helped myself to some tonic in the bar cabinet. Martinis used to be my thing. They weren’t these days, and hopefully never again. I got into plenty of trouble with the juice. Before I could leave the bar, Zoey topped my drink off with plenty of trouble.
“Listen, Sterling, I was thinking about our conversation the other night. Just you and me out on the patio. If you really want to know more about me, which I can’t imagine why you would, some lady wrote a magazine article about me.”
“Seriously?” I said.
“The writer cut to the chase after only a few interviews. She started off some twenty years ago when I was first forced to start cleaning homes. Ended up pretty much with Victor Romero giving me my first crime scene job and how I built a business out of it.
“Under all this big and beautiful I’m a little shy, but I brought you a copy of the article. If you want it. I didn’t want it to be some sort of poor-little-black-girl story, and maybe it is, but it’s my story.”
“Of course, I’d like a copy. I’m honored.”
Zoey handed me the envelope and I pulled out the papers, glancing at the front page. The Get Over It Magazine. I replaced the content into the envelope and put it in my purse, and then I took my drink and walked around.
The house boasted high ceilings, unusual for its age, especially in older Tucson homes. Definite update on the kitchen with all the stainless steel and granite it could contain. Thick crown molding. A pebble-tec pool and spa outside. Costly.
I guess Zoey read my curiosity.
“She got it for a steal.”
“Excuse me?”
“Um, Shirley. You’re wondering how she could afford this joint. It was a meth house. For the record I don’t go near those toxic scenes for any kind of clean up. Feds came in, did their own cleaning thing, and left behind a stigmatized property. Shirley picked it up for a steal.”
“Looks great to me. And I imagine it’s more than safe now.”
“I imagine Shirley knows best.”
“I know best what?” Shirley said, presenting herself in a trimmed turquoise running suit.
“I was just curious about your house,” I fessed up.
“Uh huh,” Shirley scooted onto the sofa and brought her legs in close to her chest, her martini glass already in her hand. “In case you haven’t noticed, Zoey talks too much, but mostly the woman speaks the truth.”
A silence swept the room the way an avalanche removes life from a mountain. It seemed wrong. I hadn’t been around them much, but they made chatting seem like breathing. Natural. Life-sustaining. It was true Zoey did most of the talking. And now all was quiet.
After a few s
ips of my gin and tonic I broke out with the question. “What’s going on here?”
Zoey looked at Shirley. Shirley looked down at the decorative tile floor.
Zoey’s brown soulful eyes turned to a glare directed at a now wisp of an already willowy figure, Shirley. “You have to tell the girl,” she said.
Chapter 17
Stillborn
SHIRLEY WALKED TO the bar and topped off her glass with pure gin. She brought the bottle over and dumped a good pour on top of my tonic water. An extra pour for Zoey, too.
The air held an emotion I could not read. Like a dead river with the wind as its only life. A word crossed off the pages never to be read. A stillborn life to be without a breath.
“Tell me what?” I demanded. “Shirley? What’s going on?”
Zoey nodded her head with a clear and certain urging, her eyes now shooting fireworks.
Shirley crossed to the far side of the room and took her seat within the gentle folds of a large wingchair.
“Zoey’s right. I have something to tell you, Sterling. This whole secret has gone on for too long.”
“What? I just get to know you and already you have some big lie that’s hidden from me, just like you hide in your menagerie of smokescreen outfits?”
“It’s not a lie, Sterling,” Shirley said.
“Secrets. Lies. What’s the difference? What has you so worked up?” I asked.
“It’s just an absence of information,” Zoey stated with only a shadow of her normal voice.
“So fill in whatever absence there is,” I said.
Shirley cleared her throat and pursed her lips to her martini glass for the longest time. When she sat the drink down, she lifted her lanky legs onto her chair, her knees bent up toward her chin. She mimicked me, I thought.
“I knew who you were prior to your arrival in Tucson. I’ve known who you were since the day you were born.”
Evil Cries Page 5