She fired up her computer and logged in to do a little background work on James and his family. An hour later, her pad full of notes, Louie leaned back in her chair. Interesting. Very, very interesting.
Her chair squeaked as she stood. She opened the top drawer of her desk, took out her gun and tucked it into her shoulder holster. The dark blue jacket she slipped into was excellent for hiding the gun. In blue jeans and leather boots, her hair cut in a short, sporty style, she blended in well with the general population. She liked Spokane with its big city size and small town friendliness. Luxury cars and pickup trucks moved together through the streets of the city without drawing a second glance. A person could fish in the afternoon and attend the symphony the same night. It was a blue-jeans-to-velvet kind of town that suited her extremely well. She was born to be in this place.
Bottom line: Louie liked it here and she liked her job. The profession had been thrown at her rather than one made from conscious choice, but sometimes things worked out very well in spite of everything. This was one of those instances. Five years ago, she would never have believed she'd end up a bail enforcement agent, let alone one of the top agents in the region. These days, she was offered more jobs than she could handle. Harry's always came first. Their relationship was much more than professional, and she for one was not about to forget it. Loyalty weighed heavy in her book.
Dropping her small spiral notebook and pen into her pocket, she waved to Harry and headed out to the parking lot, off on the hunt for James McDonald. She figured twenty days was a cakewalk with this guy, and the extra five percent Harry promised was icing on the cake.
Halfway to her car Louie heard a familiar rattle. She did an about-face and jogged over to where eighty-seven—year-old Meg English pushed a tired silver cart with a single paper sack in the bottom. Dressed in her familiar peach track suit, Meg could easily pass for a woman at least a decade or two younger. Today she wore a snappy pair of sunglasses, her always tidy hair in a single braid down her back.
"Let me," Louie said as she eased the rickety cart from Meg's firm grasp.
"Well, Miss Louise, thank you." Meg stepped aside and let Louie take control. She patted her hair with thin, slightly shaky hands and then straightened her zippered jacket. Her smile revealed even, white teeth.
"I told you I'd take you for groceries, and you promised not to walk all the way to Rosauers again," Louie said, pushing the cart across the asphalt parking lot with Meg beside her
"Now, Louise, that was indeed a fine offer, but if I let you take me in the car, how would I get my exercise? I don't want my bottom to get as big as a balloon. I've seen what women my age look like when they get too soft."
Fat chance. Louie laughed and shook her head. "Like that's really going to happen to you."
Meg pursed her lips, her face serious even though her deep brown eyes twinkled. "It will if I get lazy." She lifted her chin.
Not only was Meg the most energetic octogenarian Louie ever met, she was as thin as a rail with a bottom that would never in a million years be mistaken for a balloon. At a whopping five foot three, if she stood very tall, Meg maybe weighed a hundred pounds on a good day. Her mocha skin glowed with good health and her ebony hair hosted a mere peppering of white. Few, if any, would guess her true age. Louie sure hadn't and had been floored the day she discovered how old Meg was.
More days than not Meg could be found with her silver cart on the way to the grocery store for fresh fruits and vegetables. If not the grocery store, it was Auntie's, the huge local bookstore down on the corner of Main and Washington where she'd pick up the Wall Street Journal. Or, if not on her way for books or groceries, she could be found at one of the downtown charities helping those whose lives had spiraled into homelessness and despair.
Meg was one-of-a-kind. And there was little use in arguing with her. Louie'd tried many times before and each time she'd lost. Instead, just as she did today, Louie chastised Meg—though with a friendly smile—and then carried the cart up the flight of stairs from the ground floor, where Louie's office was located, to the second story, where Meg's one-bedroom apartment overlooked Monroe Street.
Louie waited for Meg to unlock the apartment door before taking the cart into the kitchen. Louie loved to spend time with Meg. She was spirited and interesting with a keen eye on current events. She didn't talk much about herself and even though Louie would love to have known more about her history, she respected Meg's privacy and didn't ask personal questions.
She was dying to know about the original paintings by artists such as Frida Kahlo and Remedios Varo that graced the small apartment walls. She hadn't recognized the names on the paintings the first time she studied them. But she was an investigator, so she'd gone home and looked on her computer. The good old internet poured forth its magic. Fascinated by the history of the two twentieth-century surrealist painters, Louie spent the better part of two hours just reading. She now knew a whole lot about Kahlo and Varo. What she didn't know was how the two originals landed on the beige walls of a Monroe Street walk-up.
Even now as Louie looked around the familiar room with the older yet tasteful furniture, she felt comforted, the same way she did every time she went there. Still, she was very curious to know how a woman with such obvious grace and intelligence lived so simply in a small apartment in downtown Spokane. Curious minds want to know…
Today, like most days, Louie kept her curiosity to herself. She put away Meg's small sack of groceries and helped her settle into favorite chair. Meg's eyes were closed, the lines in her face relaxed and serene. Louie tried hard to be quiet as she moved to the door. She wasn't exactly a bull in a china shop but she wasn't quite a ballerina either. She wanted to stay for a cup of tea, except duty called. Tea would have to wait for another day.
"Thank you." Meg said, her eyes still closed.
Louie paused and smiled. "You're very welcome. Now, you call me next time you need to go to the store, promise?"
"I promise to think about it."
"You're a stubborn old lady, Meg English," Louie said with a laugh.
A smile turned up the corners of Meg's mouth, though she still didn't open her eyes. Her hands were on the arms of the chair and her fingers tapped lightly. "So I've been told at a table of kings."
Louie raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, right, and I had dinner with Prince Charles last night."
"Yes, Prince Charles, such a serious boy."
Louie raised both eyebrows. "You know Prince Charles?" Sure she does, just about as well as I know the president.
Meg opened her eyes, a twinkle in the deep brown gaze, and gave her a little nod. "Know him? No, not really, but I did have dinner with him once," she said and winked. Then she settled back into the chair and closed her eyes again.
Louie was still shaking her head when she stepped into the hallway and closed the door. Table of kings indeed.
* * * *
"I'm gonna kill him." Paul threw the portable phone across his office. The sound of shattered plastic raining down was like that of a ghostly storm. Harsh but brief. He looked over at the mess. Gonna have to replace that out of his pocket. No big deal. Right at this moment, it was the least of his worries. He could care less about a stupid telephone or how much it would cost to replace.
The big issue pressing like a hundred-pound weight on his head right at the moment was where to find his little brother. It wasn't a big stretch to believe Jamie could get busted for something as stupid as dope dealing, but to skip out on the bail and leave their parents hanging high and dry … even Jamie wasn't that big of an asshole. He might be a lot of things not particularly savory, but Paul had never known him to do one thing to harm the folks. Until now.
Jamie had managed to put Mom and Dad at risk to lose everything. Their home, their retirement savings, everything. Not acceptable. No way, no how.
Paul dropped to his chair and ran his fingers through his hair. Time for a haircut, he thought, and then wondered why something so inconsequential would o
ccur to him at a time like this. He could care less what his hair looked like.
What he needed was to find Jamie before the bond was forfeited by the court. He hoped he could find him before it was too late. For all he knew, it could be too late already. The criminal justice system wasn't the arena he knew.
Paul dug through his desk drawer and found the business card the bondsman had given him the day he and his parents had bailed Jamie out, even though leaving Jamie in jail had been Paul's preference. It was high time for Jamie to face the consequences of his actions without Mommy and Daddy stepping in to pick up the pieces for him. Paul wished they'd listened to him. If they had, this call would be totally unnecessary.
He started to reach for the phone, but was interrupted by a tentative knock on his door. In the doorway, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else but in Paul's office was his goaltender, Todd Fox. At seventeen, Todd was an easy six-foot-three and one of the reasons the team was well on its way to a league championship. Until last night anyway.
"Coach, you wanted to see me?" There was just the slightest tremor in Todd's voice.
Paul waved him in. "Yeah, we gotta talk."
Todd dropped to a chair and looked at the floor. "Coach, I know I messed up last night. It won't happen again."
"I know it won't."
Todd's head snapped up and a look of horror crossed his face. "Are you cutting me?"
Paul smiled and shook his head. "No, as long as you tell me what's distracting you. Last night your game sucked big time and that's not like you. What's up?"
The panic in Todd's young face faded, replaced by sadness. Tears welled in his eyes, something Paul hadn't seen before in this very focused and tough young man. "It's my grandma, Coach. She's in the hospital."
"Is it serious?"
Todd nodded and a single tear escaped down his cheek. "I'm afraid we're gonna lose her."
Paul swiveled his chair until he faced his computer. "Hang on a second." His fingers punched the keys in rapid succession. A couple minutes of silence passed before Paul swiveled back to look at Todd. The printer behind him whirred and a second later he grabbed the single piece of paper it spat out.
"You go pack a bag and I'll have Coach Curry pick you up."
"To do what?" Todd's eyes were bright and he didn't move.
"To go home. I just made a plane reservation for you into Vancouver. I assume your folks can pick you up there?" Paul shoved the printed ticket across the desk to Todd.
"What about Friday's game?"
"We'll make it through one game without you, I promise. There are some things more important than hockey. Go see your grandmother. I'll see you back here on Sunday."
Todd picked up the ticket and got up out of the chair. A big smile was on his face. "Thanks, Coach. I'll pay you back, I promise."
Paul stood and patted Todd on the shoulder. "Not a problem. I have a ton of frequent flier miles to use up anyway. Didn't cost me, or the team, a dime."
As soon as Todd left, Paul sat down at his desk and reached for the phone. He paused when it dawned on him that he'd made confetti out of it. He dug in his pocket and pulled out his cell. Flipping it open, he punched in the number off the business card as he wondered what he was going to say. He didn't know where to start. He'd always avoided trouble with the law. He'd never even been pulled over for a traffic ticket, let alone gotten himself thrown in jail by the federal government.
Oh, he'd been stuck with a tough-guy reputation all right, but if people really knew how much was back office propaganda, they'd be shocked. Then again, people believed what they wanted to believe, and for years he was the toughest player on the ice. Few realized, or cared for that matter, he always left his aggression at the rink. Of course the phone he just destroyed might argue the point if it could. Still, funny as it seemed, he'd been a big tough professional hockey player without a single encounter with the police at any level.
At the moment, he needed to figure out the playing field, which meant he needed to start somewhere. The man who helped his parents post the bond for Jamie had seemed reasonable. Even more than that, he was interesting and friendly. Harry Studhorse, Paul discovered, was an enrolled member of the Blackfoot Tribe. He was a tall, regal-looking man with waist-length black braids and a hearty laugh. Right now, Paul was grasping at straws and Harry Studhorse seemed as good as any place to start.
"River City Bail Bonds."
"Mr. Studhorse?" The name still made him smile when he said it. He found out after their initial meeting it was an old and distinguished name in the tribe, one that went back for many generations. Once he got beyond the novelty of it, the name conjured up an image of a large and powerful horse, sort of like the bronze sculptures lining the hills overlooking the Columbia River near Vantage, Washington. He wondered if the original bearer of the name had been a big, powerful warrior.
"Harry speaking."
"Harry, this is Paul McDonald."
"Sir, please tell me you're calling to let me know where your brother is at this moment?"
"I wish."
"So do I. Well, what then can I do for you, Mr. McDonald?"
"Please call me Paul, and I'm calling to see what I can do to help. My parents can't afford this." There was no sense beating around the bush or pretending things weren't as they were.
"Not high on my list either, Paul."
He liked the candid response, made him feel he talked to kindred soul—sort of. "So Harry, how can I help?"
"I've got Louie Russell on it, but if you have any ideas where he might be at, it would help Louie to know."
"A bounty hunter?" Paul didn't expect that even if it was a logical progression; River City Bail Bonds surely wanted Jamie back here as much as he did. Still, a bounty hunter seemed drastic. His brother wouldn't take well to the kind of people Paul saw on reality shows. No, Jamie wouldn't do well with that at all, and much as he hated to admit it, Paul didn't want Jamie hurt. In fact, if anyone was to hurt his brother, it'd be him.
"It's bail enforcement agent these days, and just for your own safety, Louie doesn't like being called a bounty hunter. And yes, I have to get the boy back here or I'm out a hundred grand. That doesn't sit any better with me than it does your folks. So, if you have any idea where he's hiding…"
"I wish I did, I'd drag him back here myself." Paul wasn't kidding either. He'd grab Jamie by the collar and drag him in kicking and screaming if he could.
"Well, Paul, do us all a favor and start thinking, maybe make some calls to his friends. Louie will be tracking you down and any inside info you have will be real helpful."
"I don't know his friends and that's the truth. My brother and I are not what you'd call close and haven't been for a very long time. Still, I'll see what I can dig up."
"We appreciate the help, Paul. We want to get your brother back here safe and sound so my hundred grand stays where it is and your parents keep their collateral."
"You'll get no argument from me, Harry, and if I come up with anything, I'll call."
"Sounds good, keep in touch."
Paul flipped the phone shut. Laying it on the desk, he ran his fingers through his hair and massaged the back of his neck where the throb was beginning to grow stronger, a red hot hammer pounding with a steady rhythm at the base of his neck. A bounty hunter chasing down Jamie…Christ. Jamie might be a lot of things like irresponsible, immature, and yes, even stupid in some ways. But he wasn't violent.
Paul didn't have any personal knowledge of bounty hunters, but his mind conjured up an image of a bulked-up tree trunk of a guy with lots of muscle and less brains. He saw the TV images of bounty hunters and, despite his rational mind knowing Hollywood wasn't the reality, those images still made him nervous. Jamie was bound to get hurt even if the bounty hunter wasn't a tree trunk.
He wished he knew how to help or better yet, who to call. He hadn't lied to Harry when he told him he and Jamie weren't close. He hadn't even talked to Jamie in over three years. He made Paul so mad with hi
s constant refusal to grow up that it worked better if they just didn't see each other at all. At least it worked better for Paul.
Of course, he got reports from Mom and Dad every time he was back home in Surrey. The last time he and Jamie were face to face was three years ago on Christmas, and then he ended up so furious with his younger brother that he headed back to Spokane two days early just to get away. It was either that or take a hockey stick to Jamie's groin. Not exactly the poster children for brotherly love.
Now this. It just didn't stop with Jamie. Ever. It was one thing after another, year in and year out. At some point, it'd seem like little Jamie would have to grow up and become a man equal to the name of James. So far, it hadn't happened. He managed to roll from one stupid stunt to another.
This was different. Most of Jamie's escapades were annoying and pretty much always costly. In the big picture though, they were minor problems. This latest clash with law enforcements was the mother of all trouble. There was nothing minor about it. He'd managed to get himself brought up on federal charges, in the United States no less, and then if that alone wasn't bad enough, managed to convince the parents to bail him out. They'd put everything they owned on the line for Jamie, and now he'd left them high and dry. They'd lose their house and what little money they'd saved would be gone as well. His parents were good people whose only crime was to love their errant son just a little too much.
Paul opened the cell phone one more time and punched in the number for his accountant. He talked with Ken for a good twenty minutes before he shut the phone and put in back down on the desk. His hands folded, his eyes shut, Paul took several long, even breaths. So much for his great idea. Why couldn't it be easy?
With a sigh, he reached under his desk and pulled out his skates. Lacing them up, he stomped out of his office and to the rink. It was quiet in the arena right now; practice for the team didn't start for another hour. For the moment, the place was his alone. Nothing helped him think better than to glide across the ice, a hockey stick held in his hands.
Dirty Deeds Page 2