Kickout Clause (Savannah Martin Mystery)

by Bennett, Jenna

  “Bradley?” Shelby said again, voice quavering. “Where did that come from?” She pointed to the gun.

  “It’s Dale’s.” He added bitterly, “Although now it has my fingerprints all over it.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that he shouldn’t have picked it up then, but I figured it probably wouldn’t help my case at all. Instead, I just sat down at the table, where he’d directed me. “How did you end up with Dale Vandervinder’s gun?”

  “He gave it to me the other night,” Bradley said.

  Uh-oh. I felt something cold skitter down my spine, like a caterpillar with cold feet, and it took effort to get my voice to cooperate. “Why?”

  He looked at me, and I realized I hadn’t been wrong about his eyes after all. They were just as cold as Walker’s. “Dale was there waiting when I got to the bar that night. He noticed the guy following me in. He asked me about him, but I had no idea who the guy was, so we thought maybe it was a coincidence. But Dale made me leave first, just so he could see if the guy left, too. And when he did, Dale followed him. Here. And then home. And then he called me.”

  Shelby said, “So that’s why you got so upset after that phone call.”

  Bradley nodded. “If Ilona found out I was working with Dale, it would ruin everything. He just wanted to keep what was his. More of what was his.”

  I wanted to ask about Ilona and what was hers—not to mention his legal duty to his client—but that wouldn’t do any good either, so I didn’t. “What happened?”

  “He told me to meet him,” Bradley said. “At one o’clock. He gave me an address and told me where it was and said he’d see me there.”

  “So you went to meet him.”

  Bradley nodded. “After Shelby went to sleep. It was an apartment complex. Dale told me it was where the guy lived. That he’d talked to him, and the guy was working for Ilona. And the next day he was going to tell Ilona what was going on.”

  “He lied,” I said.

  “What?”

  “The guy who followed you wasn’t working for Ilona. He had no idea who Dale Vandervinder was. He was only following you because your wife was worried that you were cheating and she asked me for help in finding out.”

  Bradley turned to Shelby. “You thought I was cheating?”

  “I’m fat and ugly,” Shelby said. “We haven’t had sex in a month.”

  “You’re pregnant, not fat and ugly. And we haven’t had sex because you go to sleep at nine o’clock.” He sounded impatient rather than loving, or I might have given him points for trying, at least.

  Shelby obviously wasn’t impressed either, because she sniffed.

  “What happened when you got there?” I asked Bradley, to get the conversation back on track. Not that I didn’t have a pretty good idea, of course, but I wanted to hear him say it.

  “Dale was waiting. The place was quiet. Nobody around. We went up to the door and rang the bell. When the guy opened the door, Dale shot him.”

  “Dale shot him?”

  “I wouldn’t shoot anyone!” Bradley said indignantly.

  I focused on keeping my voice level. If he was telling the truth, I might walk out of here. “That’s good. Does that mean you can put the gun down?”

  Bradley looked down, as if surprised he was holding it. For a second, it looked like he might be considering it, but then he shook his head. “Sorry. Can’t do that.”

  “So you didn’t shoot Manny Ortega, but you’ll shoot me?”

  Shelby squeaked.

  “It’s all your fault,” Bradley said. “Ever since I met you, you’ve been a pain in my butt.”

  That was rather rich, coming from him.

  “For your information,” I told him, “I only married you because you asked. If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have.”

  “If you hadn’t been frigid,” Bradley shot back, “I wouldn’t have had to get my needs met elsewhere!”

  Better and better. That was what he’d told me back then, too.

  “If you’d been any good in bed, I wouldn’t have been frigid!”

  That was one thing Rafe had taught me. The fact that I had been, as Bradley described it, ‘frigid,’ hadn’t been my fault, it had been his. I was anything but frigid with Rafe, but then he knew what he was doing.

  “I should shoot you right now,” Bradley said and leveled the gun.

  Shelby squawked. “Not in my kitchen!”

  “Yes,” I told Bradley, “think about the blood.”

  He hesitated, and I pushed my advantage. “You were there when Dale shot Manny, right? There must have been a lot of blood.”

  He shuddered very faintly.

  “Shoot her somewhere else,” Shelby said.

  Thanks a lot, I thought.

  “Fine.” Bradley waved with the gun. “Come on. We’ll go for a ride.”

  I got to my feet.

  “You, too,” Bradley told his wife. “You’ll have to follow us.”

  Shelby pouted. “Why?”

  “Because I’ll have to drive her car. Or make her drive her car. I need you to take me back home.”

  He was talking about me as ‘her,’ instead of as Savannah. That probably wasn’t a good sign, since Bradley’s mama brought him up better than that. I eyed the knife block on the counter, to gauge whether I could make it there before Bradley shot me. The odds were not in my favor.

  “Oh, fine,” Shelby said. She started the process of getting to her feet, not an easy task when she was so front-heavy. “Just let me get my purse.” She waddled off down the hallway toward the front door.

  Bradley twitched the gun at me. “Move.”

  “Where?”

  “Outside,” Bradley said. “We’re going for a ride.”

  “Where?” I gave him as wide a berth as I could, moving past.

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll figure it out. Just go.”

  Fine. He hadn’t told me whether to follow Shelby to the front of the house or whether to go out through the garage. Since he’d left it up to me, I choose the garage.

  There were three steps from the kitchen door down to the concrete floor of the garage. Then there was Bradley’s car to move past before getting to the open air beyond the garage doors. And then the parking lot to traverse before getting to my car.

  On the hood of Bradley’s car sat a motorcycle helmet.

  It hadn’t been there when he’d been on his way out to play golf earlier.

  I didn’t think it had been there when I opened the garage door to leave a few minutes ago, either.

  Granted, that was when I’d come face to face with Bradley and his gun, so I might not have noticed, but there was no logical reason I could think of why it would be there.

  Other than the obvious one, I mean. Rafe was here somewhere, and had put the helmet there so I’d know.

  At the moment I didn’t care. I grabbed the helmet and swung around on my heel and whacked Bradley on the side of the head with it.

  It made a satisfying smack. Bradley staggered and dropped the gun, but not before getting off a shot. Fortunately, it didn’t hit me, it only took out the Escalade’s front tire. Then Bradley dropped, too, accompanied by a hissing sound from the tire, as it flattened.

  “What the hell?” Rafe’s voice said from behind me.

  I kicked the gun out of the way, just in case Bradley was faking. I didn’t think he was, but it was better not to take any chances.

  Rafe came up to stand next to me, to stare down at Bradley. The sleeve of his jacket brushed my shoulder, but he didn’t touch me or offer support. He just stood there, ready to catch me if I fell.

  “I wish you wouldna done that,” he told me. “I was looking forward to hitting him.”

  “Sorry.” I glanced up at him. “I’ve been wanting to do it for a long time.” And anyway, wasn’t that why he’d left me the helmet?

  He looked back down at me, dark eyes searching. “You OK?”

  I nodded. “I don’t think he would have shot me. Not reall
y. He just panicked. Everything came crashing down around him, and he didn’t know what else to do.”

  Rafe didn’t look convinced, but he also didn’t argue.

  “He said Dale Vandervinder shot Manny,” I added.

  “You believe him?”

  I shrugged. “Not sure we’ll ever know for sure. His fingerprints are all over the gun now, anyway.”

  Rafe nodded.

  “What are you doing here?” I added.

  “I called Wendell and told him I knew where Freddy Garcia might be holed up. He told me not to worry about it, that Garcia had an alibi. So I decided to follow you. You have a tendency to get yourself in trouble.”

  “I got myself out of trouble this time.”

  “With my helmet.”

  True. I was about to thank him for leaving it when the basement door opened and Shelby stepped through. She took a look at the tableau at the bottom of the stairs—Bradley out cold on the floor, me with a no doubt murderous look on my face, and Rafe next to me with his gun in his hand. After a second, she stepped back and slammed the door behind her. We could hear the lock hitting home.

  “She’s probably calling 911 right now,” I told Rafe.

  “I already did. Tammy’s on her way.”

  “We’re keeping her busy this weekend.”

  He shrugged. We went back to watching Bradley.

  “He isn’t dead, is he?” I asked after a few seconds.

  Rafe shook his head. “You didn’t hit him that hard. Besides, I can see him breathe.”

  I could too, now that he mentioned it. “You don’t think he’ll suddenly jump up and attack us, do you?”

  “Not if he has any sense. I’ve got a gun pointed at him.” He made sure his voice was loud and clear enough that Bradley would hear it, in the event that he was just playing possum. “If he has any sense at all, he’ll just stay there quietly until the cavalry arrives, and not gimme a reason to hit him.”

  Bradley must have heard him—or maybe because he really was out cold—because he didn’t so much as twitch.

  Tamara Grimaldi’s car pulled up outside after a few minutes. She didn’t even greet me, just took in the scene at a glance and shook her head. “What did you do to him?”

  “I knocked him out with the motorcycle helmet,” I said, brandishing it. “He was going to shoot me.”

  “With what?” She glanced around.

  “He dropped the gun when I hit him,” I explained. “I kicked it under the car. Over there.” I pointed.

  Grimaldi eyed the flat tire. “He shoot that?”

  I nodded. “I’m lucky it wasn’t me.” The bullet hadn’t come quite as close as the one yesterday, from Walker’s gun, but it had come close enough. Anything without about fifty yards is too close for comfort.

  “I’d say.” She turned back to him. “How long has he been like that?”

  “Couple minutes,” Rafe said. “He’s breathing. He prob’ly just don’t wanna have to wake up and deal with reality.”

  Probably. “Maybe you and I should just step out for a minute and let Grimaldi deal with him,” I suggested. “Maybe that would help.”

  Rafe quirked a brow. “You think that’d be safe?”

  “He isn’t stupid.” Current circumstances to the contrary. “He won’t attack her.”

  “If he does,” Grimaldi said, “I’ll keep him locked up for the rest of his natural life. If he’s telling the truth and he didn’t kill Ortega, he’s not looking at serving much time. If he’ll turn evidence against Vandervinder and cut a deal, he might get out in time to see his kid start kindergarten.”

  That sounded like a long time to me—five and a half years until any child born in the next month would start kindergarten—but perhaps to Bradley it didn’t sound so bad. His eyelids flickered.

  “Let’s go,” I told Rafe, suddenly eager to get away before I had to deal with Bradley, and watch him deal with what he’d done, and with what he’d attempted to do. He might not have to serve much time for Manny’s murder, if Dale Vandervinder had been the one to pull the trigger, but Grimaldi hadn’t mentioned anything about what he’d tried to do to me. And then there was the legal matter of scheming with Mr. Vandervinder behind Mrs. Vandervinder’s back.

  Bradley was finished, in a lot of ways, and although I had no fond feelings left for him—certainly not after this—I also didn’t want to stand here and watch his world come down around his ears. I cared enough about the man I’d once married not to want him to go through that with his ex-wife as audience.

  “Come on.” I took Rafe’s arm and tugged him away. He came reluctantly, not without several longing looks over his shoulder.

  Not at Grimaldi. At Bradley. Obviously Rafe was still wishing for the opportunity to punch my ex-husband.

  But it wasn’t necessary. We watched from beside my car as Grimaldi got Bradley to his feet. He was weaving a little, and I wasn’t sure whether I’d really hit him that hard or whether it was the realization that he was about to be arrested that made him reel. She talked softly to him, and got him into a pair of handcuffs. Then she guided him out of the garage toward the police car parked at an angle in front of the garage. Just in case Bradley had thought to make a break for it in the Escalade, I guess.

  He stopped beside the car door and looked at me. “I’m sorry, Savannah.”

  I could hear Rafe’s soft snort behind me.

  I nodded. “I know, Bradley. Me, too.”

  He didn’t say anything else, just looked at me. And looked at Rafe. And then let Grimaldi put him into the back of the car, with a hand on his head, like Truman had done with Garth Hanson yesterday afternoon. Never thought I’d see the day when my ex-husband was taken away in the back of a police car, with his hands cuffed behind him.

  Funny how things turn out.

  Grimaldi closed the door on Bradley and headed for the entrance to the townhouse, presumably to inform Shelby about what would happen now.

  “Think I should go with her?” I muttered.

  Rafe tightened his arm around my waist, either in warning or unconsciously. “No, darlin’. Let her handle it. You’ve done enough.”

  I guess I had, at that. More than enough, I’m sure Shelby would say.

  “You don’t owe her nothing,” Rafe added.

  I nodded. “I know. It’s just... she asked me for help, and I brought this down on her. I feel guilty.”

  “Ain’t your fault her husband’s a screw-up. You did what you had to do.”

  He was right about that. Once I knew what was going on, it wasn’t like I could have done anything different. Except perhaps refuse to meet Shelby in the first place, but that was water under the bridge. Spilled perfume. Whatever.

  So I stayed where I was and watched as Shelby opened the door. Grimaldi spoke for a minute. Shelby nodded, looking pale and frail in spite of her pregnant girth. Then the door closed again, and Grimaldi came toward us.

  “I’ll need you to come back downtown and file another report,” she told me. “Sometime today.”

  “We’ll go right now.” I glanced at Rafe, who nodded. At this point, I just wanted the whole thing over with, and I guess he did, too.

  “I’ll see you there.” Grimaldi got into the cop car and drove slowly out of the cul-de-sac. So far the neighbors had been discreet in their interest—I was surprised none of them had come outside to see what was going on—but now I did see a few fluttering curtains, and one woman scurrying across the parking lot to knock on a neighbor’s door across the way. We watched as they put their heads together, glancing in our direction.

  “Your mama’s gonna have a cow when she hears about this,” Rafe said.

  I nodded, my lips curving. “Oh, yes.”

  He turned me around and put both hands on my waist to look down into my face. “You gonna tell her?”

  “Do you think I should?”

  “I think you should wait for Tammy to tell your brother and let him break the news.”

  After a second, he a
dded, “Though I wish I could be there to see her face.”

  He wasn’t the only one. “We could schedule a visit.”

  “No offense, darlin’,” Rafe said, “but I don’t wanna see your mama that bad.”

  I didn’t either, if it came to that. Although the optimist in me wondered whether my mother would look at Rafe any more kindly now that it turned out that Bradley was headed to jail.

  A girl can hope.

  “Let’s go,” the love of my life said and gave my posterior a swat. “I’ll follow you there.” He headed for the bike.

  “Thanks for following me here,” I called after him as I reached for the Volvo’s door.

  He turned to grin at me. “I’d follow that view anywhere, darlin’.”

  He winked before he pulled the helmet down over his face. I was laughing as I put the view he admired into the seat and turned the key in the ignition.

  # # #

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jenna Bennett writes the USA Today bestselling Savannah Martin mystery series for her own gratification, as well as the New York Times bestselling Do-It-Yourself home renovation mysteries from Berkley Prime Crime under the pseudonym Jennie Bentley. For a change of pace, she writes a variety of romance, from contemporary to futuristic, and from paranormal to suspense.

  For more information, please visit her website: www.jennabennett.com

  To sign up for the occasional email newsletter with news and updates, please go HERE

  Copyright

  KICKOUT CLAUSE

  Savannah Martin Mystery #7

  Copyright © 2013 Bente Gallagher

  All rights reserved.

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