When Tiffany answered, he asked, “You got a sec?”
“Depends.”
“Let me just say, this wasn’t easy.”
Her voice rose with excitement. “You found him?” Then she grumbled, “Who was he with?”
Oh, that’s good. She was sticking to her story.
He hadn’t figured out how Tiffany fit into this narrative, but he knew the “cheating husband” tale was bullshit. He’d done his research, and he knew who Jacob was and what he’d done. Tiffany’s role in it was still a mystery, but he’d let it play out (there was money to be made), so he said, “Couldn’t quite tell who he was with.”
“Whore.”
“I got a pic. I’ll send it.” Gregory forwarded the shot of Jacob leaving the coffee shop as a text came in from someone. For the moment, he ignored it.
There was a pause as Tiffany took a look at what he’d sent. “Coffee Princess? That bitch!”
Assuming Tiffany was referring to the nonexistent mistress, Gregory added, “Yeah, two drinks, see?”
“That bitch,” Tiffany howled.
Jesus, she’s really selling it. Give her an Oscar. Maybe Tina Turner would like to represent her.
“Where’s he now? Right now?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Gregory started.
“The thing?”
“You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to find him. Then, when I was following him on Central, he pulled a one eighty. Right in the middle of the road. Maniac. He made a semi jackknife. A semi! And I got stuck behind the mess.” Gregory smirked, thinking Tiffany wasn’t the only one who could lie her ass off.
“So you lost him?” Tiffany let out a tirade of racist expletives.
When her word choices settled back to a G rating, Gregory spoke up. “How’d you know my family’s from there?”
“You lost him.”
“Hey, it wasn’t my fault. He saw me because he was looking for me. So I have to ask: did you say something to him?”
“I didn’t say shit,” Tiffany yelled.
“It sure as shit seemed like your husband knew what was going on,” he yelled back. This fake fight actually was kind of fun.
“He knows what’s going on because he’s cheating on me and being careful, you fuckwit.”
“Whoa. I’m a professional. The only way someone sees me is if they’ve been told to watch for me.”
“You find him. Now.” She added a few strings of profanity for exclamation.
Gregory bristled at the word choices. “Fine,” he said. “But if I find him today, do I have to give back the retainer for the extra days?”
“Keep it. Just find him.”
“And the finder’s fee?”
“If you find him, yeah.”
“Of course I’ll find him.”
“That bitch.” Tiffany’s voice was distant and soft, but then it came back loud and clear. “Find him.”
“Aye, aye, Captain. Can we get that contract signed, though?” The line went dead. “Guess that’s a no.” He read the text he’d ignored. It was Craig, his buyer.
“It wasn’t there. WTF.”
He texted back, “Bench facing the harbor? Underneath? Left side?”
“Not there.”
Gregory wrinkled his blackhead-covered nose. That’s not good. Craig had warned him before not to leave it like that. He’d said some dog would sniff it out. Had that happened? Poor dog, he thought as he imagined some golden retriever swallowing the bundle. He texted Craig: “That sucks. Will get you some tomorrow.” He hoped opioids didn’t hit animals the same way they did people.
He didn’t bother checking to see about that, though. He just reassured himself the dog wouldn’t suffer any ill effects, then shifted to how he should best handle Tiffany. Despite the finder’s fee, he actually wasn’t sure he should reveal Jacob’s whereabouts. He really wanted the fee (of course he wanted the fee), but if Tiffany was some sort of mental defective—these VIPs always had crazies after them—and ended up doing something to Jacob, he’d never get another security gig again. Tina Turner, by his own imagination, had clout and would ruin his good name in all the LA circles.
So how could he figure out Tiffany’s story?
Asking around was the obvious answer—he could even go to Duluth’s head honcho herself, Emmelia Lemus, who had a pretty good handle on things from what he’d heard—but then again, he had a feeling the fewer people who were privy to this strange Jacob White group the better. And he was still making money here. If the word got out, someone might try to hoard in on his treasure.
On top of that, Emmelia Lemus scared him. She had a sweet, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly face, but he knew that type. Oh, boy, did he know. There’d been a girl in high school who had the same face. She was just as short too but had blond hair, not black. Cute as a button. This had been senior year (after that embarrassing experience with the goth girl, who’d since graduated). This new girl had come from another school district, and he found himself smitten. He made his approach, and she just went off on him: “How dare you? Were you spying? You jerk!” Gregory didn’t know what to say. Yes, he’d listened to the entire conversation between her and her friend before chemistry class, but how could he not? She’d complained so loudly everyone in the class had heard, so when he told her he’d embarrass her quasi boyfriend Joey by Photoshopping his face onto some gay porn, he expected a response of delight. That didn’t happen. The girl even told Joey about the plan, and a week later, some compromising photos of Gregory turned up. So yes, he knew that face, and Emmelia had that face.
It was probably best to just keep searching the internet for something on Tiffany. Worst case, he wouldn’t figure out who she was, and he’d have to play it safe and keep quiet about Jacob. He wouldn’t get that finder’s fee, but he still had the retainer in the bank, and Tina Turner was still paying and happy, his reputation in LA growing.
But boy, did that finder’s fee sound nice.
~
The teenagers, three boys, had been cruising around town Monday night, wasting time. Near the end of their non-adventure, they grabbed some slushies and snacks at a gas station and settled near the Fond-du-Luth Casino, where there were so many homeless and drunks that they surely wouldn’t get hassled for sitting in their car, smoking some weed. It was Cody, the youngest in the group, who’d found the cage set out by animal control after he’d ventured off to take a piss in the parking garage’s stairwell.
The rattling caught his attention, and he peeked around the corner to find the biggest rat he’d ever seen circling and circling, trapped like a…well, like a rat.
“Oh, shit. Awesome.” Cody knelt for a closer look, forgetting about his overstretched bladder. The animal was purple! And maybe not a rat. Something strange. He ran and got the other boys.
“Freaky.”
“What is it?”
“A dog. I’ve seen these. My cousin, she really wants one.”
“Why’s it purple?”
“’Cause it’s cold?”
“That’s kinda sad.” Cody reached a hand toward the cage, testing the dog’s receptivity to human interaction even though he should’ve known the animal was in no mood for a scratch, since the dog had been curling its lips and staring with eyes that wanted nothing more than to kill them all.
When Cody’s fingers got close, the purple dog snapped, his snout slipping between the bars, and just barely missed the end of Cody’s middle finger.
The boy hopped back; the other boys laughed; and Cody flipped the dog off. “You asshole.”
The three of them stood, keeping their distance. If they’d seen the animal control sticker on the back of the cage, they might’ve given the number a call, maybe, but it was dark, and they weren’t thinking about who the cage belonged to. They wanted to show their friends.
The boy who’d driven them around all night, Zach, took out his phone. “TikTok time.”
“Let’s take the whole cage,” Cody said. “What if we went to Jenny’s
with this thing. Go in there like, ‘Look what we got. A circus rat!’”
Zach and the other boy, Ryan, were all for it, so after a couple of failed attempts to grab the handle without getting bit, the boys were riding with their new friend snapping in the backseat.
Jenny’s house was out by the airport, a good fifteen-minute drive, and halfway through their trip, the boys got the munchies. Hard. They were coming up on Miller Hall Mall, and Cody knew of two places that were open: Perkins and Burger King. BK being the faster option, Zach peeled off the road.
They ordered every curly fry the place had, then parked behind the restaurant, doors wide open to clear the car of the weed, and feasted.
The hairless dog was beside himself. Curly fry after curly fry dropped into the cage from above like glorious gifts from the gods. He ate an entire order himself, and the boys loved every second of it.
Cody rightly assumed the dog’s previous demeanor had been driven away now that its belly was full, and he reached in and gave him a scratch on the head. “Feels weird.”
Zach and Ryan were watching from the front. “Take him out,” Ryan suggested.
“You want to come out?” Cody asked. The dog appeared calm and complacent, so he released the latch. The animal considered it for a moment, then came out and sat on the seat, giving a seemingly friendly look at each of the boys in turn.
“Here. Let me try something,” Ryan said as he grabbed his milkshake and pulled the cover off. “Want some shake, boy?” He held the cup over the dog and dribbled out a bit of the chilly strawberry concoction. It missed the upturned purple mouth and splattered between the dog’s eyes. The boys erupted in laughter.
Their new friend didn’t take kindly to being made a fool. He leapt up and bit Ryan’s hand.
The boy howled in pain and dropped the shake over the dog’s back and Cody’s lap.
“Aw, damn it,” Cody yelled. He jumped from the car and wiped what he could of the blended drink from his shorts.
The animal bounced out after him, snapping and snarling.
“Shit!” Cody sprinted away. There was a dumpster near the street, and he threw himself atop it.
The purple monster didn’t bother. It continued on across the street and disappeared under a car in the hotel’s parking lot.
The boys, having lost their prize, didn’t go to Jenny’s. They’d have to impress the cheerleader some other way. They threw the trap in the dumpster and called it a night.
XV.
Day Thirteen, Tuesday
Three Dead
Ellie wasn’t feeling so hot. She was terribly dizzy and lightheaded. Every time she stood from her recliner, she had to pause, put a hand on the windowsill, and wait until the spots went away. She assumed it was stress: her granddaughter’s passing and then her dog running off.
She still hadn’t found Billy Jack. How long the poor thing could handle the elements was a mystery to her. Thankfully it was the end of August and not the end of January. Poor Billy Jack would’ve frozen solid from one of the routine polar vortex blasts. It had happened; the nutcases down the block had left their dachshund out in twenty-below weather, and the dog had frozen in the night.
Ugh. She couldn’t stomach the thought. Thank God it’s August.
But if she didn’t find Billy Jack soon, he’d certainly develop a bit of a sunburn. That dog didn’t have the sense to sit in the shade. How many times had she pulled him, panting like a fiend, across the patio and under her chair?
Despite Ellie’s lethargic state, these thoughts were driving her out to roam Superior Street, looking for Billy Jack. The search area had expanded this morning. She’d ventured along the lake down to the canal, then cut in a block, making her way back, scanning the streets and alleys. Whenever she passed someone, she made a quick inquiry: “Have you seen a small Xolo?” After the first few people looked at her like she was bonkers, she realized she had to add, “A Xolo is a hairless dog.”
So far, though, she was coming up blank. Not even the slightest hint of her Billy Jack. Kind of like her search for that Canadian pharmacy that had supplied her painkillers. Where is that place? Breaking the pills in half had helped, but she was getting low.
Ellie waved to a young woman whose heels were clicking hard and fast on the pavement. “Excuse me? Can I bother you for a second? Have you seen—”
“Sorry. Can’t help,” the woman grumbled before storming into the Coffee Princess.
Ellie shook her head. Some people can’t be civil until they’ve had their coffee. Well, she could wait. The woman was clearly on her way to something. She’d be back out, coffee in hand, and Ellie would catch her then. Wouldn’t be more than a minute.
Ellie glanced down the cross street. No Billy Jack. But an elderly couple was coming her way.
“No. Sorry. Haven’t seen your dog,” they answered when they reached the corner. “Hope you find him.” They went to the café, hand in hand, and peered through the front window.
Ellie turned to the young man who’d been coming up behind the couple. She had a good feeling about this one, a fellow dog lover. “That’s a cute pug,” she said.
The man didn’t seem to hear her.
“Cute pug,” she repeated, louder.
The fawn-colored dog glanced up with an open smile and one eye.
Maybe not that cute.
The man passed by without a word, tying the pug’s leash to a two-stall bike rack outside the café.
The elderly man, standing near the entrance with his wife, tapped the seemingly deaf man on the arm. “Not sure you want to go in there this second, son.”
The pug man removed a wireless earbud. “Huh?”
“Some kind of kerfuffle going on in there.”
Ellie was close enough to hear this, but not close enough to see the kerfuffle for herself.
The woman nudged her husband, and they decided to move on. The man with the pug studied the situation a moment longer and decided he too didn’t like what he was seeing in the Coffee Princess. He untied his dog and retreated, coming back toward Ellie.
She didn’t bother stopping him; she had half a mind to clear the area as well. It was like watching a flock of birds suddenly take flight. Something was happening.
But before she could go, the high-heeled woman burst from the café, swearing up a storm and slapping a sweaty palm against the window. A police siren came to life several blocks away, and the woman bolted, flying past Ellie with a snarl.
“Goodness,” Ellie gasped, watching the source of the kerfuffle hightail it away. She just stayed where she was.
The officer (Officer Breeland according to his badge) arrived and parked facing the wrong way. As he headed into Coffee Princess, Ellie asked him a pressing question: Had he spotted Billy Jack?
The answer was no.
~
Tiff barely processed Ellie’s presence. She’d been so angry as she’d stormed into the Coffee Princess, and then afterward, she’d been running at such a clip that she wouldn’t have even noticed Jacob Norris himself if he’d been standing there.
The ironic thing was that Tiff had in fact seen Jacob. She’d run right by him as he too was fleeing from the coffee shop. Arguably, it wasn’t her fault she hadn’t recognized him. She only saw his back. But still, she certainly could’ve put two and two together after nearly tripping over Quincy.
The man and his dog had been taking up most of the sidewalk, and in her heels, Tiff hadn’t dared veer into the soft grass to pass, so she’d tightroped along the edge of the sidewalk, lifting her right foot over the squat dog, barely missing his good eye (Glad I didn’t pick the five-inchers), and made the pass in one almost-perfect motion.
Then her ankle had wobbled; her knee buckled; she lurched forward. Only a hand stuck out to slap the pavement had prevented a full-on face plant. Her LV bag had dragged across the cracked concrete with a disgusting, grating sound. But then she’d been upright and running again.
Up the block, around the corner, and down the
next block she’d gone before finally collapsing into Bump’s car.
She leaned against the headrest and caught her breath. Even as thin as she was, she had no physical stamina, her weight simply the product of eating like a bird.
“That bitch,” Tiff sputtered, the only phrase that ever came to mind when thinking of Emmelia. That little, conniving, lying bitch. She couldn’t believe Emmelia had called the cops. Was there not a civil bone in her body? So what if she was “yelling”? She had a point to make, and she was going to make it. Not like I was spouting lies either. No, Tiff was speaking the truth, and Emmelia couldn’t handle it. Jacob had been in her café, and the man was still living, breathing, and walking this earth.
“‘Didn’t see him,’” Tiff huffed to herself in the car. “Bullshit.” A fit of coughs came over her hard, and she splattered the steering wheel with spittle. “Bullshit,” she said again. “Bullshit.”
Emmelia was lucky all she’d done was knock over a stack of to-go cups and swipe some bags of coffee off a shelf. She should’ve thrown a mug through the front window. And thrown another mug through the other window in the back. Emmelia deserved it, the treacherous—
The pug she’d nearly tripped over came around the corner. The guy too. And she finally recognized him.
Jacob fucking Norris.
Baby B’s murderer, dressed all fancy in a tucked-in Ralph Lauren polo, slim-fit jeans, and light-blue canvas shoes. He reminded her of those investment bankers she saw on the weekend walking into their offices in Chicago, all cash and no style. She hated them, and she hated this guy.
As Jacob drew near, she slouched low. The gun B had given her was in the glovebox in a clutch. The harpy blade was in her purse (scratched to shit now—the purse, not the blade). Which to use? The blade was closer, but would it do the job? She’d stabbed B’s ex with it once, but that woman had turned out pretty much fine. So much so that Tiff had seriously considered stabbing her a second time a few months later when the dozen-or-so stitches had come out. But she got distracted with other things (B was all hers at that point).
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