by Joni Rodgers
“Yeah, that Smack Wilder,” he said. “Yessiree bob, she’s some hot stuff.”
“What’s your favorite?” asked Smartie. “Let me guess. The one about the French race car driver.”
“Yeah, you guessed it,” Barth nodded. “That one’s a firecracker.”
“Barth,” said Shep, “I need a link to that video when you get it uploaded.”
“Sure thing. Don’t worry about the vehicle, Ms. Breedlove. I know a good fella.”
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Barth.”
Barth worked her hand like a pump handle and stumped back toward the stairwell.
“Mind if I check inside the car?” asked Shep.
“For what?”
“I’ll let you know if I see it.”
Smartie handed over her car keys. Shep opened each door in turn, rifled the glove box, popped the boot, searched through the books and maps, felt up a basket of shirts and delicates Smartie kept forgetting to drop off at the dry cleaner.
“Do the knuckle-scuffers commonly leave their V-shaped cutting implements in the outgoing laundry?” she asked.
Shep closed the trunk and returned her keys. “I’m sorry. I needed to make sure.”
“I understand.”
“I’m parked up top,” he said, and Smartie followed him back to the elevator.
“Interesting how Mr. Barth was so Johnny-on-the-spot just now,” she observed as the doors slid shut.
“He’s just doing his job.”
“I think he’s her little do-monkey,” said Smartie. “I think he’s Suri’s henchman.”
“Lawyers don’t have henchman; they have interns.”
“Shep, I never wrote anything about a French race car driver.”
He looked at her in surprise. “What pinged your BS detector?”
“He doesn’t talk like a mullet-head. He talks like a mullet-head.”
“Ah,” said Shep. He didn’t want to say it out loud, but personally, he’d never liked the guy. “What’s does ‘fan fiction’ mean?”
“Hobby writers creating stories using characters from a book or TV series or whatever. The witches in Wicked used to be popular. Star Trek and Star Wars spawned tons of stuff. The book Fifty Shades of Gray started as erotica based on the Twilight series. This guy started out blogging stories based on various computer games, and then he kind of fixated on Smack.”
“What makes you think he’d slash your tires?”
“During my last two book tours, he showed up at several events, being obnoxious during the Q & A, hassling the booksellers. He was frustrated that I hadn’t read his Smack Wilder blog. The first time, I came out after a signing at the Barnes & Noble in Champions Village, and the tires were slashed, but they figured it was just a random thing. The second time was at a comic book convention in Dallas, and he actually flipped off the hotel security camera.”
“He wanted to get caught,” said Shep. “To get your attention.”
“I don’t understand.” She sucked on her vanilla cigarette, brows furrowed. “How could he have known I’d be here?”
“How many people knew about the appointment?” asked Shep.
“Only Suri Fitch. And her henchman.”
“He’s not her henchman.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m her henchman.” Shep stood and brushed his hands over the crease in his gray pants. “You didn’t tell anyone else where you were going?”
“No one except…” Smartie shook her head. “No one.”
“Who?”
“Herrick,” she said reluctantly. “I know people always think it’s the ex, but—”
“It is always the ex,” said Shep. But everything he’d seen in his recent surveillance of Albert Herrick told him that this case could be the exception to that rule.
On the top floor of the parking ramp, only half a dozen vehicles were scattered across the tarmac. Shep’s Range Rover parked with its front bumper nosed to the wall at the farthest point from the elevator, the span of a full city block away. Smartie groaned softly; the Mildred Pierce pumps had begun to bite painfully into the backs of her heels.
“Do you always park so far from the door?”
“Every day,” said Shep.
“For the love of God, why?”
“You’ll see.”
“Is it a spy reason?”
“If it was a spy reason, would I tell you?”
Shep strode up the ramp, and Smartie trekked after him. The sun beat down muy caliente from a broad blue sky, but when they reached the edge of the ramp, they caught a cool breeze off the tops of the towering old oaks below. Beyond the trees, spread between the office complex and the streaming freeway, there was a palm-lined greenspace with a white stone water feature, and beyond all that, downtown Houston cut and soared like a blocky modern art installation.
Shep held out his key tag and chirped the unlock, but before he opened Smartie’s door, he stood for a moment by the wall, breathing in the view that lured him daily to the least convenient parking space available.
“Jesus, we live in a beautiful city,” he said.
“We do,” Smartie agreed. “I don’t think I could write a book that isn’t set in Houston.”
“Were you born here?”
“I like to think so. You?”
Shep nodded. “Grew up in Pearland. Moved to Huntsville long enough to get my Criminal Justice degree. Other than that, I’ve lived here my whole life.”
“Shep, I need to go.” Smartie stepped out of her pumps and got in the car. “I promised Casilda I wouldn’t leave Herrick home alone for more than an hour or two.”
“Home,” Shep echoed. “What do you mean?”
“He’s camping at my place during the day while Casilda teaches his classes.”
“Smartie, what the hell kind of sense does that make?” Shep looked at her, nonplussed. “You don’t file a restraining order against a person you’re babysitting.”
“He can’t be left alone all day when he’s taking those don’t kill yourself pills.” She glanced nervously at her watch. “He was out cold when I left. Hopefully, he’s still sleeping.”
\ ///
14
Smartie’s hopes sank as Shep pulled into her driveway. The front door stood ajar, and the allegro maestoso from Mahler’s “Resurrection” thundered out across the yard.
“Squabs. I hope Twinkie didn’t go out,” said Smartie. “If he sets one paw in my neighbor’s flower bed, she acts like he ate her baby.”
Through the old-fashioned sheers that draped the sunroom windows, Herrick could be seen directing an invisible orchestra with a brass candlestick. He stumbled over a side chair, tipped an end table and upset a tall vase of sunflowers, but managed to right himself in time to muster in the tympani and French horns.
As Shep and Smartie entered the foyer, Herrick weaved, mumbling and murmuring, out to meet them, swinging the candlestick in one hand, a half bottle of cognac in the other.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let me take that, sir.” Shep reached for the candlestick, but it flew from Herrick’s hand and sailed into the dining room, narrowly missing Smartie’s head.
“Whoops,” he giggled. “I appear to have lost my grip.”
Shep stepped in front of Smartie and said, “Mr. Herrick, you’ll have to leave now.”
“Who the hell’r’you?” Herrick slurred, confounded to find himself eye to eye with Shep’s shirt buttons. “I’ll have you know, sir, that harridan on your arm is my wife.”
“Herrick,” Smartie scolded over the symphony, “you know you’re not supposed to mix alcohol with your anti-suicide pills.”
“Wha’d’you care, you succubus?”
“Put your shoes on. Casilda will be here any minute to take you home.” She bypassed Shep to peck Herrick on the cheek, telling him brightly, “Don’t despair. She said she’d bring Starbucks.”
Weaving back to the sunroom where Mahler’s “Resurrection” had settled into the andante mod
erato, Herrick collapsed face down on the sofa, clutching the cognac to his breast, leaking the remainder of the bottle into the pillows.
“Twinkie?” Smartie hollered down the hallway and up the kitchen stairs, clapping her hands. “C’mere, baby. Mommy’s got cookies.”
Shep found the source of the deafening music and turned it off, then attempted to shake Herrick back to consciousness.
“Mr. Herrick? Sir, I’m from Salinger, Pringle, Fitch & Edloe, your wife’s attorneys. You are hereby informed that a duly enforceable restraining order is in effect. Henceforth, you are not to come within five hundred feet of Ms. Breedlove or this residence. Do you understand?”
“No,” Herrick whispered sadly. “I’ll never understand. They didn’t even award a Pulitzer in 2012. Fifty Shades of Shit gets seven million from Random House. Smartie Breedlove smirks over the burning rubble of a once noble art form.”
“You will be notified of the date and time of the Order to Show Cause hearing within twenty days,” Shep persevered, “at which you must be present with counsel or this temporary restraining order will become a permanent order of protection. Any questions?”
“Why don’t they just cut off my manhood and use it as a swizzle stick?”
“I’m just the messenger, sir.”
“She’s an eviscerating hag,” Herrick murmured. “Get out while you still have a soul.”
Shep located a pair of well-traveled loafers and attempted to work them onto the poor sod’s feet.
“C’mon, asshole, I’m trying to help you out here,” Shep said irritably, but by this time Herrick was a dead weight that dropped to the hardwood floor when Shep heard Smartie screaming.
“Smartie?” Shep bounded up the stairs two at a time, service revolver in hand, safety off, heartbeat fully engaged. “Where are you?”
“Shep! In here! Please, help me!”
The bedroom had been tossed, the bed upended, dresser drawers dumped, closet turned inside out. Glass from the French doors to her office lay in shards and scythes on the floor along with a blizzard of papers and pages, bits and pieces of her computer and fax machine, books with bindings sundered and twisted.
“Over here,” she cried. “Hurry!”
On the far side of her ruined desk, Smartie was on her knees, struggling to lift a heavy bookcase that had been toppled in front of the bay window. In one heart-sinking moment, Shep took in the sickening smell of blood and the sight of the Bullmastiff’s rope-thick tail curled motionless beside its crushed hindquarters. Hoping against instinct, he shoved his gun back into his shoulder holster and waded through the destruction.
“On three,” he said, squatting next to Smartie. “One, two, three.”
They heaved the heavy oak shelf onto its side and thrashed away the books and broken tchatchkes.
“Oh, sweet baby. No, no, no…” Smartie grasped Twinkie’s matted flank, stroking the side of his pulped head. “Help me get him to the car. We have to get him to the vet.”
“Smartie, he’s dead.”
“No! No, feel him. He’s warm.”
“He’s not breathing, Smartie.”
“I can feel his pulse. Here! Feel.”
“Smartie, that’s you. That’s your own heart pounding. He’s dead.”
“Oh!” She arched away as if she’d been stun-gunned. “Oh, no, baby.”
Smartie crumpled over the broad barrel of Twinkie’s indented rib cage, clutching thick wrinkles of soft fur in her fists, and for the next several minutes, Shep didn’t know what else to do but kneel beside her, rubbing her back as she wracked and sobbed Twinkie’s name and Hill’s name and heartbroken words that didn’t attempt to make sense.
Fucking ex, Shep silently berated himself. Always. It was always the fucking ex. There were no exceptions.
It took all his will to keep from bombing back down the stairs to throttle the living shit out of that drunken leach, and as if that thought passed through his palm into Smartie’s spine, she straightened and sucked in a deep breath through clenched teeth.
“Bastard. Bastard. That bastard!” She made for the door and was down the stairs kicking Herrick awake before Shep could get hold of her. “Get out! Get out of my house!”
Flinging her fists and feet and curses at Herrick, who sat up blinking his blurry eyes at the gore that smeared her face and the front of her body, Smartie savaged the restraining order paperwork from her purse and threw it in Herrick’s face.
“Get out, you little piss fig! Get out or you’re dead! If you ever come near me again, I will have you killed. Do you understand me? I will tell my attorney, and she will have you murdered!”
“Smartie.” Looping one arm around her middle, Shep lifted her bodily back from the sofa. He raised his other hand to Herrick and barked, “She did not say that. And if you know what’s good for you, you didn’t hear it.”
“I heard it,” said a startled voice in the kitchen doorway.
“Casilda,” Herrick gulped. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”
Standing under the lintel, a canvas book bag looped over one arm, eyes large and alarmed, Casilda held a pressed cardboard drink tray from Starbucks with three coffee cups perched in it at diagonals.
“Who are you?” Her baffled stare shifted from Shep to Herrick, and her jaw went taut. “You’re drunk. After everything we’ve been through. All your promises.”
“He killed Twinkie.” Smartie pointed a trembling finger at Herrick, her face wrecked with blood and weeping. “That drunk little bastard killed Twinkie.”
“No. He could never…” Casilda visibly rocked back. She took an unsteady breath and set the coffee on a side table. “Herrick, have you lost your mind?”
He mumbled something unintelligible and sank into the sofa, covering his face with his hands.
Blinking back tears, Casilda turned on Smartie. “This is all your fault. You set him off with the whole divorce thing out of the blue, then left him here alone when I specifically asked you not to.”
“Get him out of here!” Smartie cried. “He is a hanger-on. He’s pathetic, and his stultifying book is never going to get published, and I want him out of my sight, or I swear you’ll find him stuffed in a refrigerator at the bottom of a bayou.”
“Smartie. Shut. Up.” Shep took her shoulders and turned her toward him. “Not another word until the police get here.”
“Oh, God.” Casilda started crying quietly. “Smartie, please don’t have him arrested. He’s in no condition. Please. He needs to go back to rehab.”
“Ma’am? Let’s just take this one step at a time,” Shep said gently. “Please. Have a seat.”
Leaving Casilda and Herrick huddled on the sofa, he hauled Smartie to the foyer, parked her on a side chair and knelt in front of her. A deep trembling had taken her over. Her arms felt fragile and cold when Shep rubbed them between his hands.
“Smartie, you need to calm down. Let’s just take a minute to breathe before they get here, all right? You need to think very carefully about what you say.”
Shep stepped out on the porch, pressing the 9 and the first 1 into his cell phone, but his thumb stalled over the last digit as the whole can of worms opened in front of him, squirming with unpleasant possibilities.
Clearly, Smartie had orchestrated this entire thing to bait Suri, and now it had gone horribly off the rails. A credible witness had just heard him abetting a client’s death threat against a spouse. He was obligated as part of Smartie’s legal team to prevent her from incriminating herself, even if she’d been playing him for a sap since day one, and if there was anything to Smartie’s theory, he had no small stake in preventing her from incriminating Suri until he could prove that the rest of the firm—himself included—was not involved.
The police would have to be called or there would be a documentation issue. The only way to dodge a full-scale processing of the situation was to have Herrick hospitalized instead of arrested. And since pressing charges was not up to the offended spouse in a domestic dist
urbance, his only hope was a sympathetic ear from the responding officers.
Hating it like hell, Shep took Claire’s card from his wallet.
“It’s Shep. You said you’d have my back.”
\ ///
15
“On three,” said Shep. “One. Two. Three.”
Grasping the edges of Smartie’s down comforter, he and Penn Hewitt heaved the two hundred-forty-pound burden of Twinkie’s carcass into a biohazard bin in the back of Hewitt’s truck.
“Geezes balls,” said Hewitt. “What kind of dog was that?”
“Big,” Shep managed between labored grasps of air.
Hewitt, who was pretty big himself and a younger man than Shep, was barely winded. Hopping up into the truck, he collected the top of the plastic bag that lined the bin and sealed it with yellow tape. Before he hopped down, he gave the bag a gentle pat.
“Poor dude,” he said sadly. “Seemed like she was pretty attached to him, too.”
Shep nodded, panting, leaning forward with his hands on his knees.
“So the guy who tried to off himself came back and offed the dog?” Hewitt hefted a steam cleaner from a rack. “She better get rid of that asshole. I see this kinda thing all the time. First trip, it’s ‘Oh, no, officer, it was just a misunderstanding.’ Second trip, ‘Huh-uh, he swears it’ll never happen again.’ Third trip, I’m scraping the chick’s liver off the wall.”
“Did you speak to her about…” Shep made a gesture that hoped to convey something about the disposition of Twinkie’s hefty remains.
“Sure did,” said Hewitt, who was fluent in unspeakable. “I got her a deal with a local crematorium. They’ll send her the ashes. Nice Lucite box. Pet’s name engraved on it and everything.”
“Thanks,” said Shep. “That’ll mean a lot to her.”
“Listen, dude, are y’all two together or just friends? I mean, I know she’s married to the guy who killed the dog, but that’s looking like a deal breaker.”
“I work for her attorney.”
“Sweet,” Hewitt whispered heavenward. “Put in a good word for me, will you? Tell her I was sensitive about the dog. I’m not even gonna charge her for today.”