by Joni Rodgers
Epps offered a firm handshake before he hustled off to hammerhead on someone else’s behalf. The young woman from the publisher parted with polite words and went up the street to do lunch with the store’s Community Relations Manager. Shoppers poked at Smartie Breedlove books in the Bargain Mystery bin.
Shep stood for a long while, staring at Janny, his chest aching with a wanting to die feeling he hoped he would never lose. But eventually, his eyes drifted over to Skip.
It was a bit gut-wrenching to see him on such a large scale. Skip the lovable loser. The Shiner Bock savant. Paunchy. Balding. Smiling a benignly dumbass smile that was actually just a skillful zigzag bisecting his flaccid face. At the place where his shirt was a little too strained to meet his baggy pants, a strip of hairy belly protruded. Below it, his fly was the slightest bit open. Shep felt his face crawling with yellow jackets.
Janny knew.
She’d known the whole time and published her disillusionment daily so he’d never forget what a sagging, stupid, can’t keep it zipped dumbass he really was. The only thing more painful than having the entire world see him this way was knowing that Janny had seen him this way at the moment she died.
He’d been afraid the truth would cost him her love; instead his lies had cost him her respect, and his guilty compliance with the rules she’d laid out for him had only diminished him more as the years went by.
Trapped in the canyon of words on paper, Shep made his way through one deep breath after another. A lump the size and hardness of an egg pushed at the inside of his throat. Not grief or guilt. He’d spent all his grief, grown accustomed to guilt and given up on redemption.
Shep didn’t give a shit about redemption anymore.
He wanted beer. And Tex Mex. And porn. He wanted to ride his motorcycle without a helmet and die on the freeway before he ever had another opportunity to floss, prune the goddamn oleander or have his cholesterol checked.
He left the store with a single driving purpose:
Kill Skip.
\ ///
19
Stripped down to his bathrobe, boxers and socks, Shep finished the fourth Shiner Bock dark lager from a cold six-pack and belched a deeply satisfying queso-scented belch. He’d discovered a website where classic fuck films were available for download, started with good ol’ Debbie Does Dallas and moved on to Deep Throat and Inside Annie Sprinkle.
Most contemporary porn girls looked way too young for his taste. Girls Gone Wild and that sort of thing. It made Shep’s skin crawl to think what kind of forty-year-old man was into that, but there was no escaping it these days. In the skin-crawly, low-budget commercials running up to The Devil in Miss Jones (“an erotic masterpiece in which the incomparable Georgina Spelvin portrays a frustrated spinster exploring her inner depravity!”), there was a sadly tilted emphasis on youth that brought out the older brother in Shep and left him worried about the world.
Something Evan Filer had said kept replaying in Shep’s head. About the webcam girl. Through the lowering haze of the fifth Shiner, he felt that capital J on “Jailbait.” Shep tore himself away from Georgina Spelvin, wiped his hands on his robe and typed a few keywords into the search bar: jailbait, webcam, teenager, sex, Houston.
The results were pretty much as expected. As Shep clicked down a list of thirty or so webcams that had “jailbait” in the copy, a pop-up phone sex ad purred, “Houston hotties want to meet you now,” and a presumably Houstonian hottie flashed a gap-toothed smile at the camera and concurred, “I want to meet you. Now.” Which seemed an odd thing to say with another man’s genitals swinging in such close proximity to her face.
Shep looked down woozily and flicked a bit of chimichanga from his chest hair. After a side trip to the patio to piss in the oleander, he meandered out to the kitchen for that last beer and the remainder of the takeout food, then returned to the search list.
A webcam site called LilTarts.com snagged his attention with oily promises about “jailbait virgins” and coeds and tightness and sweetness available in your area now. Shep shifted the monitor and pushed the keyboard aside to make room for his beer and sopapillas. He was about to prop his feet up again when the girl on the screen turned toward the camera, whisking her honey-colored hair over her shoulder, an expression of wide-eyed innocent surprise on her heart-shaped face.
Shep thrashed forward in time to hit the screen shot function. He clicked his wireless mouse on the SEE ME LIVE! NOW! NOW! NOW! flashing between her small, pert breasts, but the link took him to a webcam where two Hispanic girls cavorted in a hot tub.
“Damn it.”
Wheeling toward the printer, Shep seized the paper as it fed out and minimized the incomparable Georgina Spelvin. Knowing it would start the clock ticking, he opened a shortcut to the secure online storage facility, entered his password and scrolled down the case list to Van Reuse versus Van Reuse. He was hating hard the conclusions he was drawing, but there was no looking away now. Opening the video file, Shep fast-forwarded to the stoplight, listening to the drone of his own narration.
“Here we go. We got him.”
There was a blur as the Range Rover pulled forward, the back of the girl’s head bobbing in the driver’s lap. Shep leaned in and pushed his reading glasses up on his nose.
Turn. Whisk. Surprise.
Shep paused the video and held the printout next to the screen. It was the same girl. The babysitter with the heart-shaped face was LILTART2920.
Van Reuse had been set up.
“Not by me,” said LILTART2920, whose actual given name was Kara Lynn Sweet, an even pornier porn name than Georgina Spelvin. Little chin pointed stubbornly, she defied Shep across the booth at a corner coffee shop in Montrose. “Don’t even try to make like I’ll get arrested. I wasn’t doing anything illegal.”
“You were having sex for money, Kara. That’s illegal. Mr. Van Reuse said you were drinking beer. Are you telling me you’re twenty-one?”
“I’m twenty-two,” she proclaimed with wide-eyed, heart-shaped innocence. “I know I look sixteen. That’s why my webcam does so well, but hey, I am a legal adult. You can check my driver’s license if you don’t believe me.”
Shep held out his hand. Kara dragged her wallet from her purse and made a great demonstration of eye-rolling and hair-flipping while Shep examined the license on both sides, flexed it between his thumb and forefinger, bit the corner gently, then handed it back to her, satisfied that it was the real deal.
“While we’re at it,” she said, “here’s my student ID from Texas A&M. I graduated last year with a double degree in business and applied physics. I’m not some stupid kid you’re gonna take advantage of, okay? So if you came here planning to scam yourself a nice little piece of schoolgirl ass, guess again.” She poked her coffee spoon at him for emphasis. “Applied physics, asshole. Texas A&M.”
Shep tapped the front of his white shirt. “Criminal Justice. Sam Houston State.”
“Ooh. Intimidating,” she scoffed and flipped her flat-ironed hair again.
Shep waited quietly, both hands on his coffee cup.
“You do not intimidate me,” said Kara. “Not in the slightest.”
Another long, quiet moment went by, and her chin trembled.
“I am not a—” She leaned forward so she could whisper. “I’m not a hooker. All I did was babysit the kids and fluff him a little in the car. I was promised there would be no actual sex involved. I was told that you’d show up before anything major happened.”
“Who told you that? Ms. Fitch?”
“I don’t know any Ms. Fitch.”
“The woman who hired you. Indian, very beautiful, five-eleven, short black hair, little diamond right here.” Shep tapped the side of his nose, but Kara shook her head.
“I was hired by a guy I met at the gentlemen’s club.”
“Named?”
“Pirate Booty.”
“The name of the guy, Einstein.”
“Garth.”
“Could that be Ba
rth?”
“Whatever.”
Shep steepled his fingers in front of his grim expression. Of course, Suri wouldn’t directly involve herself. The only ones directly involved were Barth, who made the arrangements, and Shep, who pulled the trigger.
“How did you find me?” Kara asked. “How’d you get my cell number?”
“It wasn’t hard,” Shep told her. “What you’re doing is stupid. It’s not safe.”
“Which is why I wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity to earn three student loan payments in one night,” she said, and her chin recovered a little of its stubborn set. “Between the webcam and dancing at the club, I make five times what I could make as a science geek. All I have to do is stand there, and pathetic creeps like you give me money. Don’t pretend like that’s my fault. I didn’t make that Van Reuse guy do anything he didn’t want to do. If he’s screwing around on his wife, why shouldn’t he get nailed to the wall?”
Shep didn’t have a good answer for that. He took a card from his pocket and gave it to Kara. “If you discover you’re in over your head, give me a call.”
She studied the card. “Martin Shepard Hartigate: Porn Hound.”
Shep smiled at that. “Pretty funny for a science geek.”
“That wasn’t us having a moment,” Kara clarified.
“Absolutely not.”
“Don’t call me.”
“Don’t worry.”
She pushed Shep’s card into a side pocket on her purse as she scootched out of the booth and flipped him off as she breezed out the door.
The waitress passed by with a fresh pot of coffee. “Warm up?”
“Hit me.” Shep nodded.
She topped up his coffee. He thanked her and sat studying the rising steam.
So.
It was a rock solid fact that Barth had set up Van Reuse, a reasonable assumption that Barth had destroyed the security video from the parking garage and a safe bet that he’d done at least some of the dirty work leading to the undoing of Charma Nicole Bovet. But Barth was middle management material with neither the motive nor the ’nads to do all that on his own. His orders had to be coming from Suri. Just like Evan’s orders. And Shep’s.
I don’t know how you wrangled it, Mr. Hartigate.
A cool million to the American Heart Association in Janny’s name. Previous sizeable deposits directly to Shep’s bank account. Shep’s voice on the Van Reuse video. His presence at the scenes of Charma’s death, Van Reuse’s entrapment, and Smartie’s home invasion. No doubt there was security cam footage of him mauling Suri under the mistletoe.
Shep could see it now, like a spider web illuminated by morning dew, spiraling back to the day he was hired at Salinger, Pringle, Fitch & Edloe. Standing by the glass wall, backdropped by blue sky and the rising Houston skyline, Suri had smiled and offered her elegant hand.
“Welcome, Mr. Hartigate. I think you’re going to come in quite handy.”
They spoke briefly about his departure from HPD. She offered a hypothesis about the Sugarland debacle. How his former partner may have been involved. Shep’s possible motives for taking a dive.
“Please don’t confirm or deny,” she said. “It’s better if I don’t know.”
But she did know. Suri had done a better job of reading the tea leaves than anyone in the DA’s office.
“Situations like this tend to show a person’s true colors, Mr. Hartigate. I’m impressed with your ingenious solution to the problem, but what I find most remarkable is the self-sacrifice.”
“Look,” said Shep. “I’m a dishonored cop. I’m getting used to having my shoulder tapped about it, but that doesn’t mean I’m no longer committed to following the law. The only antidote is to play everything by the book. Keep to the high road without compromise. That’s what I intend to do.”
“I’m counting on it,” Suri smiled.
But here in the lingering haze of coffee and Kara Lynn Sweets bubblegum perfume, Shep was no longer certain he had that option.
\ ///
20
“It wasn’t a super productive week,” Smartie told the Quilters the following Wednesday night. “But I did get this Polish edition of Smack Wilder #10: Doggy Style. That’s always kind of trippy.”
She passed around the paperback copy of Lubia Psa: Smack Wilder Liczba Misterium Dziewięć. It had a tiger on the cover. Smartie had no idea why.
She’d purposely put herself last to read, hoping home or children or an earthquake would drag the group out the door before she was forced to show her shabby chapter. She passed copies around the kitchen island, read it aloud, then sat in the heavy silence, while Temple and Phyllis stared at the pages as if they were written in Polish, and Yuki just shook her head.
“Hon,” she said, “seems like you’re flailing here.”
“Sugar, it’s all good writing,” Temple said gently, “but this entire ten pages is nothing but the cleverest way to take us absolutely nowhere.”
“For me, the major wrong turn is the dog,” Phyllis said, flipping through the notes she’d made while Smartie was reading. “First off, what’s the dog doing at the radio station? And beyond that—well, I can’t get beyond that.”
“Okay,” said Smartie. “What if her apartment is being bug-bombed, and she has to work late, right? So she takes the dog—”
“Nyet,” said Yuki. “You’re just slapping a tiger on the cover for no damn reason. Don’t add another tangent to the mix. People haven’t had patience for stuff like that since the Brontë sisters all got their period at the same time.”
“My mama used to make these wonderfully kitschy lamps,” Temple said. “Any time somebody broke a cup or a saucer or a flower pot, she’d hot glue the broken bits on these big wooden bases Daddy made. I asked her when I was a little girl, ‘How do you know which piece fits where?’ and she said, ‘Oh, sugar, I don’t. But the ones that don’t fit—those are easy to spot.’” She reached for Smartie’s hand across the island. “Smartie, honey, I can’t tell you what you should be writing, but this ain’t it.”
“It’s not part of the story,” Phyllis agreed, “and these POV changes are making my head spin.”
“Besides which,” said Temple, “remember when I killed that schnauzer in Devil Take the Hindmost? The hate mail! I’m here to tell you. My agent got gift-wrapped boxes of dog doody for a good eight months. I’m all for transmigration between life and art, but you don’t want to run afoul of those dog people unless it’s essential to the story.”
Phyllis squeezed Smartie’s hand and said, “We love you, girlfriend, and we know you’re hurting about Twinkie, but for the sake of this manuscript, you need to find another way to process that.”
“No offense, Smartie, but you look like hell, and this?” Yuki flattened her palm on the pages. “Not good. Have you gotten any sleep at all since Twinkie died?”
“No,” Smartie said miserably. “Every little noise, I’m wide awake with my heart in a car wreck, thinking someone’s breaking in. And I’m afraid to take a Lunesta because if somebody really does break in, I’ll be sleeping too soundly to hear it.”
“Tell you what let’s do,” said Yuki. “Let’s send out for pizza and have a slumber party like we did back when we were drinking buddies. The three of us will take turns staying awake while you drug yourself into a blissful stupor for a good ten or twelve hours. Tomorrow morning, get up, slap some cucumber slices on your eyes and write a damn book.”
“Oh, Yuki, I’d be so willing to try that,” Smartie said around the grateful swell in her throat. “I do feel like I’m closing in on it, I really do.”
“You are, Smartie,” Phyllis said. “Right now, it’s like you’ve got three different stories going on. You just need to commit to one and write it, that’s all.”
“Oh! Oh, Phyll. You are absolutely right,” said Smartie, astonished that she didn’t see it before. “I’ve been trying to figure this out like it’s all one thing. And it’s not. Not at all.” She gathered the
sheaves of pages from around the tight circle. “Forget all this. Forget everything I said. I’m starting completely over.”
Smartie turned the pages face down and wrote on the back: Smack Wilder #13: Swan Dive. She drew three columns for the three separate plotlines: Dead diva. Dead dog. Her hand hesitated before she wrote the name of the next one to die.
Nash.
Two hours later, they were all in the living room, stocking feet on the coffee table, singing show tunes and polishing off the last of few slices of pizza.
“Lord. I’m gorged,” said Yuki. “When I’m on my period I have the self-control of…of what? Help me out, somebody.”
Temple pondered. “Cat in a fishbowl?”
“Spider monkey at a farmer’s market,” Phyllis suggested.
“Katherine Hepburn in a Taser demonstration,” Smartie said without opening her eyes.
“Oh!” cried Yuki. “Stoned out of her gourd and still slinging metaphors like a pro.”
Having taken twice the prescribed amount of her sleep medication, Smartie was tethered by a fading silver thread to the outer edge of consciousness, her head on Temple’s shoulder, but she tensed awake at a light tap on the front door.
“Coming,” Smartie murmured and slumped to the arm of the sofa.
“Shh. We’ll get it.” Temple stroked Smartie’s cheek and went to peek out through the lace curtain. “Now who is that at this hour?”
She opened the door. There was an exchange of low voices. Temple clapped the door shut, snapping her fingers at Yuki and Phyllis.
“Slumber party’s over. Everybody out.” She knelt beside Smartie, briskly spanking her on the wrist. “Smartie? Smartie, wake up. You got company, honey.”
“Company?” Smartie sat up, tipping the room sideways, swimming in her own head as if it were a giant bowl of soup. “Who is it?”
“A big handsome man with a sweet little puppy.”
“Serial killer,” Smartie smiled pastily. “If I’m not here next week, check the freezer.”
Temple made a quick effort to rearrange Smartie’s hair before she opened the front door, glowing like a neon cowgirl.