Mean Streak

by Sandra Brown

  Grange wiped sugar glaze off his fingertips with a paper napkin. “What does she do about her practice when she takes off like that?”

  “Other pediatricians cover for her, and they’re glad to do it because she never forgets a favor and always returns it.”

  “Sounds like she’s got a kind spirit,” Knight said as he reached into the box for a second doughnut. “A genuine humanitarian.”

  “She is, which is just one of the reasons why I love her. But with all due respect,” Jeff said as he folded his half-eaten doughnut into a napkin and replaced the cap on his Styrofoam cup of coffee, “you’re telling me things about my wife that I already know. When are you going to tell me something that I don’t know? Like why you can’t find her and what’s being done to remedy that.”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “So you’ve said. Dozens of times. But I see no evidence of it.”

  “There weren’t any developments overnight. We’re hoping for better luck today.”

  “You’re depending on luck? Jesus.”

  He turned away from the rearview mirror, choosing to look out the window rather than into Knight’s woeful eyes. They had exited the main highway and were now on one with only two opposing lanes and an occasional passing lane. It was a twisty road, the curves coming so frequently that the backseat ride was making Jeff carsick.

  “Don’t be discouraged,” Grange said. “We’re working on other angles.”

  “You mentioned those last night,” Jeff said. “You failed to specify what those angles are.”

  “Well, for one, there’s the money.”

  Jeff’s head snapped around to Grange, who was watching him over the back of his seat.

  “Emory’s money,” the detective clarified, as if Jeff didn’t know to whose money he referred.

  “Your wife is loaded,” Knight said. “Family fortune. She could up and quit and never have to ask another kid to say ‘aah.’” He laughed. “If I was that rich, I’d never turn a lick.”

  “That’s offensive,” Jeff snapped.

  Knight looked at him in the mirror. “Sorry, Jeff, I didn’t mean—”

  “Emory would be sorely offended by remarks like that. She works harder because of her inheritance.”

  “Is that right?”

  “She never mentions her wealth, much less flaunts it. In fact she’s almost apologetic about it.”

  Grange said, “Which explains why she gives so much of it away.”

  “She’s pledged two hundred grand to an upcoming marathon.” Knight addressed the information to his partner, but Jeff realized the older man had said it for his benefit. “Might take some time,” he went on, “but I guess if she applied herself to it, she could eventually give all her money away.”

  “Which wouldn’t leave any left over for her beneficiary.” Grange looked back at Jeff. “Which happens to be you, doesn’t it?”

  He gave the smug deputy an icy glare. “I believe you already know the answer to that.”

  “Well, Jeff, we have to check these things out. It’s routine when a spouse goes missing.”

  The folksier Knight’s tone became, the less Jeff liked and trusted it. Didn’t they realize that he was smart enough to know when he was being played? He said, “If you’ve checked out Emory’s finances, then you know that I don’t manage her portfolio. In fact, all her investments are with another firm.”

  “Yeah, the top guy at your place of business told me that.”

  He gave Knight a sharp look in the rearview mirror. “Excuse me?”

  “You had led your company to believe that she would turn all her money matters over to your firm when y’all got married. But she didn’t. That’s what your boss told me anyway.”

  “He told you?”

  Knight nodded. “When I called him yesterday and asked him who held the reins for Emory’s fortune.”

  It crawled all over Jeff to learn that yesterday, while for hours on end he’d been cooling his heels in the lobby of the Hicksville sheriff’s office, he was being investigated and talked about within his firm.

  Which meant that his coworkers knew it wasn’t sickness that had kept him out of the office. They’d known the nature of the “family emergency” even before they’d heard about Emory’s disappearance on the news this morning. These yokels had made him out to be a liar to his firm’s senior partner, and that made him livid.

  “You don’t manage her money,” Grange was saying, “but you get it if she predeceases you, correct?”

  “If you had asked me, I would have told you that,” Jeff said, barely keeping his fury under control. “You wouldn’t have had to call my firm and bothered my coworkers with questions that have nothing to do with Emory’s disappearance.”

  “We’ve got to cover every angle,” Grange said.

  “Speaking of,” Knight said, “what’s the name of that drug you wanted Emory to endorse?”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “There were a lot of e-mails on her computer about it. Back and forth, between you, the pharmaceutical company, your wife. Going back more than a year. What was that all about?”

  “Since you seem to already know, why don’t you tell me?”

  “Be easier if you’d just put it in a nutshell for us,” Knight said. “We’ve got nothing else to do while we’re riding.”

  It occurred to Jeff that perhaps he had underestimated these two. By an act of will, he brought his temper under control, and, when he spoke, he made himself sound bored. “The company had gone through all the steps with the FDA—and there are many—and had received approval to conduct patient trials.”

  “What was the drug for?”

  “To help prevent obesity in children who are genetically predisposed. Emory was invited to be one of the participating physicians.”

  Grange said, “But when the trail was over, she didn’t endorse it.”

  “In her opinion, the side effects weren’t worth the benefits derived from the medication.”

  “In other words, it did more harm than good.”

  “Those other words are yours, detective,” Jeff said. “Not Emory’s.”

  Knight said, “You had encouraged clients to invest heavily in this drug.”

  “No,” Jeff said, drawing out the word. “I encouraged clients to invest in a company that is on the leading edge of pharmaceutical breakthroughs that target current medical problems, like childhood obesity, which affect millions of people globally, not only healthwise, but in every other way. Culturally, socially, financially, and so on.”

  Knight chuckled. “Skim off the BS, Jeff. The SEC’s not eavesdropping. Translated, a high sign from your wife would have gone a long way toward helping make your clients, and thereby you, a lot of money.”

  “Emory hasn’t yet given the drug either a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down. She merely withheld her endorsement pending further study.”

  Knight and his partner exchanged a look that indicated further study of this issue was also pending. Jeff looked away as though unperturbed.

  “Oh, by the way,” Knight said, “would you mind if we sent some guys over to the motel to take a look inside your car?”

  “My car? What the hell for? Do you have a warrant?”

  “Do we need one?”

  “No. Search all you want. Strip it. While you’re at it, search my house, too. Send cadaver-sniffing dogs. Be sure to check the pine grove at the back of our property. That’s an excellent place for a grave.”

  Knight looked over at Grange. “Told you he’d be upset.”

  “I’m not upset.”

  But to Jeff’s own ears, he sounded upset. Rather than give them the satisfaction of watching him seethe, he turned his head to stare out the window. For the next half hour, they drove with only the two in front occasionally exchanging a few words. Nothing important was discussed.

  The gaining altitude and curviness of the road increased Jeff’s carsickness. The drop-offs where there were no guard rails ma
de him more anxious than he already was. He wished he hadn’t agreed to come along. The day had started off badly.

  He hadn’t slept well and had gotten up before his alarm and turned on the TV. As expected, all the Atlanta stations covered the story of Emory’s disappearance. Within minutes of the broadcasts, his phone had begun to ring. Acquaintances—some he barely knew—were clamoring to know more. He’d answered only a few of those calls, letting most go to voice mail.

  While waiting for Knight to pick him up, he’d ruminated on everything that had been said and tried not to put too much stock in the detectives’ apparent suspicion. By Knight’s own admission, putting the spouse under a microscope was routine. If he let their insinuations rattle him, they would assume he was guilty.

  But with all this talk of Emory’s finances, and now the search of his car, he was second-guessing his decision not to retain an attorney, as Alice had suggested.

  She had also called this morning in spite of his telling her not to. They’d kept the conversation brief, but he was angry at her for defying him, and even angrier at himself for giving in and answering when her number came up on his phone.

  He was angry at the pair of small-time detectives who apparently thought he was too dense to see through the ludicrous law-and-order charade they were playing with him.

  Mostly, he was angry at Emory. It was her fault that he was being made to suffer through this.

  * * *

  “Know what I can’t get over?” Norman, who’d been eating a bowl of cereal at the dining table, tipped his chair on its back legs. “What I can’t get over is you being so stingy with your name. Guess I’ll just keep on calling you neighbor.”

  “Your mother called me Dr. Smith’s guard. Guard, neighbor, whatever is fine with me.” He had accepted Pauline’s offer of a cup of coffee because the water to brew it had reached a boiling point and he’d washed the cup himself. Under Norman’s thoughtful stare, he blew on the hot coffee and took a sip. “But don’t think too hard about it, Norman. You might strain something.”

  With a good-natured grin, Norman picked up his bowl and spooned another bite. “What I figure is, you’re a fugitive from justice.”

  “Is that what you figure?”

  “Me too,” said Will, who glowered at him from what seemed to be his permanent place on the couch.

  “You can tell us,” Norman said in a wheedling tone. “We’ve had brushes with the law ourselves.”

  “Have you?”

  “You wouldn’t believe some of the stunts we’ve pulled.”

  “Shut the hell up, Norman,” Will said.

  But Norman was in an expansive mood. “I did three months in county for lifting an old lady’s purse out of her shopping cart in the grocery store.”

  He didn’t react.

  “Another time, we stole some retreads from an old guy who runs the junkyard out on sixty-four. Then—swear to God if this ain’t the truth—we sold ’em back to him a week later for twenty bucks profit. Old coot never knew he was took.”

  He drew a deep breath as though singularly unimpressed.

  “Will got into a fight with this guy over a poker game. We lit into him good. Took four men to pull us off him. I got probation. Will served a few months for assault. But the other guy is still regrettin’ calling my baby brother a cheat. Right, Will?”

  “And we ain’t done with him either,” Will said.

  “Is that right?” he asked, arching an eyebrow, feeling it was time to exhibit some interest in their exploits. “What do you have planned for him?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  “Don’t be so touchy, Will,” Norman said. “He’s just making friendly conversation, remember?” Then, coming back to him, he said, “Turnabout’s fair play. Come on. You can tell us. What’d you do?”

  He drank from his cup of coffee.

  “Did you—” Holding his bowl in one hand, Norman aimed his other index finger at him and mimicked firing a pistol. “Put somebody’s lights out?”

  “Your cereal is getting soggy.”

  From the sofa, Will said, “Aw hell, Norman, he ain’t gonna confess anything to you. Besides, I’ll bet there’s nothing to confess. He’s not near as tough as he makes out.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” But Norman continued to regard him speculatively as he held the bowl against his chest and shoveled cereal into his mouth.

  Staring into his coffee, he asked, “What about you?”

  Norman stopped chewing. “Whut?”

  He raised his head and included Will in the look he divided between them. “Either one of you ever killed anybody?”

  Norman shrugged. “Never had to.”

  “Yet,” Will added.

  “Well, I wouldn’t be too eager to if I were you.”

  “Meaning you have.” Norman chortled. “See, Will? Told you.”

  “He’s just talking big.”

  Norman, eyeing him up and down, said, “I’ve known a lot of people who needed killing.”

  “So have I.”

  “But you don’t recommend it. Why’s that?”

  “Killing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, like you said about the state of Virginia.” He’d dropped the bait. He wondered if they’d bite. With seeming nonchalance, he wandered into the kitchen and poured himself a refill. “You never told me what kind of work you did up there.”

  “Worked for a freight company. Long-haul trucks.”

  “Were you drivers?”

  “Naw.” Norman wiped milk off his lips with the back of his hand. “Worked the warehouse.”

  “Crap job,” Will contributed. He’d been channel surfing the muted TV. Finding a station rerunning an episode of Gilligan’s Island, he settled in to watch. The shotgun was now propped against the arm of the sofa, barrel up, close to Will’s head.

  Norman picked at a cereal flake that had dropped onto his shirt and stuck there. “That company where we was working made history, though.”

  With slow, measured motions, he returned the coffee carafe to the hotplate. “How so?”

  “It was in Westboro. You ever heard of it? The shooting there? Guy with a grudge comes into the place, blasted it all to hell, killed a bunch of people.”

  He turned back around and nodded at Norman. “I heard about it.”

  “Well, we was laid off not more’n a week before it happened. Missed all the excitement.”

  “You ask me, all the men on that island were pussies,” Will scoffed. “I’d’ve nailed Ginger soon as we got to dry land.” He switched channels.

  Norman slurped milk directly from the bowl. “If I’d been ol’ Gilligan, Mary Ann’s ass wouldn’t’ve stood a chance.”

  Will hooted from across the room. “You always did prefer the back door.”

  “I’d like to go in through Dr. Smith’s back door.”

  Both brothers eyed him, smirking, waiting to see how he would react. Rather than be goaded, he ignored them, and instead he looked out the grimy window above the kitchen sink as though checking the weather. Then, carrying his coffee with him, he headed for the bedroom.

  “What’s going on in there, anyhow?” Norman asked, nodding toward the door, which had remained closed throughout the night.

  “Your sister’s being seen to.”

  “We know that,” Will groused. “What’s taking so friggin’ long?”

  “Have we worn out our welcome?”

  “Far as I’m concerned, you weren’t never welcome.”

  “We’ll be on our way before long,” he said. “Oh, Norman?”

  “Huh?”

  “Better watch that chair.”

  “Huh?”

  He kicked the back legs out from underneath the chair. Norman went over backward, landing hard and splashing his enraged face with what was left of the milk in his cereal bowl.

  Will, reacting too quickly to think about the shotgun, rolled off the sofa and came up like a sprinter leaving the blocks.

  He dropped his cup of co
ffee in time to catch Will’s chin with an uppercut that sent him staggering backward. Moving quickly, crushing the coffee cup beneath his boot, he grabbed the shotgun, swung it up, and aimed it at the brothers, freezing them in their tracks as they were lunging for him.

  Emory opened the bedroom door. “What’s going on?”

  Keeping his eyes on the brothers, who were still poised to attack, he backed his way over to Emory where she stood in the open door. “You feel okay about leaving Lisa for the time being?”

  “Yes, I think she’ll be all right.”

  “Good.”

  “Sure as hell, I’m gonna kill you,” Will said through his clenched teeth.

  “Not today, you’re not.”

  He took the pistol from his waistband and passed it to Emory. “If either of them moves, don’t stop to think about it. Pull the trigger. Got it?”

  * * *

  Dumbfounded, she nodded her head once. He slipped past her into the bedroom.

  Norman and Will stood facing her, breathing hard with wrath, reminding her of snorting bulls. Norman said, “Who is that son of a bitch?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bull. Shit,” Will said. “You two are in cahoots. Barging in here like you own the damn place. What are you up to?”

  “All I did was come here to take care of your sister.”

  “She would’ve done all right without you.”

  “Possibly, but I’m glad I could help.”

  Norman asked, “You really a doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah, well I think you’re lying,” Will said, pugnaciously raising his chin where a fist-sized bruise was forming. “What’s his story?”

  The subject of the question moved up behind her, closed his left hand around her biceps, and pushed her forward. “Don’t let go of that pistol.” Emory kept her eyes forward as he propelled her across the living room and out the door. “Get in the truck.”

  Before releasing her arm, he gave her a little push and she started down the porch steps. She heard Will say, “He’s stealing our shotgun!”

  Beneath the tree, the dog stood up and wagged his tail. Apparently she’d become his friend by association. When she reached the pickup, she opened the passenger door and looked back to see him still on the porch, watching her while guarding the door with the shotgun.