Chill Factor

by Chris Rogers

  “That smile could melt the heart of a hangman,” Anna Marie often told him, and Colonel Jay encouraged Philip to use it. “Our most secret weapons,” Colonel Jay instructed, “are the most valuable. An enemy expects guns and knives and explosives. But he’ll always underestimate the force of a smile.”

  Philip shrugged into a loose, lightweight khaki windbreaker to cover the pistol’s bulge. From a polished wooden box, he extracted a triangular lapel pin, blue and red enamel with a gold letter “P” in the center: blue for loyalty, red for the blood of the enemy, and gold for the golden future of The People. He pinned it to the jacket, above his heart.

  Then he closed off the gym by sliding two floor-length panels in place and locked his bedroom on the way out. In the kitchen, he popped a stick of sugar-free gum in his mouth—his only vice—and kissed Anna Marie on her left cheek.

  Chapter Nine

  A ten-minute drive and a three-minute elevator ride brought Dixie from Amy’s house to the forty-seventh floor of the Transco Tower and the offices of Richards, Blackmon & Drake. She found Belle Richards staring out her spacious corner window. Most of Houston stretched below like a giant Monopoly board, the most expensive properties dotted with skyscrapers, but the tiny segment holding Belle’s interest lay directly below the tower, at the base of the Water Wall.

  Brave the Galleria area traffic, find a legal parking place within walking distance, plant yourself in front of the sixty-four-foot, semicircular wall of cascading water, and you escaped city bedlam instantly into absolute tranquility. Each minute, eleven thousand gallons spilled over the gabled surfaces, playing a symphony of splash and trickle. Dixie had spent many late-night hours on the pebbled walkway in front of the Water Wall when a knotty problem held her thoughts hostage. Right now she found Belle’s composed presence plenty soothing enough after the range of emotions she’d dealt with all day. Dixie was glad she’d stopped by instead of phoning.

  “What’re they doing down there?” she asked Belle, referring to a half-dozen people milling below.

  “Brainstorming the Mayor’s Memorial Day bash. Blackmon’s on the committee. He got the harebrained idea that some of the festivities should take place in that minuscule park. Guess what that will do to traffic.”

  Belle wore her red power suit today—Austin Reed, Bill Blass, or Donna Karan—Dixie couldn’t recall and couldn’t tell the difference, but she’d helped Belle’s husband shop for it as an anniversary gift. Standing on a stool to offset the defense lawyer’s three-inch height advantage, she’d even modeled the suit—looked darn good, too, but not as classy as Belle did today—then helped him choose accessories. With the amount Belle’s husband spent on one outfit, Dixie could’ve stocked up on jeans, shirts, and boots to last a decade.

  “What traffic?” Dixie asked now. “Isn’t Memorial Day a national holiday?”

  “How soon you forget. What lawyer with a heavy caseload doesn’t spend the holidays catching up? And all the retail stores around here will have major sales.”

  “Oh.” The Galleria Mall attracted shoppers like a mud puddle attracts tots. “You paged me earlier. What’s up?” In a roundabout way, some of Dixie’s most lucrative jobs came from Richards, Blackmon & Drake. Their clients jumped bail, skipped town, and Dixie hauled them back.

  “In your two seconds of TV fame today, I noticed an absence of your usual mule-headed, media-scorning composure.” Belle turned from the window, and her wide gray eyes made a slow study of Dixie’s face. “In fact, you looked upset.”

  “I did come across pretty spacey, didn’t I?”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Identifying the body—oh, you must’ve seen an early newscast, before they released the name.” Edna and Bill Pine had been clients of Belle’s partner Ralph Drake, who handled all the firm’s estate and property law. Dixie had recommended Ralph years earlier, when the firm was struggling. When Marty opened his gallery, Ralph handled some paperwork. A year ago Ralph had probated Bill’s will; now he’d have to probate Edna’s. “Maybe we’d better sit down,” Dixie told Belle.

  Over coffee, she walked the defense attorney through the morning’s disasters, beginning with Dixie’s overdraft problem and ending with Marty’s accusation that she should’ve been a better neighbor.

  “You aren’t buying that, are you?”

  Dixie shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable in the red leather guest chair. She stretched her legs out and studied the scuffed tips of her boots.

  “How is it that months can zip past while we aren’t looking?” she grumbled. “When you and I were in law school, a year lasted forever. Now a year lasts fifteen minutes.”

  “Dixie, you aren’t responsible for every old chum who decides to go postal.”

  “Even you?”

  “Trust me, when I go it’ll be by aneurysm during an ingenious closing argument. No mystery. No gunning down cops.”

  “That’s the part I can’t get a grip on. I saw Edna rob that bank—calm as a rock, everybody on the floor, poor old Len handing over the money. I saw Edna take the bags out to the car. Unless she’s lost a bundle in the stock market, I know she didn’t need that money, so it had to be some bizarre sort of suicide scheme, and I can even understand that, in a way. It would account for her being as spruced up as I’d ever seen her, wanting to go out looking her best. But Edna Pine never even raised her voice to one of us kids, never hurt anybody. I can’t believe she intentionally shot that officer.”

  “She fired at you, didn’t she?”

  “She shot the chair,” Dixie said firmly.

  Belle’s scrutiny became more intense. “Loss, grief, loneliness, shame, despair—Flannigan, if people could handle their emotions better, I wouldn’t have so many clients.”

  Dixie polished the top of one boot against her other jeans-clad leg as she considered Belle’s comment.

  “Is there any chance Edna was about to lose her home and property? For tax liens, maybe?” Perhaps Carl was closer to the truth than she’d given him credit for.

  Belle punched a button on her desk phone. “Not my department. But we can ask Ralph.”

  Ralph Drake, Dixie’s least favorite of the three law partners, had lustrous silver hair that undoubtedly came from a bottle and sported a tan so dark he could pass for a swarthy Italian—an image he promoted by tossing Italian phrases into every conversation. Tall, thin, moderately attractive, he’d recently married for the seventh time in his forty-six years, and was rumored to be window-shopping already for numero ocho. For any woman under thirty, Ralph revved up his relentless Casanova act; any client who wasn’t rich, female, or famous he managed to royally piss off. Nevertheless, he supported his share of the corporate overhead by being damn good at civil law. He also was superb at attracting clients, mostly female, who were occasionally somewhat famous and always somewhat rich.

  He flashed his swarthy Italian smile at Dixie.

  “Cara mia, Ms. Flannigan.” He actually kissed her hand in greeting. “Che bella sei oggi—how beautiful you look.”

  Dixie looked as ratty as she had on entering the bank that morning, possibly worse. Yet, even though she knew Ralph was ladling bullshit, the sincerity in his voice made her feel engagingly ratty.

  “Thanks, Ralph.” When he sat down in one of the uncomfortable white sling chairs Dixie always avoided, she repeated a shortened version of what she’d told Belle earlier. At the part where she mentioned identifying the body, Dixie underscored the overwhelming transformation in Edna’s looks.

  Ralph and Belle exchanged a glance.

  Dixie sat up straighter. “Why do I get the idea you two aren’t as shocked as I am?”

  Ralph’s gaze flitted from Belle past Dixie to the expanse of sky beyond the windows. “Evidently, you hadn’t talked with Mrs. Pine in a while.”

  Dixie shook her head.

  He glanced at Belle again, who nodded.

  “Mrs. Pine came to the office in … February,” Ralph said guardedly. “To redraft her will. And
the transformation, as you say, from the last time I’d seen her, during the probate of her sister’s will—”

  “What? Edna’s sister died?” Her younger sister, if Dixie remembered right. Divorced, she’d turned her home in the Galveston historical area into a bed-and-breakfast. The one time Dixie stayed there, she’d been impressed. Her neighbor’s sister was gregarious … and very different from Aunt Edna.

  “Died of a massive stroke,” Ralph said, “barely a month after Mrs. Pine buried her husband.”

  Why didn’t I know this? Dixie shrugged away the guilt phantom that attempted to slither into her mind.

  “Edna would’ve inherited her sister’s business, assuming the IRS and creditors left anything.” Dixie was guessing, but as she recalled, Marty and Edna’s sister had been the only family at Bill’s funeral.

  “Mrs. Pine came out all right on that,” Ralph admitted.

  In Ralph Drake terms, all right when applied to money meant “very well indeed.” So Edna’s estate when she elected to rob Texas Citizens Bank should’ve included any retirement money she and Bill had saved up, plus the insurance settlement for Bill’s death, plus whatever amount her business-savvy sister had bequeathed her, and possibly a second insurance payment.

  “You say Edna came here in February. Why? Her sister’s death would’ve left her with only one heir. Her son, Marty.”

  Ralph shrugged, crossing his legs as if uncomfortable.

  “Didn’t you counsel Edna to draft a new will after she inherited?”

  “Of course.” Ralph looked indignant. “We handled that immediately.”

  “Then what changes did she make in February?”

  “Madonna mia! You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Something must’ve struck you as unusual, Ralph, or you and Belle wouldn’t look like you’d swallowed sour milk.”

  He shook his head.

  Absurd to expect a lawyer to part with client information, but dammit, Dixie was practically family to Edna. She was certainly Aunt Edna’s friend. And Marty’s friend. And Belle’s friend. And a fellow lawyer.

  “Ralph, if you allowed Edna Pine to do something irresponsible—”

  “It’s not my job to tell a client how to distribute her estate.”

  “How much money are we talking about?”

  Again, he shook his head.

  “Didn’t you also handle some business transactions for Marty? That makes him your client, too. Did you at least notify Marty that his mother made ‘unusual’ modifications in his inheritance?”

  Ralph raised an eyebrow in a manner that suggested Dixie had “dolt” branded on her forehead. Telling Marty—or anyone—the terms of Edna’s latest will would’ve been highly inappropriate. Dixie knew that, but dammit, wasn’t it equally inappropriate to let Edna throw her money away?

  “Your client Edna Pine just robbed a bank,” Dixie reminded him. “She shot and seriously wounded a police officer—not what I’d call rational behavior, Ralph. Are you saying she was totally rational when she came in here three months ago?”

  “I saw no reason to believe otherwise.”

  “Then why are you squirming in that chair like a kid about to pee his pants? What bothered you about the changes Edna made?”

  “Niente! Nothing, I tell you.”

  “You smarmy sonofabitch, if you let Edna write Marty out and give the money to a stranger—”

  “Did I say that? And what makes this your business?”

  “Hey, you two!” Belle slapped her pencil on the desktop. “Flannigan, calm down. And, Ralph, Dixie’s right about one thing—we were concerned about Mrs. Pine’s decision. A dollar retainer puts Dixie on our payroll—as a consultant. Now tell her what you told me.”

  The lawyer shot Belle a disgruntled look, but then he sighed and turned a thin smile at Dixie. Belle’s name came first on the law firm’s letterhead for a reason.

  “In late February, Mrs. Pine bequeathed a significant portion of her estate to a church—which is not particularly unusual. When a person gets on in years, losing one family member after another, it’s not uncommon to worry about the afterlife, to try and … pave a path, so to speak.”

  “What church?” Dixie didn’t recall the Pines ever being especially religious. Bill was Methodist. When Marty was young, Edna usually took him to the Unitarian Church.

  “I’d have to refresh my memory,” Ralph replied. “Not a church I’d heard of. And that’s all I’ll say until probate.”

  “Ralph, Edna was a generous woman,” Dixie explained reasonably. “But her family always came first. She wouldn’t willingly deprive Marty, her only son, of his inheritance.”

  “Basta! Enough.” On his way out the door, Ralph directed his response to Belle. “I’m not answering any more questions until the heirs are notified.”

  Dixie made a face at the door as it clicked shut behind Ralph Mule-headed Drake. Heirs. Plural.

  “When do you think your pseudo-Italian partner will change his name to something with too many vowels?”

  Belle picked up her well-chewed yellow pencil and tapped the point on a notepad.

  “Dixie, I saw Mrs. Pine that day. Spoke to her. Ralph called me in to make sure he wasn’t missing anything. Trust me, your friend seemed completely reasonable and happy with her decision.”

  “So, why were you concerned?”

  “Anytime an elderly client makes abrupt money decisions, my loony-alarm goes off.”

  Dixie nodded, reluctantly. Giving a few bucks to a church didn’t qualify as a big reason for concern. As Ralph said, Edna could parcel out her money any way she wanted. But if Aunt Edna didn’t need the money she stole, and if she didn’t steal it for Marty, then her actions pointed more and more toward suicide. That was the thought that saddened Dixie.

  “Ric …” She deliberately used her nickname for Belle to underscore that loyalty came before business. “A reasonable, happy woman—with money—doesn’t rob a bank at gunpoint.”

  “Flannigan … what do you want me to say? When she came here in February, Edna Pine looked a thousand percent more together than she did the previous time I saw her—”

  “Was that right after her husband died? Or after her only sister died? She was grieving, Ric.”

  “She wasn’t grieving this past February. If anything, I’d say she was in love.”

  “Love?! Edna was old enough to remember Rudolph Valentino, the Charleston, and penny bread loaves.”

  “Not quite, but since when does love have an age limit?”

  “Bill’s only been dead a year. If Barney had died first, Kathleen would never have fallen in love with another man.”

  “How did your parents get into this?”

  “Barney and Kathleen, Edna and Bill—they were the same. Same age, same lifestyle, same values. Marriage to them was special, dammit. A very close, very special partnership. After Kathleen died, Barney mourned himself to death.”

  “The woman I saw in this office three months ago was not ready to stop the world and get off. She looked calm, happy. She’d turned back the clock a few years.”

  “I’d say ‘stop the world and get off’ describes precisely what Edna did this morning.”

  Belle’s pencil tap-danced on her notepad. “A woman in love with the wrong man, a woman jilted, perhaps, by a man—heartsick, humiliated, after having already lost two important people from her life—might decide the world had taken one cruel turn too many.”

  Dixie frowned, not liking the picture Belle painted. Standing abruptly, she looked through the glass expanse at a city filled with men as deceptively charming as Ralph Drake, with his roving eyes and six-going-on-seven divorces. Then she turned and headed for the door.

  “So, Flanni, what are you planning to do?”

  “About the will? I guess that’s up to Marty.” She reached for the fancy brass doorknob on the richly polished mahogany.

  “About this whole business,” Belle persisted. “You were there when the robbery took place. Did
Mrs. Pine act nuts?”

  Dixie paused, her hand on the knob, and looked back.

  “She wasn’t raving, if that’s what you mean. She knew exactly what to say and do. She didn’t waste any time taking the cash and getting out. She certainly didn’t hesitate to shoot—but I think she might’ve missed intentionally. Fired a warning.”

  “Nice old friend turned bank robber—and you’re willing to let it go? Doesn’t sound like you, Flannigan.”

  Dixie sighed. She did want to know what made Aunt Edna go bizocko, but she didn’t want to discover a senile-in-lust story. “What is it you think I should do?”

  “I haven’t a clue. But if I ever rob a bank at gunpoint without any explanation, I hope someone cares enough to find out why.”

  Riding down in the skyscraper’s art deco elevator, Dixie considered Belle’s comment. Was it possible Edna had been swept off her aging feet by a man? That would explain the physical rejuvenation. The excitement of being in love gave a woman renewed energy and an outer glow that could take years off her appearance. A woman in love was likely to buy new clothes, change her hairstyle—

  Dixie raked a hand through her own spiky mop.

  As a kid, her hair had been an embarrassment—thick, long, frizzy. Combing the tangles out each morning hurt so bad Dixie longed to chop it off. For her tenth birthday, Carla Jean, her birth mother, allowed her to go to a beauty parlor alone, expecting her daughter’s waist-length locks to be done up in corkscrew curls—a style Carla Jean associated with pretty little girls in romantic old movies. But a cute boy at school had made a snide comment about the frizz, and to her mother’s intense disappointment, Dixie coaxed the beautician to cut it chin-length and blunt.

  Almost three decades later, she’d finally allowed it to grow past her collar. She’d also started wearing lipstick and occasionally slipped into clothes more feminine than her usual jeans and boots. All because of a man.

  The man responsible for her new interest in girly stuff was also responsible for the seventh, and final, message on her pager that morning during defense class. Parker Dann. The only man Dixie’d ever seriously considered snuggling down with for eternity. Not that he’d asked. Their relationship remained a part of Dixie’s life she couldn’t quite make work.