Chill Factor

by Chris Rogers

  “Using or dealing?”

  “Both, if my friend’s memory serves. You know those records are sealed. Seems Harris ran with a nasty gang as a youngster.”

  Pearly must’ve thought this information would discredit Art’s law enforcement record and jeopardize any benefits the widow had coming.

  “He cleaned up his act, though,” Dixie said. “Couldn’t’ve been the first young offender to discover the safer side of law provided the danger he craved without the consequences.”

  “There’s more.” Jim’s voice rasped over static—must be moving out of cell range. “An accident involving a handgun. One of the gang members died.”

  “Was Harris charged?”

  “No. But the gun came from his mother’s closet.”

  “Did another gang member go to jail for the crime? If so, he might be paroled now.”

  “Can’t say. Could be I’ll find a bailiff who remembers the case. Might even find him before Christmas.”

  Either he signed off or the static totally swallowed McGrue’s signal. The notion of Art Harris being killed to settle an old score had merit. Maybe the Granny Bandit connection was coincidental, at first, and once the idea caught fire, the shooter killed Ted to stoke the coals. The idea needed following up, but no judge would open sealed juvie records and allow Dixie to snoop.

  She drove home, flipped on every light in the house, turned on rock music, and poured a glass of jug wine. White zinfandel, whoopee. Scanning the cable stations for a good movie, she found a rerun of Lethal Weapon, which had already started. Enchanted April she wouldn’t mind seeing again. An hour till start time. She tossed the guide aside, looked up Ben Rashly’s home number in her pocket directory, and sipping her wine, punched it in one-handed.

  “What’s this I hear about a terrorist group, Rash? And threat letters?”

  “What the hell do you know about any letters?”

  “I know that a terrorist group taking responsibility lets my friend Marty off the hook for two murders.”

  “Like hell. He’s as deep in it as ever.” But a note in Rashly’s voice said he wasn’t convinced.

  “He can’t be, Rash. Marty didn’t kill those cops.”

  He huffed in her ear. “You say you knew Pine growing up?”

  “Through high school. Then we saw each other on most holidays.”

  “What about college?”

  Dixie’s call button lit up. She let it roll to voice mail, and noticed messages already stored.

  “We didn’t attend the same school, if that’s what you mean.”

  “He ever mention a gang or social club he belonged to?” “You mean a fraternity?”

  “Any kind of club, might’ve called themselves The People.”

  Rashly was fishing. The letter “P” on the symbol Ted had sketched flashed in her mind.

  “I don’t remember any group like that, but Marty and I didn’t see each other often during college. And that’s nearly twenty years ago—what’s the connection?”

  “Hell, Flannigan. Guess we’ll have to ask your friend.” He banged the phone down.

  Dixie retrieved her messages. Terrence Jackson had phoned, inviting her to join the Fortyniners tonight at a theater. Still trolling for members, she figured. The play sounded vastly more interesting than spending the night alone, but Dixie could never shower, dress, and drive to downtown Houston before curtain.

  Kitchi, the facial technician at Artistry Spa, had also extended an invitation. “Lonnie wants you to have a complimentary seaweed body wrap and herbal bath on your next visit.” She left a “preferred customer” phone number. Dixie jotted it down as Kitchi’s voice continued. “Sorry I can’t attend Edna’s send-off party tomorrow, dear. But Lonnie will be there.”

  The last message, the one that rolled while Dixie was talking to Rash, came from Amy.

  “The funeral director complained about the short notice, but I convinced him to have a viewing tomorrow. Two o’clock.” She gave the address. “Marty won’t speak to me, Dixie. The party’s at three, our house. I invited all those strange names on the phone list you gave me.”

  Dixie returned Jackson’s call, got his machine, and told it, “I arrived home too late to accept your invitation. Sorry I missed you.” She really was sorry. B.P.—before Parker—she’d never been a party animal, but neither did she spend Saturday nights moping around home. “I hope to see you at Edna Pine’s party tomorrow,” she finished. The other two calls didn’t require a response, so she peeled off her clothes, poured a second glass of white zinfandel, and stood under a hot shower—wishing it were a “herbal bath”—until her toes wrinkled.

  The phone rang again. One visit to a singles club and my voice mail goes into overtime. With her hair full of shampoo, she let it ring. Only after the recommended three-minute rinse did she step out, pad to the kitchen, and retrieve the message.

  Parker sounded cheery. “Guess it’s too early for the great detective to be at home. Thought I’d bring over a pizza. Instead, I’ll catch some late waves, find a hamburger shack down the beach, and see you tomorrow at Amy’s.”

  Shit. She returned the call, but Parker had already gone, and she hung up without leaving a message. If she wasn’t depressed before, she was damned depressed now.

  She picked up the envelope of gang symbol drawings she’d left on the counter and carried them with her to the bedroom. In the closet, she found the lavender tote bag from Artistry Spa filled with creams and lotions. She’d bought everything Lonnie and Kitchi recommended that day. When she opened the tote, a terrific scent enveloped her. Maybe aromatherapy would lift her out of the doldrums. She shoved a padded bench up to the dresser, and sat down with her goodie bag.

  The first bottle was labeled “Ylang-Ylang,” the scent that permeated Terrence Jackson’s office. Exotic, sexy, but not especially uplifting. She set the bottle aside. Cucumber masque. Dixie opened the jar and spread a layer across her cheek. Immediately, the scent of fresh cucumbers carried her back to the spa, where horse-faced Kitchi slathered her face while Lonnie Gray snipped her hair. That had been fun, and she’d emerged feeling exquisitely feminine. Maybe a bit of pampering at times wasn’t too terribly self-indulgent. Or maybe self-indulgence wasn’t as loathsome as she’d always thought.

  With her face covered in the fragrant green goop, she studied Ted’s gang symbols. She recognized the pitchfork pointed downward, a symbol of disrespect to gangs with allegiance to the Folks Nation, and 187, the California penal code for murder. The three-pointed crown, for the Folks Nation, had “B.G.D.” under it for Black Gangster Disciples. The five-pointed star, for the People Nation, and also the Latin Kings, was rendered in their colors, black and gold. “KINGS” lettered backward, a sign of disrespect, drawn beneath a five-pointed star being blown up, could mean conflict between the gangs.

  Janet Easton had said Art Harris wanted to join the gang task force in his area. Ted had been sketching gang graffiti. His sketches included a triangle in red and blue drawn around a gold “P.” And Rashly had asked whether Marty was involved with a group called The People. Interesting.

  Rummaging an emery board from her Artistry Spa bag, she used it to smooth the ends of her nails. She didn’t know a lot about gangs, but she thought spray-painting “187” on cop cars would be more their style than sending a threat letter.

  Examining her nails, she decided they had lost a bit of their shine. She found a bottle of clear polish and spread a coat over her thumbnail. Much better.

  Now she needed a calendar.

  She found one in her desk, brought it back, and made some notes. On Wednesday of the previous week, an unknown female robbed the Houston branch of Texas Citizens and got away clean. Then on Monday afternoon Lucy Ames robbed the Webster branch and was killed. On Tuesday morning, after robbing the Richmond branch, Edna was also killed. Since then, no more robberies.

  Thursday morning—Art Harris, murdered. Friday afternoon—Ted Tally, murdered. Two for two.

  If the shooter
’s rationale was “an eye for an eye,” the spree might be ended. Also, if the shooter actually murdered Art or Ted for personal reasons, and killed the other to make the murders appear linked to the robberies, the spree might be ended. In either case, Marty remained a suspect. But as disloyal as it might be, Dixie would rather have that than another dead officer.

  How much did she truly know about the adult Marty Pine? His confession to being gay hadn’t shocked her. It fit with her vague feelings about his association with Derry Hager. Yet Marty had kept his secret for all this time, and he wasn’t being totally forthcoming even now.

  When she’d covered all but one nail with clear polish, the phone rang. Naturally. Parker’s number appeared in the caller ID window. She snatched up the receiver carefully, with two fingers.

  “Hi. How were the waves?”

  “Flat. How’s the snoop business?”

  “Frustrating. But I’m learning how Edna managed her amazing transformation, and maybe some of the reasons for it. I wish I’d spent more time with her after Bill died.”

  “To make up for the loss of her husband? You’re not equipped.”

  “I could’ve knocked on her door occasionally.”

  “Did she ever knock on your door and say, ‘Dixie, let’s talk’?”

  “Okay, I get the point, Parker. What are you doing after the party tomorrow?”

  “Showing a forty-six-footer to a couple of NASA engineers. Did you need me to help?”

  “No.” I need you, but not for snooping. “With HPD and two federal agencies involved, what made me think I could do better?”

  “Madam, there are more pleasant things to do than beat yourself up.”

  “Sounds like a quote. Shakespeare?”

  “Muhammad Ali. Paraphrased.”

  “A true poet.”

  “Are you bringing Mud to the party tomorrow?” “You’re kidding, right?”

  “He liked Edna. And he’d enjoy going with me to show this boat. My good buddy’s a seasoned sailor now.”

  Mud had spent a week with Parker while Dixie chased a skip over half of Texas. Was this Parker’s way of admitting he led a goddamn lonely life, too?

  “Okay, I’ll ask Mud if he wants to go to the party.”

  They hung up a few moments later. Dixie returned to the bedroom and tried to recapture her interest in pampering herself. The masque had hardened past its setting time. She soaked it off with a wet washcloth. Seemed better than a chisel. Then she oozed lotion over her skin and sprayed a fragrance designed to “quiet your chattering inner critic and instill a sense of well-being.” She rubbed peppermint foot lotion around her toes, over her rough heels. The fragrances and creams were nice, but they’d sure felt more elegant when another person’s hands smoothed them on. Maybe that’s why Edna’s jars and bottles remained nearly full.

  With nothing more she could rub or spray on her body, Dixie applied conditioners to her hair and turned on the dryer. Using an Artistry Spa brush, she recaptured her new hairstyle almost as Lonnie’d done it. No one around to notice, but it looked pretty damn fine, she thought.

  It’d be dumb to apply the other items in the bag—foundation, lipstick, eye shadow—then go to bed. Alone.

  Tossing the jars back in the tote bag, she found the receipt from her purchases. Ouch! She’d spent enough on this junk to feed a third-world family for a year. Two years.

  Why hadn’t the cost of those products registered when she bought them? She remembered the day as a credit card blowout, but had felt no qualms about buying every item Lonnie recommended—and usually she resented any money squandered on unnecessary girlie gizmos. Of course, she’d imbibed several mimosas and felt deliciously decadent before checkout time. No wonder Lonnie Gray could afford three mortgages and two luxury automobiles.

  Terrence Jackson wouldn’t go broke anytime soon, either. Nor would Vernice Urich.

  Dixie glanced at the clock, then at the four names she’d jotted down from Vernice’s records: LeRoy Haines, Beatrice French, Dolly Mae Aichison, Rose Yenik. She found all of them in the phone directory. When she dialed LeRoy, his sister answered.

  “My brother is in a nursing home. May I help you?”

  “I’m so sorry about LeRoy. How long has he been ill?”

  “Oh, awhile, now. More than a year.”

  Yet Vernice Urich received weekly ACH payments from his account. Dixie dialed Beatrice French, listed at the address noted in her financials. The number had been disconnected.

  Only five Aichisons listed. Dixie started at the top. On the third, a male voice informed her, “My mother’s bedridden. Tell me your name again.”

  “Flannigan, but I don’t know Dolly Mae. I’m calling for Vernice Urich, a psychologist who treated your mother before her infirmity.”

  “I remember Mother speaking of her.” All suspicion fell from the man’s voice. “I’m afraid I wasn’t in town during those days, but Dr. Urich helped Mother through a bad patch after Dad died.”

  “Do you receive a periodic accounting for the balance owed?”

  “I wasn’t aware of any balance.”

  By the time Dixie ended the conversation, Dolly Mae’s son intended to request a full audit of his mother’s accounts. Dixie tried the final number.

  “Hello?” A woman’s voice.

  “Rose Yenik?”

  “Yes, this is Rose.”

  Dixie gave her name. “Ms. Yenik, I consulted with Vernice Urich this week. I believe you’re also her patient.”

  “Oh, yes. I enjoyed Vernice very much. I hope she’s well.”

  “How long since you saw her?”

  “Why, my goodness. Six months, I suppose. Time moves like a snail, doesn’t it?”

  For some, perhaps. “Did you feel you received adequate service for the large balance still owed?”

  Silence, and then, “Vernice and I explored many interesting ideas, and I received full value for my dollar. But you’re mistaken about any balance due. I paid every week, regular as clockwork.”

  “By check?”

  “Oh, no. My bank handled the payments directly. By computer.”

  … those damn computers. Once they start messing with your money, watch out. Carl had hit it on the nose that time. How many more of Vernice’s patients continued paying long after treatment ended? For the financially uninformed, like Dixie, who loathed balancing a checkbook, this sort of fraud could go undetected for years. And Dixie hadn’t any idea how to untangle this sort of crime. She urged Rose Yenik to contact her bank about the ACH transfers.

  At least Vernice’s patients considered their money well spent—the part they knew about, anyway. What had Parker said? The only difference between a good salesperson and a con artist is the value of the product. Paraphrased.

  Looking back on her day at Artistry Spa, Dixie didn’t begrudge the expense. She’d enjoyed being pampered for four hours—the sauna, the massage, Kitchi’s soothing hands and motherly suggestions to “nurture her skin as well as her soul.” Lonnie’s endless flattery.

  They hadn’t seemed false at the time, but rather funny and sweet. Perhaps Dixie didn’t have the daintiest nose in the world, or the longest legs, or the sexiest mouth. Her eyebrows were too straight and her fingers too short. But she did have good skin. And her hair was rather luxurious. Lonnie had focused on her positive attributes and ignored or downplayed the negatives. He didn’t need to lie to his clients to make them feel good and keep them returning.

  And what the hell, Dixie’d earned the damn money. Better to blow it on a good time than leave it in a bank for someone to swipe.

  Instead of pulling on her usual T-shirt and cotton underwear, she found a pair of yellow silk pajamas, a birthday present from Amy. Settled in front of the television with milk and Oreos, she tuned in Enchanted April.

  The phone rang. This time the caller ID window remained blank.

  “Hello?”

  “Dixie Flannigan?” The male voice sounded familiar.

  “Yes.”

/>   “Mike Tesche. Your number’s on the volunteer list at the women’s center. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “No. What’s up, Mike?”

  “At the moment, nothing. In fact, I’m enjoying the first free evening I’ve had in a while …”

  Why did “free” sound so much better than “alone”?

  “… but tomorrow’s a full day for me—starting two new YMCA classes. I expressed my regrets to your sister when she called, and I wanted to tell you personally how sorry I am to miss Edna’s party. I think it’s a terrific idea.”

  Dixie agreed. “Thoughtful of you to call.”

  “After you kick up your heels at the party, remember our invitation to join the Sundown Ceremony tomorrow.”

  While Parker was showing his boat… inviting Mud along, but not her. A sundown whatever-the-hell sounded great. She scanned the counter for the invitation. “Was that this Sunday?”

  “Yes, and don’t worry if you’ve lost the directions. I’ll fax you the map.”

  “Tell me again, what’s a Sundown Ceremony?”

  “Not as mysterious as it may sound. My advanced students get together for fellowship, conversation, modest refreshments, and to renew their commitments.”

  “Commitments to what?”

  “Whatever they’re committed to—exercise, diet, health, emotional well-being. My commitment is to stay in touch. You know how sometimes we think about making a call, and we don’t, and months later we wish we had but it’s too late? I don’t want that to happen with you. You’ll meet some interesting people. And the food’s good.”

  “How many people?” Dixie didn’t enjoy crowds.

  “Twelve, counting you.”

  Enough to find at least one common interest, and not so many she’d feel claustrophobic. “What do I wear?”

  “Anything casual and comfortable. We start with a few stretches and some meditation.”

  “Is this going to be a workout?”

  He chuckled. “Nothing strenuous, I promise. Twenty minutes of easy movement to release the day’s tension.”