Lady 52: A Jack Daniels/Nicholas Colt Novel

by Jude Hardin

  “Anything else, man?”

  “That should do it. Thanks, Harry.”

  “Good hunting, Nicholas.”

  We shook hands, and I left.

  I used the GPS on my new car to find Kevin Ward’s house. Estate was more like it. The property was surrounded by mature hardwoods and an iron fence with brick columns at the terminals.

  I slept in the car.

  Thankfully, I didn’t dream.

  When the sun woke me up, I drove up to the gate and pushed a little white button under an intercom speaker. A few seconds later, a deep male voice asked if he could help me.

  “Nicholas Colt,” I said. “I need to speak to Kevin.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Ward is not available at this time. If you have a business card, you can drop it into the—”

  “Tell him Bill Shipman sent me. Tell him I know about the fire.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Just tell him, Lurch. He’ll know what you’re talking about.”

  I sat there and waited for a couple of minutes, and then a buzzer sounded and the gate swung open automatically. I followed the scenic little winding road to the main house and parked behind a Bentley in the circular drive. Lurch met me at the door.

  “Mr. Ward will see you in his study,” he said.

  “Bitchin’.”

  I followed him into the foyer and then down a long hallway. Terrazzo flooring, crystal chandeliers, gold leaf accents, all that opulent crap I wouldn’t buy even if I won the lottery.

  We stopped in front of a double set of carved mahogany doors. Lurch opened one of them and announced my presence to the guy at the desk on the other side of the room. Kevin Ward, I presumed. When I walked in, the gangly old butler turned and disappeared down the hallway.

  “Close the door,” Ward said.

  “Sure.”

  I closed the door. There was a little button above the knob that activated the electronic locking mechanism. I pushed the little button, heard a deadbolt snick into place.

  Ward got out of his chair. “I didn’t tell you to lock it,” he said.

  I walked over to the desk, pulled the .44 out of the shoulder rig under my jacket, and aimed it at his face.

  “I know you’re accustomed to barking orders at people all day every day,” I said. “But for the next few minutes, you’re going to listen to me.”

  He swallowed hard. “Who are you?”

  “Nicholas Colt. I’m a private investigator. You killed my girlfriend.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He started to sit back down. I stopped him. I figured there was a panic button somewhere on the underside of the desk. I wanted him to keep his hands where I could see them.

  “We’ll just conduct our little meeting standing up,” I said. “Don’t worry, Kev. This won’t take long.”

  “This is outrageous. What do you want?”

  “First of all, I want you to apologize for killing the woman I loved.”

  “You’re insane,” he said. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Twenty-six years ago, you paid William Shipman, Mark Renke, and John Boggan a hundred dollars each to torch a house you owned, a little shack in the woods a few miles outside the city limits.”

  “Big fat deal. The insurance company paid me eight thousand dollars. Anyway, the statute of limitations—”

  “There’s no statute of limitations on murder,” I said.

  “Listen, Colt. If you think I’m going to stand here and listen to these bizarre accusations all day, you’ve got another thing coming. Kelsey will be back in five minutes. When he discovers that the door has been locked—”

  “You really don’t know, do you? You don’t have a clue about the ripple your little conspiracy to commit arson caused, do you? A woman died in that fire, Kev. Her name was Wanda Crumley. Bill, Mark, and John made a pact that night to keep it a secret, and to take that secret to their graves. Maybe they kept it a secret from you, too, or maybe you’re just a good actor. It really doesn’t matter. Your criminal action was the catalyst that got everything started. If you hadn’t commissioned those guys to start that fire, Wanda Crumley wouldn’t have died in that fire, and her daughter never would have hired me to fly up here to investigate it. And if I hadn’t flown up here to investigate it, Laurie Day, my beautiful girlfriend, the love of my life, would still be alive. So you can see why I might be just a little bit angry with you. Can’t you, Kev?”

  His fingers were trembling. He started to put his hands in his pockets, and I let him know that was unacceptable.

  “So what are you going to do now?” he said. “Shoot me?”

  “I’m still thinking about it. My girlfriend didn’t have any money. No insurance or anything. I want you to take care of her burial expenses.”

  “I can do that.”

  “You also pay what Doris Green owes me, my hourly rate and my expenses. And I want to make sure Laurie’s parents are taken care of.”

  Her parents owned a little sandwich shop in Daytona. It’s called Laurie’s. In my elaborate revenge scenario, I forced Ward to buy them out for a million dollars, and then franchise the business and pay them royalties for using the name. Five percent of gross. And over the next few years, I wanted to see sandwich shops called Laurie’s popping up all over the country, coast-to-coast.

  But that was probably just a fantasy. Ward was rich. He had lawyers. He likely couldn’t be squeezed for a million.

  “How much do you want?”

  “I don’t want anything. I want it for them. And you tell me, Ward. How much is a child worth?”

  He looked at me. “Fifty thousand?”

  “Make it a hundred.”

  “So, I’m supposed to write a check?”

  “That would be fine.”

  “What makes you think I won’t stop payment on it?” he said. “And when you leave here, why won’t I just call the police?”

  “You’re not doing a very good job arguing for your life. I do have a gun on you.”

  “But you must have thought this through.”

  “I have. There was a chain and locket found along with Wanda Crumley’s skeleton. Somehow, that piece of jewelry has magically disappeared, and you had something to do with it. If you did, that might be enough evidence for the State’s Attorney to make a case against you. It might be enough evidence to prove that you knew about Ms. Crumley dying in the fire. If it is, you would go to prison for murder.”

  “Where’s your proof?”

  “There’s an assistant medical examiner named Hitchcock. Ring any bells?”

  Ward’s face remained passive.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Someone paid him off to take the necklace, and remove the pictures of the necklace from the Medical Examiner website. Hitchcock did it. Because you told him to.”

  The first part I knew because Googling TRACKERS made me realize Dr. Hitchcock had been lying to me. There was no interface with Springfield. He could have pulled up the information about who had opened the drawer when I was there. But he didn’t, ergo, he was covering his tracks.

  The second part I didn’t know for sure, until I handed Ward the printout of the necklace and watched him fall apart.

  “So if I do this,” he said, “you won’t say anything about the chain and locket, and you won’t testify against me in court?”

  “That’s the deal,” I said. “Or I could just go ahead and blow your brains out right now.”

  The phone rang.

  Ward answered.

  It was Lurch, wondering why the door was locked, wondering if everything was okay.

  Ward assured him that it was.

  Then he got out his checkbook.

  DEL CHIVO

  THURSDAY, 2:12 P.M. COLOMBIA TIME

  Alejandro Mendoza opened the door and walked into the office. Sergio stood, blotted his sweaty palm on the bandana he was holding, and shook Mendoza’s hand.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Mendoza said
. “I had some business to take care of.”

  From where he’d been sitting, Sergio had heard a single distant gunshot a few minutes earlier. He assumed that was the business Mendoza spoke of.

  “I’m in no hurry,” Sergio said. “It’s always a pleasure to visit your home, señor.”

  Mendoza took a seat behind the desk, and Sergio sat back down in the chair situated directly across from him. The omnipresent bodyguards stood outside the office door with their omnipresent machine guns.

  “Congratulations on your successful mission in the United States,” Mendoza said. “Twice as many as I sent you there for. Including a police officer. I’m impressed. “He stepped over to the desk and poured a generous shot of brandy into a crystal snifter. He handed it to Sergio.

  “Gracias,” Sergio said.

  “Drink, my friend. Please. Enjoy.”

  Sergio took a sip. “It’s very good,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Mendoza poured a shot for himself. Before he took a drink, he opened the wooden box beside the brandy decanter, reached in and grabbed two very large cigars. He set them on the desk, and then he pulled something else from the box. Some sort of coin mounted into a circular frame, with a long gold chain looped through the setting’s eyelet. The coin was about the size of a 500 pesos piece from Colombia, or a quarter from the United States.

  “Seventeenth century, Cartagena mint,” Mendoza said. “It is worth more than my house. Can you believe it?”

  “It is very beautiful.”

  “Yes, and it is yours.”

  Mendoza handed the necklace to Sergio.

  “I couldn’t possibly accept such a gift, señor. Please—”

  “It’s not a gift, my friend. It’s a contract. I trust all my senior officers with a similar item, to be worn on their bodies until the day they die. By putting the chain around your neck, you are accepting my offer for lifetime employment, with all the duties and responsibilities—and benefits—that go along with it. What do you say, Sergio? Will you be my lieutenant in San Salvador?”

  “I would be honored,” Sergio said.

  He lifted the chain and slid it over his head, felt the weight of the solid gold coin against his chest.

  “Bueno. You have shown great courage in your travels abroad, Lieutenant Del Chivo. Not only did you kill thirteen United States citizens, you managed to escape from police custody.”

  Sergio blinked, unsure of what to say.

  “Of course I heard about it,” he smiled, “Mr. Sanchez. You have gone above and beyond the call of duty, and now you will be rewarded greatly.”

  Sergio nodded. “But, the truth is, it was only twelve, Señor Mendoza.”

  Mendoza cracked a broad smile. “And so honest! I value truthfulness, Sergio. I believe I can trust you. Let us toast to a long and beneficial business relationship.”

  Sergio raised his glass, clinked, and drank. But priceless gold coin or no priceless gold coin, he didn’t intend to be a part of Alejandro Mendoza’s stable of bitches for long. To him, the appointment in San Salvador was nothing more than a stepping stone.

  He finished the calvados and cigar with Mendoza, and then the leader of Los Bastardos Deseables gave him the rest of the day off.

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  DANIELS

  WEDNESDAY, 11:18 A.M. CST

  Sergeant Herb Benedict was sitting at his desk, wearing that ridiculous weight loss device he’d purchased, searching international databases and trying to find a picture of Javier Sanchez, the man we were now certain had been The Defacer.

  “That wasn’t even his real name,” I said. “His passport was fake.”

  “I know that. But I never forget a face. I’ll recognize him if I see him. I’m not going to give up on this, Jack. He killed a cop. I’ll find him eventually, even if I have to look at every mug shot in the world.”

  “If he’d never been arrested before you booked him, then there isn’t going to be a mug shot. You might as well face it, Herb. He got away. He left the country. There’s nothing we can do about that now. It’s out of our hands.”

  “Maybe. How’s your head?”

  “Still hurts a little. I’m not sure which was worse, the concussion or the hangover.”

  “You okay?”

  “Nothing a few Tylenol won’t fix.”

  “No. I mean, are you okay? You’ve been back on the job for a few days, and we haven’t talked about it. I mean, your career almost came to an abrupt end.”

  “I was pretty drunk at the time. Plus they drugged me. I don’t really have many clear memories of it.”

  “Both those guys, Boggan and Renke. They did a good job tricking us. I didn’t suspect either one.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “I mean, we’re friends, right, Jack? Could you imagine killing me?”

  “Only when I’m watching you eat ice cream. You slurp loud enough to be heard from a different zip code.”

  “Honestly. If it was a choice of prison or killing you in cold blood, I’d take prison.”

  “Thanks, Herb. I wouldn’t kill you in cold blood either.”

  “And that Dr. Boggan, he liked you.”

  “And still tried to kill me.”

  “You didn’t like him?” Herb raised his eyebrows. “C’mon Jack. Admit it.”

  “Admit that I liked a murderer?”

  “Well, isn’t it true that you almost fell for him?”

  I winced. “How long have you been waiting to use that joke?”

  “I actually thought of it when we were all having that stand-off out on his balcony.” He shrugged. “That seemed like an inappropriate time.”

  “Would have been funny.”

  “You think?”

  “Sure. You could have also said that Renke went head over heels for me, and Boggan lost his head over me.”

  Herb made a face. “You’re right. All puns are bad.”

  The SuperSlim 5000 was plugged into the wall socket behind Herb, making a scary humming sound like a transformer on a high voltage power line. Every now and then the smell of singed hair would waft my way.

  “So how many payments do you have left on that thing?” I asked.

  “Eleven.”

  “And how many pounds have you lost?”

  “Three.”

  “If you burst into flames, I’m going to make a you’re fired joke.”

  “I’ll unplug it. It’s about time to go for some lunch anyway. You up for pizza?”

  “I’m going to have to pass on lunch today. I’m taking off early.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Moving Mom to a long term care facility. I want to be there, make sure she gets settled in.”

  “Want me to tag along?”

  “Thanks, but I’m okay. Mom wouldn’t even know you were there, anyway.”

  “But you would. No woman is an island, Jack. Remember?”

  I did remember. And my friend was right.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “We’ll go to lunch, and then we can drive out to see Mom. But pizza’s on me.”

  “Hell yeah. Extra large with everything, here I come.”

  “There goes your three pounds.”

  I grabbed my purse while Herb peeled the SuperSlim 5000 from his torso, and then we walked out of the office together.

  THIRTEEN MONTHS LATER

  COLT

  TUESDAY, 10:22 P.M. EST

  They say time heals all wounds, but I knew for a fact that I would never forget the love I’d shared with Laurie Day. I still dreamed about her sometimes, and the dreams were always good ones.

  First Susan, on that ill-fated flight to a Colt .45 gig.

  Now Laurie, tagging along for fun on one of my investigations.

  The day I left Chicago, I made a vow: if I was ever lucky enough to once again find someone who loved me the way Susan and Laurie loved me, I would do everything in my power to keep her out of harm’s way. I would never take her with me on a job, no matter what kind of work I was doing.
<
br />   A week after John Boggan and Mark Renke committed suicide, Wanda Crumley’s chain and locket magically reappeared in its evidence bin at the Medical Examiner’s office. Dr. Hitchcock said he must have overlooked it, somehow, but I knew better. Kevin Ward had paid Hitchcock to take it out, and he’d told Hitchcock to put it back. By putting it back, he’d avoided an obstruction of justice charge. But it never came to that. With the only evidence being some burned bones impossible to precisely date, and the confessions of two men who died, Ward was never charged with anything. Which meant I was never subpoenaed. But if I had been, I would have kept my end of the bargain. Ward kept his. The check cleared, and it paid for Laurie’s funeral, my expenses, and Wanda Crumley’s funeral. The rest went to Laurie’s parents.

  My client, Doris Green, got her mother’s chain and locket back, along with the satisfaction of knowing that the three men responsible for lighting the fire were dead. Wanda Crumley’s remains were laid to rest alongside her husband’s in a cemetery in Qunicy, just as Doris had wanted.

  My stolen rental car was eventually found, stripped down to the chassis. The rental place tried to pursue a claim against me. Our insurance companies are still duking it out, but I expect my premiums are going to go way up.

  I thought about all that as I sat nursing an Old Fitz on the rocks, listening to some live music at a club called Lyon’s Den. It wasn’t far from my place on Lake Barkley, and I’d gotten a call earlier in the day from the band’s bass player.

  I’d known Tyler since we were kids. He knew I lived nearby, and he called to tell me that he and the guys were booked there at the club for the next two weeks. Said if I came he would make sure the bartenders treated me right.

  So I came.

  There was a group of women sitting at the table next to mine, and when the band started playing an old Meatloaf song called, “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad,” one of them walked over and asked me if I would like to dance.

  “Sure,” I said.

  I got up and we walked out to the floor and slow-danced to the song.

  “It’s my friend’s birthday,” she said. “She wants to meet you.”