Diner Knock Out (A Rose Strickland Mystery Book 4)

by Terri L. Austin

  “We’ll talk it through, try to make sense of it. But later. When the police get here, you’ll give them facts, not supposition. Answer their questions directly. Don’t offer information. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  When the cops did show up, Andre identified himself, then Pete and me. The paramedics swiftly wheeled a gurney into the gym, and I never saw them again. They must have removed Buster’s body by the front door.

  Andre, Pete, and I were taken outside and questioned. The humidity made the blood on my hand tacky. A uniformed officer swabbed it, and then took my fingerprints electronically. Once I’d scrubbed my palm clean with four wet wipes, I swore I could still see the stain there, deep in the crevices. I made a fist and willed the image of Buster Madison away. It didn’t work. Even behind my eyelids, I saw him lying there, helpless. Dead.

  Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time I’d seen a murder victim. It never got any easier.

  The tattoo artists, two of their customers, and the liquor store clerk all came out to gawk. When the TV cameras showed up at the end of the cordoned street, the officer warned us to stay away from the press. Since I had no intention of speaking to them, it wasn’t an issue.

  A detective repeatedly peppered me with questions. I told him Buster had asked to speak to me. I’d brought along my good pal, Pete, because this was such a rough neighborhood. All true. My boss, Andre, met us here. Then we found Buster’s body. I stuck to the facts, even though I put my own twist on them.

  Pete backed up my rendition of the story. Andre explained the basics of our case, but he left out all details regarding the fight club. After an eternity, we were free to go.

  Out on the street, Andre stared down at me. The red and blue lights strobed and bounced off his glasses. “Rose, you’re in no condition to drive. Let Pete take you home.”

  “I can’t leave my car here.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Pete placed his hand on my shoulder. “I’ve called the boss. He’s waiting at your apartment.”

  Sullivan. He was my rock. Always. I couldn’t wait to get home to him. Still, I needed to speak to Andre. “Can you give us a minute, Pete?” He seemed hesitant, but walked toward the SUV.

  Once he left, I asked Andre, “Why didn’t you tell them about the fight club?”

  “This man you date, he’s a criminal. I don’t know what you see in him, but he’s important to you. There’s no need to bring him into it unless we have to.”

  A sense of relief poured through me. Unfortunately, it was short-lived. The cops were bound to find a link between Buster and the Four Horsemen. I didn’t give two shits about Carlucci and the rest. But I couldn’t let this blow back on Sullivan. “We have to find the killer before suspicion falls on him. I feel like the answer’s right there in front of me. I’m just not seeing it.”

  “Go home, Rose. Get some rest. We’ll start from the top tomorrow, examine all the evidence. We’ll find the killer together.” He waited until I climbed into the SUV’s passenger seat before getting into his own car and driving away.

  I zoned out on the ride home. When Pete reached my apartment complex, he parked next to the front entrance, even though it was a handicapped spot. Climbing out, I stood and stretched my legs. The air was hot and oppressive, and I wished the cicadas would shut the hell up. Their loud screeches hurt my ears. “Are you coming up?” I asked Pete.

  “Yeah, I’ll walk you in.”

  Slogging up the stairs, I felt strung out. Exhausted, but nervous. Edgy. Helpless. I wished I could have saved Buster. What if I hadn’t stopped to change my clothes? Would those few precious minutes have kept him from dying? That question haunted me.

  When we reached my door, Pete slapped me on the back. “Rose, you kept your cool tonight. You impressed me.” Then he turned to leave, jogging down the stairs and out of sight.

  Walking into my apartment, I found Sullivan sitting on the futon, his forearms draped over his thighs, his hands clasped together. Whiskers shadowed his clenched jaw, and his gaze never left my face as he slowly rose to his feet. “Tell me you’re all right.”

  “Buster’s dead.”

  Before I could take my next breath, he stood in front of me, wrapping his strong arms around me. That’s when I finally let go, collapsing into him. My entire body trembled and the tears flowed.

  Chapter 17

  Sullivan buried his face in my hair and made comforting sounds as he held onto me. I wasn’t sure how long we stood there. Hours? Seconds? Long enough to drench the front of his shirt and leave tearstains on his ice blue tie.

  When I stopped sobbing, my face felt puffy, my eyes swollen and gritty. I couldn’t stop picturing Buster, lying on the dirty gray concrete floor.

  With a shudder, I pushed away from Sullivan. He loosened his arms, but didn’t let go as he led me to the futon. Falling onto it, I pulled my legs under me. He lowered himself next to me, fitting his hip against mine. “Tell me everything.”

  “No.”

  His eyes widened in surprise. “Rose.” He stroked my cheek with the back of his hand. “Tell me what happened.”

  I took a shaky breath. “Not until you tell me everything about the fight club. Stop trying to protect me, I’m in it now. You’re the one in danger. Once the police start digging into Buster’s life, they’re going to find out about you.”

  His gold eyes darkened with emotion. “Be clear on this: I protect my woman, not the other way around.”

  Two things: he’d just called me his woman, like he might start beating on his chest any minute, and the possessive way he said it made my insides melt in a good way. Second, his voice dripped with cold fury. But I sensed he wasn’t angry with me. He was angry at the situation. And probably himself.

  “I’ll handle my own problems,” he continued. “I have contingencies in place. Always.”

  Sullivan had cops on his payroll. Judges and prosecutors too. But two men had been murdered because of this club, and Sullivan was one of the ringleaders. That put a very big target on his back.

  He stood and strode across the faded blue rug. Tracing a path from the window to the edge of my kitchenette, he clenched his right hand into a fist. “Whoever killed Buster tonight might come after you next. Pack a bag. You’ll stay at my place.”

  “For how long?”

  Stopping a foot away from me, his lips compressed into a straight line. “Indefinitely. Take a break from work. Ma will understand.” His powerful shoulders filled with tension and bunched upward as if anticipating my explosion. He knew me too well.

  “Forget it.” Agitated, I leapt up. “I’m not suspending my life to hide out. I’m going to find the person who killed Rob and Buster. You can either help me or stay out of my way.”

  His nose flared slightly. “I’ve never asked you to stop investigating before, but this time is different. You need to back off, Rose. Why were you at the gym?”

  I gritted my teeth and thought about telling him to go to hell. But this was Sullivan. His concern manifested itself in bossiness. Understanding that fact tempered my anger somewhat. “Buster called me. Told me to come alone.” I blew out a gusty breath. “I was at Mitzi Rutherford’s house at the time. When I was on the phone talking to Buster, anyone could have overheard my conversation.”

  His eyes lit on me. “What were you doing at the Rutherfords’ house?”

  “Cocktail party.” I rubbed the hollow in my throat, knowing my confession about confronting Carlucci was going to cause another fight. It had been a long day and a disastrous, traumatic night. I was tired of fighting. Tired, period.

  He did his Sullivan thing, clung to silence, and as usual, I filled in the gaps with chatter. “My mother introduced me to Jennifer Carlucci. Then I talked to Will, Al Bosworth, and Ethan Cadewell.”

  Sullivan h
eld himself very still. “So if one of them is the killer, they could have known you were going to the gym, that Buster had something to tell you. If you’d been there a few minutes earlier, you’d be dead too.” His tone was frigid, but his eyes burned hot with anger.

  “Or I might have saved him. Ethan Cadewell left the party when I did. I came home to change before driving downtown. If he sped, he could’ve gotten to the gym, killed Buster, and been long gone before I got there.”

  “Why would Ethan kill Buster? It makes no sense.”

  I thought back to his smirking face, his threatening demeanor. “He doesn’t like me. He treated Rob’s death like it was a big joke.”

  “Who else was still there when you left?” Sullivan asked.

  “Carlucci’s bodyguards were AWOL. I don’t know if Will left or if his guys were taking a break. He didn’t give a damn Rob was dead either. In fact, Will, Al, and Ethan taunted me with it. Not overtly, but they were acting very smug tonight. Also, Candi had an affair with Rob. Did you know that?”

  “No.” Sullivan threaded his hands through his hair, a clear sign of his frustration. “That adds a new twist, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” I walked over to the sink and poured myself a glass of water. I downed it quickly, not realizing how thirsty I’d been. “Want one?”

  “I need something stronger than water.”

  Unfortunately, my apartment was booze-free. I hopped up on the counter, dangled my feet. “I got the sense Candi really cared about Rob. I don’t think he was that into her. He used her whenever he and Sofia were in a fight, finally breaking it off when Sofia had the baby. If Carlucci found out, would he have offed Rob?”

  He continued to pace. “Candi does whatever the hell she wants to do with very little input from Daddy. Despite her appearance, she’s very bright. He’s grooming her to take over the business. She’s even attended the fight club a few times.”

  I thought about the trashy women glued to Carlucci’s side like barnacles. Slutty little barnacles. “Does he openly grope other women when Candi’s there?”

  “He’s a little more discreet when she’s around.”

  “I’ll call my mom tomorrow, see if Will cut out of the cocktail party early.”

  Sullivan stopped walking and stared at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Don’t be so naïve. It doesn’t matter where Carlucci was. He’d never do his own dirty work. He’d hire out.”

  I let that sentence absorb into my brain. Took a minute, but the horror of it finally hit me. “He would have hired someone to kill Buster? Who?”

  “Anyone who owes him money. Anyone who’s on his payroll. An outside hit. Take your pick.”

  That was almost too disturbing to contemplate. “He can just order up a murder like I order a pizza.”

  “Now you’re beginning to see why I want you staying at my house. These men aren’t playing around, Rose. Powerful people have powerful secrets, and they’ll go to any lengths to protect them.”

  “You have powerful secrets.”

  He reached the window and spun around. Every muscle in his body remained on high alert. “Yes, I do.”

  I didn’t want to ask my next question, but I needed to. “How far would you go to protect them?” I clung to the edge of the counter, my fingers digging into the cheap Formica. My heart beat painfully while I waited for him to answer. Sullivan had killed before, but I didn’t know the circumstances. I wasn’t exactly innocent either. My own hands were stained with blood, and I wasn’t talking about Buster Madison.

  The silence dragged out for minutes. I didn’t know why I kept bothering to ask him personal questions. He’d never give me any answers. The real question I needed to ask myself: could I live without knowing the truth? If Sullivan never revealed anything else about himself, was that acceptable?

  “All right,” he said. “Rob and Candi had an affair. What else did you learn?”

  I rubbed my eyes, suddenly exhausted. “According to Sofia, Rob wanted out of the fight club, but he owed Carlucci too much money to break free. Carlucci kept a running tab on all of Rob’s medical bills, room and board, training and equipment.” I paused. “How do you expect these guys to get out of debt if you keep piling it on?”

  “I don’t.”

  I blinked at his honesty. “They’re indentured servants forever?”

  He merely shrugged.

  “What about the one hundred fight rule? Win enough fights, the debt gets canceled.”

  “It gives them incentive.”

  “Tyler Godfrey said no one’s ever made it to one hundred. But Rob was close to the magic number. He only had another ten fights to win.”

  “Doubt he would have made it.”

  “Maybe that’s why he was killed,” I said. “Because he was too close.”

  “Then why kill Buster?”

  “Good point. So…White Oak Towers—do you own that one apartment or the whole building?”

  He finally stopped pacing, and with his back propped against the closet door, Sullivan crossed his arms. His eyes slid over me, lingering briefly on my breasts. “The whole building. That way I can control who goes in and out. You know how I feel about security.”

  “Someday you’re going to tell me why you’re so obsessive about it.”

  Nothing. Not a word.

  “Fine,” I said. “Wyatt Sanders. I met him today, and he’s a freak. More paranoid than you and Carlucci put together. His employees are terrified of him.”

  He stood quietly for a couple of minutes. Was he weighing his words or was it just another delay tactic? Finally, he spoke. “Wyatt’s time at the club has come to an end.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We’re going to have to kick him out. He’s not paying his share of the costs, and he’s not handling his fighters. Wyatt’s in deep, owes money to the wrong people.”

  My legs stopped mid-swing. “Does he owe you money?”

  Laughing, his eyes crinkled at the corners, making him appear younger. Boyish. “Hell no. I wasn’t stupid enough to loan him any.”

  “You said he owed money to the wrong people. If not you, then who the hell are the wrong people? I think I’m officially terrified that you and the other Horsemen aren’t the scariest mofos in town.”

  With a wry tilt to his lips, he shook his head. “I don’t think I like being compared to a harbinger of the apocalypse.”

  “Life is full of these little disappointments. Anyway, the way my mother talked about Wyatt Sanders, I figured he pooped gold bricks.”

  “Not anymore. He’s busted. Bad land deal. He’s kept up the façade, but he won’t be able to for much longer. That new hotel should have been finished a year ago. All those delays cost money.”

  “Money he doesn’t have?” I sat in silence for a few minutes, trying to fit in all the new pieces of information, square it away with the facts I already had. My eyelids drifted shut as I replayed the cocktail party in my mind. “Carlucci’s bodyguards. My mom says he takes them everywhere. Why would he need muscle at an opera house fundraiser?”

  Sullivan waited a beat before answering. “Several months ago, he upped his security. Now he’s never without them. I wouldn’t be surprised if they watch over him while he takes a piss. There’s only one reason for that kind of protection. A life-threatening reason.”

  “Who would want to kill Carlucci?”

  He flicked a brow. His way of telling me to work it out for myself.

  “Right. Whoever killed Rob and Buster could also be gunning for Will Carlucci. But why? That’s what’s driving me batty. Why kill Rob? Why make it look like a suicide? Tonight, the back of Buster’s head was bashed in. Two very different M.O.s.” I shivered at the memory.

  “Probably because the killer was in a hurry
tonight,” Sullivan said. “Didn’t have the time to be nice and neat.”

  “Is someone killing off the club members or is it Carlucci-specific?”

  “That’s what’s puzzling me as well.” Gazing at my futon in contemplation, he stroked his mouth again.

  “So who’s the fourth Horseman? That blond asshole—what’s his story?”

  “Adam Heath. He’s not a Horseman, he’s a proxy for Mr. Karl.”

  “A proxy, huh? I got the feeling he didn’t like you.”

  “Believe me, it’s mutual.”

  “Who the hell is Mr. Karl?” I asked. “He sounds like a hairdresser.”

  His gaze cut to me, and he didn’t share my amusement. “He’s a very wily, very scary son of a bitch. I’ve only met him once. Karl’s not his real name. No one knows who he really is. He’s old and sick, possibly dying. His fighters never have direct contact with him.”

  I couldn’t see a faceless Mr. Karl or his Teutonic proxy bashing Buster over the head. But as Sullivan pointed out, rich criminals didn’t have to do their own dirty work.

  “How does this stable thing work, anyway?” I asked.

  He stared at me for a long moment. “You already know. I pay for their training, food, rent, et cetera. In return, they fight, and I expect them to win.” He sounded so coldblooded. As though these men were just another commodity.

  “What happens if they don’t win?”

  “I cut them from the stable.”

  It was my turn to remain silent. I’d wanted to know all this. It was my own fault if I didn’t like what I heard. After a minute, I asked, “What does getting cut from the stable entail?”

  “I don’t hurt them, Rose.”

  “Do you ‘hire out?’”

  “I use them elsewhere. In the bars or the clubs I own.” Pushing off the door, he walked across the room. When he reached me, he clasped my knees and drew them apart, wedging himself between my legs. Then he cupped my chin, forcing me to look up. He was close enough that I could see something serious and troubling move behind his eyes. “I protect myself when I have to. I’ve done some terrible things in my life, but there are a few lines I haven’t crossed. If I did make the decision to cross that line, I wouldn’t put the burden on someone else. I’d do my own dirty work. Are we clear?”