Diner Knock Out (A Rose Strickland Mystery Book 4)

by Terri L. Austin

  “Why would the kid kill Buster?”

  “Exactly.” I put a big fat question mark next to Franco’s name.

  “Buster Madison. Deceased.” Saying it made me flinch. “Finding him was horrific.”

  “Boss said you were shook up. Sorry you had to go through that, Rose.”

  I turned away from the board. Henry was a mountain and he had an RSF—resting scary face—but the sympathy in his eyes was plain to see.

  “Thanks.” I refocused on Buster’s photo. “What did he want to tell me last night? He said he needed to get something off his chest. And when I told him about Rob’s death, he thought the Horsemen were behind it.”

  “Who the hell are the Horsemen?”

  “Sullivan, Sanders, Carlucci, and Mr. Karl.”

  Henry rumbled deep in his chest. “Good call. Did Buster say why Rob was killed?”

  “Nope. I think if I could solve that, I could figure out this whole case.” Or not.

  “Will Carlucci.” With my finger, I traced his red string to Rob. “Rob was sleeping with Candi. But was that enough of a motive to take out his number one star? Rob was very vocal about wanting out of the club.” I glanced over my shoulder. “Maybe Carlucci feared that Rob would win enough fights to break free. No one’s ever done that before. It might set a bad precedent.”

  Henry hefted one shoulder. “There’s another reason Carlucci might want to off Rob.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Carlucci was losing money on the kid. Nobody bet against Rob anymore. He was just too good. You put all that money into a fighter, you want him to win, but not too much.”

  I followed the blue string trail. “Then why kill Buster?”

  “Because Buster knew something he shouldn’t. Or overheard something. Or was just a pain in the ass.”

  “It’s possible. I was yanking Carlucci’s chain last night at the cocktail party. Maybe I spooked him and he panicked, called his hit man, and had Buster bumped off.”

  “Covering his tracks,” Henry said. “Scorched earth policy. That’s a pretty decent motive.”

  I spun and placed my back against the wall. “Why not kill me too? I was the one asking questions. Doubting Rob’s suicide story.”

  “You had muscle. Pete was following you. And you belong to Sullivan. That means you’re off limits, unless Carlucci wants to go to war.”

  I ran my finger over the metal coil binding my notebook and ignored his phrasing. No time to get into a feminist diatribe. It would be wasted on Henry, anyway. “Not everyone follows the rules, clearly. And why not kill both of us, Pete and me? Besides, we were driving separately. Someone could have run me off the road, taken a pot shot. No, I don’t think Carlucci is behind these murders.” I blinked, then focused on Henry. “Hey, did you know Buster was in debt? He was going to lose his house. Bad money habits? Gambling debt?”

  “He wasn’t gambling on the fights, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because the Horsemen wouldn’t allow it.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Like Pete Rose betting on baseball. It’s not kosher.”

  “Why else would Buster be in debt?”

  “He might have been betting on something else. Maybe he made a bad investment. I’m just saying he didn’t wager on the fights.”

  I curled my lip. “Get real. Did Buster look like the type of guy who played the stock market? The ponies—maybe.” I wrote another giant question mark next to Buster’s name.

  “Candi Carlucci. She was hooking up with Rob. I think she had feelings for him, which would give her a motive for killing him—woman spurned and all—but what about Buster? Plus, girl has a broken arm. Could she have snuck up behind Buster and bashed him over the head with a twenty-five-pound weight? Unlikely.

  “Next up—Sullivan.” I glanced at his picture, a serious pose for the DMV camera. Nevertheless, he was incredibly handsome. “I think I can cross him off my list.”

  “Whatever would your new boss say?” Henry’s sarcastic tone caught me off guard.

  “Andre would say I shouldn’t allow affection to override my judgment. This time, he’s wrong. While I may not know everything about Sullivan, I know he didn’t do this.”

  He made a noise of approval.

  “Wyatt Sanders. A freak of serious proportions.” I liked him for a double homicide, mostly because of his high creep factor. “I have no evidence connecting him to Rob. Or Buster. But,” I raised my finger in the air, “he’s in debt. Maybe he killed Rob because…yeah, I got nothing. And I don’t know why Sanders would kill Buster. Maybe he dissed birch sap water?”

  “Don’t blame him. Tastes terrible. Have you tried it?” Henry crossed his arms and leaned against the filing cabinet.

  “Yep, and I never want a repeat.” I tapped Tyler Godfrey’s pic. “Now, this is interesting.”

  “Good. Because no offense, but this has been almost as dull as watching people eat waffles all morning.”

  I carried on. “Tyler assumed Rob had committed suicide. He leapt to that conclusion immediately.”

  “Would Tyler be stupid enough to plan an elaborate murder, then tip his hand by suggesting suicide before you did?”

  “He’s on painkillers.”

  “Why would he kill Buster?” Henry asked.

  I threw my hands in the air. “Ugh, I don’t know! I don’t know anything, and it’s making me crazy. What did Buster want to tell me? And why was he willing to die for it?”

  “Don’t know any more than you do.” Henry pointedly glanced at his watch. “Next?”

  I sighed and looked back at the wall. The wall that held such promise just an hour ago. Now, it mocked me. “Dr. Ethan Cadewell. Or as I like to think of him, Dr. Dickwad.”

  Henry snorted. “Yeah, he is that.”

  “What’s his vice?”

  Henry’s lips pressed into a tight line.

  “Oh, come on,” I begged, “help me out.”

  “Nearly got his license suspended. His professional one.”

  This was new. “Why? Was he screwing patients? I can totally see him doing that.”

  “Prescribing too many drugs and gambling. Like every other educated man who thinks he can beat the house, he’s an arrogant ass who doesn’t know when to fold.”

  “Did Sullivan help him out with the license thing?”

  Henry didn’t say anything, but stared directly into my eyes. I knew I’d hit the bullseye.

  Then I remembered that decal on Ethan’s windshield. Why hadn’t I figured it out before? “Franco. Oh my God. Franco. Henry—Franco.”

  “You keep saying that like it means something.”

  I sprinted to Andre’s desk and flipped on his computer. I didn’t waste time on the databases, instead zoned in on Franco’s social media site.

  “Here it is. Franco Morales. Employment history—works in the cafeteria at Huntingford Memorial Hospital.” I glanced up at Henry. “Do you know what that means?”

  “Nope.”

  “Sofia’s brother works at the same hospital as Dr. Ethan. I kept wondering what had triggered Franco, made him go to the gym that day and start a fight with Rob. It wasn’t about Sofia at all. Sofia and Rob were always breaking up, so why would Franco go after Rob this time?”

  “Because Rob found Franco’s cache of pills and stole them?”

  “Exactly.” I snapped my fingers. “Excellent motive to kill Rob. Franco wanted his drugs back. Rob knew Franco was selling, and Franco, who works in the hospital cafeteria for barely minimum wage, has a brand new Mustang.” I recalled that big, faceted diamond stud in his ear. I’d pegged it for zirconia. It was probably the real deal. “And Franco would have access to drugs, so he could make Rob’s death look like a suicide.”

&
nbsp; “How would he lure Rob out to the woods?”

  “Any pretext. Sofia. Wanting to talk. An apology.”

  “How would he get Rob to take the pills?” Henry asked, walking forward, his thick finger stabbing Franco’s license picture in the nose. “This little pissant wouldn’t have been able to force Rob to do jack.”

  He had me there. I walked past him to the door and back. “Maybe he spiked Rob’s Gatorade, then had him pop a bunch of pills.”

  Henry slowly nodded. “Possible. But you have no proof.”

  “You’re beginning to sound just like Hardass. And that’s not a compliment.” I grabbed my phone and strode to the door. “I’ll be back.”

  He blocked my way. “No. I’ll wait in the outer office. You make your call in here.” So overprotective.

  As soon as he shut the door, I dialed Sullivan’s number and had to wait five rings for him to pick up. “Rose. Busy.”

  “Welcome to the club. I think your Dr. Cadewell is behind the drugs at Rob’s house.”

  “Tell me why,” he said after a full minute.

  I told him all of my suspicions.

  “That’s a lot of presumption. So what, you think Franco also killed Buster? Right before you got there, too. That’s damned convenient. What’s his motive?”

  He had a point. “So maybe Franco’s not the killer. Maybe Cadewell is. He left the party right before I did, giving him plenty of time to bash Buster.”

  “Ethan Cadewell is a lot of things—obnoxious, a bad loser, a serial philanderer—but I can’t see him killing Buster. For what reason?”

  Damn. That motive kept holding me back every time. “Maybe Buster knew about the drugs.”

  “If Cadewell is supplying, most of the guys at the gym already know about the drugs.”

  I closed my eyes, defeated. “Okay, maybe he’s not a killer, but I believe Ethan is a pipeline to getting prescription pills out on the street.”

  “Even if that’s true, what’s your plan?”

  “What’s yours?” I shot back. “He’s not a doctor for my illegal fight club. You’re okay with employing a dealer?”

  He sighed. “Fine, Rose, I’ll talk to Cadewell.”

  “And say what? His license has already been in jeopardy. That wasn’t enough to stop him.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I know lots of things,” I bluffed. “If Cadewell is selling drugs, I want it to end. Now.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell him to cut out his side business. Happy?”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  “Oh, he will.” He said the words with such cold ferocity, my ear had frostbite.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll be working late tonight. Wait up for me.”

  “You may have to wait up for me. I have a burlesque show to attend.”

  He honest to God growled, making my toes curl and my stomach flutter like fireflies trapped in a mason jar. “Take notes, and you can show me what you learned.”

  My cheeks grew warm at his suggestion, but I had a stipulation of my own. “Only if you reciprocate. I’m talking hip thrusts, mister.”

  “Deal.”

  I was still smiling when Henry opened the door. “All done?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good. Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

  “You’re always starving. I have one more suspect.”

  Henry glanced at the wall. “We’re done. You’re out of pictures.”

  I read the final name in my notebook. “Mr. Karl.”

  “Good luck finding anything on him. If Sullivan’s a closed book, Mr. Karl isn’t even on the shelves. Keeps to himself. No one knows his business. His proxy is an asshole, but he plays it close to the vest too.”

  “Have you ever met Mr. Karl?”

  He shook his head. “Now let’s go eat. Hungry.” Uh-oh. He was starting to talk in one-word sentences. Time to feed the beast.

  We stopped at a restaurant that served real food, and by that I meant a chain establishment with a waitress instead of a cashier. When she placed a small loaf of bread between us, Henry cut it into thick slices, slathered them with butter, and handed me one.

  “I don’t know how you go all day without eating, Rose. It’s not healthy. Tomorrow I’ll pack us a lunch. I’ve been working on this cold quinoa salad. I think I’ve finally got the dressing balanced just right.”

  I nibbled on the bread. “If you won’t tell me how you met Sullivan, at least tell me how long you’ve known him.”

  He finished off the last slice and rubbed the crumbs from his hands. Sitting back, he stretched out his arms, resting them on the back of the booth. “What does it matter if I’ve known him six years or twenty-six? I’m loyal to him. That’s what counts.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “I’ve known Sullivan for a long time. He’s fair and he’s steadfast to the people who prove themselves.”

  “He can be ruthless,” I said.

  “Only when he needs to be. He should have been ruthless with you. I would have been.” He lifted his gaze. His eyes became cold and empty. Merciless. “You’re his exception. Never take advantage of that.”

  My heart leapt, and I felt uneasy talking about this with Henry. Even though I wanted facts about Sullivan, I wasn’t going to discuss my feelings toward him or vice versa. That was too personal, so I changed the subject. “What about you? Did you ever duke it out in the ring?”

  He stared at me for an uncomfortable length of time. When he spoke, it dispelled some of the tension between us. “Yeah, I was a fighter. Pretty damn good one.” He lowered his arms and rested them on the table.

  “Did you ever fight in a club like the one Sullivan runs?”

  I’d just tipped the balance, putting him on edge once again. His big hands clenched a glass of water, and I noticed long, white scars marring the ridges of his knuckles.

  “Yeah, I did. You were wrong before. There’s at least one person who won enough fights to earn back his freedom. You’re looking at him.”

  Curiosity: piqued. I wanted to ask him a million questions, but his closed face put an end to the discussion. He probably regretted telling me anything at all. Best not to push my luck.

  A few minutes later, the waitress arrived with our food. Again, Henry ordered two entrees and two salads. The table was crowded with all the plates.

  I wasn’t exactly dainty as I sucked down my steak and potato.

  Henry took a break from shoveling food into his gob. “Seriously, you need to eat more often, Rose. You skip too many meals.”

  “Since I’ve been working two jobs, my schedule has been a little hectic. I don’t always have time.”

  He pointed a carrot at me. “You should make time. Keeping regular blood sugar throughout the day is important.”

  I scanned his biceps, the muscles rippling and bulging with each movement of his arms. “You must work out like crazy, huh?”

  “Have to. It’s my job to keep the boss safe.”

  And there was my reality check. Sullivan’s choices put him in danger. Every time it hit me—that Sullivan lived in a world where he needed twenty-four-hour protection—I became anxious. I’d shoved it to the back of my mind so often, it was at home there, in the recesses of my brain. But when I confronted it, took a good look at the life Sullivan led, it horrified me. I didn’t want to lose him.

  I picked up my Coke and took a long drink. With some effort, I pushed Sullivan’s crime lord status back into the closet and slammed the door.

  After we finished, Henry threw a few bills down on the table and drove me to my apartment.

  “What’s on for tonight?” he asked.

  “I’m going to pack a bag, head over to the dojo and talk to Ka
i’s Muay Thai class, then pick up Candi Carlucci for the burlesque show.”

  “Burlesque?” He sounded intrigued.

  “Yep. Roxy’s friend is performing at Ruby’s Roadhouse.”

  As we pulled into my parking lot, Henry went into full-on bodyguard mode. It probably wasn’t a noticeable change, but I could feel the heightened energy he gave off. I glanced over at him. His sharp eyes scanned the lot for anything out of place.

  When we reached my apartment, he insisted on going in first and checking it out before giving me the all-clear. Then he waited in the hallway while I gathered my toiletries and threw clothes in my duffle bag. I glanced around, made sure I hadn’t missed anything vital that I might need for the next couple of days. Perhaps I was being optimistic, but I hoped I’d have this case solved soon. As much as I loved spending the night with Sullivan, I liked the comfort of my own little shabby apartment. All four hundred square feet of it.

  Before we left, I made a call to Andre. “Thanks again for the wall. I really appreciate it.”

  “Did it help?”

  “I’m pretty sure Franco is getting drugs from Dr. Cadewell, the fight club doc. Sullivan said he’ll put an end to it.”

  “Nothing else? No links between suspects and the victims?”

  “Nothing new. I wish I could pin something on Wyatt Sanders.”

  “You’re letting feelings cloud your judgment again, Miss Strickland.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m going to talk to some fighters at the dojo tonight. Henry’s coming with me, so I’m covered. What’s new on the Benson front?”

  “Nothing. He ran errands, then went home, mowed the lawn, and he’s been inside the house for the last three hours.”

  “Mrs. Benson should be thrilled he’s locked down tight.”

  “She’s not home to enjoy it. She’s at an all-day yoga retreat. Have a good evening, Miss Strickland. Be careful.”