by DJ Steele
"It’s me, dad," he hollered. "Put the gun down. Okay."
He heard grumbling and then, "Nobody comes in my house without knocking."
"Sorry dad."
In the den his father was sitting in his recliner. The shotgun was propped against the wall near his chair.
"How come you didn’t knock?" His father scowled at him.
"I usually do knock and you never hear a damn thing. How come you heard me this time?"
"My hearing is just fine. You ain’t exactly twinkle toes."
His father was bad about turning down his hearing aids when he napped. Obviously, he was awake this afternoon.
"Whatya got there?" his father asked eyeing the beer and Cheetos.
"I stopped by Harley’s on the way over and got …"
"I ain’t blind either. Are you gonna give me a beer or what?" his dad said gruffly.
He thought maybe he’d leave the beer and Cheetos and make an excuse to get the hell out of there when his father softened, "Sit a spell son and let’s pop a cold one."
His father was good at reading people, especially him.
Shockley handed him a beer and the bag of Cheetos before sliding into the chair across from him. They both twisted off the tops of the bottles and each man took a long slug.
"Good beer," his father said.
"Yup," Shockley added.
"Aren’t you going to eat the Cheetos I got you?" he asked, still unsure how much to tell his father. He felt his gut churn.
"Later."
A few seconds ticked by in silence. Both of them nursing their beer.
"You look plumb tuckered out, son. What’s on your mind?"
It was times like this he was glad to have his ol’ man close by. He needed somebody to vent to and his father was all he had. His father was attentive the whole time he recapped the Willow Oaks murder case and how the FBI showed up and ordered him to cease and desist his investigation.
Telling his father what was going on brought a sense of relief.
The beer helped too.
He left out some specifics that could impede the investigation but said enough to let his father know how he felt. Being able to unload all the things bothering him about the case allowed the tightness in his chest to loosen.
He knew his father wouldn’t respond till he had given it some thought but surprised him and spoke up without hesitation.
"Son, the Army had a saying. If you’re in a fight and things are going well…it’s probably an ambush. Sounds to me like you got too close to the truth about what was going on." He raised a finger. "I’m just speculating here, but I reckon that young lady is your key to why the FBI is involved."
"That’s what I thought, but I’m not sure how she’s connected." Shockley raked his hand through his thick hair pondering his lingering suspicion. "I’ve been struggling to look at this from every angle, but I keep coming up empty."
"FBI might think she’s a spy or…perhaps she’s the bait for a bigger fish," the old man offered.
Shockley almost choked on the swallow of beer in his throat. "Damn, I think that’s it, dad."
"Which one? The spy thing or the bait?"
He stood, patted his father on the shoulder and said, "Thanks for helping me figure this one out."
Before he turned around his father grabbed his arm and cautioned, "Watch your back."
"I will, dad."
At the front door, Shockley twisted the lock on the doorknob. He wished his ol’ man would keep the door locked.
Walking to his car, Shockley punched in Hauser’s number and listened to it ring as he climbed in the car.
Hauser picked up on the fourth ring. "Did you give the FBI all the files?" asked Shockley.
"I did exactly as you told me," replied Hauser. "The FBI has everything they need."
"Good. I don’t like them taking over this case, but if they catch the perp, we win."
"Yeah, with the resources these guys have, the case could be solved in the time it took me to run the 5K."
Shockley forced a chuckle. "Just leaving my father's place."
"How is the old man?" asked Hauser.
"Cantankerous as usual. Took him a six-pack and Cheetos."
"Cheetos? You really need to take him some healthy greasy food next time."
"I’ll be sure to remember that. Headed back home for some long overdue rest. Check in tomorrow."
Shockley had the feeling he was being watched even though he had scanned the street before he entered and left his father's house. The FBI might tap his phone. That was why he and Hauser used a cryptic conversation letting them know they'd meet later.
He turned the ignition, put the car in reverse and eased out of his father's driveway. Checking his watch, he saw he didn’t have much time.
Wiley’s Kitchen of Ill Repute was the best place in town for greasy food. He knew to meet Hauser here in 25 minutes. That was how long Hauser would bullshit he could run a 5K.
He spotted Hauser in a back booth. The skinny kid kept his head low not wanting to draw attention. On the table in front of him was an oversized drink and a basket of the best salty fries in town.
"I’d have ordered for you but not sure what you’d want," Hauser said in his husky voice.
Shockley raised his hand and flagged Naomi, the waitress, who always waited on them. Naomi with her shirt unbuttoned one too many buttons for her large breasts, waltzed over and let her eyes drift up and down his body before asking, "Hey hon, whatcha havin’?"
"What’s the pie today?"
"Apple. Made it myself." Naomi smiled exposing the gap between the center of her two front teeth.
"I’ll take a slice and add some ice cream on top."
Naomi’s face lit up. She liked when he ordered her pies. "Anything for you babe," she replied with a wink before sauntering back to the kitchen.
"Looks like she’s got the hots for you," Hauser said after she walked away.
"What’s not to like," joked Shockley. "We don’t have a lot of time. Whatcha got?"
"You think we’re doing the right thing? If the Feds find out we didn’t give them all the files, we could end up doing time."
"I'll take responsibility. If you want out, I understand. I have no idea what we’re getting into." Shockley kept his eyes on Hauser trying to read what he might be thinking.
Hauser screwed up his face. "A little late not to involve me. When I held back files, I became an accessory for not cooperating with the FBI."
"Sorry man."
"No, you’re not," scoffed Hauser. "You needed me, and you involved me in your personal vendetta against the perp who put T-Bone and Bull in the hospital." Hauser’s round eyes narrowed.
They exchanged a silent stare. Even though he didn’t like what Hauser said, he knew it was probably true. The kid never whitewashed how he felt. He respected Hauser for that.
"You think I should let it go? Let the Feds catch this perp, because you know they don’t give a shit about that. They have another agenda."
"Mike, you couldn’t let it go if you tried. It’s not in your nature, man. You already left the reservation. Now, you’ve got two, maybe three days to figure this out before the shit hits the fan."
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Julia rapped her knuckles on the car window causing the older man inside to jump. She wasn’t sure if he was asleep or had his head down reading the book lying in his lap.
He quickly lowered the driver’s window, took a good look at her face and asked, "What the hell happened to you? Are you okay?" his baritone voice reverberated in her ears.
She wasn’t surprised by the question. Even with make-up, she couldn’t completely mask the bluish-yellow color bruising around her eye.
"Don't worry about it, I’m fine."
She wrapped her arms around herself but was unable to stop shaking. The morning sun had not been out long enough to take the bite out of the crisp air. Was she shivering from the chilly air or nerves? Probably both.
She bent forward toward the open window and continued, "But, I do need the Bridge Club’s help."
Leaves on the street rustled and swirled with a crisp burst of wind. She wondered if the man would invite her to get in the car to escape the cold.
She managed to force a smile at the man with hair so thin she could see his mottled scalp. His emotionless face let her know there would be no offer to sit in his car.
"Have the Feds tried to contact you?" he asked.
"The FBI?"
"The guys down the street. Can’t miss ‘em."
She raised her head and stretched to search the street. There were several cars parked along the curb. Nothing looked suspicious. She was going to tell him she didn’t see anybody when he directed her to look in the opposite direction.
Her eyes froze wide. Two men sitting in a dark Suburban were parked down the street. What unnerved her most was they locked eyes with her instead of looking away.
"What are they doing here?" she asked.
"Same thing I’m doing," he replied with a trace of sarcasm that crept into his voice.
"They have no right to surveil me. I’m going to talk to them." Her nostrils flared. She knew with certainty that with the involvement of the FBI, the Bridge Club wasn’t trying to solve a murder. The Feds and the ex-CIA operatives wanted to find a murderer who posed a threat to America. That had to be it.
The older man startled her when he reached out the car window wrapping his large hand around her arm.
"Not a good idea, Julia. We’re working on getting you to a safe house."
She snatched her arm free and snarled, "I’m not interested in going to a safe house. With you and the FBI keeping tabs on me, I think I’m safe."
"Elke doesn’t think so."
"Elke doesn’t make my decisions. Besides, I need the Club to check on something for me. Otherwise I’ll go to the police with it."
The older man hunched as he intertwined his fingers that rested on the book in his lap. He slowly let his hooded eyes meet hers.
She stood impatiently waiting for his response. None came.
Julia was certain her face betrayed her thoughts. Her entire life she had been accused of wearing her emotions on her sleeve. Surely, he could tell she wasn’t kidding. If they refused to help, she would have no other option than go to the police and let them have the photos.
Every time she thought she had a good idea it turned out not to be just a bad idea, but a disastrous one. This once, she thought, if she could actually find the killer then any lingering doubts about her buying the investigative business would be gone. She wanted Elke to admit she was wrong in telling her it was a mistake buying the business.
She began shifting from one foot to the other, impatient for his response.
Then, after a few moments, he spoke, "What do you want?"
A rush of relief paused her feet as she leaned toward the open window. "I have photos of a man leaving the Willow Oaks Motel. I want you to find out who he is and give that information only to me, nobody else. I’ll work with the Bridge Club to solve this case, but I have to have assurance that I will be kept in the loop. If you don’t get back to me within 24 hours, I’ll send copies to the police."
"Do you have the photos on you?"
"Yes. I have them inside my coat. Do we have a deal?"
"There are too many eyes on us here. Keep the photos. Do you still have the burner phone we gave you?"
She nodded.
"Somebody will contact you soon. Go back inside your home and don’t leave till you hear from us," he instructed.
Her nose began to run from the cool air. She pulled her coat tight with one hand and wiped her runny nose on her sleeve.
She straightened, watched him pull his seatbelt across his chest and start the car. The silver Honda Accord jerked into the street and drove past her home to the intersection and made a sharp right turn. It looked like he was on his phone, but she wasn’t sure.
She checked the FBI agents who now had binoculars stuck to their face. Hurrying across the street she knew the FBI wasn’t here because they cared about her safety. They were doing surveillance on her to see if she would lead them to the Russian.
Julia saw Laquita standing watch in the front window of her home. As Julia climbed the front porch steps, Laquita promptly swung the door open.
"Well? How’d it go? They gonna help?" Laquita’s excitement was a welcome relief. It made her feel like she had made a good decision.
She sniffed and replied, "Yes, I think so."
Laquita grabbed Julia’s arm and began hopping up and down. "We’re gonna be awesome detectives. This calls for a celebration. Got any vodka?"
"Sure."
"Where's it at?"
"In the cabinet above the refrigerator."
Laquita marched into the kitchen, humming to herself.
Julia took off her coat and dropped the envelope of photos on the dining room table. A wave of exhaustion washed over her. She headed to the living room and threw herself on the couch. She could hear the sound of Laquita chopping something.
Five minutes later, Laquita appeared with a glass in each hand.
"Fixed us a nutritional drink to celebrate. Had to improvise."
"Bloody Mary?"
"Yup." She handed a glass to Julia and sat in the chair next to the couch.
"Here’s to us bein’ detectives and solvin' this case." Laquita lifted her glass.
"I’ll drink to that." Julia smiled as they clinked their glasses together.
"How come ya didn’t give ‘em the photos?" asked Laquita.
"I will. They’ll call and then we can arrange to hand them over."
Laquita didn’t ask why they needed to wait. And she didn’t volunteer that the FBI was parked down the street.
Laquita picked up the remote on the coffee table and clicked on the T.V. She kept the volume low as she flipped through the channels.
She stopped on a news channel flashing Breaking News.
Julia straightened when she recognized the crime scene investigator from the Willow Oaks Motel.
"Laquita, turn it up. That woman." Her finger wagging at the image on the T.V. "She’s the reporter we saw at the motel right before the explosion."
Laquita thumbed the volume louder. They sat listening intently to the newscast.
The reporter’s name was Susan Porter. The blast had injured her face above her right eye. The woman had a butterfly stitch on it. Julia thought she looked prettier on T.V. than when she saw her from the car that eventful day. The shapely reporter was standing in front of the Metropolitan Police Station holding a microphone to her face.
* * *
"The top story tonight is Channel 7 news has learned from a source who is not authorized to comment publicly that the Metro Police Department has been pulled off the Willow Oaks Motel explosion investigation and has turned all evidence over to the FBI. Our request to interview Detective Mike Shockley, the leading homicide detective on the case has been denied. The FBI director said any information they have at this time cannot be released because it would jeopardize the ongoing investigation."
* * *
Laquita muted the sound, faced Julia and asked, "What does that mean?"
Julia shook her head, not sure herself what it meant. The police being pulled off the case left her feeling unsettled.
"I don’t know what’s going on." She paused. The tension that had left her earlier had returned. "But now we know that going to the police isn’t an option." Why had the FBI pulled the police off the case? Just yesterday, Detective Shockley was at her home claiming he could help keep them safe. Did he know this then?
Unsure of what to say, Julia kept quiet. This might be a whole lot messier than she was willing to admit. She and Laquita weren’t really detectives. Not by a long shot. Maybe at this juncture she should just walk outside and turn all the photos over to the FBI and bow out.
Her hesitation was her distrust of the agencies—FBI, CIA and police.
Her grandmother had planted that seed long ago. Should she call Elke and ask for help? That was a lot of pride to swallow.
"We wait," Laquita said.
"What?"
"I can tell you fixin’ to throw in the towel. Our one big case. Our chance to make a name for ourselves."
"We might be in over our heads."
"Ain’t no might be Julia. We way in over our heads. We’re smack dab in the middle of somethin’ big and the way I see it, if we give ‘em what we got then we’re out. We gotta wait on the Bridge Club to call us. I believe there’s a reason this happen to us and we can't give up."
"Sure, there’s a reason this happened to us and that reason is Kat Lejeune or whatever her name really is. I wish we knew her real identity. Why ask us to do surveillance on her husband at Willow Oaks Motel? This isn’t about a jealous wife."
"She ain’t his wife."
"How would you know that?"
"Remember she never showed ya a picture of him."
"Yeah, you’re right. I got distracted by all the cash she plopped down in front of me. She had an ulterior motive when she hired us to do this assignment."
"Not us. You. She gotta know ya somehow," said Laquita.
"I’d never seen her before she came to my office."
"Then somebody done told her about ya or coulda been she hurd about ya from somebody."
"I don’t know. I’ll give the Bridge Club thirty more minutes and…."
The cell phone buzzed.
Chapter Forty
Shockley brushed off the guilt after Hauser reminded him that by not turning all the information over to the FBI might land them in jail. He was well aware of 18 U.S.C. Section 1001 that had convicted many people who intentionally misled FBI officials.
Hauser was right when he told him he couldn’t let it go. His earlier conversation with his father only strengthened his resolve to stay on the case, even unofficially. It felt wrong to turn a blind eye on this investigation.
Wiley’s Kitchen was quiet. He and Hauser were the only patrons. Even though the place was a dive, it had a certain charm with its historic past. The two-story brick exterior had the appearance of a historic bank when in reality it had been a brothel. Forty years ago, the city council wanted to tear the building down but, as the legend goes, one of the regular customers bought it and converted it into a restaurant. The business had been in the family ever since. The current owner, Sid Mulvaney said his grandfather, Wiley, who bought the place, did it to help people in the neighborhood. Mulvaney kept the tradition of helping those in need, especially the homeless. Nobody was ever turned away because they couldn’t pay.