by Tom Turner
Ralston Oldfield had recently developed another theory. “It has to be one of those guys at that church,” he said. “Figured out Kay Lee was rich and now she’s being held captive at some hovel on the wrong side of the tracks.”
That was a theory worth checking out and Jackie and Ryder had. They had spoken to the pastor of the church, who directed them to some of the men Kay Lee had worked with. Jackie and Ryder were working their way down the list, but so far hadn’t come across any likely suspects.
Ryder had been playing telephone tag with a man named Antwon Groom, whom Kay Lee Oldfield had helped with a résumé. They finally connected and Ryder was driving her white Hyundai to where Groom lived. Groom had told her his house was two blocks west of Martin Luther King Boulevard. Ryder had a pretty good idea that was a sketchy neighborhood.
Ryder got out of her car and slung her handbag over her shoulder. It had a can of mace in it that she had never used before and a solid steel baton in a nylon sheath, which she had. The baton was 26 inches long when fully extended. The one time she had used it was six months before, when she’d been coming out of a Savannah club with a date. As they walked toward their car, two men crept out of an alley, grabbed her date around the neck and demanded their money. Roger, the date, was reaching for his wallet and Ryder was reaching into her bag as she sized up the two men. They looked tense and fidgety, like this was maybe their first hold-up, and if they had a weapon they would have flashed it. Ryder slid out the baton and, in one swift motion, took a step forward and cracked it on the head of the man holding Roger.
The man cried out in pain and the other man turned and ran back into the alley. The one who Ryder had hit was holding his head and moaning in pain. Roger just stood there, his mouth open wide in disbelief over what had just happened.
“Get the hell out of here!” Ryder yelled at the injured man, as she raised the baton again. “Go!”
Now, as Ryder walked up the steps of the decrepit wooden bungalow and looked for a buzzer, she felt for the steel baton in her purse. No buzzer, so she knocked on the door. At the house next door, three young black men sat on a porch. One had a forty of Colt .45 malt liquor in his lap and she was pretty sure she smelled pot.
She heard footsteps, then the door opened. It was a twenty-something white guy with long, scraggly, dirty-blond hair. She had been expecting a black guy, figuring Antwon was a black guy’s name; plus, in their short conversation, his slang was pure ghetto. Around his neck was a huge gold chain, which had to be fake or it would have been wrenched off his neck long ago. He wore a white Nike warm-up suit.
“Antwon?” Ryder asked.
“In the flesh,” he said. “So whassup? Wha can I do for you, gir’fren?”
“Thanks for seeing me,” she said. “Mind if I come inside and ask a few questions?”
Antwon put out his surprisingly small hand, ushering her in, “Come on.”
Ryder would actually have preferred to stay out on the porch, but wanted to have a look inside to see if there was any sign of another person—specifically Kay Lee Oldfield—being there or having been there.
She walked into the living room, which was much neater than what she expected.
“You live here alone?” she asked, scanning the room for some sign of the missing woman.
“Sho do,” he said. “Can’t seem to find a chill homegirl to share my crib wit.”
The guy was fluent in ghetto-speak, but had a tendency to overdo it. “So I’m a private investigator,” she said. “And I’m trying to track down Kay Lee Oldfield.”
Antwon thought for a second. “Come to think of it, I ain’t seen her in a while. Coupla weeks, mebbe.”
Ryder walked into the narrow galley kitchen, looking for a wine glass or a teacup or any other item Antwon probably would not have used himself. “You heard anything, where she might be?”
Antwon shrugged. “Sorry, can’t hep ya wid dat.”
“Mind if I just poke my nose in back,” Ryder said pointing to the bedrooms in back.
Antwon shrugged. “Sure, go for it.”
She took a few steps and opened a door. It was a bedroom with an unmade queen-size bed. No women’s clothes anywhere.
Ryder walked out and went into the other bedroom, which was open. There were two single beds that were made and no clothes anywhere in sight.
She turned to Antwon again. “Just you, right?”
“Yeah, told ya that.”
Ryder walked back into the living room toward the front door, feeling Antwon’s eyes on her ass.
“Offer you an Olde English or sumpin’?” Antwon asked.
“Thanks, but I don’t drink at eleven in the morning. ‘Cept St. Patty’s day.”
“Weed?” he asked.
Ryder smiled, shook her head, and reached for the doorknob. She didn’t want to have to use the baton again. Or the mace. She opened the door and went out onto the porch, Antwon right behind her.
She turned to him. “Well, thanks for your help,” she said, handing him a card. “I’d really appreciate a call if you hear anything about Ms. Oldfield.”
Antwon nodded.
Ryder glanced over at the three guys next door.
“Knocked off a quickie in ‘nere, wigga boy?” said one of them, flashing a big gold-tooth smile.
She knew what a quickie was, but had to think what ‘wigga boy’ meant. Then she remembered, a white guy who tried to look and act black.
She smiled at the guy on the porch, then shot him her extended middle finger.
12
Jackie dialed Ashley Slade’s cell phone number from her office.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Ashley, it’s Jackie Farrell.”
“Hey, what’s up?”
“So, I just have a quick question.”
“Okay, as long as I don’t have to deal with your sister.”
“Do you have a woman named Wendy working for you?”
“You mean, ‘poof-I’m-gone Wendy?’”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she was like Miranda’s favorite. Then when Miranda was killed, she disappeared. I wanted her to work at my place.”
“Do you think—”
“She mighta had something to do with Miranda’s murder?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Not in a million years. Wendy wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
“What about a man named Perrier?”
No response.
“Ashley?
There was a pause. “I don’t know anybody by that name.” Her whole tone had changed.
“So, he wasn’t one of your clients?”
“Nope, never heard a him,” and, without another word, she hung up.
First, Glen Cromartie had bolted; now Ashley had hung up on her. At this rate, Jackie was going to get a complex.
Jackie’s phone rang right after her conversation with Ashley. It was seven at night.
“Hello.”
“Is this Jackie?”
“Yes.”
“Hey, Jackie, it’s Harry Bull,” he said. “I just wanted to apologize for being a little rude at the gym the other day.”
“Oh, hi, Harry. I didn’t think you were.”
“Well, couple of things I said to your sister.”
Jackie laughed. “My sister knows how to stir the pot.”
Bull laughed. “Anyway, I was thinking, I might be able to give you a little more insight on Miranda Cato.”
“Right now, you mean?” Jackie asked.
“I was thinking… over a drink?”
“Oh, sure. You got some quaint, little cop bar somewhere?”
Bull laughed. “I got a few of those, but they’re not exactly first-date material.”
“So, this would be…a date?”
“Well, yeah, I guess,” Bull said. “How do you like watching big tankers floating past the window?”
“Hmm,” Jackie thought for a second “That would mean you’re talking about some place on the river.... That bar on t
op of Hotel Boheme? Or maybe Vic’s?”
“Bingo. Vic’s,” Bull said. “Just a wild guess, you’re a detective.”
“Takes one to know one,” she shot back.
Bull laughed again. “So, how about tomorrow night?”
“Okay. What time?”
“Seven good?”
“Perfect.”
“See you at Vic’s.”
“See you there,” Jackie said and hung up.
She had been reading old newspaper stories about the Miranda Cato murder and also Miranda’s daughter’s notes, looking for any reference to a man named Perrier, but had found nothing. The good news was that now she could ask the former lead detective on the case in person if he was familiar with the name.
Switching gears, she made several calls to men whom Kay Lee Oldfield had helped at the church in some way or another. She spoke to three of them. One, in particular, went on for about twenty minutes about how her help editing his résumé and coaching him on what to say during an interview had landed him a job, and how he had already gotten a raise. He said, “Miss Kay Lee turned my life around, convinced me how good I’d be on the job, gave me a good feeling ‘bout myself. I owe that lady big time.”
Jackie looked at her watch after she hung up with the man. It was 8:10. She looked out her office window and it was dark. She had no idea it had gotten so late.
She put the files away, stuffed her cell phone into her purse, and got up to go. She walked out into the reception area, locked the office door, and walked down the stairs and out the front door, which locked behind her. She looked out over the almost empty parking lot and saw the figure of a man leaning up against a car next to hers. He pushed off the car when he saw her and started walking toward her. He got to within ten feet and smiled at her: he had crooked yellow teeth, a shiny silver filling, and a blue and red tattoo on his neck.
“Beautiful night,” he said, approaching her.
Then his fist flew out of nowhere, uppercut-style, sucker-punching her in the jaw. “Was anyway.”
Jackie felt a hand on her shoulder and put her hands up defensively.
“I’m tryin’ to help,” said the woman, “I saw you lyin’ there and—”
“Did you see the man who did it?” Jackie asked, looking up at the woman, who appeared to be in her sixties and was wearing thick, Coke bottle glasses.
“Didn’t see nothin’ ‘cept you lyin’ there,” the woman said. “Are you all right?”
Jackie tried to smile. “Got a whopper of a headache,” she said, touching her chin. “Am I bleeding or anything?”
“No,” said the woman. “What happened anyway?”
“Well, this man—”
Jackie looked down and saw something around her neck. She reached for it and touched it. “What’s this?” she asked.
“I don’t know. It was there when—”
“I need to take it off,” Jackie said, unfastening it.
It was a black, skull-headed collar with sharp spikes pointing out. One of the spikes was sticking through a piece of yellow paper. She pulled off the piece of paper and saw something written on it.
Jacky, it read, mind your own fucking business.
“That’s you?” The woman asked. “Jacky?”
“Yeah, except it’s spelled wrong,” she said, struggling to get up.
The woman, who was down in a crouch, helped her up. “You want me to take you to the hospital or something?”
“No, thanks, I’ll be all right.”
“How ‘bout I call the po-lice?”
“Nah, I really appreciate your help, though.”
“So, what you gonna do?”
“Go home.”
Put a bag of ice on my face, have a cocktail or two, she was thinking. Call Ryder and tell her she could have used that baton of hers.
13
Aside from the one-punch knock-out, all the man did was put a black leather studded dog collar around her neck with a note attached to it. Creepy but not bloody. It was what he could have done that disturbed the hell out of Jackie. Not to mention how powerless she had been… Her mind went into overdrive imagining possible scenarios. She guessed she was unconscious—and totally vulnerable—for between five to eight minutes. Until the old woman came along. The collar, she figured, was supposed to be symbolic, and ‘mind your own fucking business,’ well, that spoke for itself. Someone was warning her off of the Cato case.
Jackie was in her kitchen making a drink. It was one-third tequila, one-third Cointreau, one-third grapefruit juice and a large teaspoon of frozen lime juice over a handful of ice cubes. Then, she gave it a blast in her Nutri-bullet blender and, nice and frothy, took a long, slow slug. She called it a margarita, but since it came out pink, it didn’t look anything like one.
Two of those and the pain in her jaw was pretty much gone. Sitting in her living room, she dialed her cell phone. Ryder picked up after the first ring.
“Little late for your normal check-in. Isn’t tonight Blacklist night?” Ryder asked, referring to the TV show.
“I got punched in the mouth by some guy,” Jackie blurted. Mouth came out mout. She wasn’t sure whether it was the punch or the margarita that made her butcher the word.
“What? Are you kid—”
“Guy I’d never seen before, then put this spiked dog collar thing around my neck with a note.”
“Jesus Christ, I’m coming right over,” Ryder lived twenty minutes away.
“No. There’s nothing you can do. I just wanted a little sympathy.”
“Tell me exactly what happened?” Ryder asked, solicitously.
“I was walking out of the office and saw this guy leaning up against a car parked next to mine. He saw me, started walking toward me, and before I had time to react, slugged me in the jaw,” Jackie said. “Next thing I know, I’m looking up at this little old lady who found me. I looked down and saw the dog collar and note.”
“Jesus,” Ryder said. “That’s pretty sick.”
“I know,” Jackie said. “I’ve got my miracle elixir in my hand.”
“That pink shit?”
“Yeah. I’ll probably hit the hay right after I finish it.”
“You absolutely sure you don’t need nurse Ryder? I could give you a neck rub.”
“Thanks, but I’ll be counting sheep in fifteen minutes,” Jackie said.
“Jesus, I’m so sorry, Jack,” Ryder said. “You sure nothing’s broken? No loose teeth or anything?”
“Just two puffy lips and a bruise on my chin,” Jackie said.
“I can’t believe the bastard put a dog collar around your neck. And what’d the note say?”
“‘Jacky—spelled Jacky—mind your own fucking business.’”
“Man of few words,” Ryder said. “Don’t worry, we’ll get the sonofabitch.”
Jackie took another sip of her drink. “Someone doesn’t want us workin’ Cato.”
“No shit,” Ryder said. “Did you report it to the cops?”
“No, but speaking of cops,” Jackie said. “Right before it happened, I got a call from Harry Bull. He asked me out for drinks tomorrow.”
“Hubba-hubba,” Ryder said. “You gonna be able to go? I could pinch-hit if you’re not feeling up to it.”
Jackie chuckled. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”
“So, you’re going out with a big, strapping guy who, we suspect, has six-pack abs,” Ryder said, “in the meantime, I got this redneck wigger stalking me.”
“What are you talking about?”
Ryder told her about her meeting with Antwon Groom and how, after going home, she had parked her car in her garage then gone out to get her mail. As she opened the mailbox, she saw a red pickup go by and identified the driver as Groom.
“He even gave me a wave,” Ryder said. “Like maybe he expected me to invite him in for a forty.”
“That’s not good,” Jackie said. “So, obviously, he followed you there.”
“Yeah, definitely,” Ryder sai
d. “Think I’ll sleep with my Glock on the bedside table.”
Jackie flashed to getting her carry permit after having taken the Firearm Training Curriculum for Handguns course four years before. Six months back, Ryder had taken it, too, and—according to her—had passed with flying colors. Claimed to have gotten the Golden Marksmen Award, whatever it was.
Shortly after she took the course, Jackie had bought her first weapon. The P.I. she first worked for urged her to get one. He taught her how to shoot using Budweiser beer cans as targets. The idea was to dot the “i” on “weiser.” At first, she was just lucky to hit the can. But she got better after a while.
Jackie had urged Ryder, who had not shot a gun in the first twenty-seven years of her life, to go to a shooting range four months back and try out her Glock. Ryder told Jackie about walking into the range and wondering how her New York friends would react if a picture showed up on Facebook of her going into the place.
“Okay, last chance,” Ryder said to her sister. “Sure I can’t come over and whip you up some chicken noodle soup or something?”
“You mean, to drink through a straw?”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“No, thanks, I’m good,” Jackie said. “Nothing better than a pink margarita for whatever ails you.”
14
One of the many nice features of Mercer Island was that it hosted a tennis tournament for a week and a half at the end of April called the Savannah Challenger. It was for young players generally ranked between one hundred and three hundred. Over the years, a few of the players had gone on to become big name players who you’d read about, but most of them were destined for anonymity. Jackie liked it because you could go and watch a match close-up and get a sense how hard they were hitting the ball, how consistent they were, and what phenomenal shape they were in.
A friend named Amy had called a little past eight and urged her to go with her to watch the matches that day.
“Sorry, I’m just too busy at the moment,” Jackie said. Not to mention, I’ve got strangers punching me out and putting dog collars around my neck, she neglected to add. “Maybe later in the week, if I get a few things wrapped up.”