by Tom Turner
Which was probably not going to happen.
Amy said that she had VIP tickets if Jackie could break away for a morning or afternoon session. Then she said, “By the way, you sound funny. Are you okay?”
Jackie thought for a second. “Oh, you mean…well, see, I had a little accident last night. Bumped into a door.”
“Those margaritas, huh?”
Jackie’s Marg’s were legendary.
“Yeah,” Jackie said. “You know me only too well”—Ryder beeped in on call waiting—“oops, gotta hop, that’s my sister on the other line.”
“Talk soon,” said Amy and ended the call.
“How ya feeling?” Ryder asked.
“I’m fine, just talkin’ a little funny.”
“So, I hear,” Ryder said. “I’m here at Kay Lee Oldfield’s health club and I just had a long conversation with one of the trainers.”
Jackie looked at her watch. It was 8:15. “Got an early start, huh?”
“I couldn’t really sleep, thinking about what happened to you plus that goober Antwon who followed me home,” Ryder said. “So anyway, I went to Kay Lee Oldfield’s gym on the off chance she’d be here. She wasn’t but I was chatting up this woman at the desk who told me that Kay Lee and one of the yoga instructors, a guy named Malik Desmond, were quote-unquote ‘pretty chummy.’”
“That’s interesting. So, you going to talk to him… Malik?”
“I would, but he’s not working today.”
“Maybe you can get his address; we can go check out his house.”
“I’m all over it,” Ryder said. “His address is 206 East 61st Street. I got the binoculars and everything. You feeling up to meeting me there?”
“Yeah, definitely. I just need to make one call. I’ll meet you there in twenty-five minutes.”
“Later.”
Jackie dialed Talmadge Bartow again and again got his voicemail.
Jackie had just gotten in her car when her cell phone rang again. It was Ryder.
“What’s up?”
“Looks like Kay Lee and Malik Desmond are roomies,” Ryder said.
“Really?” Jackie said, suddenly amped up. “She’s there?”
“In the flesh,” Ryder said. “I’m looking at her right now through the binoculars. She just took a sip of coffee.”
Ryder was seated in her Hyundai parked across the street from Malik Desmond’s house on East 61st Street. “Malik’s sitting there, shorts and no shirt, nodding and smiling.”
“Good work,” Jackie said, walking toward her front door. “I’ll be there in a few.”
Jackie rolled up behind her sister’s Hyundai and turned off the ignition. She and Ryder got out of their cars and walked toward each other.
Ryder studied her sister’s face. “You don’t look too bad.”
“The magic of make-up.”
“But you feel okay?”
Jackie nodded. “Yeah, except for this killer headache. I’m fine.”
Ryder patted her shoulder. “Guess you’re just going to have to suck it up for your hot date with six-pack Harry,” she said, then looked across the street and pointed. “It’s the one with the green shutters.”
Jackie nodded. “Have you seen any more signs of life?”
“Malik in the kitchen doing dishes,” Ryder said. “Kay Lee still drinking her coffee.”
They walked up on the porch and hit the doorbell.
A black man, with his shirt on now, answered the door. He was in his forties, just shy of six feet and had an easy smile. “Ah, not Jehovah’s Witnesses, I’m guessing?”
“Private investigators, Mr. Desmond,” Jackie said. Desmond’s smile faded. “We were hired to find Kay Lee Oldfield.”
“And we found her,” Ryder said.
Desmond folded his arms on his chest. “Okay, so what do you want to do now?”
“You mind if we talk to her?” Jackie asked.
Desmond thought for a moment, then unfolded his arms. “No, I don’t. Not at all,” he said, turning to go inside. “Come on in.”
They followed him in as Kay Lee Oldfield, who was sitting in the living room, stood up, looking surprised.
“Kay Lee,” Desmond said. “These ladies are private investigators. Hired, I’m guessing, by your husband.”
Jackie nodded, stepped forward and put out her hand. “Hi Mrs. Oldfield, my name is Jackie Farrell, and this is my associate Ryder. And yes, we were hired by your husband to find you.”
All three shook hands.
“You ladies want a cup of coffee, water, or something?” Desmond asked.
Jackie and Ryder both declined.
“Can we sit?” Jackie asked.
“Sure,” Kay Lee said. She and Desmond sat down, side by side in a beige love seat, and Jackie and Ryder sat opposite them in a well-worn couch.
“Okay, you found me,” Kay Lee said with a shrug. “Now what?”
Damned if Jackie knew. She had never done a missing-persons case before. Finding her friend’s son had been different.
“Well, I’d say, it’s totally up to you,” Jackie said. “You’re obviously not here against your will. You’ve obviously made a choice which you’re free to make.”
Kay Lee turned to Malik and smiled, then back to Jackie. “I don’t need to say what I’m about to, but I’m going to say it anyway. My marriage died many years ago. My husband’s serial cheating, his bullying, his… his politics—”
Malik gave her a gentle pat on her knee.
Kay Lee laughed. “God, please don’t get me started.”
“Mrs. Oldfield,” Jackie said. “All we were hired to do was find you, which we’ve done. And to make sure you’re healthy and safe.”
“Which clearly you are,” Ryder added.
Jackie turned to Ryder, gave her a light shrug, and stood up. “Well, it was nice to have met you both,” then to Kay Lee, “I just want you to know how grateful the men at the church were for all your help. You think you might go back there?”
“Absolutely,” Kay Lee said. “I’ve missed that place. And now that this has all been addressed, I’ll be getting back there soon.”
“I’m sure all the people there will be delighted to know that,” Jackie said.
Ryder got up and turned to Malik. “So, you’re a yoga instructor—”
“The ab-so-lute best,” Kay Lee said, then aside to Ryder. “But, boy, does he ever make you work hard.”
Jackie and Ryder got out to their cars and turned to each other.
“Wonder what old Ralston’s gonna say,” said Ryder. “His wife shacked up with an African-American dude and all?”
“Something like, ‘Why that can’t possibly be true. You must have found the wrong woman, no way my wife would be with a…negro,’” Jackie said.
“Yup,” said Ryder. “Then we say, ‘No, it was definitely her, Mr. Oldfield. And you know what? She seemed very happy.’”
15
Jackie and Harry Bull were sitting at two bar stools at Vic’s on the River, looking out at a three-decker paddle-wheeler in red trim and red, white, and blue bunting, called the Georgia Queen.
Bull leaned forward. “Can’t say as I remember those Mick Jagger lips of yours,” he said, studying her face. “Did something—”
Jackie cut him off and told him the whole story of what happened in the parking lot. She described the man who did it, on the off-chance Bull might know who he was. He didn’t. But he asked her a lot of questions about it. Then he volunteered, if she wanted, to have a Savannah-Chatham undercover follow her around to see if the man turned up again.
“Thank you, Harry, but I’ll be all right,” Jackie said. “From now on I’ll be packing my handy Glock.” And she slapped her hip.
“You couldn’t ask for a better companion,” Bull said with a smile. “But I’m still going to look into the whole incident.”
She thanked him and gave his hand a light pat.
She pointed to the Georgia Queen. “They have gambling on that th
ing?” she asked, watching people walk around its deck.
Bull looked out the window. “Nah, I don’t think so,” he said. “Law is you gotta be three miles off-shore to gamble, and it would probably take that thing half a day to get that far out. You a gambler?”
“I’ve been known to play a little Texas Hold ‘Em in my day,” Jackie said.
“Really?” Bull said. “You just went way up in my estimation.”
Jackie chuckled. “It doesn’t take much, huh?”
From the left of the big picture window came a monster container ship with Maersk containers, towering above the Georgia Queen.
Jackie spotted it and pointed. “Wow, that thing is enormous.”
“Yeah, but I’ve seen bigger ones,” Bull said. “They’re dredging the river so it can handle even bigger ones.”
“Those things don’t exactly go with the character of quaint old Savannah,” Jackie said, looking out at the ship. “Kind of floating eyesores, if you ask me.”
“Yeah, but it puts a lot of money into the city’s coffers,” Bull said, watching the ship pass by. “They’re actually making the river five feet deeper. Guess how much it all costs?”
“Oh, God, millions, right?”
“How ‘bout seven hundred mill?”
“You’re kidding.” Jackie took a sip of her drink. It was a Bombay Sapphire martini, up, slightly dirty. “I wondered why my city taxes went up ten per cent.”
Bull sighed. “I know, right?”
They heard the sound of someone playing a piano behind them and turned.
A man, maybe sixty, with thinning gray hair, was playing. He was smiling up at a black woman with short, sleek hair leaning up against the piano.
The woman started singing in a strong, husky voice. Jackie guessed the song might be Cole Porter.
Bull turned and nodded at the woman. She nodded back and gave him one of those little finger waves.
Jackie and Bull remained turned toward them until the song was over. Then they clapped.
The singer nodded, “Savannah’s finest is in the house,” she announced, then dropping her voice, “Welcome, Harry. And Harry’s friend—” she smiled at Jackie.
Jackie smiled back then turned to Bull. “You a regular here, Harry?”
“Sort of,” Bull said, then under his breath. “Ol’ Mary and me got a little history.”
“Like what?”
“I busted her once.”
Jackie leaned closer. “What did she do?”
“Ran drugs,” Bull said. “Had a slick little operation.”
“But you’re a homicide cop.”
“Yeah, this was back in the old days. Workin’ my way up through the ranks.”
Jackie looked back at Mary, who had just launched into another tune. “She looks like a choir girl.”
Bull nodded. “She cleaned up her act.” He finished his drink. “Want another?”
Jackie had a little bit left in her glass. “You trying to get me drunk or something?”
“I get the feeling that would cost too much,” Bull said. “Looks like you can hold your liquor.”
Jackie just smiled.
Then they drifted off into a personal history conversation where Jackie did most of the talking.
She told him about being born in New York City, growing up in Long Island, getting into the film business right out of college, then getting out of the film business and into the gumshoe business four years back. Bull asked a few more questions, then told her that her life was way more interesting than his.
Bull told her he had grown up in Savannah and gone to high school just down the road from where he lived.
“Which one?” Jackie asked.
“Um,” Bull glanced away, “Country Day.”
It took a moment to register. “Wait, isn’t that like the most exclusive school in Savannah? And doesn’t that almost make you … a preppie?”
Bull started to squirm. “Hey, it wasn’t my choice.”
“I hear it’s a really good school.”
“Yeah, I guess. I was a little bit of a fish out of water there.”
But the more questions Jackie asked, the more it became clear Bull was, in fact, not too far from being a bona fide blueblood. Turned out he was from one of the oldest families in Savannah. Jackie kept peppering him with questions and Bull reluctantly revealed that his father had just retired as president of a bank in Savannah, his brother was managing partner at the most prestigious law firm in Savannah, and that his great-great-great-great grandfather was a general in the Confederacy.
“So that’s who you got the military gene from, your great-great-great—”
“How ‘bout we talk about you?”
A light bulb popped on over Jackie’s head. “And something else just occurred to me.”
“What’s that?”
“Bull Street is named after you.”
“Hardly.”
“I mean, one of your ancestors.”
Bull seemed to be shrinking in his seat. “Pretty sure it’s named after a male cow,” he protested weakly as their dinners and a second round of drinks showed up.
Jackie laughed and shook her head. “I’m going to investigate this a little deeper.”
Bull exhaled and his eyes darted around like a trapped animal. “So, you got anything good on the Mercer Island Madam?”
“Trying to change the subject, huh?” Jackie said, looking out the window. The container ship had finally gone past after dominating their view for the past five minutes. “I don’t have much so far. Just talking to a bunch of people. Same people you did, probably.”
“Like who?” Bull asked as Mary, behind them, started singing a third song.
“Well, like Eileen Mudge, Ashley Slade, and Glen Cromartie. Trying to track down Talmadge Bartow. Going to go up to Hinesville to interview Roscoe Byrd.”
“That’s probably a waste of time,” Bull said.
“You think. Why?”
“‘Cause he was a blackmailer, not a murderer.”
Bull caught the attention of the bartender. “You want a few more names?”
“Sure,” Jackie said, “the more the merrier.”
“It’s mainly johns,” Bull said. “You know, guys who frequented—”
“I know what a john is, Harry,” Jackie said.
“Okay, but I’m going to tell you something you might not know”—Jackie sat up straighter—“All the men who came to Casa Romantica had nicknames.”
“Keep going.”
“Well, there was Jack Daniels, Johnnie Walker, Jose Cuervo—”
“I get it,” Jackie said. “Named after the liquor they drank.”
“Exactly.”
“Makes sense now. I was told I should talk to someone named Perrier,” Jackie said, then with a smile. “Must be a teetotaler.”
Bull shrugged. “I don’t remember hearing that one,” he said, taking a quick sip of his drink and putting it down. “There’s also another john.”
“What’s his name?”
“Pappy Van Winkle.”
Jackie cocked her head. “Is that some kind of booze?”
Bull smiled wide. “Oh, my God, girl, you never heard of Pappy Van Winkle?”
Jackie shook her head.
“Best bourbon known to man—” Bull raised his hand to the bartender “—and also, the most expensive. But because I’m a big-hearted guy, I’m going to blow half my paycheck and give you a taste.”
The bartender came up to Bull.
“One Pappy Van Winkle,” he said.
The bartender shook his head. “Sorry, man,” he said, “if we carried it, we’d have to charge twenty-five, thirty bucks a pop. Doubt you’ll find it in any bar around here.”
“Damn,” Bull said. “Just for the record, Jackie, I want to make it clear I was prepared to buy you a twenty-five-dollar drink.”
Jackie laughed. “And I appreciate it,” she said. “Okay, so tell me about this john with expensive taste.”
; “Okay, here’s how I heard it,” Bull said. “But, it’s from one of Miranda’s girls who I deem less than one-hundred-percent reliable.”
“What’s her name?”
“Brittany somebody,” Bull said. “She told me this guy Pappy was being blackmailed because he had some pretty kinky habits. He also had a very rich wife he probably didn’t want getting wind of him hanging at the Casa.”
“Wait, you mean Miranda was blackmailing him?” Jackie asked.
Bull nodded. “That’s what Brittany said, but I wasn’t totally buying it.”
“You mean, because it doesn’t sound like something Miranda would do?”
“Exactly,” Bull said. “It doesn’t sound like her at all. She had a good thing going; why mess it up?”
“So, the question is, why would this Brittany make it up?” Jackie asked.
Bull shrugged. “That’s what I wondered,” he said. “Maybe it’s half true.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, maybe one of the girls was blackmailing him. But not Miranda.”
Jackie nodded. “Maybe.”
“You should add to your johns list Grey Goose, aka Ted Minton, and George Dickel, aka Artie McLeod.”
“George Dickel, is that another bourbon?”
“Tennessee whiskey.”
Jackie cocked her head to one side. “Did you major in liquor in college, by any chance?”
“Hey, I went to Georgia,” Bull said. “Us Bulldogs took our drinking very seriously. Unlike that Yankee college you probably went to.”
Jackie shook her head vigorously. “That’s where you’re wrong, my friend. I was a Tarheel. Nobody drank harder than us. Well, except maybe UVA.”
Bull clinked her glass. “I could see you had a little rebel in you,” he said. “Anyway, these guys Minton and McLeod know more than they’re letting on. Maybe with your feminine wiles you can coax it out of ‘em.”
“I don’t know,” Jackie said. “So far my feminine wiles have just gotten me punched in the face.”
“I can’t believe a guy would do that,” Bull said.