The Savannah Madam

by Tom Turner

  “And you think Billy has no clue the ‘awesome crib’ is really a cat house?”

  Ryder chuckled. “You know that expression, ‘not the sharpest tool in the shed’?”

  “That would be Billy?”

  “Yup.”

  “And I’m guessing they never let him near the money-making part of the house.”

  “Not even close,” Ryder said, then pausing, “So, let me tell you about the brainstorm I had. By the way, it’s not the first time I’ve noticed a correlation between Texas margaritas and my brainstorms.”

  Jackie chuckled. “Do tell.”

  “Okay, remember what Wendy told you about Miranda being ultra-selective about the girls who worked at the Casa?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And how Miranda had some website called casaromantica.com, which she solicited new hookers on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, so before I met up with Billy, I went on the internet. It took me a while but eventually I found this other site. It’s got a catchy nickname: Casaerotica.com. It’s exactly like the one Wendy described, but with a new name.”

  “You did some good digging,” Jackie said. “So, you’re thinking Casa Erotica is the new Casa Romantica?”

  “Bingo, and here’s the brainstorm part,” Ryder said. “I put in an application to get a job at Casa Erotica. I sent them five photos of me: one in that really skimpy black bikini.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Jackie said. “No, no, no! No way in hell you’re going inside that place. Even if, in the unlikely event, you make the cut and they say they want to see you in person. Absolutely not.”

  “Well, of course I’d make the cut,” Ryder said, offended. “But why not? Correct me if I’m wrong, but we haven’t exactly busted this case wide open.”

  “That’s just crazy,” Jackie said. “So, you go there, then what? I can imagine a million different scenarios. All of them bad.”

  “Like what? I’m not going to start turning tricks.”

  “Well, that’s reassuring,” Jackie said. “I don’t know, what if they want you to take your clothes off or something? You know, inspect the merchandise? Or what if you get recognized by somebody? How long do you think it would take Johnny Redneck to feed you to the alligators in his backyard?”

  “You have a wild imagination.”

  “And you have a death wish,” Jackie said. “Well, I just rolled up to the restaurant, so I’m going to cut you loose now.”

  Ryder sighed deeply. “So, I get the ass-grabbing, dim-witted carpenter and you get the handsome detective with six-pack abs.”

  “The handsome detective with maybe a few skeletons in his closet.”

  Jackie parked on the street and reached for her door. Just as she did her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number on the display but answered anyway. “Hello.”

  “Ms. Farrell, it’s Talmadge Bartow.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Bartow.”

  “I just remembered something….”

  “What was that?”

  “Miranda told me once she was paying a cop to keep her house off people’s radar screens.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Jackie said. “His name was Roscoe Byrd.”

  “No, no,” Bartow said. “You’re talking about the lowlife who found out about the place and was blackmailing Miranda. No, I’m talking about a cop she actually hired.”

  Jackie pushed the cell phone closer to her ear. “What is his name?”

  “That’s the problem, I don’t know. I just know he was a homicide detective.”

  Jackie sat up straighter. “How do you know that?”

  “Miranda told me.”

  “But she never mentioned his name?”

  “I don’t think she wanted me to know,” Bartow said. “She just said he was pretty high up.”

  “What did she mean by that?”

  “You know, high up in the police department. Solved a bunch of murders, I guess. That was my take anyway.”

  Jackie felt a pit in her stomach.

  “Is there anyone else who might know his name?”

  “I was thinking about that,” Bartow said. “Maybe one of the girls. Ashley, if you’ve run across her yet.”

  “Okay, Mr. Bartow, I really appreciate it,” Jackie said. “You think of anything else, call me again. Meantime, you might be a thousand dollars richer. I’ll let you know.”

  “I hope so. I could sure use it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bartow,” and she hung up.

  It was a one-two punch. First, the mortgage at Harry’s father’s bank. Now Harry fitting Bartow’s description of a homicide detective who had solved a lot of murders.

  And on top of it, Marty Shepherd accusing Bull of poaching his case.

  Jackie put her hands back on the Acura’s wheel and gripped it tightly.

  Her mind flashed to Suggs Brown. Yes, he was certainly another possibility.

  Jackie breathed deeply several times.

  She realized that she needed to suck it up and act as if the call had never happened. She had to suspend any suspicions she might have about Harry Bull. Then she turned it around: this was actually the perfect opportunity for her to dig up information. She just had to go slow and subtle.

  She thought about calling Ashley and asking her if she knew who the homicide cop was. But she almost didn’t want to know.

  Jackie and Harry Bull were sitting at an outside table at Cotton & Rye, with an assortment of families, businesspeople talking shop, and hipsters being hip.

  Jackie had been asking Bull about his family. Specifically, brothers, sisters, his ex-wife, and himself. Bull was about as un-forthcoming as last time. But Jackie didn’t push it.

  Bull leaned across the table. “So, what’s new on Miranda Cato?”

  Jackie laughed. “What’s the matter, Harry? Most men love talking about themselves.”

  Bull chuckled as he put down his beer. “Yeah, well, most men have a lot more going on in their lives. Me… wake up, go to the gym, arrest a guy, put him in jail, go to bed. Or, wake up, go to the gym, arrest a guy, his lawyer gets him off, go to bed.”

  “It’s a good rap but I’m not buying it.”

  Bull chuckled. “So, come on, tell me about Cato.”

  Jackie took a sip of wine and eyed Bull long and hard. “What do you know about a P.I. named Marty Shepherd?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Marty Schlepper, I call him. Guy’s a—you’ll excuse the expression—complete dickhead. Where’d you run across him?”

  “I didn’t, my sister did. He told her about a case he was working on that was in your cold-case file.”

  “Yeah, Erasmus Jones.”

  “I guess that was it.”

  Bull leaner closer. “Okay, and what did he say about it?”

  Jackie wiped her mouth with her white cloth napkin. “He said you and he had drinks and he told you something that led to you cracking the case.”

  Bull shook his head. “And then I cut him out of it, right?”

  Jackie nodded. “Yeah, that’s what he said.”

  Bull sighed and took another pull on his beer. “Okay, you ready for what really happened?”

  “Tell me.”

  “What he told you is not wrong,” Bull said. “But it’s all about the timeline. He told me about it, then literally a month or two went by and I didn’t touch it. I kept thinking I was going to hear the case had been cracked. That Shepherd had cleared it. But nothing. Finally, I called him up and said, ‘So, Marty, what’s goin’ on with Jones?’ And he goes, ‘I got kinda sidetracked.’ Turns out, I heard he went on like a month-long bender or something. Word was, it wasn’t the first time. So, I thought, ‘Screw it, I might as well try to wrap the damn thing up.’ And I did.”

  Jackie nodded. “I get it. Jibes with what I’ve heard about the guy.”

  Bull nodded. “I was kind of like, ‘Is he ever gonna get around to workin’ the damn thing?’”

  “I hear you,” Jackie said. “Wha
t about Talmadge Bartow? You mentioned him briefly when we met at the gym. What do you know about him?”

  “Not much,” Bull said. “Like I said, he was on our laundry list of possible suspects ‘cause he was Miranda Cato’s boyfriend. I actually never met him. My partner went and talked to him. A couple times, I think. Said Bartow was not our guy. Gave me a couple of good reasons why.”

  She wanted to probe Bull about his partner. See if Suggs Brown fit the bill as the man who Miranda had hired. She decided to circle back to him later on, go in a completely different direction for now.

  “You ever heard the name John E. Redmond?”

  “Sure. Johnny Redneck. Good ol’ boy who used to own the Tattletale.”

  “The Tattletale?”

  “Yeah,” he chuckled, “this place you go to meet girls who dance with poles.”

  Jackie laughed. “I see.”

  “I heard he’s got a couple places in Atlanta now,” Bull said. “Local boy made good.”

  “He happen to go to Country Day with you?”

  The waiter showed up with their dinners. “No,” Bull said. “Some other place—Hard Knocks High, maybe. Taught him how to be successful in business”—Bull looked away and snapped his fingers—“Oh hey, I just remembered something else: Suggs and Redmond were buddies growing up. Suggs told me they used to ride bikes, steal candy, get in trouble together.”

  Jackie did her best not to show the jolt. “So, does Redmond still have a place around here?”

  “Not as far as I know,” Bull said. “Think he left Savannah behind for the big city. Why, where’d his name come up?”

  Jackie looked away. “Oh, I don’t know, just heard it somewhere.”

  “Jackie,” he said, searching her eyes. “Come on, there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  Jackie put her hand on Bull’s. “Do I look like a woman with secrets?”

  Bull nodded. “Oh, yeah. A whole closetful.”

  “That’s not fair,” she said. “You’re the one who doesn’t want to talk about yourself.”

  “Yeah, well, like I told you before, that’s ‘cause it’s a dull story, and I wouldn’t want to put you to sleep. Come on, tell me what you heard about Redmond.”

  Jackie tapped her fingernails on the table a few times, then looked up at Bull. “I just heard he was one of the many colorful characters in Savannah’s long, colorful history.”

  Bull nodded but did not smile. “My impression, having just run across Redmond once, is that—speaking of closets—the guy’s got a ton of skeletons in his.”

  “Define skeletons.”

  Bull put his hand on his chin and thought for a moment. “Things that border on the illegal, things that put people in the hospital. Or worse,” he said. “I’m just glad he’s in Atlanta, not here.”

  Jackie reached in her purse and pulled out her cell phone. “While we’re talking shop, I want to ask you about someone else.”

  She clicked on the photos Ryder had taken of the man who was driving the car with Eileen Mudge as passenger. “This is the guy who knocked me out,” she said, handing the camera to Bull.

  Bull swiped through the five photos. “This is him?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  Bull’s jaw was clenched. “You’re damned lucky it was just a punch,” he said. “His name is Ronnie Wallace, a real bad dude.”

  Jackie exhaled loudly. “Tell me more.”

  Bull looked grim. “He’s a contract killer”—pause—“who so far’s gotten away with it.”

  “How’s he get away with it?”

  “He’s got a real good lawyer.” Bull dropped his voice. “My brother.”

  30

  Harry’s lawyer brother was sharp jolt number two for Jackie.

  Harry suddenly got animated. “First thing I’m gonna do is issue an arrest warrant for Wallace. Get the son-of-a-bitch for what he did to you.”

  Jackie smiled. “Thank you, Harry, that’s sweet of you.”

  Bull glanced across the room. “Right after you told me about what happened, I went and checked every security cam in the area,” he said. “There was only one that looked toward your parking lot, and it was busted.”

  She patted his hand. “I had no idea you did that.”

  “Also, went to that deli and the pizza place across the street,” Bull said. “But none of the people who worked at ‘em saw anything. I talked to the woman who found you but, as you know, she got there after it happened and didn’t see anything.”

  Jackie leaned across and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you again.”

  Bull shrugged. “What? It was part of the job.” He dialed his phone and waited a few seconds. “Hey, man, I need you to get an arrest warrant for Ronnie Wallace.”

  He mouthed, Suggs Brown, then he listened for a few moments.

  “Yeah, I know, you may need to get a judge on it.”

  He listened again.

  “I know, but I want his ass.” He clicked off.

  “What did he say?” Jackie asked.

  “He said ‘Teflon Ron is a slippery sonofabitch, you know.’” Harry sighed and patted Jackie’s hand. “But don’t worry, we’ll get him.”

  Jackie smiled and saw the perfect segue. “Speaking of Suggs, how long have you two been partners?”

  “Just a little over a year,” Bull said. “He had a little problem with his last partner. Well, I guess you could call it a big problem.”

  “What happened?”

  “His partner, a guy name Andy Dutson, got killed. It was a shoot-out at a liquor store. Poor bastard got caught in a cross fire and, turned out, Suggs shot him by accident.”

  “Oh, my God, that’s terrible,” Jackie said. “What exactly happened?”

  “It was a hostage situation inside the liquor store and the cops, who were outside, had just fired off a flash-bang. You know what that is, right?”

  “Sure,” Jackie said. “A high decibel explosion and bright flash of light. Probably meant to disorient the people inside the liquor store, right?”

  “Yeah, exactly, then right after that they tossed in a smoke grenade. Basically, created chaos inside. Suggs and two other guys went in. Couldn’t see five feet in front of them because of the smoke. Anyway, Suggs took a shot at what he thought was one of the hold-up guys, but it was Dutson.”

  “Oh, my God, how awful,” Jackie said. “Did he have a family?”

  Bull nodded. “Yeah, a wife and three kids.”

  Jackie patted him on the hand. She wanted to tell him to be careful around Suggs Brown. But it would tip him to her suspicions.

  Just like on their first date, Bull walked Jackie to her car, which was parked a block from Cotton & Rye on Habersham.

  Jackie pressed unlock on the key fob to her car and looked up at Bull. “I had fun, Harry, even though I didn’t find out much about you.”

  “That’s what third dates are for.” After a quick glance around, Bull put an arm around Jackie, pulled her close, and kissed her.

  It lasted more than a minute and Jackie wouldn’t have minded another minute’s worth. Finally, she pulled back and looked him in the eyes. “Wow,” she said. “You’re a really good kisser.”

  He smiled. “You’re not too bad yourself,” he said, leaning forward and kissing her again.

  Jackie heard footsteps walk past them on the sidewalk. “Get a room,” she heard a male voice say, then laughter.

  Bull pulled back and looked her in the eyes. “Not a bad idea.”

  Bull’s house was on Liberty Street. It was a three-story townhouse with parking for two cars in the back. It was a lot of house for a man on a detective’s salary and, Jackie had a suspicion, family money may have factored into the equation.

  Bull had just poured Jackie a glass of red wine and a scotch on the rocks for himself. This was right after another long kiss in the foyer after he unlocked the door to his house. She went and sat down in a light-green, tufted love seat and slipped her shoes off.

  “I just w
ant to say, I thought about it and decided tonight’s not the night,” she said as Bull sat down opposite her.

  “Not the night for what?”

  She laughed. “Don’t play dumb with me, Harry.”

  He just smiled.

  “And I’ve already had more to drink than I should have,” she said. “So maybe after this”—she raised her glass—“you’d be so kind as to let me crash in one of your guest bedrooms.”

  Bull smiled. “I’ll do better than that,” he said. “I’ll show you to it, then slip a mint under your pillow.”

  “And would you mind turning down the bed, please?”

  Bull nodded. “Anything your little heart desires,” he said. “And for breakfast, I make the best cheese omelet in the whole state of Georgia.”

  Jackie got up, walked over to Bull, kissed him on the forehead, then returned to the love seat.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  “An advance for the mint and bed turn-down.” She pushed a strand of hair out of her eye. “I’m just curious, are you typical of southern men, Harry?”

  He laughed. “How would I possibly know what’s typical?”

  “Because I was just thinking, if you were a guy up in New York, this would play out a whole lot differently.”

  He took a sip of his scotch. “Ah, I’m a little lost, what do you—”

  “Well, first of all, a guy from New York would have tried to talk me into sleeping with him by now. And if I said no, he would have turned into a fast-talking car salesman and explained all the stuff I’d be missing out on if I didn’t.”

  Bull leaned back in his chair. “Keep going, this is good insight into Yankee’s minds.”

  “And if that didn’t work—and it wouldn’t, at least on me—he’d come over and sit down next to me and launch an all-out, frontal assault. Kissing me while fumbling for my bra strap. By this time, I would have said ‘no’ seventeen times, which he would have heard as, ‘Don’t give up. Eventually you’ll wear me down.’ Finally, I’d struggle out of his grasp, beat it out of his apartment, and call Uber.”