Tonight Rita drove around the little park ten times before she could find a place to park. Each corner fueled the anger that Lamar had kindled.
“If I’d had a gun, I would have shot the son of a bitch,” Rita said as Bev greeted her. Bev wore a turquoise and white velour lounging outfit. Diamond rings sparkled on each perfect chocolate hand.
“And a pleasant evening to you, Miss Thing.” Bev shook her head as she held the door for Rita to enter.
The lower floors were perfectly appointed in contemporary furniture and Bev’s collection of modern art—including several of the less provocative Maplethorpes. Rita had never been upstairs. Blue and orange flames danced in the gas fireplace.
“You won’t believe what happened.”
“With you, baby, I could believe anything happened.” Bev followed Rita into the kitchen.
“No Cokes?” Rita shoved items around in Bev’s refrigerator.
“Let me.” Bev took charge, moved a bottle of seltzer and with a flourish produced a cold red and white can. “So tell me what you did in Harper’s Ferry.”
“Got any peanuts?”
“Do I look like the elephant man to you?” Bev asked, but she yanked a jar of dry roasts from her cupboard and handed it to Rita. “I’m getting a glass of wine. Go on in the living room.”
Rita sat curled on Bev’s beige and white sofa, shoes off and feet tucked under her. “I feel calmer already. Must be this quiet mind decor.”
“That joke is getting old—and I happen to like it. So there.” Bev came over and scooped a handful of peanuts from the jar. “Had enough noise, color and excitement in Iraq. Done with that.”
Rita then launched into her tirade against the personal invasion by Lamar. She pounded the sofa arm with her fist for emphasis. Bev listened without interrupting.
“I ran into some slimy men when I worked for the Star . There were guys who thought because you weren’t married you were part of open season. There were some who wanted to beat the hell out of me and would have if I hadn’t been quick enough. But this—this was the worst.” Rita squeezed the Coke can with her thumb so that it cracked under her pressure.
“When I started this business,” she said, “I didn’t want to carry a gun.”
“You would have shot him?” Bev asked.
“On the spot.”
“You would have pulled the gun, aimed it point blank and fired into his chest?” Bev asked.
Rita took a swallow of Coke. “Maybe.”
“I thought so,” Bev said.
“Damn it, you’re not supposed to say things like that.”
“Yes, I am. That’s why you pay me the big bucks.”
Rita’s frown creased into a smile. They both laughed. “Ok, you win.”
“Honey, I’m supposed to win.”
“I hate that feeling of powerlessness.” Rita said.
“I know.” Bev touched Rita’s hand as it clutched the sofa arm. “It’s a scary thing. I’ve been there.”
“Not you.”
“Oh yeah. Ain’t nobody gets to avoid that charming experience.”
Rita bowed her head for a moment.
“So—did you learn anything?” Bev asked.
“I learned that a person’s death is an inconvenience, a nuisance to be dealt with,” Rita snapped.
“You know what I mean.”
Rita pulled her feet from under her, placed them on the floor and turned to face Bev. “I talked with the mortician, a young guy—Young Joe as a matter of fact. He had the most solid evidence that Bobby didn’t commit suicide.” She explained that evidence to Bev.
“And he didn’t tell the police or the coroner?” she asked.
“I told you about them.”
“You think he had his facts straight?”
“Young Joe?” Rita asked. “I think he was right on.”
Bev nodded.
“He seemed pretty honest to me. The other thing was he said he was afraid of going against Lamar. Gee, I wonder why? And that rang true to me, especially after tonight.”
Bev leaned back in her chair. “But basically, you have nothing except this man’s word—which conflicts with the county coroner and the investigating officer.”
Rita sighed. “Good assessment. Joe said he’d change his story if he had to testify.”
“You need more evidence.” Bev offered the peanut jar to Rita who declined.
“I need eight by ten glossies of the crime in progress.” Rita rubbed her neck. It was stiff from her long and angry drive home.
“You got no smoking gun proof out of this trip?” Bev rose and walked behind the sofa. She put her big, strong hands at the back of Rita’s neck to massage her pain away.
“The things I got were vague and no one is going to testify to anything,” Rita said. “I got a phone number from the room message report, a D.C. number, and when I went to the horse races with Bobby’s picture, I found a waitress in the club house who remembered him being there with another man.”
“Description?” Bev kneaded the muscles over Rita’s shoulder blades.
“Well-dressed asshole.”
“Now there’s a break for you.”
“Thanks.” Rita leaned into Bev’s hands.
“You know,” Bev said. “I’ve been doing some thinking while you were away.”
“Any ideas?”
“I was thinking about addicts in recovery.”
“And?”
“Sometimes they don’t make it because they get overwhelmed. Take the drug out of their system and it gets real clear how much they lost. They can get some serious blues,” Bev said.
“Meaning?” Rita bent her head forward so that Bev could massage higher on the nape of her neck.
“Might be a good idea to talk to Bobby’s counselor at the rehab he came from.” Bev’s thumbes gently worked the hairline.
Rita reached around and grabbed both her hands. “You don’t think he was murdered, do you?”
“Didn’t say that.”
“You think he killed himself, just like everybody else.” Rita twisted to face her friend.
“Baby, all I’m saying is I happen to know something about addicts—dated a few until I figured it out. I’m saying you got to get perspective instead of tunneling in.” Bev’s voice was stern.
“Like I usually do.” Rita let go of Bev’s hands and turned around again so that Bev continued her massage.
“Girlfriend, I didn’t say that either.” Bev stopped working.
“I know. I did,” Rita said and then added. “And how was Ms. VanDreem while I was away.
“Safe and sound, just like you left her,” Bev answered. “Safe and sound.”
♏
Rita stole an appraising look at Edmund Ellis as he entered her office. In his Armani suit, he looked like the high-end plastic surgeon that he was. Women would put themselves in his hands, Rita thought. He was smooth and confident and his hands were steady with a gentle strength.
“Thank you for coming here.” Rita pointed to the chair beside her desk.
“I had a meeting at Hopkins. It was no trouble.” Edmund dropped an extra key to Bobby’s apartment on her desk.
How different he was from Bobby who had bristled with adrenaline energy. Bobby paced and talked and gestured as he related to anybody and anything in a room. Edmund was completely unruffled.
“I need to ask you some questions,” Rita began.
“Did you find anything concrete to justify continuing the investigation?” Edmund’s calm steepled fingers degenerated to palm rubbing as he leaned toward Rita.
“I found a few things. I guess the most important of all is what the mortician at Harper’s Ferry shared with me. He said the marks on Bobby’s neck didn’t match the tie he supposedly hanged himself with. There was too much bruising for a silk tie ligature. He said also there was a small scratch under the ear that could have been from a fingernail.”
“My brother was strangled.” Edmund spoke with the matter-of-f
act monotone of the doctor.
“That was the assessment of the mortician.” Rita watched Ellis, but he never flinched.
“Why didn’t the coroner ask for an autopsy?”
“The coroner doubles as the town drunk.”
Ellis nodded. “And the police?”
“Well, it may have been collusion, but lack of interest is a better guess.”
Ellis steepled his fingers and stared past Rita to the window where morning light sifted in through the blinds.
“Everybody’s too busy to do their job,” Edmund said to the window.
Ellis shifted his focus back to Rita. He leaned an elbow on the desk as he spoke. “Bobby owed a lot of money to Skippy Lockerman. Lockerman is, was, Bobby’s coke connection.”
“What are you saying to me?” Rita’s eyes widened.
Ellis answered hurriedly. “Bobby told me before he went into treatment that he borrowed a lot of money from Lockerman. He was really in debt. When he was getting back on his feet, he told me he was going to pay all that money back.”
“To a drug dealer?” Rita’s voice rose.
“To a drug dealer. It’s a long, complicated thing, but he borrowed that money to support his son. And Bobby thought that getting honest with himself after rehab meant paying that money back. He was sending it in installments to Lockerman’s mobile home business in Charlestown.”
“Wait a minute.” Rita waved a disapproving hand at Edmund Ellis’ story. “You mean this coke dealer lives near Harper’s Ferry. Bobby owed him big bucks, and you didn’t tell the police that Lockerman could have killed your brother?” Rita ran her fingers through her hair.
“I don’t think that he did,” Ellis insisted.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“It didn’t seem important because I knew the story.”
“What the hell else do you know that you haven’t told me?” Rita said.
“Nothing.” Edmund slunk into his seat. “I don’t know. Bobby could make anything sound reasonable. I took him at his word about his relationship with Lockerman.”
Rita shook her head. “Bev was right.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I have a friend who told me that an addict can feel overwhelmed, maybe relapse, and that could generate suicidal feelings,” Rita said.
Ellis stared at her for a long time. “You’re giving up the case. You think Bobby killed himself?”
“I don’t know what to think. I do know that what the mortician said pointed to murder. But I also know that I’m going to follow my friend’s advice and check with Bobby’s counselor at the rehab to make sure he wasn’t a candidate.” Rita shook her head again.
“I am sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I’ve been so disoriented with all that’s happened.” Ellis leaned his elbows on his knees and bowed his head into his hands.
Rita watched the man fall apart in front of her. “Well, I hope you’ve been putting people’s noses back in the right place.”
“I haven’t worked since his death.” Ellis’ voice choked with tears.
Rita felt the shame of her goading, but she wasn’t going to let Ellis off the hook. “Ok, let me ask you this. Do you know of anybody else who had a grudge or score to settle with Bobby?”
Ellis shook his head, still burying his face in his palms.
“Did Bobby tell you anything at all about the last story he was working on?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, I’m batting a thousand here.” Rita leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry.” Ellis sat up at last, took a handkerchief from his jacket, wiped his eyes and blew his nose.
“Ok,” Rita sighed. “Here’s what you’re going to do. I want you to go home and get a piece of paper and a pencil and write down anything, even if it seems insignificant, that Bobby told you during the last two weeks before his death.”
Ellis nodded and blew his nose again.
“And I want you to tell me where the hell I can find Skippy Lockerman, the dealer with a heart of gold.”
Chapter 10
In the winter Rita played basketball every Wednesday night at the Whitehurst Middle School gymnasium. Mary Margaret Smooth was captain of “The BeenGay Girls.” Though Rita was the shortest member of the team, she compensated for this deficiency with the ferocity of her play.
Tonight Rita and Mary Margaret were battling the notorious Blizzard sisters and their “Hot Legs” team. The Blizzard sisters were twins, blondes. May was six feet even; June was a quarter inch taller. Born years too early for the WNBA,—and disinclined to be models—they were coveted team members in Baltimore County’s “Just For Fun” recreational women’s basketball league. They were coveted for more than their on-court skills.
At halftime, a sweaty, irritable Rita complained to the ref. “Can you watch those two a little more closely?” She pointed to May and June. “They’re putting knots on my head out there.”
The referee, a woman almost as short as Rita, laughed and walked away. “I should be so lucky.”
May turned from the “Hot Legs” bench and winked at Rita.
“Come drink your Gatorade, Slick.” Mary Margaret tossed her a squeeze bottle.
“I mean it.” Rita sucked down a big gulp.
“The Blizzard sisters like you.” Mary Margaret threw her arm around Rita’s shoulder.
“They’d like to twist me into a pretzel.” Rita took another drink.
“I think they have something more interesting in mind,” Mary Margaret said. The rest of the team laughed. “You want to sit on the bench?”
“No,” Rita answered.
“Then listen up.” Mary Margaret delivered her second half strategy speech, which encompassed the impossible task of keeping the Blizzard sisters from under the basket.
The buzzer sounded and the BeenGay Girls marched onto the court. June Blizzard patted Rita on the butt.
“Hey,” Rita said.
“Call me,” June mouthed silently so that her sister couldn’t see.
In the second half, Rita scored three baskets, a miracle since for most of the game she was the middle of a Blizzard sandwich and couldn’t make a move without getting pressed between their bodies.
“I’m trying to play a game here,” she snarled in frustration.
“Any time,” May Blizzard responded with a smile.
Rita shook her head and dribbled rabidly in the opposite direction.
When the final buzzer sounded, Hot Legs once again was the victor. The teams lined up to shake hands. The Blizzard sisters were at the end of the line.
“Come on we’ll buy you a beer,” May said to Rita.
“Thanks,” she answered peevishly, “but I’m dropping Smooth off at home.”
May looked at June. The twin telepathy thing went into gear and after a minute, May said. “We’ll buy you and Smooth a beer.”
“Well, ladies, that sounds just wonderful.” Mary Margaret said before Rita could answer.
“I don’t drink,” Rita said lamely.
June put a chummy arm around her and pulled her close. She whispered in her ear. “I’ll buy you a Coke.” She punctuated her offer with a peck on the cheek.
Outside in the car, Rita stabbed her key into the Jeep’s ignition. “Dammit, Smooth. What are you trying to get me into?”
Smooth laughed and wiped the windows that had clouded when their steamy bodies were enclosed in the chilly car. “Hell, no worse than the stuff you’ve gotten yourself into—without any assistance from me, thank you very much.”
“I’m not interested.” Rita swung her Jeep out of the gymnasium parking lot.
Mary Margaret glanced out the window. “No one is asking you to pick out china and a silver pattern.”
“I don’t have the heart—or the stomach—for it anymore.”
“Any more? Forever? Never?”
“Maybe.” Rita switched on the defroster. The windshield was steaming up again.
“Don�
��t let Diane Winter have the last word.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said. Don’t let her dictate your life long after she’s walked out.”
Rita cocked her head. “Is that what you think?”
“I think you took a near fatal hit. I think it scared you good, and you don’t ever want that kind of pain again.”
Rita eased onto the Jones Falls Expressway behind the Blizzard sisters in their black Camaro.
“I’m a survivor and . . .”
Mary Margaret cut her off. “I know all that. But surviving isn’t enough. In this life, we need to find a way to flourish and thrive, to savor the essence of our very existence.”
“Did you get that from the Pope’s book?”
“No,” Mary Margaret answered, “I got it from myself.”
“The seat of all wisdom,” Rita said.
“Of course.”
“I’m still not ready.”
“You don’t have to be ready. You just have to be willing.”
“And able?” Rita watched the taillights of the Blizzards’ Camaro duck into the parking lot of the Blue Heaven Lounge. They were in the heart of blue collar Baltimore.
“Just willing,” Mary Margaret said.
♏
The interior of the Blue Heaven was dark. Dark, scuffed vinyl flooring; dark paneling, back-to-back deep oak bars. Even the mirrors were dingy from decades of cigarette smoke. The usual suspects slumped on their barstools and never turned their heads to the new arrivals. It was the typical working-class bar aside from its all female cast of characters.
The Blizzard sisters made straight for the bar in the second room. Here there was a tiny dance floor surrounded by patron less Formica topped tables and a makeshift stage where a homegrown country and western band played on Friday nights. The bartender, Mickey, wore a Melissa Ethridge T-shirt, jeans, and a city’s worth of locksmithing on a chain attached to her belt. She nodded without speaking to May and June. Mary Margaret and Rita sauntered in after the twins and captured one of the tables.
DRIVEN: A Rita Mars Thriller Page 7