by P. N. Elrod
“As in never wears white shoes before Easter?”
“Bulls-eye.”
“She didn’t look scared.”
“No, but it was there. She covered it well, I’ll hand her that. The lady’s also got plenty on the ball in the brains department, so I wonder why she goes in for astrology. You’re a smart chick, why do you go in for Tarot cards?”
“I use them as psychological tools. Their images spark a response in my sub-conscious that allows me to make decisions or draw conclusions to my own best advantage. Though once in a while they’ve predicted events that I never saw coming. Or maybe I just fit the events to the cards, but that doesn’t always work. Like that guy I went nuts over last summer? No matter how many times I shuffled and asked about my future with him the results were all dismal. Not the answer I wanted to see, so I tried to make things turn out different, but they never did. You remember?”
“Yup.” He’d kept his mouth diplomatically shut while Caitlin had been in the throes of her brief romance, though he could have told her it was doomed. You didn’t need a deck of cards to see that. He was glad when she’d finally smarted up and broke things off. He’d been ready to kill them both on the distraction factor alone, the guy for making her cry, and Caitlin because he couldn’t stand a crying dame.
Caitlin shrugged, cocking her head in thought. “Maybe astrology works for Mrs. Pangford in the same way on a psychological level. It allows people to place order and structure into an otherwise chaotic world. One can have a weird sense of security knowing that some life events and personality traits are beyond our best efforts at control and that we’re at the mercy of a pre-determined stellar destiny. If it’s in the stars that something nasty will happen, then we have to shrug and accept it, for what can we do about it? Mrs. Pangford can then excuse her faults and those of others by blaming them on outside forces over which she has no command.”
“Or maybe it’s a lot of horse hockey.”
“There’s that,” Caitlin agreed, amiably.
One long drive later he pulled into his assigned parking space, and they decanted for a short walk to his condo. The gate to his small walled porch screeched as he pulled it open for her. In the years since he’d moved in he made a point of never greasing the hinges. Their noise was too good a burglar alarm.
Inside, Caitlin dumped her purse on his long leather couch and rubbed her shoulder. “So—what’s your next move on the case?”
“Tonight I do a little checking up on Mr. and Mrs. Deacon in their stately Deep Ellum manor. Won’t need you along, it’s scut-work.”
“And you think slaving over a computer chasing down obscure data for you ain’t?”
“You’re in a nice, warm indoor environment, free to use the toilet any time you feel the urge and have a supply of drinks and snacks. I shall probably be confined to my mobile prison disguised as wheels for an indeterminate time as I check out the field.”
“Okay, you win. You’ll change clothes, of course?”
“Of course.” He made a start, loosening his tie and undoing the collar button. Nothing he had on was right for what lay ahead, especially the Rolex. He retreated to his bedroom to complete the transformation, while Caitlin fired up his computer. He emerged wearing a faded black polo shirt with dark cargo pants stuffed into boots. With a baseball cap and a loose pocket vest to finish things, he expected to go unnoticed in the eclectic atmosphere of Deep Ellum.
“You’ll need an earring,” said Caitlin, peering at her screen, comparing search engine results with her notes.
Sometime ago he’d had one ear pierced. “You think?”
“Oh, yeah. Anyone without metal hanging off them is the exception there, not the rule. That’s why I don’t fit into those artsy-fartsy circles.” Caitlin was so squeamish she’d been known to faint when taking her pets in for their shots. Her earlobes were quite virginal.
He went back, dug around on his dresser, and found a plain silver earring, fitting it into place.
“That’s better,” she said, giving him a brief once-over. “You look nice and rakish.”
“I need to be nice and anonymous.”
“Okay, rakish in Highland Park, but Mr. Ordinary in Deep Ellum.”
He looked over her shoulder while she did magic with the computer and its wide range of special search programs. Everything she found confirmed Dolly Pangford’s story. Kyle Deacon had a police record, minor skirmishes for being drunk, and a slap on the wrist for selling pot. His juvenile files were sealed, but that was no hindrance to Caitlin’s hacker talents.
“My, but wasn’t he Peck’s Bad Boy way back when?” she muttered. “We got us a little joy-riding vandal, some assault, some shop-lifting, some drug dealing, now didn’t he have fun? But it’s still a long jump from murdering your wife.”
“That’s what I’m checking out later.” Tarrant wished he’d not had the coffee or stared at the computer screen for so long; he felt a headache coming on. Of all the lousy times to get a migraine. “I need to rest until it’s dark. Tell the kids to keep hush.”
One of his five cats meowed at him, looking innocent. The others sprawled around as though they owned the place and didn’t care much for the fact. He picked up the opinionated one, turned her on her back and rubbed her fat belly.
“Don’t go bitching at me, you freeloading leech,” he advised her, until she grabbed his hand in both paws and pretended to bite. He ignored the assault, his knuckles could stand it. “Make a funny noise for daddy. Make a funny noise.” She emitted a cross between a muted yowl and an irritated purr, which satisfied him, and he put her back on her resting place, which happened to be atop Caitlin’s purse. Her dogs would just love the smell of outraged cat.
The distraction didn’t work. His head began pounding. Damn. It would build into a volcano with an attitude if he didn’t nip it in the bud.
He got a bottle of Stoli from the freezer to wash down a couple prescription pills. An unwise combination, but it would put him out right away and maybe halt the headache before it took too firm a hold. He gave Caitlin a wake-up time and after removing his boots, rolled into bed. As a distraction he flipped through the astrology book, reading up on his own sign, finding amusement at what it got right and wrong about him. It did seem to have nailed it square about his craving for challenge and boredom with achievement.
Just as he drifted off, he remembered that they’d not divided the money up yet.
Later.
* * *
He had a good four-hour nap, waking when it was full dark, about five minutes before Caitlin was due to come in. His mouth tasted bad, but the pain that had threatened to squeeze his skull to mush was thankfully gone. He was set for the evening, no matter how long it might prove.
Caitlin was still at the computer. “I was about to give a yell. Did you sleep?”
“Yup. I just got an accurate body clock. What’s this?” On what had been a clear coffee table newspaper pages were now spread wide over something lumpy. One of the cats lounged on top. He scooped the animal out of the way. The payment money was underneath, neatly stacked and sorted. There was a lot of it.
“I raided my purse for a candy bar and had to get the cash out of the way,” Caitlin explained. “Then once started I couldn’t stop. Counting that was almost as good as sex. It’s all there. She didn’t short you.”
“No one does and lives,” he intoned, dropping the papers back. He went to the fridge and pulled out a big bottle of Pepsi, taking hits off it to fully wake up. The cold carbonation burn made him wince, but it felt great. Tarrant did a quick calculation, returned to the money, and set aside a portion. “There’s your percentage, chickadee.”
“Thanks. I think I earned it.” She slowly stood and stretched, audible popping noises coming from her neck and spine. “My butt’s gone dead. Why don’t you invest in a comfortable chair?”
He peeled five hundred from his side and put it on her pile. “Go pick out one you like, but no leather or vinyl. Make sure it fits
my color scheme.” That wouldn’t be difficult. His condo was dominated by blacks and whites. “What did you find out?”
“Exactly how much those two owe on their cards and the last time they made payments. But something odd is going on. Last month they brought in enough to catch up on all ten. I couldn’t find a source for the windfall. Maybe Kyle’s band cut a recording contract or Amanda sold a painting to the Met and they paid her in cash.”
Tarrant frowned. “Or he’s dealing again. Only way to get that kind of money is being lucky in Vegas or selling drugs.”
“I can believe that. I’ve read through the file Mrs. Pangford got from her investigator—little Amanda has a will. She leaves everything she’s got—including her trust fund—to her beloved husband. He’ll have to wait until she’s twenty-one to get it, though, or it reverts to the estate. That’s less than four months away. It’s like the poor bimbo has a death wish.”
“Does he have a will?”
“Yeah. He leaves her all his worldly goods, which at present includes four guitars, an electronic keyboard, and a 1986 Ford Escort.”
“Good God, and she thinks he loves her?”
“It’s grounds for divorce for me,” Caitlin sniffed. “Only I’d never have married the loser in the first place.”
“I’m gonna boogie. Put that in the safe?” He gestured at the money. Despite her predilection for Tarot cards, Caitlin was sensible and prudent on practical matters, like never cheating the boss man, but was also hard-wired with a sense of honor. Funny trait to have in their business, but he understood it and trusted her with the safe combination.
“Don’t worry, I’ll lock everything up. Have fun, but don’t get caught.”
“Never.”
* * *
The drive to Kyle and Amanda’s Deep Ellum loft, which was on the east side of downtown Dallas, took about an hour. Being Saturday night, the streets were jammed with a mixed crowd determined to have fun. Some of the wilder clubs were overflowing, yet still trying to attract more inside. One place had a line of new Harleys out front, each draped with a shapely young thing in leather posing for anyone with a camera. Tarrant considered the pros and cons of making the choice between having the wheels or one of the girls. He concluded that the machine would draw the attention of any number of females to it and thus to himself. If he chose one of the girls, the encounter would last a weekend, if that long.
He liked women just fine, but enjoyed their company more when they didn’t talk much. He’d long grown bored with the no-win “Do I look fat?” discussion and the disastrous “Why were you looking at her?” salvo. Caitlin was one of the few with whom he could hold a decent conversation, but out of unspoken mutual consent they were each off the other’s menu. Caitlin was too smart to get involved with him and Tarrant’s policy was to never shop at the company store. Too many complications. Women he could get easily enough, but trustworthy hackers for his line of work were rare.
The outsides of the Deacons’ loft was not as depressed as he expected from the look of the rest of the neighborhood, but far from the level of Bohemian sophistication as seen in countless films and TV shows.
The Arctic-cool heroes who lived in those fantasies never had trouble finding a parking space, either. Tarrant was a full three blocks from the main action and the curbs were still clogged. At least he was getting paid nearly enough for the annoyance.
Four blocks down he found a spot and gratefully pried out of the driver’s seat. Without hurry, he locked up and strolled back, eyes raking the dim areas between streetlights. He located one parked cop car and counted three more cruising past, each with two officers inside. That was a lot of muscle even for a party night, but Ellum was long-infamous for problems. The patrol car occupants gave him the hairy eyeball, but he just smiled and sent them a friendly wave. Cops were his friends, after all, there to keep him and other honest citizens safe from the dregs of society.
He trotted up the metal exterior stairs and knocked on the Deacons’ door. No reply, but he’d expected that. Kyle usually played with a club band on weekends and Amanda went with him. That detail seen to, Tarrant pulled on surgical gloves and got out his collection of lock picks and skeleton keys, entering the loft about thirty seconds later.
The place smelled heavily of incense and mildew; the housekeeping exceeded his most pessimistic prediction. Without a maid to look after things, they both proved to be slobs. Clothing, booze bottles, empty beer and diet drink containers littered the floor. Flipping on a light was unnecessary; they’d left several burning, indication of an after-dark departure.
He made a quick search of the more obvious hiding holes, turning up a wad of fifties and twenties under the futon along with a loaded Glock. Tarrant had never warmed up to the brand. They got the job done, but just didn’t feel right in his hand. He decided this one would work better for him if he took the bullets out of the magazine and did so, dropping them into one of his vest pockets, not forgetting the round in the chamber. He slipped the pistol back into place, wondering if Kyle would notice the weight change. Probably not.
Along with another Glock (which he also neutered) under the unmade bed, and a third (the owner must be a real fan) in the kitchen, Tarrant found a fine variety of pharmaceuticals: pot, some possible Ecstasy, and bags of small oblong blue pills that might be Xanax. A party-hearty starter set. His roughest estimate put them at a street value close to twenty grand, and these were just what he’d turned up on a surface search. It would be easy enough to make a phone call to have a couple of DEA types waiting there for the Deacons to return, but that would land Amanda in jail. Mrs. Pangford would not be pleased, though time in a lockup might do her step-brat some good.
How had Kyle gotten the seed money for this kind of stash? Suppliers only sold in bulk, leaving the piss-ant sales to the small fry dealers. He’d need at least five figures to start with, then keep buying more stock with the profit money to build up the trade. Maybe he’d borrowed from a mob shark against his wife’s trust fund without mentioning the down side, like the wife being unable to touch the money. They might get mad at him if they learned the truth. Or they might not care and off them both if anything went wrong.
Tarrant had an idea about how to turn that to his advantage, but first he had to close the store and dump the inventory.
He now made a thorough search of the place, finding more illegal chemicals. Strips of LSD blotters lay in plain sight in the freezer. Kyle Deacon might possess a rat’s instinctive cunning, but he was dumb as a brick.
Tarrant found a metal wastebasket and, after removing the battery from the fire alarm, made a little blaze of the blotters. The pot and pills he ground to oblivion in the kitchen garbage disposal, using gallons of hot water to dissolve everything. After putting the alarm battery back, he left, politely relocking the front door.
The outside air was sweet and cold. He breathed deep to clear his lungs of the upstairs stuffiness and checked his watch. He’d been at work for over an hour. Not bad. He walked down the street as though he owned it, until he reached the Iguana’s Cave Club. According to regular charges on their cards, it was the couple’s favorite hangout.
On Saturday nights after ten it changed its name to The Temple, and Goths in the area converged there to see who was the most groveling fashion slave. A slim girl walked past him as he checked the area. She wore a transparent black body suit, only just legal in public by the use of a G-string beneath and a few strips of electrician’s tape criss-crossed over her nipples.
He grinned. And I’m getting paid to do this.
He followed her toward the entrance. Though he was obviously of an age to drink, the bouncers asked for ID. He good-naturedly presented one that looked real and was passed in quick so he could pay the cover charge and get his hand stamped. He smiled at the girl ahead of him and wondered where the hell she kept her money.
Techno music boomed loud in the lobby and grew deafening once he found his way inside. The main dance floor was an oblong pit wi
th platforms at each end for the more extroverted types to show off their physical coordination skills. Both sexes and a few genders in between filled the place. Nearly all were head-to-toe in black with matching dyed hair, lipstick, nail polish, and bits of silver-plated hardware piercing various parts of their bodies. More often than not some of them sported fangs. A round-faced girl flashed hers at him in a teasing way, flicking her studded tongue, trying to look both dangerous and seductive. All he saw was jail-bait. Tattoos, once a male’s rite of passage to prove his toughness or to advertise a military affiliation, were now regulated to being a cliché fashion statement.
Girls who wanted to be noticed as such were in paint-tight outfits, breasts pushed prominently high by corseting; the boys were either in equally tight jeans or pants so baggy and low on the hips as to make walking difficult and wedgies easy. One male slouched by in a black skirt and combat boots, his too-thin chest and nipple rings on display beneath a net T-shirt. Obviously from the peculiar end of the gene pool.
Drugs were present. Tarrant didn’t have to see them; as a matter of course he simply noticed their effect on the crowd. There was an artificial quality to their body movements, like actors who’d played the same part too often. What a shame to be so young and world-weary.
He looked for Kyle Deacon, but the platform where a live band should have been was thick with dancers, not instruments and players. He’d be difficult to spot in this mix of darkness and flashing lights. By the time Tarrant’s night vision adjusted the light show would change or a muffled faux explosion would take place. Then special effects smoke roiled across the flailing dancers and curled up to the ceiling. He’d seen real hell before in combat once upon a time; this was the fantasy version, dramatic enough for the inexperienced, just plain silly to one who knew.
The music changed to a slower tempo, the driving bass vanishing for an extended phrase of electronic whooshing, like jets taking off. It made a change from the techno beat, which sounded like a breathing exercise for women in the last stages of labor. Amazingly, the kids were still dancing to it, if one could call it that. A tall girl with a too-black curtain of hair swayed in the middle of the pit. She appeared to be tossing invisible pizza dough the way she waved her arms over her head. It did show off her lack of a bra. Nice figure. She might make for a good weekend, providing she didn’t talk.