by Chris Culver
“I noticed,” said Sherlock, sitting beside his client and pulling the limo’s heavy door shut behind him. He looked at the driver. “Take us to the Wayfair Motel. We passed it on the way into town.”
As soon as the driver nodded and pulled away from the curb, Sherlock hit a button to close the glass partition that separated the front from the rear of the vehicle. Then he stared at his client.
“You wanted to move to St. Augustine, you wanted to see Sheriff Kosen, and you wanted to get your face on TV. None of that was a good idea, but you insisted,” he said, locking his gaze on Christopher’s. “Talking to Detective Court wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Relax,” said Christopher, straightening his shirt. “Nothing happened. I wanted to make sure she remembered me.”
“Did she?” asked Sherlock.
“Oh, yeah,” said Christopher, laughing. “That little bitch is terrified of me.”
Somehow Sherlock doubted that. He hadn’t seen fear in her eyes; she had been angry.
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing,” said Christopher. Sherlock stared at him without blinking until the other man sighed. “I asked how she was doing. I wanted to gauge whether she was a threat. She’s not. She’s nothing. She almost pissed herself when she saw me. I could have ripped off her clothes and fucked her right there on that conference room table, and she wouldn’t have told nobody.”
“She wouldn’t have told anybody,” said Sherlock, wiping his eyes. “If you want to go on television, you should at least speak well.”
He cocked his head to the side and smirked.
“What are you, the grammar police?”
“She’s the real reason you want to stay here, isn’t she?” asked Sherlock. Christopher said nothing. Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. “This is stupid.”
“Are you calling me stupid?” asked Christopher. “Where I’m from, people would cut you for less than that. Nuts to navel. I’ve seen it happen. Your guts spill out on the ground, and you die in your own shit and piss.”
“If they’re willing to murder someone over an insult, that’s why they’re in prison,” said Sherlock. “They’re stupid. And if you think threatening your lawyer makes sense, you’re even stupider than they are.”
Christopher narrowed his eyes and balled his left hand into a fist.
“If I smack you around some, you still going to think I’m stupid?”
“You’re not in prison anymore. The rules out here are different,” said Sherlock, lowering his voice and leaning forward. “In prison, you might have been some kind of big shot, but out here, you’re nothing. You don’t even have any friends but me.”
Christopher had the eyes of an animal. Sherlock gave him fifty-fifty odds he’d lash out. Instead, he laughed.
“You’ve got balls,” he said. “I didn’t know that about you.”
“You’re my meal ticket, Mr. Hughes. In exchange for payment, I—and the men who work for me—will provide you services to the best of our considerable abilities. That does not mean you get to insult me. Now, will you allow me to do my job, or are you going to be stupid again? I’d rather know right away so I can plan.”
Christopher stopped smiling. Sherlock reached his hand to his belt and the knife holster he kept concealed there. The weapon had a curved ceramic blade and a hilt so he could draw it like a pistol. It was ugly, brutal, and sharp. He carried it as a weapon of last resort and because he could conceal it beneath his suit jacket. No client had ever given him reason to draw it, but Hughes could be the first.
“You’re my employee,” said Christopher. “You don’t get to talk like that.”
“I’m the only person standing between you and life in prison,” said Sherlock. “I’ll treat you with respect, but this is a two-way relationship. Do you trust me?”
“You got me out,” said Christopher, nodding. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Sherlock. “I did anyway, though, because I knew I would get paid. You still plan to pay me, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Christopher. “You’ll get your money.”
“Good. Then you’ll continue to get my advice and services.”
Christopher grunted. “Let’s talk about those services. My wife’s still breathing. I asked you to take care of her.”
“As your counselor, I’d advise you to stop requesting that I kill your ex-wife,” said Sherlock. “First, she’s great in bed, and I like her a lot more than I like you. Second, if she goes down, every detective in St. Louis County will look right at you. Third, you don’t kill people if you don’t have to. Killing her is a risk for which there is no commensurate reward.”
For a moment, Christopher didn’t react. Then his hands shot out and grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his jacket. His breath was hot on the lawyer’s face.
“How do you know my wife is good in bed?”
Sherlock’s heart pounded hard. With the partition up, the limo driver couldn’t see anything they did. That worked out well for everybody. Sherlock slipped the knife from his belt holster and brought it to his client’s throat. The tip dug into the soft flesh, scoring it until a drop of blood appeared.
“I’ve tried to be polite,” said Sherlock. “Let go of my jacket. If you don’t, I’ll open your throat.”
Christopher didn’t move. If anything, his expression grew uglier.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Sherlock. “You’re wondering whether I’m fast enough to kill you before you overpower me. It doesn’t matter. If I die here, the men who work for me will find you, cut off your testicles, shove them down your throat, and then leave you in a field to bleed to death. Do you understand?”
Christopher blinked and nodded before relaxing his grip. Sherlock lowered the knife.
“Now that we’ve got that out of our system,” said Sherlock, “can we talk like normal adults?”
“You didn’t have to cut me,” said Christopher, bringing his hand to his throat and then looking at the blood on his fingers. Sherlock pulled a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to him.
“No, I didn’t, but it got your attention,” said Sherlock. “We’re in a delicate situation. I’m negotiating with the state of Missouri and St. Louis County to compensate you for your illegal incarceration. With the media play this is getting, we’ve got the entire country on our side. If you do as I say, we’ll keep that goodwill and leverage it into a settlement that will make you a wealthy man.”
Christopher’s eyes flicked down to Sherlock’s hands before traveling to his face again.
“How wealthy are you going to make me?”
“Eight figures, I’m hoping. And who knows? Maybe you could get a book deal or a spot on Court TV.”
Christopher leaned back in his seat, his eyes distant. “I’d like to write a book.”
“People like authors,” said Sherlock, leaning back in his own seat and feeling his shoulders relax. If he could keep his client in check, this might still work. Christopher would die, but with luck he wouldn’t screw things up beforehand.
The limo pulled to a stop outside the Wayfair Motel a few moments later. Christopher rolled down his window.
“This is a shit hole.”
“Yeah,” said Sherlock, “but a lot of girls who work at the strip club across the street perform outcall work. If you’ve got the money, you’ll be able to get a blow job—or whatever else you want.”
He looked thoughtful and then nodded.
“They good looking?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Sherlock. “I don’t frequent strip clubs or prostitutes.”
“That’s right,” he said. “You’re nailing my wife.”
“Ex-wife,” said Sherlock, reaching into his briefcase for an envelope thick with hundred-dollar bills. He handed it to Christopher, who whistled. “This is your stop. Get some girls and have fun. Afterwards, hit the town. People need to see you.”
“Why?” a
sked Christopher, thumbing through the money.
“Because I have a project in the city.”
Christopher nodded. “So you need me to establish an alibi.”
Sherlock looked to the strip club. The bouncer must have seen the limo because three girls came out.
“With ten grand, I expect you to establish three or four alibis.”
Christopher chuckled and looked to the girls walking toward their car.
“I like the way you think,” he said, opening his door. “Catch you later. This is going to be fun.”
Sherlock watched as Christopher crossed the street and embraced the girls. They may not have known him, but they recognized a man on the prowl.
Sherlock had work to do, so he hit a button to open the partition. The frosted glass slid down, and the limo driver glanced back.
“Where to, sir?”
“My office in St. Louis,” he said, already taking out his cell phone. He closed the partition again and dialed the number of Diana Hughes. She answered after two rings. “Hey. I might be late. I’ve got to meet people at my office to talk about your ex-husband. I have to kill him sooner than I expected.”
26
I drove home but slowed almost to a stop before reaching my driveway. There was a gray full-size SUV in my driveway, and my living room windows were open. Travis had been my adoptive mother’s partner in the St. Louis County Police Department for almost ten years. They still kept in touch and talked about me often. This was why Travis had told me to go home. He knew my parents had come in.
I parked in the driveway next to my dad’s vehicle and stepped out, expecting Roger to come barreling toward me. He didn’t, so I whistled and waited. Again, he didn’t come. Roger had free rein of the property around my house, but he never left except to visit Suzanne next door. Julia must have taken him for a walk. She liked to do that, and he liked having new people around.
I walked to the front porch and smelled baking bread. That was Dad’s hobby. He had been a fireman for thirty years. Living at a firehouse twenty-four hours a day with a bunch of other men hadn’t always been easy. When he first joined up, he didn’t know how to keep a house—and a firehouse was a home for the men who worked in it—so one of the other guys taught him how to cook, and a second taught him how to bake bread. He had a gift in the kitchen and had made some of the finest dinners I had ever eaten.
I stopped and took a deep breath. Then I caught a whiff of cinnamon and vanilla and browned butter. Those delectable smells weren’t coming from bread; Dad was making coffee cake, one of my favorites. He had made it for me the day I graduated from high school and the day I finished the police academy. Even years later, whenever I smelled coffee cake, I felt like I was home.
I tossed my purse beside Julia’s on the table in the entryway.
“Dad,” I called. “I’m home.”
“Hey, honey,” he said, peeking his head into the hallway from the kitchen. My home had the same layout it had when its builder constructed it a hundred years ago. A hallway ran down the middle of the building, and rooms branched off to the left and right. The kitchen was in back so the stove wouldn’t warm the rest of the house on hot summer days.
I walked down a hardwood floor that had held fathers and daughters for over a hundred years, and I felt a still calmness flood through me. I felt content and connected. My dad and Julia kept me grounded, even when the world around me came unmoored. I was lucky to have them in my life. I couldn’t always say that aloud, but it was true all the same. They were my family, not by genetics, but by choice. That made them even more precious.
When I reached the kitchen, Dad tossed me a cotton apron and turned his attention to a cutting board on the mobile island in the middle of the floor. I slipped the loop of the apron over my head and tied it around my back as Dad chopped an onion. When he looked up, he smiled.
“I like this kitchen island,” he said. “Is it new?”
“New and old,” I said, nodding. “Wood came from an ash tree on the neighbor’s property. He had to cut it down before the emerald ash borer killed it. It’s a bug. I dried the wood in the shed out back and then built an island from it.”
He grinned.
“I’m glad someone taught you how to do all that. Your mother and I don’t have a handy bone in our bodies.”
“I know,” I said, nodding and trying not to smile. “I’ve seen bookcases you’ve tried to build.”
He glanced up. He wasn’t smiling, but he was close.
“If you’ve got another cutting board, I need diced carrots and celery. Assuming that’s not too much trouble, smartass.”
I smiled and then went to the cabinet beside my fridge.
“Did Julia take Roger for a walk?”
“Yeah,” he said. He paused for a moment. “You know, it hurts her feelings when you call her Julia and me Dad.”
It was an old discussion but still a sore point. I put my cutting board on the counter beside the sink so I could chop and answer without having to look him in the eye.
“She knows I love her,” I said.
“That’s true. She knows.”
The way he said it let me know he had hoped to hear something different. I blinked and then cut the ends off the carrots.
“You’re the only dad I’ve ever had, but I’ve had a mom. Julia’s not her.”
Almost the moment the words left my lips, the front door opened, and I heard Roger’s nails on the hardwood floor as he walked inside. I looked down the hallway to see Julia stepping inside. Roger bounded into the kitchen, stopped beside me so I could scratch his cheek, and then devoured a carrot peeling that had fallen on the floor. He looked happy. I wished life were that easy for me, too.
When I looked at my dad, his eyes held just a hint of sadness.
“Please don’t let Julia hear you say that,” he said.
Before I could respond, Julia walked into the room. She wore jeans, a white shirt, and a navy blazer. Her brown and gray hair just swept the top of her shoulders. My foster mother was a fox. I had seen pictures of my father when he and Julia first dated, and to this day, I didn’t understand how they had gotten together. Dad was funny and kind, but Julia was way out of his league. They loved each other, though.
“Don’t let me hear you say what?” she asked.
I cleared my throat. “Nothing special. I was complaining about work. Travis has been a taskmaster these past couple of days.”
“I see,” she said, going to the fridge and taking out a glass pitcher full of iced tea. “Your dad’s right. We’re not here to talk about work. We’re here to relax. Roger’s looking good.”
I looked to the dog, and he walked toward me and sat down, his mouth open in a gaping doggy grin. The hair on the tip of his muzzle had grown gray, and he had a noncancerous tumor on his belly, but he looked good. My vet had said the tumor wasn’t anything to worry about unless it impeded his ability to run, but I still worried. I didn’t like to see him growing old.
I patted his cheek and then scratched his ear the way he liked. His tail thumped behind him.
“He’s a good boy,” I said, looking from the dog to Julia. “He’s getting old, but he’s healthy for now. My vet has warned me that dogs his age decline quickly.”
“Spend as much time with him as you can,” said Julia, kneeling beside him and petting his head. Roger soaked in the attention. It was hard not to smile at a happy dog.
For the next hour, Dad and I made dinner—a chicken, pepper, and potato casserole—while Roger and Julia sat at the kitchen table. We chatted about my foster siblings, and about my house and all the projects I had ongoing. For the entire time they were in the house, we didn’t talk about Christopher Hughes or my case.
For a brief afternoon and evening, life was normal again. The worried knot in my stomach unraveled, and I laughed at Dad’s jokes and held Julia’s hand under the table. I hadn’t realized how much I needed that until Dad stood up and carried our dinner dishes to the sink.
&
nbsp; According to the clock on my microwave, it was ten to nine. I stretched my arms overhead and yawned.
“It’s getting late, guys,” I said. “I need my beauty sleep. I’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
Dad slowed, and Julia looked at the table in front of us.
“What’s Travis have you doing?” she asked.
With one question, the world came crashing back. I looked down at my hands.
“Julia,” said Dad, his voice low. “We agreed not to talk about work.”
“She’s my daughter,” said Julia. “I want to make sure she’s okay.”
“I’m okay, guys,” I said. “I’m fine. Work is going well. I’ve been working a missing-persons case, but tomorrow I’ll work on Megan Young’s death again.”
Julia said nothing, but Dad crossed his arms.
“I wish Travis hadn’t put you on this case.”
“He needs the help.”
“You shouldn’t be on that case,” said Julia. “I can call Travis tomorrow and talk to him. If he needs help, I can lend him one of my detectives.”
I blinked and then forced myself to smile.
“I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine,” I said. “This is my case, and I’ll see it to fruition. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
Both nodded but said nothing. As we cleaned up, Julia tried reviving a discussion we had started about books, but that went nowhere. Then Dad brought up Roger and a friend who had a similar dog who lived to fourteen. I hoped Roger would make it to eleven or twelve, but I couldn’t see him living another four years—and if he did, he wouldn’t be healthy. As much as I loved him, even I knew his best days were behind him.
Our conversation sort of tapered off after that. At nine-thirty, I walked them to the front door and gave them both hugs. I told them I loved them and that I’d call if I needed anything. As I watched their taillights disappear, all the warmth and hope I had felt just a few minutes earlier evaporated. I didn’t feel sad. It was more fatigue than anything else.
I petted Roger and then went to the kitchen for a glass, which I filled with ice and vodka. Afterwards, I stared at the drink. Alcohol made life easier to bear. If I had enough drinks, I didn’t mind that my house was falling apart, or that I didn’t have many friends, or that my job sucked the joy out of life. I didn’t care about anything when I was drunk.
