Down and Dirty (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 9)

by A W Hartoin

  Despite Mr. Gates’ fierce appearance he said in a soft, gentle voice, “He’s popular today.”

  “Is he?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. John won’t be available for a while. Is there something I can help you with?” Mr. Gates smiled at me shyly. “Miss Watts.”

  This could be a good thing, but the odds weren’t in my favor.

  “Is he here?” I asked.

  “He is, but I’m sure I can help you.”

  “Can you by chance tell me what time he got here this morning?”

  Gates cocked his big head sideways. “We open at ten.”

  “He was here at ten?”

  “Of course.”

  “He wasn’t late?”

  He frowned. “John’s never late. He’s early.”

  “Was he early today?” I asked. “What time did he get here?”

  “I don’t know. I got here at twenty till and he’d made the coffee already. Why do you ask?”

  I played it off. Catherine’s loft to the store was at least twenty minutes. John couldn’t have thrown the urine at nine fifteen and made it there in time to make the coffee. That was such a relief I very nearly called it good and left. But I didn’t because I’m stupid.

  “So where is he?’ I asked.

  “He’s…busy. Is this something to do with the trouble in Columbia, that Babcock mess?”

  Left field.

  “No. Not at all,” I said. “I’m a friend of his wife.”

  “Between you and me, my regional manager thinks what happened over there is ridiculous. He might be persuaded to replace your lobby furniture at cost.”

  That stopped me. “Really?”

  “If you would agree to a little photo op picking out the furniture,” he said.

  Naturally.

  “I’ll think about it. So where’s John?”

  “How hard will you think about it?” Mr. Gates asked.

  I’m so tired. Can I catch a break?

  “I don’t know. What do you want from me?” I asked.

  “A handshake.”

  No breaks for me.

  “I can’t make a deal. It’s not my clinic, not my furniture.”

  “But the news said—”

  “The news is wrong. I will pass on your offer to my boss and if she wants it, I’m game. Now where is John?” I asked.

  Mr. Gates made a face, an embarrassed, I don’t know what to do, but I can’t say so because I’m a man face.

  “Spill it. How bad can it be?”

  He leaned over from his considerable height and whispered, “He got a phone call.”

  “Nightmare,” I said. “What was it about?”

  “I don’t know, but I think he’s…”

  I rolled my eyes. “What? Taking a dump? Getting yelled at for selling an ottoman dirt cheap? What?”

  Mr. Gates whispered so quietly, I almost couldn’t hear him. “Crying.”

  Alrighty then. Didn’t see that coming. No wonder the tough guy Mr. Gates looked like he needed a drink before five o’clock. Men don’t cry. Dad did after Mom was attacked, but it took a monumental event to trigger it.

  “Did someone die?” I asked. “Give me a hint.”

  “I asked, but he wouldn’t say. Might be his mother. They had to put her into long-term care.”

  I guess there’ll be no screaming today.

  “Where is he?”

  “In the back, but you don’t want to go back there.”

  “Is someone else with him?”

  Mr. Gates drew back to his full height. “Of course not.”

  “Let me get this straight. You think the man’s mother died, he’s crying, and nobody’s going to talk to him?”

  “That’s private.”

  “Aren’t you friends?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. John’s a great guy,” said Mr. Gates.

  Sometimes there’s nothing you can say that they will hear. I rolled my eyes and went to the back, unafraid, unlike the guy out front that could probably take a bullet and not notice for a few minutes. Men.

  I pushed open the staff lounge door and called out, “John? Are you in here?”

  Nothing. There were stacks of boxes and a warren of cabinets he could’ve been tucked in so I tried again.

  “It’s Mercy Watts. Gates told me you were back here.”

  Nothing.

  I tiptoed in and let the door close with a snap. The instant it did a shuddering sob echoed around the room. Why do they make it hard? It’s not like I’m known for giving up. For being an idiot, yes. Giving up, no.

  “John, I can hear you,” I said.

  “Oh God,” he said.

  “You want to come out or should I come back there?”

  John Collier walked out between stacks of boxes labeled “Miscellaneous” and stood as far from me as possible, ramrod straight with recently dried eyes that happened to be blood red. “Hi, Mercy. How are you?”

  “Better than you apparently. What happened?”

  “Nothing. Are you in the market for a new sofa? We have a great promotion going on right now.”

  “Skanky will just barf on it,” I said. “I hate to ask, but did something happen to your mom?”

  He frowned. “No. Why would you ask that?”

  “Gates thinks you’re in here crying because somebody died because apparently that’s the only reason dudes cry.”

  John adjusted his tie and said, “Nobody died. Seriously, we have this stain protectant that repels everything, including cat vomit.”

  “Fascinating,” I said. “So nobody died? Nothing tragic happened?”

  “Righty-oh. We’re all good,” he said.

  Righty-oh? What the crap is that?

  “Something’s up.”

  He got the crazy eyes you sometimes see in mugshots. “Nope. We’re fine. So fine we should get an award.”

  “Sounds like bullshit, but okay, we’ll go with that,” I said. “Does the name Catherine Cabot ring a bell?”

  The crazy eyes got bigger.

  “Or perhaps Katy Frommer?”

  Bigger still and a little bulging.

  “John? Hello? Katy? Catherine?”

  He didn’t answer. He did an about face and booked it out another door in the back. I stood there in shock with Marge Gunderson’s voice from Fargo ringing in my head. “Oh for Pete’s sake, he’s fleeing the interview! He’s fleeing the interview!”

  The door beside me cracked open and Gates said, “Mercy, you okay in there?”

  “Son of a bitch!” I ran after John, bursting through the back door and racing into the storage and loading area. I caught a glimpse of John running past a couple guys in overalls.

  “Hey! John!” yelled one.

  Another tried to head him off. “John! What the—”

  John ran right out a loading bay and jumped.

  John looked up at me from where he was sprawled on the pavement, arms and legs askew. “I didn’t die.”

  “It’s only seven feet,” I said. “You were hoping that would kill you?”

  “Maybe.”

  One of the workmen, Al by his name tag, said, “Should we call an ambulance?”

  “Or the police,” said his partner, Joe.

  “We’re not calling anyone yet,” I said. “How do I get down there?”

  They showed me a ladder and I climbed down to John, who was sitting up and red with embarrassment. “Sorry about that.”

  I checked him over. No broken bones. Only some scrapes to the palms. Not nearly dead.

  “What should we do?” asked Joe.

  “Nothing. He panicked when I said his mom took a fall,” I called up to him.

  “Did she?” whispered John.

  “No. Shut up,” I hissed at him.

  Al scratched his head. “Oh shit. You gotta get to the hospital, man. Falls at that age can be bad.”

  “He will,” I said. “I’m taking him.”

  I pulled John out of sight toward the parking lot and asked, “What the hell w
as that?”

  “You know. My mom,” said John looking everywhere but at me.

  I punched his shoulder. “I made that up.”

  “Oh, right. Nothing. Everything’s fine.”

  I craned my neck and sighed. “This is so far from fine I can’t see it from here.”

  “I think I’ll get back to work now,” he said, sauntering off before I snagged his sleeve. “I know about you and Catherine aka Katy.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Catherine? I don’t know any Catherine.”

  “She has pictures of your junk on her phone and now my Uncle Morty has them. Care to reassess?” I asked.

  John Collier sank to his knees and said, “She’s going to tell her. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Who’s going to tell who?”

  “Her. Katy.”

  After I left Catherine, she called John and accused him of throwing urine on her. If he didn’t leave her alone, she’d call Clem and tell her that they were having whatever they were having. John was completely panicked, guilty, scared beyond reason, and it was weird to watch. Joe Hove, I got. He fell in love with something that wasn’t about love. John? No idea.

  “Are you leaving Clem?” I asked when he stopped rambling.

  “I can’t leave Clem,” he said.

  “But you want to?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? Because you’re cheating on her,” I said.

  “Not really. I never met Katy. Never, not once.”

  I crossed my arms and leaned on a delivery truck. “You know I’ll make it my business to find out if you did.”

  John stood up and faced me. “I didn’t. Look as hard as you want.”

  If he was lying, he was damn good at it, but I still didn’t understand what was going on.

  “Are you in love with Katy?” I asked.

  “God no. She’s a friend.”

  “That you get naked with.”

  “I’ve never gotten naked with her,” he said.

  “I don’t think Clem will see it that way.”

  “Are you going to tell her?”

  “Nope. You are.”

  We went back and forth about who was telling her. There was a point when I thought he might run out into traffic. He was that freaked. But I wasn’t letting it go and I wanted to know why. He gave me the usual excuses. Lonely. Clem worked a tremendous amount. Caring for seriously, sometimes terminally ill children took everything she had. John loved her and admired her, but he still betrayed her. It was crazy.

  “You’re telling her,” I said.

  “She’ll be so upset.”

  “I just hope she doesn’t murder you. My dad taught her how to shoot.”

  “I guess it’s good that we don’t own a gun,” said John. “Mercy?”

  I winced. “Yeah?”

  “What if she divorces me?”

  What do you say to that? John made his bed and for some reason he didn’t think he should have to lie in it. I disagreed and the conversation was over.

  I pushed him back inside, told Gates John’s mom was fine, and called another Uber. My bill was going to be huge, but the vintage car guys left me a message saying that the truck was fixed and ready to roll. Mom left three messages. One saying Dad was crazy and two about how she was sure she could go to Greece, if I went with her. Nope.

  My Uber was heading back to my apartment when Uncle Morty called. I almost didn’t answer, but if I didn’t he’d yell.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Where you been?” he growled.

  I looked at the ceiling of the Prius and yawned. “I imagine you know.”

  “How’d John take it?”

  “He tried to kill himself by jumping off a loading dock.”

  “That ain’t gonna do it,” said Uncle Morty.

  “Right you are.”

  “I got something on Catherine’s accounts.”

  “That’s a hard pass.”

  “Eh?”

  I told him I was done. Catherine was a nutcase. She knew I was going to John to rule him out and she threatened him anyway. Big Steve could call the police about the urine thrower or not. I couldn’t care less.

  “Somebody wants to hurt her,” said Uncle Morty.

  “They can join the club.”

  “You made a deal.”

  “I’m so tired of deals. I’m going home to my cat and that stupid parrot to take some Tylenol and nap. You okay with that?”

  He wasn’t and I didn’t care. I hadn’t had a nap in forever. Mom was home and safe. Dad’s new tireless secretary still had him in the office working on taxes and hiring packages. Chuck was working and nobody needed anything.

  That lasted fifteen minutes. Right up until the moment the Uber arrived on my street. Calabasas called. I swiped him away. He called again. Swipe. Again. Swipe. He was so persistent I felt guilty. After all, I liked the guy and I had sent him over to Catherine’s house of the unclean.

  I tipped my Uber driver and dragged myself out of his Prius.

  “Hi, Mr. Calabasas,” I said, fumbling with my keys. “What’s up?”

  “I’m at Catherine’s,” he whispered. “It took me a half hour just to get her to let me in.”

  “Not surprising. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Tell me what to do.”

  “Why are you whispering?” I asked.

  Catherine was changing clothes and Calabasas was in the entryway, if you could call it that, trying to figure out if she was completely nuts or just partially. I think he was panicking. Quietly.

  “I think she’s a hoarder,” he whispered.

  “Bingo.”

  “Like on TV.”

  “Yep,” I said.

  “She needs to clean this place.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Can you come talk to her?” he asked and he was serious.

  I got the front door key poised before the lock. “About what?”

  “This mess.”

  “You talk to her. You know her better than me.”

  “I think something died in here.”

  I opened the door. “I think you’re right, Mr. Calabasas. And on that disgusting note, I’m out.”

  “Hey,” he said loudly. “It’s Mercy on the phone, Catherine. She thinks we should meet.”

  Holy crap.

  “Don’t tell her that,” I said. “I’m not meeting her. I don’t like her. She sucks and she’s nuts.”

  “Mercy says you two should go to lunch,” he said.

  “Really?” said Catherine in the background.

  “I will kill you to death,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere with her. She’s screwing my friend’s husband.”

  “She does, I swear to you,” said Mr. Calabasas.

  “I’ll get my coat,” said Catherine.

  “No,” I said.

  “I’ll pay you, Mercy,” he whispered. “I don’t know what to do and she likes you. She thinks you’re fantastic and fabulous.”

  “No. Call her flipping father. He made that mess he can clean it up.”

  “How can I tell him his daughter is…this?”

  “Not my problem.”

  “Alright, Mercy,” he said in normal volume. “We’re coming down now. Where do you want to meet?”

  I was going to hang up on him. I had to, but I couldn’t quite do it. Hanging up on people is impolite. I did it to Uncle Morty, but it was Uncle Morty who defined impolite. Mr. Calabasas was nice and my mother’s training was strong.

  “I’m hanging up now,” I said.

  “How about that burger place? The Star Trek one?” Mr. Calabasas insisted.

  “Kronos!” called out Catherine. “I’ll get the door.”

  Yeah, like that’s going to happen.

  “Hanging up.”

  “We’ll be there in—”

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  Mr. Calabasas grunted and the phone clattered, probably hitting the ground.

  “Mr. Calabasas!” I
screamed. “Mr. Calabasas! Catherine!”

  There was a high-pitched wail in the background that I took for a siren for a second, but it was Catherine screaming. I hung up, dialed 911, yanked my key out of the door, and ran around the building to my newly-repaired truck.

  “911. What is your emergency?” said the dispatcher.

  “There’s gunfire in Lafayette Square,” I yelled as I fired up my truck and hit the gas, peeling out of the alley.

  “Can you give me your name and address,” she said.

  “Mercy Watts.” I gave her Catherine’s address.

  “Mercy?”

  “Yes. Someone has been shot at that address. We need an ambulance and a response unit.”

  “I’m sending units right now,” she said. “Are you at the scene?”

  “No. I was on the phone with them.” I think I was yelling.

  “Who were you talking with?” She was so calm it was infuriating.

  “Kevin Calabasas and Catherine Cabot.”

  “How do you know them?”

  “Who fucking cares?” I hung up and I didn’t feel guilty.

  Traffic was bad, but it could’ve been a lot worse. I dodged around cars on Lindell, cut over Forest Park to Jefferson and made it in record time. Seven minutes, getting there just after the EMTs. I ran the truck up into the manicured lawn next to Catherine’s building and raced over to a cluster of EMTs, running past the two uniforms, who might’ve fired on me if they hadn’t been so surprised. I was lucky. I had my phone in my hand. That typically doesn’t work out well.

  “Hey!” yelled the first uniform. “Stop!”

  Mr. Calabasas was on the sidewalk in a pool of blood the size of an inner tube. Catherine kneeled at his head, still screaming with her bloody hands over her eyes. I grabbed her. “Catherine! Have you been hit?”

  She continued screaming and I forced her hands down. “Catherine! It’s Mercy! Look at me!”

  A uniform tried to force me away from her, but I smacked his hand. “Stop it, moron!”

  He pointed his weapon at me. I ignored him as he reported me as an unidentified female at the scene refusing commands. Whatever.

  Catherine’s eyes focused on me. “Mercy.”

  “Are you hit?”

  “I…I…”

  I started checking her. She was wearing a rain coat with the hood up and was so covered in blood I really couldn’t tell.

  “Step away from the victim,” said the uniform. Why didn’t he know me? Everybody knows me.

  “Secure the scene!” I yelled. “You’ve got an active shooter!”