Down and Dirty (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 9)

by A W Hartoin

  Happy to have a job, Timothy ran out to get ice chips.

  “Thank God,” said Molly. “You have to get me some food. Right now. I’m starving.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Fats. “Want do you want? Burger? Salad?”

  I grabbed her arm before she ran out. “You can’t give her food. She’s on ice chips.”

  “I haven’t eaten since noon yesterday. They’re trying to starve me to death. I want a burger and fries.”

  “You can’t have food. You’re on ice chips,” I said.

  “Screw that,” said Fats.

  Molly pointed at her. “Yes. I’m having a baby here. I need food.”

  “If they have to intubate—”

  “That’s not going to happen,” said Fats. “How often does that happen?”

  “I don’t know, but we can’t give her food,” I said.

  Molly tried to cross her arms over her belly, but ended up leaving them limp at her sides. “I hate you. I’m so hungry and stupid ice chips.”

  “Can you please tell me about the account?”

  “Why should I?” she asked. “You won’t give me food.”

  “Well, your boss is up in the ICU and you seem to like him,” I said.

  She got blubbery. “I do. He’s putting in a nursery for the baby.”

  Timothy rushed in with a new cup. “What happened? Did she ask you for food?”

  I bit my lip.

  “You know you can’t have food. As soon as it’s over, you can have anything you want.”

  “I could be in labor for another twenty-four hours. Tell him, Mercy,” said Molly.

  He looked at me in horror.

  “It could happen. Depends on the stage and how the baby’s doing.”

  “Oh God. I can’t take this for another twenty-four hours,” he said. “They have to do something.”

  “Cut it out,” said Molly. “It’s almost been twenty-four hours already.”

  “You don’t want a C-section, honey.”

  “The hell I don’t.”

  On cue the Labor and Delivery nurse came in with a syringe. “Dr. Peterson authorized some Pitocin to get things moving.” She looked at us and said in that super calm, everything’s fine Labor and Delivery voice, “You’ll have to leave now.”

  “Please, Molly,” I said. “What can you tell me about the account?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

  I hated to ask, it was so invasive, but I held up the briefcase. “Can you let me in your laptop then?”

  “Are you kidding?” asked Timothy. “Get out of here. She’s having a baby.”

  “Give me that.” Molly reached out for the briefcase and I got out the laptop for her.

  “Molly, don’t worry about that now,” he said.

  “Shut up or get me a sandwich.”

  “Molly!”

  I put the laptop on her lap and she reached around her belly for it, straining and failing to reach the keys. She reminded me of an extra-fluffy sheep I’d once seen in England that somehow got on its back and couldn’t roll over to get up. The farmer had to go out and push it over.

  “I’m so fat,” she sniffed.

  “You’re not fat,” I said.

  She yanked the blanket off her feet. “Look at my feet. Look at them!”

  Fats recoiled. Calling those things feet was generous. They looked more like a couple of uncooked haggises, which I had the displeasure to see when Aaron decided that haggis was the thing to bring back Tiny’s strength.

  “That’ll go away soon enough,” said the nurse. “Can you take that laptop? She doesn’t need to be working now.”

  “I agree,” said Timothy.

  “Nobody asked you,” said Molly.

  “Come on, honey. You know I love you.”

  “If you loved me, you’d give me food.”

  I held up my hand. “How about you give me the password and we’ll be out of your hair.”

  Molly looked down at her belly. “I can’t.”

  “You don’t know it?” I asked.

  “Oh, I know it. It’s just embarrassing.”

  Why, people, why?

  “How embarrassing?”

  “I don’t want to say.”

  “Okay. If you want to give me your permission to hack it, that’ll be fine.”

  Her husband gripped her side rail. “You don’t have to give her anything. What would Kevin say?”

  “He’d say somebody shot me,” retorted Molly. She crooked a finger at me. I bent over and she whispered, “I love my snuggle bug.”

  It was too adorable. “Any capitals?”

  “Just the I.”

  “What is it?” asked Timothy, grabbing my arm.

  Molly put her nose in the air. “You don’t need to know.”

  “Is it bad?”

  I sucked in my lips and shook my head.

  “Tell me.”

  “No. Let go.”

  “Mercy?”

  “I can’t.”

  The nurse put in the Pitocin and the contraction was almost instantaneous. Molly gritted her teeth and slapped Timothy’s hands away. I made a beeline for the door, but Fats watched the back and forth over Molly’s swollen belly before she said, “I love my snuggle bug.”

  “What in the world?” asked the nurse.

  “That’s her password. My hearing is excellent. I love my snuggle bug.”

  Molly and Timothy looked at each other. He said, “I’m your snuggle bug.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  They hugged and blubbered between contractions. The nurse shooed us out and I was happy to go.

  When we were out in the hall, I asked, “What did you give her?”

  “What makes you think I gave her anything?” Fats pushed the down button on the service elevator. “Did you see anything?”

  “No. That’s why I think you did.”

  “That makes no sense,” she said.

  “Neither of us follow the rules. It was your turn to break them,” I said.

  “A PowerBar.”

  “For crying out loud. What did I tell you?” I stepped in the elevator and pushed the button before getting out my phone to call Spidermonkey.

  “That rule is stupid,” said Fats as she jerked her head to the side and her neck loudly popped. “When I’m in labor, you better give me food or there will be problems.”

  Fats in labor. I couldn’t imagine it would last long enough for a snack. She’d flex and the baby would shoot across the room.

  “Hey, it’s me, Spidermonkey,” I said.

  “Hello, me,” he said. “Bad news. Morty’s still MIA.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “He’s using cash and not using his phone or laptops,” he said.

  Fats was watching me with a curious expression on her face, but I ignored her.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I said. “My parents were supposed to go to Kronos before speech therapy, but they haven’t called yet.”

  “I doubt he’s there, but he hasn’t flown or taken a bus out of town,” said Spidermonkey. “I do have some news on Nikki however.”

  My chest got tight. There was the slightest hint of a tone change in his elegant South Carolina drawl. “Okay.”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Gone? Gone to where?”

  “New York so far. She took the red eye and your neighbors, the Papadakises, are with her.”

  “That’s weird, right?”

  “I’d say so. The library has her down as taking emergency leave,” said Spidermonkey.

  “What’s the emergency?” I asked.

  “I can’t find one. I’ve checked their Facebook pages and there hasn’t been a death in the family or a sudden illness. At least, none that has been reported.”

  “What about Instagram?”

  “They’re too old for Instagram. The ladies do have Pinterest, but there’s nothing there, of course.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” I said.

 
“Tell your father. He knows Morty well. As I recall he went dark after Jodie left him, but I couldn’t say where he went or what happened.”

  “You think Nikki left him?”

  “I think it’s a solid guess,” said Spidermonkey. “And I have confirmed those alibis for you. The Hoves, Doyle, and Clem’s husband were all where they say they were. They are also in the clear for this morning.”

  “This morning?”

  “Your truck.”

  “Oh, right. I didn’t think about that,” I said.

  “I thought I’d better make sure, particularly with the Hoves,” said Spidermonkey.

  “Why them?”

  “Joe Hove moved out last night. I was afraid he might take it out on you since Catherine’s already been punished enough, but he went to his mother’s house. I confirmed his and Patty’s locations with their pings off the cell tower. Neither went anywhere near you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “At least they’re off the list.”

  “That’s what you pay me for,” he said.

  The elevator doors open and we dodged a huge linen cart coming on before heading to the garage. Fats tapped me and asked, “What about the deep fakes?”

  “Fats wants to know about the deep fakes,” I said.

  “I made some headway, but there’s a tremendous amount of activity on that main site you gave me and I think it’s our best bet,” said Spidermonkey.

  “Which one is the main one?”

  “Fake ‘em till you break ‘em,” he said.

  “Nice.”

  “Anything but. Catherine is advertised prominently and her images sell well. I’m amazed that her details are accurate to her. I think she has the basis for a lawsuit. Honestly, something worse could’ve happened other than those pictures.”

  “Something did,” I said.

  “Yes, I’ve read and reread the messages that came with those pictures. There’s no hint of violence. They’re rather benign.”

  “I noticed that. It is a leap to go from ‘fire her’ to gunning her down in broad daylight.”

  “There is tremendous money involved so perhaps that was motivation enough,” said Spidermonkey. “Are you aware that the CFO of Midwest killed himself on Tuesday?”

  “I am. It might be a coincidence,” I said.

  Fats snorted and unlocked her truck. “Because there are not a lot of coincidences in crime.”

  Spidermonkey laughed. “And I consider her an authority.”

  “I think I’m insulted,” she said.

  “Don’t be,” I said. “He’s accurate.”

  “Perhaps.”

  I rolled my eyes and went around to get in the truck. “Fats is miffed.”

  “I apologize.”

  Fats pulled her seatbelt across her abdomen, but didn’t click it in. “Did you hear something?”

  “What?” I asked.

  She pulled off her Wayfarers and scanned the garage. “I don’t know, but I think we need to get out of here pronto.”

  “Works for me,” I said.

  She gunned the engine and pulled out of our space so fast that I strained my seatbelt.

  “What’s happening?” asked Spidermonkey.

  “Nothing.”

  “I’ll see what I can do with the bank, but their security is tight and so is Elite’s account security. I’m still not in Midwest’s files. It will take time. Did you get anything from Calabasas?”

  “He wasn’t awake.” I grabbed onto the Oh Shit handle as Fats yanked us to the right toward the garage exit. “Jesus, Fats, calm down.”

  “We might want to consider bringing in Novak,” said Spidermonkey.

  “We don’t need to. I got Calabasas’s secretary’s laptop.”

  “Excellent. We need to meet then. In fifteen?”

  I agreed, hung up, and turned in my seat to look at Fats. “What is your deal?”

  “You’re not the only one with feelings,” she said.

  “What do you feel?”

  “That someone is in here and they’re not friendly.”

  I held the laptop to my chest. “They might’ve seen that I have this.”

  “I’ll be curious to see what Molly has in there,” she said. “Too bad her labor came on. Would’ve saved some time.”

  “Well, you can’t choose when it happens,” I said.

  “That’s not what I’ve read.” She made another turn to exit the garage.

  “What did you read?”

  “That you can choose to have a C-section and pick the date or that exercise, spicy food, or sex can bring on labor,” said Fats, stopping for the gate to go up.

  “I know you like to read, but why would you be reading about that of all things?” I looked over and the edge of her lips twitched ever so slightly. “Oh, my God! No!”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  And with those fateful words, a shot shattered my window.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  FATS HIT THE gas and we plowed through the gate. It hit the windshield and shattered as we barreled out of the garage and right into a Ford Fiesta that decided to stop in the middle of the road. We moved that sucker a good fifteen feet before it hit a minivan that was waiting to turn.

  Another two shots rang out, one pinged off the hood and the other shattered the back window.

  Fats reached under her seat and brought out a big revolver. She slammed me back into the seat with her right hand and fired with her left, two quick shots. “Fuck. I missed him.”

  Then she dropped the revolver on my lap, yanked the wheel to the right, and rammed us up over the curb, flattening a row of bushes and taking out a parking sign.

  “I see you, you son of a bitch,” she said through bared teeth.

  That’s when I saw him. A man in hunting gear hauling ass to a rusty old pickup. He had a rifle in his left hand.

  “Are you crazy?” I screamed. “He has a gun.”

  “What do you think we have? A slingshot?”

  “You don’t chase the people who are trying to kill you!”

  She put on speed, jumping over the entrance lane and clipping the back of the truck before he could pull away. “You do!”

  “You can’t go by me! Look at me!”

  Fats grabbed the revolver and flung open her door, but he peeled out into traffic, ramming a Volvo so hard it spun off doing a three sixty into a lamp post before speeding away.

  “Son of a bitch!” Fats hit the gas, managed to avoid hitting anyone in an extraordinary feat of skill and reflexes and barreled off down the street, weaving through cars like they were standing still.

  The traffic was terrible. Monday morning. Everyone in St. Louis was on that road. We followed him onto sidewalks and through lawns. That truck was craptastic but it could go.

  Then we were on Grand and I thought we had him. The traffic had thinned a marginal amount and we were gaining. I had no idea what would happen then, but Fats did.

  “We’re almost there,” she said. “Shoot him.”

  “I’m not going to shoot him!”

  “Give me the gun!”

  “No! You’re a nutjob!” I yelled.

  Then she smiled. It was really more of a baring of teeth. “He’s going for 44. Idiot.” She pushed the Blue Tooth button on her dash and said, “Call Moe Licata.”

  “Hey, Fats, my girl,” said an elderly man. “What’s occurring?”

  “I’m chasing a guy who tried to shoot me. You still got somebody on 44?”

  “Which direction?”

  “I don’t know. We’re coming up on Grand.”

  “Sit tight,” said Moe and he hung up.

  “What’s he going to do?” I asked and then screamed as we barely missed a tractor trailer hauling asphalt shingles.

  “Reinforcements. He knows a guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “A cop. Alright?”

  “Oh my God!”

  Fats leaned forward, crouching over the wheel a lot like Mr. Incredible. “Here we go.”

 
But he didn’t get on 44 West. He flew over the overpass, skipping East, too. There was construction at the entrance to the SLU South campus and the traffic bottlenecked.

  “Shit,” said Fats. “Give me that gun.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Fine. I’ll grab him by his scrawny neck and squeeze.”

  She didn’t get the chance. He hung a left, barreling over the narrow center island in a grinding crash of axel against concrete and drove headlong into traffic. I don’t know how he made it, but he did, leaving a wave of destruction behind and no way for us to follow.

  “I can’t believe it. He lost me. Nobody loses me.”

  “You’re insane!” I leaned out the window and threw up, spraying the side of the truck and an unlucky Camry that happened to be there. The driver just stared up at me in amazement. He didn’t even give me the finger. I totally deserved it.

  “Did you get the plate?” asked Fats.

  I sat back and wiped my mouth on my sleeve. “There wasn’t one.”

  “What?”

  “It didn’t have a plate.”

  “Somebody knows what he’s doing,” said Fats.

  “Except he had a clean shot and he missed,” I said.

  She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “True.”

  “He tried to kill me.” Another wave of panic rose in my chest and I felt like I was vibrating and might burst apart any minute.

  Fats reached over, took the gun, and stowed it under the seat again. “I’m glad Moe was at the vet. She could’ve gotten seriously hurt.”

  “Huh?” I asked in a blur.

  “My dog. Oh, crap. Look at the time. I have to pick her up.” Fats joined the honking before driving over the island and driving back toward the hospital.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the vet. I’m late,” said Fats. “I hope she doesn’t think I’ve abandoned her.”

  “He tried to kill me,” I repeated.

  “Look at you all pale and queasy. You’d think this was the first time you’d been shot at.”

  “It’s always a surprise.”

  “You need to work on that.”

  My phone started buzzing from somewhere in the truck. “We’re supposed to be meeting Spidermonkey.”

  “Change of plans. We need to regroup.”

  “How?”

  Fats Blue Tooth went off, announcing Moe Licata calling.