by A W Hartoin
“You have a bigger fish,” I said. “How big?”
“Let’s just say that, like Catherine Cabot, I see things that other people don’t.”
Ameche’s eyes were practically glowing with excitement. “Like in other banks?”
“Could be,” she said. “So Mercy, know any good lawyers?”
“I do.”
“Want to give me a referral?”
I thought about it. Would Big Steve want to touch this? Cabot might object to one of his partners defending the people that sent Catherine’s pictures to Calabasas. Or maybe not. Dad always said that lawyers have their own sense of morality, their own rules. And maybe being on the inside Big Steve could make sure Catherine’s involvement was minimal or even kept under wraps completely.
“Big Steve Warnock,” I said.
“Really?” said Ameche. “Do you want her to get off?”
“She won’t, not completely.”
“I don’t understand you at all. She could’ve killed you, like shot you in the head.”
I readjusted my arm and started seriously worrying that the skin would split. “You know what? People have tried to kill me before. It’s not uncommon. I know what it looks like. That’s not her.”
“If you say so,” said Ameche. “I think your dad is going to have a different opinion.”
“Mine is the one that matters.”
“So this Big Steve, he’s the shit?” asked Emma.
Ameche and I both agreed that he was, but that there was no guarantee that he’d take the case.
“What can I do to sweeten the pot?” she asked.
“Make Ameche here be part of your deal,” I said. “Have him in the room when you make the deal. It’ll look good for him.”
“I can do that. But if I remember correctly this guy isn’t your boyfriend. What about him?”
“My so-called boyfriend has pissed me off and besides Ameche is sort of extended family.”
“I am?” asked Ameche.
“In a manner of speaking,” I said.
He shook his head. “I don’t want to take credit for something I didn’t do. This is your deal, Mercy.”
I gritted my teeth as a zing of burning pain went up my arm. “It can’t be my deal. I’m a civilian. Somebody’s going to take the credit. I’d rather it be you.”
“Not Chuck?”
“He’d give it to Julia.”
Ameche’s eyes darted away from mine. Oh, yeah. Julia was not getting my notch on her belt. Nope. Not going to happen.
“Besides, you helped me out this morning during the truck situation. I’d like to return the favor.”
“Yeah?”
“Without a doubt,” I said as Rita let out a fresh wail followed up with a string of cursing that just reiterated that the people she normally wanted to impress had abandoned her completely.
“Rita Weeks might sue you,” said Ameche. “She’s already threatened it.”
“This happening here is kinda my fault,” I said.
“No, it isn’t,” said Emma. “If it’s anyone’s fault it’s hers.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Emma scowled. “Hell hath no fury.”
“What does that mean?” asked Ameche.
“It means Emma has a lot to tell you,” I said.
“You’ll make that call for me?” asked Emma.
“If someone dials for me.”
Ameche put Emma in his cruiser and came back to dial the phone for me. I didn’t call Big Steve. That wasn’t so pressing. My mother was. I could see several news vans pulling up and getting out their cameras. If what happened wasn’t on the news already, it would be soon.
“Hi, Mom,” I said quickly. “I’m okay. It’s all fine.”
“It’s about time you called,” said Aunt Miriam, so crabby I could feel the stink eye through the phone.
I called to Ameche, who was heading back inside, “Hey, did you call my Aunt Miriam?”
“God, no,” he yelled back. “I’m not crazy.” Then he ducked inside hastily. Apparently, dealing with screaming Rita was preferable to Aunt Miriam.
“Um…where’s my mom?” I asked.
“There’s a situation.”
“What situation?” My stomach tightened. That combined with the pain was almost enough to make me yark.
Mom and Dad did find Morty at O’Malley’s, the bar of triple homicide fame and where cheaters go to die. He was on the bender of all benders so bad that they called in reinforcements. I couldn’t imagine a situation bad enough to call Aunt Miriam, but apparently that was it. She showed up, yelled, whacked him with her cane, and threatened him with hell and damnation, which I wouldn’t have thought would be motivating to a guy like Uncle Morty, but it got him moving. Sort of. He released his death grip on the bar and with the help of a group of Harley guys they got him into a panel van Dad had to rent to get him home. I know that sounds ridiculous, but getting an obese, belligerent drunk in any vehicle is hard. Morton Van Der Hoof is practically impossible to move. He doesn’t like moving when he’s sober.
“So what happened?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but it’s your fault.”
“How can it be my fault? I haven’t seen him in days.”
“Nikki left him. She went to Greece and it’s your fault,” said Aunt Miriam.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You always say that and it’s never true. For instance, why are you calling? What did you do?”
“Nothing.” I said it on reflex. I’m going to blame it on the pain, but really, it’s just what I do.
“Oh really?”
“There was a thing at a wake, but I’m fine. Everybody’s fine.”
In the background, I heard Dad yell, “Son of a—”
“Tommy!” yelled Aunt Miriam.
“Is that Mercy? Give me that phone!”
They scuffled. Aunt Miriam whacked him with her cane and he gave up. It was like old times.
“So he’s heard about the wake,” I said.
“Nazir called him.”
“Fantastic.”
There was some kind of a discussion and Aunt Miriam came back on. “I’m coming.”
“Where?”
“There.”
“Why?”
“Because your parents are occupied and you ruined someone’s wake. How’s your arm?”
I groaned. “It’s fine. You don’t need to come.”
Rita wailed in the background and Ameche came out with Portia in handcuffs. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“She assaulted my partner,” said Ameche and Portia threw up, spewing down the stairs like a multi-colored waterfall.
“He was going to arrest Porter,” she cried before spewing a second time.
“Jesus, what did she drink?” asked Ameche.
“Everything, I think,” I said. “Don’t arrest Porter. I’m not pressing charges.”
“He broke your arm.”
“I’m well aware, but I’m not pressing charges.”
“See,” cried Portia. “He didn’t do anything. He did that, but he didn’t do anything.”
Ameche had to carry her down the stairs and reluctantly tucked her in the second cruiser. “Vomit is hell to get out. Parker’s going to kill me,” he said before going back in.
“I changed my mind,” I said to Aunt Miriam.
“Who said that?” she asked. “Who took the Lord’s name in vain?”
“Is Morty in the van? Can you come here?”
There was silence on the other end.
“Aunt Miriam?”
“Are you asking for my help?”
“I might be.”
“Might?”
I told her the Weekses needed her, but she was hesitant to leave my parents with Drunky McAngrypants until I said Father Joseph was their only spiritual guidance. She was in a cab almost before the words got out of my mouth. With any luck, I’d be outta there before she showed. The ambulance was finally coming, having given up on
the driveway and following the trail that the cowardly mourners made. I usually don’t go for being carted off with flashing lights unless I’m totally out of it, but it was the fastest way outta there so I was all for it.
I was even more game when I saw who pulled up behind the ambulance. Julia Jones and the traitor, Nazir. I tried to truck around the ambulance and hide, but I didn’t move fast enough. “Freeze!” yelled Julia.
EMTs jumped out and got to me first. Dan, an EMT I met when Mom was in the hospital, jumped between me and the red-faced Julia. “Don’t interfere with my patient.”
Julia tried to skirt him saying, “Mercy Watts, you are under arr—”
“For getting assaulted?” I asked.
“For interfering in a police investigation, for withholding evidence, for fleeing the scene of an accident,” she said, erupting like a word volcano.
Julia yanked out her handcuffs. “Hold out your hands.”
“You’re not cuffing my patient,” said Dan. “Look at her arm.”
She didn’t look. She didn’t care. I think she would’ve tried to cuff me, even though no cuff would’ve fit around my wrist.
“Jones!” said Nazir, coming up in an exaggerated calm way. “Our suspects are in the house.”
“I’ve got a suspect right here,” said Julia as she went for me. Dan tried to block her and she ran into him, knocking him back into me and I screamed in agony, going down on my knees. The other EMT pulled me out of the way, and Nazir grabbed Julia.
Dan held out his wrists. “You can arrest me, ya whack job.”
Someone else yelled, “Cory, are you getting this?”
“Almost! Give me two!”
A news crew was running across the yard, trying to get their camera equipment going on the fly.
“For the love of God,” said Nazir, assuming a professional pose, “we aren’t arresting Mercy. We are arresting the people that shot at her.”
“She’s done nothing but cause problems. That’s obstruction,” hissed Julia.
The EMT hoisted me to my feet and shielded me from the camera.
“I didn’t obstruct anything,” I said still gasping from the pain. “That takes action. I did nothing to impede you. I just didn’t help you. I’m not legally required to help you.”
“It’s your duty as a citizen to aid the police.”
“It’s your duty not to be nasty to people when you need their help or didn’t Chicago teach you that?”
Julia drew back, her eyes cold and flashing with anger. “What do you know about that?”
“I know you got screwed and then you screwed yourself,” I said.
She got in my face. “You don’t know anything about it.”
“Claude.”
She did an about face and stalked off with the news crew yelling, “Detective Jones, is Mercy Watts assisting you on this case? Detective?”
Julia didn’t answer and Nazir said, “Who’s Claude?”
“Never mind about that. The Frightful Five didn’t shoot at me or anyone else.”
“Who?”
“That’s what they call themselves. They robbed Midwest’s debit card customers, but they didn’t try to kill anyone.”
“Somebody pulled a gun,” said Nazir.
“And broke your arm,” said Dan.
“I know. Just read the statement that I gave Ameche. Emma will confess to the fraud. But it’s a mistake to think she’s a would-be murderer.” I glanced back at the Weeks’ front door where Julia was disappearing inside. “But it’s exactly the kind of mistake she’d make.”
An hour later, I was in the ER, waiting for the radiologist to come back and wishing my Vicodan had kicked in, when Mom pulled back my curtain and wrinkled her nose. “Miriam didn’t say it was that bad.”
“It’s not,” I said. “They’re thinking probably no surgery.”
“Surgery!”
“No surgery. Focus, Mom.” I leaned to the side. “Where’s Dad?”
“Drying out Morty and flipping about the truck, not necessarily in that order.”
“Who told him? I’ll kick them later.”
She sat down in the chair next to my bed and propped her feet up on my bed. “Nobody told him. It was all over the news, along with this picture.” Mom held up her phone. I would’ve covered my eyes, but my good arm had an IV and a pulse ox sensor on it.
“Hey, that’s not bad,” I said.
“Not bad? For you, it’s practically a miracle,” said Mom.
She was right, except it wasn’t practically a miracle. It was a miracle. The picture was of me in Calpurnia’s mother’s dress, pre-blood, turning around on the steps of the Weeks mansion. My skirt was belling out and the wind was working for me rather than against me for a change. Ward stood beside me, being the ultimate old and dapper dude, and we looked like something out of a Fred Astaire movie. The headline read, “Blond bombshell breaks open international fraud case with CEO Laidlaw.”
“Thank God. They didn’t call me a braindead bimbo or anything,” I said. “This day doesn’t suck.”
“Mickey was pretty excited,” said Mom.
The Vicodan started to hit and the room got fuzzy. “Did you say Mickey?”
“He called. He’s coming in.”
So God hates me.
“Why?”
“His cover girl is injured and that picture is breaking in about thirty-eight countries. Plus, little Peekaboo is pretty upset. She wants to see you and make sure your arm is okay.”
“She’s sweet, but it’s not necessary,” I said.
Mom lifted my lines and got into bed with me like I had with her not so long ago. “It’s great publicity for the band.”
“I should’ve known.”
“You should’ve. Mickey isn’t one to miss a chance, but I think it’s mainly for Peekaboo. Something about you going somewhere for her birthday?”
“Yeah, I guess she’s a fan,” I said. “God knows why.”
Mom kissed my forehead. “I know why.”
“How mad is Dad?”
“Furious beyond belief. I wish this had happened six weeks ago. Why do you think I’m here on my own?”
“Because you sneaked out while he wasn’t looking?” I asked.
“No. Because he’s taking care of Morty, who’s already thrown up on three of our rugs by the way, and calling vintage auto repair shops to talk about getting estimates. I haven’t seen him like this in months. I said I was going to the hospital. He asked me if I thought I could handle it. I said yes and he said to call an Uber. I think he’s going to be alright.”
“Are you sure this is a good thing?”
“It’s a start. He’s called me six times since I left so we’re not out of the woods yet.” Mom sighed and reached over to lift up the towel the nurse had put over my arm so people wouldn’t get grossed out when they came in. “Wow. That’s not good. Where’s Chuck?”
“Beats me.”
“He should be here. Why didn’t you call him?”
Big Steve walked in. “Because she was busy calling me.”
Mom got up and they hugged. “Are you the cause of all this trouble?”
“It was supposed to be a little internet snooping,” said Big Steve, looking abashed for the first time ever. “On the upside, she solved it.”
Mom gave him the stink eye. “Have you seen her arm? Or the news? She was shot at and her truck looks like it did a tour in Iraq.”
“Yeah, my guy’s headed over right now to do an estimate. Tommy’s talking about sending it out to Jersey. There’s a guy who specializes in Chevy’s out there.”
“We should keep it local,” said Mom.
“I agree.”
“Maybe we should ask the owner,” I said and they looked at me before continuing to discuss Dad and Morty. When that was done, Big Steve slapped a manila folder on my lap. “I’ve decided to take the case. Cabot approves and I think we can minimize the damage.”
“Swell,” I said. “What’s this?”
<
br /> Chuck walked in, wearing a sharp suit and a scowl. Never a good combo in my experience. “That’s what I want to know.”
I hadn’t had so much painkiller that I didn’t know what that meant. I would’ve crossed my arms if I could’ve. “Maybe you don’t need to know.”
“Julia does.”
“Why is it always about Julia?”
“It’s her case.”
“It was mine first,” I said.
Chuck took a breath and said, “I knew you were withholding evidence.”
“I haven’t withheld anything. I’ve protected no criminals or concealed any criminal acts.”
“Mercy,” said Big Steve, his voice filling the small room. “You’re under no obligation to say anything.”
“She can be arrested for obstructing justice.”
Mom squeezed my hand. “You’re forgetting yourself, Charles Watts. We haven’t just fallen off the turnip truck.”
“I know that, but Julia needs cooperation,” said Chuck. “Mercy’s holding out on us.”
Us.
When did it become Chuck and Julia against me by myself?
“Mercy was a cooperative witness until your friend made her otherwise,” said Mom.
“Julia’s a good cop,” said Chuck. “I worked with her on the Kemper bombing case. I trained with her.”
“Whatever,” I said. “The training didn’t take ‘cause I bet she didn’t listen to me.”
“About what?”
“The Frightful Five didn’t do either shooting.”
He glanced at the ceiling and clinched his jaw. “Julia has it under control.”
Big Steve got out his phone and started texting. “So she didn’t listen.”
“Emma Ryder threatened Mercy with a weapon and there were two hunting rifles in the back of Hall’s truck,” said Chuck.
“I’m telling you they didn’t do it,” I said. “Emma could’ve shot me. She didn’t.”
“It was in the middle of a wake.”
“The guy in the rusted-out truck tried to take me out in front of a flipping hospital in broad daylight. That’s impulsive and stupid. Emma’s neither.”
“He had a getaway vehicle.”
“So did Emma. She had a plan,” I said. “I screwed it up, but if I know her—and I think I do—it was a good one.”
