Rebel Without A Clue

by Carolyn Scott

  "Get out of here," Will growled at him.

  Scarface held up his hands and backed away. "I'll bow out gracefully. But you know where to reach me, Cat, if you ever get tired of being kept in a glass cage."

  "Whoa, slow down," I said. "You wanted to update me on something?"

  He pulled me aside. Will didn't protest but he didn’t take his eyes off us.

  "I can't think with that grouch listening in," Scarface said.

  "Sorry about him. But I don't think he means to be—"

  "An asshole?"

  "Something like that." I looked at Will, brooding in the doorway.

  Scarface's sigh brought my attention back to him. He pressed his finger into the scar as if it ached. Suddenly, he looked tired and older than his thirty-odd years. It wasn’t easy arguing with Will.

  "Sorry," he said, "bad day. It's hard to focus after…" He waved a hand dismissively.

  "What? What happened?"

  "A colleague was murdered."

  I gasped and covered my mouth. "Not Stankovic?"

  "No, Daryl Miller." He bowed his head and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. "Fuck it," he muttered.

  I touched his arm and frowned. That name sounded familiar but I couldn't place it. "You don't think he had something to do with the missing computer, do you?"

  His gaze cut away, avoiding looking at me. "I wanted to tell you about Grimes," he said, shifting the conversation. "He was arrested last night after whipping out Mr. Happy on The Strip and introducing him to passersby. And Mr. Happy was in an ecstatic mood."

  "Ugh. When is he going to learn that other people don't think his dick is as interesting as he does?"

  Scarface laughed softly. "Anyway, he was arrested at ten o'clock and didn't get out of the lock up until this morning."

  "So it couldn't have been him last night."

  He lifted his eyebrows in agreement. "I have to go." He leaned down and kissed my forehead.

  "Wait a minute. That's it? You could have told me that in front of Will."

  "But I wouldn't have had the pleasure of seeing him simmer over there. He's itching to drag you away." He nodded at Will then sauntered off.

  I joined Will, avoiding his gaze. He opened the door for me and I ducked under his arm.

  "What is your problem with him?" I asked.

  "I told you to stay away from Forde and anything to do with the Scarletti murder." His voice dropped and shook with barely repressed anger.

  "The murder and my case are connected. Last time we spoke about it, you understood that. You were okay with it."

  "That was before your life was in danger." He sighed deeply and his body relaxed as if some of the tension escaped with his breath. "Come here." He directed me to the old couch and we sat together, not touching. "Why didn't you tell me about the intruder? And what happened with Grimes? Did he hurt you?"

  I almost told him everything. Almost. Maybe I should have, but what was the point? It was over. Telling him the truth would only make him angry again. Angry at himself for not being there to protect me.

  "Grimes was just being a jerk," I said. "And I didn't tell you about either incident because I was trying to avoid this reaction. You might find it hard to believe, but I don't like it when you yell at me."

  He said nothing for a long time then finally muttered an apology. "I over-reacted. Forde gets under my skin." He flexed his fingers and spread his big palms on his knees. "He and I go way back and our history hasn't always been pretty. I gave him that scar."

  I didn't tell him I already knew. I wanted to hear it in his own words. As he relayed the story, pointing out that Scarface deliberately disobeyed him, he held my hand in both of his. I moved closer and leaned into him, listening to the subtle nuances of his voice and the melodic hum deep in his chest.

  I was so tired, it nearly lulled me to sleep, then Carl's office door opened. I sat upright and rubbed my eyes.

  "You going out soon?" he asked Will.

  Will checked his watch. "Christ!" He jumped up. "I've got to meet Slim in ten minutes." He ran up to his office and emerged seconds later with a file. He kissed me on the lips and opened the front door. "Don't do anything until I get back."

  "I'll make sure she stays here," Carl said.

  "Hey!" I glared at him. Traitor.

  "We'll go through the case together later, Babe," Will said, half way out the door. "It can wait an hour, can't it?"

  Yeah, it could, but it wasn't going to. Nuh-uh. I don't mind sitting around for a while but I do mind having a watcher. Will left and I went to grab my handbag.

  "Where are you going?" Carl asked, stepping toward me.

  "Out. Work to do."

  "Will said—"

  "Since when are you on his side?"

  "It's getting too hot for you, Cat. Stay here where it's safe. I'll even call some of my cop buddies and see what they know, if you like."

  "I know everything there is to know. Thanks for the offer, but I'll be okay. I won't even get out of my car." I headed for the door but he grabbed my arm. "Carl! What are you doing?"

  The door opened and Gina entered. "Hey, Cat, you're a star. Thanks to you, I've got a date tonight." She beamed so hard my eyes hurt from her dazzlingly white teeth. She grabbed my hand and dragged me outside but not before I managed to grab my bag. "Sorry, Carl," she said over her shoulder. "I need her right now."

  Carl took my car keys off my desk and slipped them inside his pocket. "No problem," he said with a sly grin.

  Damn.

  "I take it the programmer got over his stage fright," I said when the door closed.

  "He sure did. He's taking me to Monica's tonight."

  Nice restaurant. Pricey. Snooty. Perfect for a romantic dinner. "Hey, Gina, can I borrow your car for a few hours?"

  "Sure." She disappeared into her shop and returned with a fat set of keys. But she held them back from my outstretched hand. "You'll be careful, right?"

  "Of course. I'll just be listening in to Grimes. I won't get out of the car."

  "Promise?"

  "Promise." I crossed my heart but refrained from spitting on my hand like we used to as kids.

  She gave me the keys and I beeped open her Ford Escape. As I drove off, I looked back at Carl, standing behind the glass door of Knights, hands on hips. He looked furious.

  Ha!

  Even though Grimes wouldn't recognize Gina's car, I parked down the street from his store. I was keeping my distance this time. I dug out the receiver from my handbag and switched it on. A voice crackled down the line.

  "Say it." Grimes. "Say it!"

  "No!" A woman's voice. And there was another sound in the background, like stifled barking.

  Oh God. What was he doing? Torturing some poor woman and her dog? Maybe I should go in—

  "C'mon, Baby, say it. Say it, Robbie."

  Roberta. Not some poor woman then, just one with bad taste. But the dog?

  On closer listening, I wasn't so sure it was barking. It sounded more like panting. Or…

  Ewwwwwwwww.

  "I'm your slave, Master," said Roberta.

  Master? Ugh. Women like Roberta had a lot to answer for. No wonder men like Grimes go around thinking they've got diamonds dangling between their legs. "Yes, Master. Spank me. I'm so bad."

  I switched the receiver off and tried to blink away the mental image. No use. I turned the radio up and sang along to Pink to get my mind off the horrible picture of Roberta on a leash and Grimes—

  Aahh!!

  Ten minutes later, I switched the receiver back on. It was quiet. Nothing. Not even a woof.

  I heard the toilet flush and a door open.

  "That was so good, Baby," purred Roberta.

  "Next time, I want you to howl."

  Something to look forward to.

  "Sure thing," she said.

  Some ugly kissing sounds followed and I squirmed. Then Roberta said, "I heard that P.I. was here the other day."

  "How do you know?" Grimes
sounded annoyed.

  "Never mind how I know. What did you do to her?"

  She knew her man well.

  "Nothing, I swear. She's not my type. Too skinny."

  "Yeah? Huh. Stay away from her."

  "Don't blame me if she wants me. And anyway, you're the one who insisted on going to her. I mean fuck, we're never going to get the damn money with that bimbo on our side."

  Bimbo! Coming from a man who liked to flash Mr. Stumpy at strangers.

  "I think she's good," said Roberta. "I told you, I've got a feeling about her."

  "You and your fucking feelings."

  "Hey, my female intuition never failed us before."

  "You reckoned all we needed was the box. You reckoned the other guy didn't know where the money was. You know shit, Roberta."

  "Well, Lou never told me about his partner!" she cried. "I mean, I knew he had one, but I didn't know he promised him half."

  "Maybe Lou wasn't intending to share with you or his partner." I could almost hear the cogs grinding in Grimes's brain as he thought through his theory.

  "But he visited Lou in jail," Roberta said. "So Max said. Why would he do that unless he was making sure he'd get his half when Lou got out?"

  Grimes hawked a loogie. "I dunno. The other guy must be really dumb to leave all the cash with Lou. I wouldn't."

  "I don't know why he did. All I know is, Lou had it and he hid it somewhere and gave me the key and the number to look after before he got locked up. I put them in that box and didn't let it out of my sight for twelve years, and he repays me by running off with it and another woman as soon as he gets out. I fucking deserve that money for everything I put up with. That's what I know."

  "Yeah, well I'm thinking you don't know much."

  What followed was a messy argument with a lot of name calling. What followed that was even worse. Make up sex with a lot of animal noises.

  I switched off the receiver and suppressed my gag reflex. I wanted to take advantage of my freedom but wasn't sure what to do next. Wait to speak to Roberta, or maybe Max, about Lou's visitor? Return to the office? Or go directly to jail without passing Go or Will or any of my other minders?

  And the dead cop and the missing computer threw up more questions—questions I was pretty sure Scarface knew the answers to or was in the process of finding out. Maybe I should have another talk with him…

  What would Will do? He'd probably make a few calls to find out if he had any authority to look at the prison records, and if he didn't, he'd go through the right channels to get it and then he'd tell Carl what he was doing…

  Fuck it. Just because Will did things the long way didn't mean I had to. I'm lazy. So shoot me.

  I started the Escape and drove north to the city limits where the blocks of land were larger but the houses poorer and the gardens filled with junk in the hope that one day some of it might prove useful. Renford City Correctional Facility yawned like a blight on the horizon. A series of low, long, gray buildings dotted with guard towers and surrounded by high wire fences, the prison looked as comfortable as a nail through my foot.

  My phone chirped as I parked in the visitor's parking lot.

  "Hey," said Will, "where are you?" He didn't sound annoyed, just weary, as if he'd expected me to disobey him but he was over trying to keep up.

  "Shopping of course."

  "Shopping?" His suspicion came through loud and clear. "Cat, I know you're not shopping. Gina told me you had a lead to follow up."

  "Then why did you ask if you already knew?" Sheesh.

  "So I could find out where you are!" He swore.

  "All right, don't sweat it. I'm at the prison."

  "Prison? Why?"

  I could tell he didn't believe me and I didn't have time to explain. "Will, I've got work to do. See you later." I hung up and headed to the front office. What Will thought I was really doing, I had no idea and I didn't care. If he thought I was lying, then so be it. That was his problem.

  I thought I'd have to act my way into the prison but I was shown straight through to the warden. His office was as barren as the rest of the building except the concrete slab was covered in an industrial dark blue carpet and the furniture wasn't bolted down. The warden, Gordon Schwartz, resembled a bull dog in need of a diet. He gave me the once over through eyes that could best be described as slits in the fat rolls. I introduced myself and told him what I wanted.

  "You want to see what?" he bellowed, making his turkey chins wobble.

  "The visitor records for an ex-prisoner, Lou Scarletti," I repeated.

  He linked his hands over his belly and considered my request. I would have thought a simple yes or no would suffice but apparently it wasn't that easy. It never is when dealing with a public servant.

  "You know," he said, "only prison officials and the police can see those records."

  It may or may not have been true. It was hard to tell if he was just wiggling his fingers suggestively at me or he actually wanted me to put money into his open palm.

  "Really?" I opened my handbag and pulled out my phone. "Then I'll just call my cop buddies, shall I?"

  The Fatman's fingers went still. "But for you, I'll bend the rules."

  "Gee, thanks." I put the phone away.

  He called his assistant, Joan, a pinch-lipped middle-aged woman with sensible shoes. She didn't smile or speak as she led me down a corridor to a storeroom filled with row upon row of floor to ceiling metal shelves. The shelves held metal boxes of varying sizes. Joan strode between the shelves and scanned the boxes, her lips moving silently as she read the labels. Finally she found the one she wanted and unlocked it. She pulled out a bound, blue book about two inches thick and handed it to me.

  I sat on the stool at the end of the row and cradled the book on my knees. The title, Visitor Register, June to December 2002 was printed in black on the cover. I leafed through the pages to August and ran my finger down the entries in the Prisoner column. Lou's name and number came up regularly. His main visitor was listed as Mrs. Maria Scarletti, mother. Roberta's name came up occasionally, but in the next books Joan handed to me, Roberta had become a less dutiful wife.

  Other names also appeared and I wrote them down. Then, in April 2012, just a month before Lou was released, I came across a name I recognized.

  Someone I totally hadn't expected to see.

  Holy crap!

  I slammed the book shut but didn't move. Frozen, I couldn't get up, couldn't answer Joan when she asked if I was okay. I managed a nod, but my mind was somewhere else, thinking furiously through the implications of what I'd just learned.

  It couldn't be. No way. No goddamn fucking way.

  I thanked Joan and left. I ran down the corridor, across the parking lot to my car and sat there.

  I couldn't confront him. If he was Lou's killer, he was a dangerous man, way more dangerous than I'd ever given him credit for.

  My God, I never really knew him at all.

  I thumbed through the numbers on my phone with shaking hands until Will's flashed up. It rang once then went to voice mail.

  Fuck!

  "Will," I said, trying to speak through chattering teeth, "call me straight away. I know who it is. Straight away, Will, don't go back to the office."

  "Why?"

  I dropped the phone at the familiar voice. I turned slowly and came face to face with Lou Scarletti's partner and killer.

  "Carl!" I smiled through my fear, trying to remember what a movie director had once said to me. 'Whatever you're feeling inside, hide it and get on with the fucking job'. Wise man. "You scared me."

  I'd left my door open while I made the phone call and he rested one arm on it and the other on the top of the car, leaning down to peer at me. He looked different. Less boyish and innocent. And there was a spark of desperation in his eyes that I'd never noticed before. My blood turned to ice.

  I'd worked for months alongside him, trusting him, and yet not knowing who he really was. Not to mention Will had worked with h
im for years. An Oscar performance if I ever saw one.

  "Sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to scare you."

  "That's okay." Maybe he hadn't heard my phone conversation. Maybe he didn't know what I'd found out. "So what are you doing here?" I asked. "I thought you had work to do."

  "I do have a job to do. But it's not exactly work. Actually, it could be fun." He sounded upbeat, friendly, like his usual self, and I relaxed a little.

  "What work is that?"

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun. "You."

  Chapter 17

  I always imagined I'd die a dignified death as a well-preserved octogenarian, surrounded by a loving husband and hordes of adoring children and grandchildren. My funeral would be attended by thousands, including stars of the big and small screen. There'd be a lot of wailing over their loss and reminiscing over my interesting life but generally everyone would be having a good time.

  With Carl's gun aimed at my nose, my death was looking more imminent and less heart-warming.

  A few years back I played a hostage in a movie that went straight to DVD. In it, the good guys tried to talk the bad guys out of doing something stupid like blow their heads off. Maybe that technique could work on Carl. I mean, we had a history together, even if it was a short one where he tried to stop Will from discovering my mistakes. We'd been pals, of sorts.

  "This is silly," I said to Carl's gun barrel. "I'm Cat, remember. Your buddy."

  "You can't talk your way out of this, Cat."

  So much for that theory. "But I always liked you," I persisted. "Doesn't that count for something?" The sentence ended with a high-pitched squeak which I tried to cover with a cough. Act cool. Don't show him you're scared witless.

  He snorted back a laugh. "Whatever. Now," he wagged his gun, "get out of the truck and walk very slowly to that blue car over there."

  I spotted a blue sedan a few spaces down. "You! Y-you were the one following me. You tried to kill me." I'd never known what car he drove. Even if I had, I doubt I'd have connected the near-death experiences to pretty boy Carl.

  His laugh sounded hollow and thin. Not like his usual cheeky giggle that was always ready no matter how dumb my jokes.

  Who was this man? He sounded and acted like a complete stranger. The mannerisms, voice and appearance were the same but the light had vanished from his eyes, replaced with a coldness that stretched deeper than the iceberg that sank the Titanic.