Burning Heat

by David Burnsworth

  “Let go of me!” She jerked her arms loose and slapped me. It was a pretty good hit, too.

  I massaged my jaw and was glad no one was around. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

  “No one grabs me like that. Ever.”

  I said, “If you don’t start talking, I’m leaving your cute behind right here.”

  She watched me wipe my mouth with a handkerchief from my pocket. Her voice turned kittenish. “You think my behind is cute?”

  “I’m a man. We’re worse than dogs. Some of us are even worse than that. And, having a cute behind doesn’t say anything about what’s in the heart.”

  She slapped my other cheek.

  Five seconds passed before the sting went away. “That was pretty fast. You’ve got good reflexes.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You won’t hit a woman.” It was a statement.

  “There’s a first time for everything. Keep it up if you want to find out.”

  She popped me again, softer.

  I said, “Is this some kind of warped form of foreplay?”

  She grabbed my face and kissed me. “Is that what you want?”

  “What I want is Willa Mae’s killer in jail.” Or dead.

  She kissed me again, longer, and said, “Is that all you want?”

  I inhaled deeply through my nose and then exhaled. Detective Warrez came to mind. Her chin-length hair and dark skin. And then there was Darcy. And Jo. God, I still missed my wife.

  Camilla traced my ear with her finger and leaned in closer. “Tell me.”

  I pulled away from her. “What I really want I can never get back.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I dropped Camilla off at a house on Folly Beach where she said she’d been staying, then I phoned Darcy while driving home.

  She said, “Have fun with the hooker, lover boy?”

  “How … Where …” I gave up. She knew more about what was going on in this town than I could ever imagine.

  She laughed. “So, what did she tell you?”

  “Jon-Jon was the father of Willa Mae’s baby.”

  “All we need now is a little something called proof.”

  The stoplight turned red and I slowed. It gave me some time to think. A car horn blew directly behind me. I looked in the rearview mirror. Darcy waved from the driver’s seat of her Infiniti convertible. The first thing that came to mind was how stupid I’d been to miss a tail.

  “You were easy to follow,” she said. “Must have been distracted.”

  The light turned green and she sped around me before I could pull ahead. Dead air came through the phone still held to my ear. I threw it on the passenger floorboard and stomped on the accelerator. I was out-horsepowered and out-handled but I did what I could. She drove with a heavy foot and lots of speed all the way to the parking garage next to her condo.

  We didn’t say anything as we walked inside her building. She pressed the button to call the elevator. We remained silent for all seven floors. Inside her apartment, she went to a small bar in the corner and poured herself a double vodka. Having been here before, I got a bottle of water from the fridge and we went out onto the terrace that overlooked the Cooper River. The wind was warm. Sulfur off the wetlands filled the air. Not as strong here, seven stories up, as it had been at my old house on Sullivan’s Island with the marsh only fifty yards away, but I savored the memory.

  Darcy watched the river. “Why didn’t you spend the night with her?”

  I took a sip of water and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “She is a junkie prostitute and I wasn’t going there.”

  “You two looked pretty cozy to me. At least, after she was done slapping you. What did you say to make her do that?”

  “I told her the truth.”

  Facing the water, she said, “I could see how that might not go over too well with some people. Present company included.”

  “Present company included,” I said.

  She turned to me, and her hand reached out to my chest.

  A chime came from somewhere inside the apartment. Darcy went in and answered her phone. I leaned forward and rested my arms on the railing. The million-dollar view from the balcony reminded me how far I’d come.

  “Your girlfriend’s on the move,” Darcy said from the doorway.

  I was about to ask which one she was referring to but knew better than to poke that beehive. Sometimes it was better to allow things to unfold, so I turned around and gazed at the river again.

  Darcy said, “When she gets to where she’s going, I’ll get another call.”

  “Why did you have a tail on me?”

  I could feel the grin spread across her face without even looking at her.

  “How many times have I told you I have sources all over this town?” She stood beside me and showed me her iPhone. A grainy video clip played and I watched the whole scene on the street with Camilla replay. When it finished, she scrolled down some more and said, “That was sent to me thirty seconds after you drove off with her. After that, I got minute by minute texts on where you went and how long you stayed.”

  The phone chimed. Darcy read the text message she received. “Camilla’s at the bus station.”

  I stood up straight. “What?”

  Darcy’s eyes met mine. “It looks like she’s leaving.”

  I started for the door. “We’ve got to stop her.” When I got to the door, I turned around. Darcy had not followed. “Come on!”

  “Let her go.”

  “We need her.”

  She approached me. “No, we don’t. She pointed us in the right direction, but she doesn’t have anything that we can use. Her testimony won’t hold up in court. It’s all hearsay.”

  I opened the door. “She’s the one that sent you the diary.”

  Darcy touched my hand. “Let her go, Brack. She’s old enough to make her own decisions.”

  The first thing that came to mind was Camilla’s lack of good judgment. Drugs and prostitution. “She hasn’t made any good ones that I can see. Running away is another bad one.”

  Darcy let go of my hand and I ran out the door.

  The car’s little engine screamed its curses at me the whole way to the bus station. It might have had something to do with the abuse my right foot was giving the gas pedal. For a family sedan, it really wasn’t a slug, but Camilla was right—it wasn’t for me.

  The antilock brake system kicked in as I braked hard at the terminal. I ran to the entrance. The building was old, in a sixties-style government architecture kind of way, meaning basic and drab. My footsteps echoed as I double-timed it to the waiting area. A single woman with three toddlers took up half the section with strollers and bags and toys. The other half was taken up by two black men in their fifties. No one else was there. I found the ticket kiosk. A bald white man worked the counter. He smiled at me with brown and rotting teeth. His nametag said Fred.

  He said, “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a girl,” I said. “Black hair, dark rimmed glasses. Built, you know? You’d remember her if you saw her. Here about a half hour ago.”

  The jagged toothed smile remained. “She was. But she caught her bus already.”

  I said, “Where was she headed?”

  Fred rubbed his chin. “Well, I can’t really say.”

  I pulled out a twenty and laid it on the counter.

  He put the twenty in his pocket. “She gave me fifty and said that if anyone asked, I was to tell them I didn’t know who she was.”

  I laid a fifty on the bar. “I appreciate your remembering her. See if you can come up with a destination.”

  The fifty joined the twenty in his pocket.

  “I seem to recall her asking for the next bus out of town. Now, that would have been the one headed to Atlanta.”

  “Thanks,” I said and turned to walk away.

  “Of course,” the man said, “I also seem to recall her adding another fifty and asking for me to say she was heading to Atlanta, and then she buy
s a ticket to somewhere’s else.”

  I walked back to the counter and rested both hands on the worn Formica. “You wouldn’t be shucking me, would ya, partner?”

  He rubbed his chin again. The smile was still there, giving him an innocent quality that belied his greed. I wanted to reach over the counter and strangle him.

  From behind me, Darcy said, “She’s gone. Let her go.”

  I gave Fred one last glare and then walked to the exit. Darcy joined me.

  Outside the bus station, she said, “I told you not to bother chasing her down. You just spent seventy dollars for nothing. We’ll get the real proof we need somewhere else.”

  I leaned against her car and lit a cigar. After a few drags, I said, “Why do you think she ran?”

  “Is that what this is about? Are you after the hooker, now?”

  “I’m not after the hooker,” I said. “Not like that.”

  “Then, like what?”

  “I just want to help her.”

  “Get your head out of your pants and let’s return to finding Willa Mae’s killer and getting your liquor license back.”

  “You don’t cut any slack, do you?”

  “Slack is for those who lack focus. We, or at least I, have focus. I want the story.”

  The killer was still out there and I didn’t have a clue who he was, where he was, or what his motives were. That he was linked to Jon-Jon and Willa Mae, I was sure. I just didn’t know how. It was time to tighten the screws on him. But I needed to exercise precaution first, so I made a phone call first thing the next morning.

  My call was answered by Trish, the wife of my favorite lawyer, Chauncey Connors.

  I greeted her and she said, “Hey, Brack. Nice to hear from you. How’s Shelby?”

  She loved my dog as much as she loved her own two Labrador Retrievers. She’d taken care of him the last time I ran around trying to solve a murder.

  “He’s fine,” I said. “In fact, he’s the reason I’m calling. I was wondering if you’d mind watching him for a few days … a week, tops.”

  “Of course, Brack,” she said, a little too eager. “The groomers are coming this afternoon so this is perfect timing.”

  Gritting my teeth, I said, “I really appreciate it. If you and Chauncey ever need a dog-sitter, you know who to call.”

  Thoughts that leaving Shelby might be a bad idea lingered. But, I knew Shelby loved her as much as she loved him and he would view this as a mini-vacation. That’s what I told myself, anyway, as I drove him to the Connors house. He seemed to know where he was going and gave a few quick barks, the same as he gave in anticipation of anything he enjoyed, like our walks on the beach, rides to the bar, or his favorite ball. Sometimes my presence didn’t make the cut. Especially when a woman was nearby.

  When I parked in the driveway and opened the door, Shelby, shot out of the car and ran to Trish before I could get his leash snapped. She knelt and made a fuss over him while he licked her face, then rolled onto his back so she could scratch his belly.

  I carried a sack of his food and his two bowls and set them in the garage.

  Trish led us inside and I said, “You’re the only other person he’ll eat for.”

  She nodded and petted him again, cooing, “He’s such a pretty boy, yes he is.”

  Shelby gave her a paw to shake and a gleam came back in her eyes—the one that told me to not leave him here too long. Her dogs barked from another room and she made no attempt to go to them.

  Using the Bluetooth connection in the rental car, I called Mutt as I drove into Charleston.

  “Yo,” he said.

  “You still got your thirty-eights?”

  “You know that’s right.”

  “I’m heading your way. See you in twenty.” I ended the call and sped up.

  Fifteen minutes later, I parked in front of his house and got out.

  Mutt sat in a worn-out rocking chair on his front porch. A teenage girl stood on the sidewalk with a baby stroller. It looked like they were talking.

  “This here’s Shamiqua,” he said.

  I shook hands with the young mother and watched as she pushed the stroller up the walk.

  He said, “Poor girl got gang-raped by them bangers that just got arrested. She got pregnant and now she havin’ to raise the child on her own.”

  Brother Thomas had mentioned her to me earlier. It was sad to put a face and name with the tragedy.

  Mutt took one look at my ride and shook his head. “This here car will not do, Opie. We need us something with a little more muscle than a hamster.”

  “We need stealth, like the Navy SEALs. That’s what this is. And the cops still have my truck.”

  “This ain’t no Navy SEAL.”

  That was all I would get out of him at the moment.

  He went inside the house. Thirty seconds later he came out carrying a paper bag tucked under an arm, locked the door behind him, and got in the rental car. “Let’s go.”

  I drove to North Charleston and parked in front of Plug It and Stuff It, my favorite gun range and taxidermy. The owner, an old man named Jed, wore long-sleeved flannel shirts and jeans year long and smoked unfiltered Camels. His ball cap sported the rebel flag to announce which side he’d be on if another war between the states broke out. Lucky for me and for Mutt, Jed’s daughter had married a black man and their union produced a granddaughter. Every time I’d been in to buy ammo or to practice my shooting, she sat behind the counter playing with her dolls. She had apparently softened the old man, who’d been providing day care while running his business.

  I introduced Mutt and we bought several boxes of thirty-eight rounds. The price of ammo was at record levels with no sign of coming back to reality. Fifty was the new twenty when it came to cost.

  “How you doin’ down there, little lady?” Mutt asked the granddaughter.

  She looked up and gave us the prettiest smile this side of a sunset, albeit one showing two missing front teeth. Her bright brown eyes and milk-chocolate skin reminded me of my vow to always protect the good and innocent.

  The old man led us downstairs to the basement where the range resided. We had our choice of targets: Arabs with turbans, Somali pirates wearing bandanas, or Asian army soldiers. An equal opportunity target selection. I wasn’t sure if the last one was People’s Republic of China or North Korea.

  Mutt selected an Arab. I chose the North Korean.

  “You can shoot the pirate if you want, Opie,” Mutt said. “I won’t be o-ffended you shoot a brother.”

  “Thanks, Mutt, but I prefer to support our South Korean allies by taking pot shots at the dictator of their northern neighbor.” I removed a Swiss Army knife from my pocket—the big one that had every tool except a two-way radio. From the handle, I pulled out a small ink pen. On my target, I drew a rough bowl cut on the head of the soldier.

  We hung our targets and loaded our revolvers.

  Mutt said, “Watch this, Opie.”

  He extended his arms with the gun clasped between both hands and fired six shots, pausing long enough between each one to steady the recoil.

  The target was thirty feet away and his shots were grouped in the center torso.

  “Not bad,” I said.

  “Not bad at all,” said the old man.

  “Not bad, huh?” Mutt said. “Lemme see what you got Opie.”

  I turned to my target, raised the thirty-eight with both hands like Mutt had done, and put all six shots in Junior’s head. Mutt and the old man looked at the target with me. Four of the shots formed a vertical line. Two flanked the second hole from the top, forming a cross.

  “Jesus,” the old man said.

  Mutt said, “Jesus is right. Always gotta be a showoff, don’t you Opie?”

  Reloading, I said, “Some people are going to get some religion if it’s the last thing we do.”

  “Amen to that.” Mutt flicked open his revolver, dropped the spent shells into a bucket, and grabbed a box of ammo.

  CHAPTER N
INETEEN

  After we emptied several boxes of ammo, I took Mutt to my bar for dinner. Our favorite Charleston restaurant, Cassie’s, had closed when Cassie decided to move to Atlanta and open a place with one of her siblings. I missed her shoulder massages and her fried chicken, both of which I could enjoy at the same time nowhere else.

  The gun range had focused my thoughts. I was tired of trying to find the killer. It was time to turn the tables. I mulled that over while sitting at a table on the back deck of my bar with my friend.

  He seemed to study my face. “You look like the cat what ate the canary.”

  I watched him put two French fries loaded with mayo in his mouth, wash them down with a draft beer, and belch. “I think what we’ve been doing is chasing our tails in this investigation.”

  “How!” he said. “That’s the first smart thing you said today.”

  The plate of chicken tenders sat untouched in front of me. I reached in a pocket, found a cigar, and lit up.

  Mutt wiped his plate clean with a french fry, ate it, and pulled out his Kools. “What we got here,” he said as he knocked one out of the pack, “is a real killer.”

  “So how do we catch him?”

  The cherry on Mutt’s Kool glowed as he took a deep drag. He jutted his bottom jaw out on the exhale and blew a stream of smoke straight up. The passing breeze wafted it away.

  “You know,” he said, “back when I was a boy, we dint have nothin’. Sometime the only way we got food on the table was we went out and hunted it. If we dint get any, after a day or two you get to where you ready to eat your own arm. I remember one time, me and my Pa was out. I had this twenty-two rifle. But like I said, we dint have no money. Every bullet counted. And I missed this possum. Twice. After Pa beat the devil out of me, he showed me a trick.”

  My chest bumped the table. I hadn’t realized I’d been inching closer.

  Mutt continued. “We set out bait and hid behind a tree. Wouldn’t you know it, not too long after, that fat little bugger hobbled out and started eatin’. I plugged him with one shot and we ate good that night, yessir.”