Murder Once Removed

by S. C. Perkins

  “I love the smell of coffee,” I said, breathing it in.

  “Yet you prefer tea,” Agent Turner said.

  “Sure, but I like coffee almost as … Wait. How’d you know I prefer tea?”

  “When we first met, you’d unscrewed the top to your travel mug. I could smell your tea. Or rather, I could smell that it wasn’t coffee. No true coffee drinker will drink tea first thing in the morning when there’s a cup of—” He stopped when I grabbed his arm.

  “Oh my god. The guy … Yesterday—he was there.”

  Agent Turner’s voice sharpened. “Where?”

  “At my complex,” I said, staring out at the passing streetlights as I thought back. “Or, I’m guessing it was the same guy. I left my condo before seven, when it was still dark. I was going to see—” I caught myself before saying “the senator,” which would not have been good for me at all. “Um … a friend. Anyway, the lights went out … NPH meowed…”

  “Neil Patrick Housecat.”

  “Yes, of course. You’re getting me off topic,” I said, scowling and waving away the interruption.

  “Okay. What happened after the cat?” he prompted as we merged onto the freeway and picked up speed.

  I went back in my mind again to yesterday morning. “When I walked to my car, I had a strange, electric feeling, like someone was watching me in the dark. It was the same feeling I had tonight, right before my attacker grabbed me.”

  Totally creeped out now, I shivered. “Oh, god, he was there, where I live, wasn’t he?”

  Agent Turner took his eyes off the road long enough to look me in the eyes. He laid his hand over mine, which was still holding on to his arm. The warmth of it and the determination in his voice calmed me.

  “We’ll find out who did this. I promise.”

  EIGHTEEN

  NPH let me sleep late into Sunday morning, though he made it clear with increasingly insistent meows once I started to stir that he was late for his morning lizard-chasing duties and I should let him out now. This time he chose the front door for his exit. As I rubbed my aching neck and ribs, both of which had gone sore and tight as I slept, I noted the cat’s finely tuned senses didn’t register the presence of anyone nefarious, so I figured all was safe on the condo front.

  It had been in the wee hours of the morning when Agent Turner had driven me home, walked me to my door, and insisted on checking out my condo and the latches of all the doors and windows while I leaned against my little kitchen island, nearly asleep on my feet. He was still in his Jay Gatsby costume, making Jackson stop in his tracks when he arrived at my door with NPH, singing out, “Your protect cat is here, sweetie!” He gave the federal agent an approving once-over, adding, “Though maybe you’ve already got a handsome protector of your own.”

  The last thing I remembered with clarity before hastily wiping off my makeup, changing into my comfiest flannel pajamas, and falling into bed was watching Agent Turner scoop up NPH and quietly talk to the cat as he scratched him behind the ears.

  Only the sweet and, I admit, sexy moment was ruined for me when he set NPH down and went into lecture mode.

  “Keep everything locked and that fire extinguisher you have nearby,” he’d said as he checked my front-door lock one last time for any signs of structural weakness. He’d approved of my thoughts on fire extinguishers as defensive weapons, but he’d asked Jackson to install extra locks on my French doors and cut down broom handles to put in the vertical runner tracks of my bedroom and front windows to keep them from being forced open.

  “During the day, keep your eyes and ears open when you’re walking to your car. Make sure your cell phone is always in your hand—not stuck somewhere in the depths of that huge purse you carry. Watch for signs you’re being followed when you’re driving. If you feel like you are, call Detective Dupart or me and drive to the nearest police station. Do not, under any circumstances, drive home or to a friend’s house. Do you understand?”

  Though I was truly grateful, by that point, I was also absolutely knackered and I’d had enough. My hands on his back, I pushed him out my door with a sincere, but final, “I get it. Thank you for everything you did for me tonight, Agent Turner. Good night.”

  And no, I wasn’t allowing myself to remember how rock-hard his back was, thank you very much. Seeing NPH scamper off toward Jackson’s, I locked my front door again and carried the fire extinguisher into my bathroom, just in case, while I took a shower. I then fixed some breakfast and tea, downed a dose of ibuprofen for my ribs, and made myself think of anything but Agent Turner as I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon researching the Applewhite and Ayers families. I had another date with the senator in a little while, though he didn’t know it quite yet.

  * * *

  My dashboard clock read 2:47 P.M. when I whipped into a parking space past the wooden sign reading CLOSED UNTIL 5:30 P.M. FOR INVENTORY. I’d promised Flaco I would be dressed and at the taqueria by two forty-five. I hadn’t thought it would be a problem.

  Well, it was. Tiredness had once more caught up to me. Not to mention my ibuprofen had long since worn off and my ribs and neck were achy again. I had hoped to squeeze in a nap before getting into waitress mode, but it wasn’t to be. I’d gotten too caught up in my research and lost track of time.

  All in all, I’d only had time to change into my waitressing outfit and pop some meds again before heading to Flaco’s, pushing the bounds of safe driving as I did so.

  Now, sitting in the parking lot, I was adjusting my baseball cap’s Velcro closure over my chignon when a tapping sound on my window made me jump in my seat.

  “Miss, you can’t park here.”

  I turned and looked right into the eyes of my old pal Winky, otherwise known as one of Senator Applewhite’s FBI security detail. About twenty feet away, standing by a dark sedan, was the agent I’d labeled “The Other One.” Both were dressed in dark-colored golfing attire, their Glocks no doubt hidden beneath their lightweight jackets.

  Immediately going into guilty-slash-panic mode, I stared up at him, opening my mouth to start explaining my presence at the taqueria, especially after they’d warned me to stay away from the senator.

  But wait … Winky’s face wasn’t registering anything beyond slight annoyance. He hadn’t recognized me. Again.

  How on earth…?

  My fingers fluttered to my face in residual nervousness and I touched plastic.

  Oh, yeah. I had on my super-dark and super-big Jackie O. sunglasses. Combine that with my cap and I’d effectively hidden half my face. As far as Winky was concerned, I could darn well be anybody.

  Winky didn’t care, though, and was jerking his thumb toward the exit of the parking lot.

  “You need to leave now, miss. Immediately. The restaurant is closed for the afternoon.”

  I pointed to my cap and then to my shirt, then toward the taqueria, hoping he’d get the picture I was a waitress without me having to truly pretend to be Carmela. I didn’t roll down the window or get out in case Winky recognized me once he saw the whole of me. Then I’d be in deep you-know-what, and so would Flaco.

  Winky understood my pantomime, but wasn’t having it.

  “You may be working the evening shift, miss, but this is a private function,” he said, authority in his voice. “You need to leave. Right now.”

  I pointed to the taqueria’s doors, with more emphasis this time. “Soy una de las camareras del Señor Flaco,” I said.

  “Miss, I am not going to tell you again—”

  “Carmela!” called an equally authoritative voice. “¿Dónde has estado?¡Llegas tarde!”

  Flaco, looking grouchy and impatient, motioned emphatically from the front door of the taqueria. “¡Vengas, Carmela! ¡Rápida!”

  I didn’t wait for Winky to speak again. I grabbed my handbag, threw open the car door, and scurried with my head down to the safety of the taqueria. Winky had to jump back to get out of my way.

  “¡Lo siento!” I called back to him,
though not feeling sorry at all.

  Once inside, I took off my sunglasses and looked up apologetically at Flaco, who was in a red Hawaiian shirt with yellow and pink hibiscus flowers all over it. He didn’t look pleased.

  “Please forgive me for being late. I have no excuse.”

  Flaco slowly crossed his arms over his chest the way he did when he was angry with a patron and counting silently to ten in order to keep his temper in check.

  Then his mustache quivered and he let out a booming laugh.

  “I am a good actor, no, Lucia? You should see your face right now.”

  I replied in Spanish that he was a terrible man for freaking me out like that, which only made him laugh louder. He then nudged me in the direction of the kitchen, where I could see Ana, his most trusted waitress, rolling silverware into paper napkins for the senator and his three golfing buddies, who were around the corner in the belly of the taqueria.

  “Ay, chiflado, both of you,” she said, shaking her head and grinning.

  Flaco moved to his grill, which was hissing and spitting with delectable-smelling meat and chicken. I barely had time to put my handbag away and wash my hands before Ana handed me a tray filled with five baskets of warm tortilla chips and four bowls of hot, spicy queso dip. I hoisted the tray on one hand. “What, do each of these guys need their own bowl of queso, plus an extra?”

  Rounding the corner, I nearly stopped short as I answered my own question. Senator Applewhite and his three golfing buddies were there, yes, but so were eight other men, all dressed for a day on the links.

  The twelve of them were sitting at two long tables, pushed together to form one, that Flaco had set up in the area normally reserved for foot traffic. The table was draped with a black cotton tablecloth and was devoid of any decoration other than two of Flaco’s normal condiment holders, which were vintage wooden Coca-Cola crates that had been cut down to a four-slot version by his son Cristiano.

  The next thing I noticed was the drinks the men had in front of them were of neither the cocktail nor beer variety. Instead, their beverages were in Flaco’s pebbled plastic tumblers, which meant either iced tea or soda.

  That also meant none of them were drunk, like Flaco had said they would be. Five of the men had their laptops open, and I heard them talking about a speech the senator would be giving this week on the importance of teaching history in primary and secondary schools.

  “Wooldridge Square Park was booked, so you’re scheduled for two P.M. on Wednesday at Little Stacy Park,” one said, adding, “which somehow is larger than Big Stacy Park, but whatever.”

  “It’ll make for a great photo op,” another said. “Talking about schools and history in a park where there’s actually likely to be interested moms with school-aged children instead of arrogant college students.”

  Great. The senator had turned his post-golf meal into a business meeting. Yeah, there was no way I would be able to talk to him now. Not without being noticed by the other men.

  Resting the tray on a nearby table, I took a discreet deep breath and rolled my shoulders back. Flaco had already helped me enough by putting me in the same room with the senator. I either had to find a way to make this situation work in my favor or I had to suck it up and leave, metaphorically empty-handed. I certainly wasn’t going to whine to Flaco, and I couldn’t ask him for anything more.

  But I could repay him by not neglecting my duties as a waitress.

  I turned around, smiled widely, and placed bowls on the table. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Here’s some of Flaco’s famous queso for y’all.”

  The senator was seated at the head of the table, looking like a dapper Sunday golfer in his green plaid golf pants and white polo under a darker, pine-green half-zip sweater. His cheeks were ruddy from being out in the sun and wind; his hair looked thicker, but much grayer, due to a recent haircut. Blue eyes regarded me from over his reading glasses, perched at the crest of his parrotlike Applewhite nose.

  “Would you bring me some of his salsa, too, please?”

  I waited a heartbeat for him to recognize me—I figured, why not get it over with if he was going to?—but he didn’t. Maybe it was because of the cap I wore and maybe not, but I was nothing more than one of Flaco’s waitresses to him.

  I smiled. “Of course.”

  They tucked in immediately and that set off over an hour of Ana and I running back and forth to the kitchen, refilling drinks, dishing out more queso, salsa, and chips, and serving baskets of tacos to the men in stages as Flaco cooked different specialties in his own version of a progressive dinner. There were only twelve men, but they ate as if they hadn’t had a bite to eat all day.

  Winky and the Other One also got tacos and iced teas courtesy of Ana as they manned their post outside. When the call of nature brought Winky inside to use the facilities, I hid in the kitchen, making Flaco chuckle and call me a coward. Only when I was sure Winky was outside at his post again did I breeze back to the dining room with the next round of tacos, this time pork carnitas. They were delectable cubes of browned pork shoulder that had been simmering for a couple of hours in a mixture of spices, beef broth, and Dr Pepper until they pulled apart at the slightest touch and had a touch of caramelized sweetness. The carnitas were then cradled in warm corn tortillas and topped simply with thinly sliced radishes and cilantro. On the side I brought out a plate with sliced fresh avocado for an added garnish and lime wedges to squeeze over everything for a hint of flavor-enhancing citrus. Carnitas were one of my favorites and Flaco pretended to swat at my hand with his tongs when I came back in after delivering them, took a fork, and stole a big bite for myself out of the Dutch oven. Then he made me a carnitas taco of my own and I saw his mustache twitch in a satisfied grin when I ate while twirling around his kitchen in taco-filled happiness.

  “Lucia, necessito más comino, por favor,” Flaco said a few minutes later. He pointed to a nearly empty restaurant-sized spice jar, then toward the back storeroom with his tongs.

  “More cumin, coming up,” I said and walked past the bathrooms to the back storeroom, though it took me a couple of minutes to locate the right shelf and find the earthy spice among all his numerous pantry items. “A-ha!” I said finally, finding it on the wall just to the side of the storeroom door, which had closed most of the way behind me when I walked in. I was just about to pull the door open again, but stopped short at a man’s voice.

  “Jessie, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. Things just went sideways.”

  I took a chance and peeked through the doorway. It was the Other One. He was facing the door to the men’s room and his free hand massaged his forehead in a gesture of stress.

  “Come on now, what’s wrong?” he said in soothing tones inflected with a rather cute Southern accent I’d guess was from one of the Carolinas, and disappeared into the men’s room.

  Scurrying back to the kitchen, I stifled a giggle. He sounded like Mateo did when our handsome webmaster was trying to break up with a girl and she wasn’t taking it so well. It looked like one of my new pistol-packing FBI buddies was having girl trouble and I was tickled.

  Another half hour later, Senator Applewhite and his guests switched to alcohol—the senator had brought a bottle of Laphroaig 18—and the talking turned casual. I crossed my fingers and hoped most of them would leave, giving me a chance to talk to the senator with fewer people around, but they didn’t. They leaned back in their chairs, relaxed, and talked while sipping their scotch.

  Ana took them two baskets of Flaco’s mini-sopaipillas for dessert and, though they tried to protest the calories, the little bite-sized squares of fried, puffed-up dough that Flaco had dusted with cinnamon sugar and served with warm honey for dipping, seemed to be the perfect complement to their peaty scotch.

  Hearing the occasional bout of laughter from the men, I stood in the kitchen, wiping down the rinsed-off plastic baskets used to hold tacos.

  “Did you talk to the senator?” Flaco asked, stirring Mexican chocolate into his mole
sauce with one hand and flipping a slab of fajita steak with the other. Between cooking for his guests and preparing other items for the dinner rush, he’d not left the kitchen for the past two hours. Nor had he talked much to Ana and me, except to tell us how he wanted a set of tacos dressed before serving them.

  “Um … Well, there are twelve guys in there instead of four,” I said.

  “They came last minute,” he replied. “I did not know they would be here.”

  I put my hand on his arm to soothe his ruffled feathers. “Oh, no, Flaco. I’m not upset at all. You’ve helped me already more than you should. But way too many eyes and ears would be on me if I tried to speak to him privately, you know what I mean? Not to mention way too many eyes and ears that would witness him yelling at me and you if he thought I was some sort of stalker. Which I kinda am, so I felt it was best to leave it alone.”

  Flaco turned to me with a frown as Ana came breezing in with more empty baskets and announced the senator was ready for his check.

  Flaco said something in her ear and she nodded, filled up another basket with sopaipillas, and took them to the table. Flaco handed me a chef’s knife and pointed to a large bowl filled with zucchini and yellow squash. “Lucia, chop for tacos de calabacita.”

  I washed my hands, then did as requested for one of Flaco’s specialty tacos, which contained his grandmother’s stew of cubed-and-browned pork chops simmered with diced tomatoes, garlic, fresh corn, cumin, garlic, fresh corn kernels, and squash—calabacín, in Spanish. The stew was then served with warm homemade flour tortillas for a customer to make their own on-demand tacos. It was another one of my favorite menu items. I was one-quarter Spanish and my own grandmother’s recipe for calabacita was much the same. I set to chopping the squash in uniform small cubes, exactly as Flaco himself and my Nana would.

  Ana began washing the plastic baskets, making it impossible to hear what Flaco was saying to the senator and his cohorts. When Winky and the Other One walked in to escort the senator out, I ducked my head and kept chopping. My chances of talking to Senator Applewhite were growing smaller with each second. I allowed myself one quiet sigh.