“Okay.”
Before we left, Cam asked me, “You want a muffin or something? My treat.”
“No, thanks. I’ve actually noticed my pants getting tighter. That all-Twinkie cancer diet seems to have backfired.”
Back in the truck, I was once again greeted by the electronic chirp-chirp, and it occurred to me that maybe it was bad news. Car bombs were not exactly unknown in the mob world, if that’s what I was dealing with here. But why blow me up? If they were really counting on me to find TJ, exploding me into smithereens would be counterproductive. Plus, I had already driven the truck from my apartment to here without going boom.
Chirp-chirp.
So what was it? A listening device? If so, it was the world’s worst. A GPS tracker? Maybe the bad guys were tracking my moves, following me. That seemed more likely, but I had never heard a GPS receiver or surveillance transmitter chirp like that.
I sat motionless for a moment, listening for it again. Chirp-chirp. Muffled slightly. Not right next to me. Maybe from the passenger side of the truck cab. Under the passenger seat? No luck.
The glove compartment.
I popped the latch to the glove box and it fell open. Chirp-chirp! There it was. A cellular phone. Not ringing, but chiming at regular intervals.
It was a cell phone, the one I picked up from the Dodge Intrepid at Eddie’s apartment complex. I had completely forgotten about it. I pulled it out of the glove box and read the display.
There was one unplayed message, which was the reason for the chirping alarm. A text window asked if I wanted to call my (presumably Eddie’s) voice-mail account. Why not? I pressed yes. It took a moment to connect. Fortunately, Eddie’s cellular service, like mine, didn’t require a security code. A digitized system voice provided the call stats. The message had come in last night, about the same time I was chatting with Detective Diaz.
I froze when I heard the caller’s voice.
“Okay, Eddie,” came TJ’s recorded voice. “I got your messages. All six thousand of them. I can’t take it anymore. Stop calling me. Whatever you want from me—or, should I say, however much you want from me—forget it. I bailed you out once, and it was one time too many. I’m making major changes in my life right now and, and … you’re one of them. I’m sorry, dude, but the bank of TJ is closed. Whatever it is, you’ll have to get it somewhere else. I have legitimate charities that I’d rather donate to. I really hope you work it out, cuz. You’re a beautiful soul and are meant for more than the crap you’re in now. I’ll always be your family and I’ll always be here for you spiritually, but please, don’t call anymore if all you want is money. Peace, dude.”
I played it twice more, fascinated, listening to the tone of TJ’s voice. He sounded annoyed at first, but grew more disappointed and weary, maybe even sad. I couldn’t decipher any specific clues regarding TJ’s own situation or plans, except the cryptic reference to “major changes” in his life. Hoping to catch some background sound that might clue me into his location, I listened to it several more times. Nothing. No car horn, no background music, no boat whistle, foghorn, nothing.
I saved the message and hung up the phone. I debated calling Detective Diaz, or maybe even Joe Vincent, but something stopped me. They wouldn’t glean any more information from the message than I did. And something told me that there was a reason I’d forgotten about Eddie’s phone until this morning. I hadn’t intentionally omitted it from my discussion with Diaz last night, but I decided to keep it to myself for a little while longer, not even sure exactly why.
The message from TJ was helpful in several ways. First, it told me that he was still alive or, at least, was still alive less than twelve hours ago. He hadn’t yet offed himself or been found by Mr. Day-Glo. That was good.
Second, it confirmed my suspicion that Eddie was reaching out to TJ for money, as he had apparently done before. And TJ didn’t seem to know what specifically Eddie wanted or why, which hinted that TJ had no involvement in Eddie’s problems. TJ’s running appeared to have more to do with Eli and Miguel than Eddie.
Of course, now, the reasons were academic. All that mattered was finding him or convincing him to come back for his own protection. I figured I should make another attempt to reach him and leave the obligatory message on his cellular voice mail.
I was still holding Eddie’s phone and punched a few buttons, scrolling through the preset numbers until I found TJ’s cell. I figured correctly that Eddie had it saved. I pressed CALL and put it to my ear.
A moment later it was ringing. I took a breath, thinking about the message I would leave, then heard a click on the other end.
“Dude, what’re you pullin’? Everyone thinks something happened to you,” came a young man’s voice through the receiver.
TJ’s voice.
CHAPTER 22
“You wouldn’t believe the messages I’ve been getting about you, dude,” TJ continued. “If this is a joke, it ain’t funny.”
My mind kicked into overdrive. TJ was live on the phone. He thought I was Eddie—why?—TJ was obviously screening calls, probably had caller ID. I was calling on Eddie’s phone and TJ saw the incoming name and number. He had probably gotten several messages about Eddie since last night. He saw that it was Eddie calling and decided to answer.
But now what? I wasn’t prepared to actually speak with him. It was completely unexpected and it knocked me off-balance.
“Eddie?” TJ said.
“TJ,” I replied lamely, trying to think of something.
Long pause.
“Who is this?” TJ finally said.
“TJ. This is Mike Garrity.”
Another long pause.
“Where’s Eddie?”
“TJ, I have some bad news. The worst kind.”
“Don’t—”
“I’m sorry. Eddie’s dead. He was murdered yesterday.”
“No—”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. And I think you know it.”
“No…,” TJ said, a twinge of emotion choking his voice.
“TJ, where are you now?”
“How did you get his phone?” TJ said, growing more upset.
“I found it while I was looking for him. I thought if I found him, I might be able to find you.”
“How do I know you didn’t kill him?”
“I didn’t kill him, TJ,” I said calmly, rationally. The more upset he became, the more reasonable I would sound.
“You’re lying!”
“No, I’m not. You know as well as anyone the kind of stuff Eddie was into.”
“Oh my God…” He was crying now.
“I know. I know. But, I want to make sure you don’t end up the same. Tell me where you are and I’ll come get you.”
But TJ wasn’t listening. He spat out his words between sobs. “Oh my God … He’s been calling me and calling me. He wanted money. Is that why he’s dead? The … money?”
“Yeah. Probably.”
“Oh my God … If I had just…” He swallowed the rest of the sentence.
“It’s not your fault, TJ. Eddie made his choices and they had nothin’ to do with you. But I’m afraid this ain’t over yet. You need to come home, where you’ll be safe. Tell me where you are.”
I heard him breathing heavily, trying to regain his composure, debating whether to tell me. I waited him out, figuring he was about to give it up.
“No…”
“TJ—”
“No…”
“I’m telling you the truth, TJ. Call your mother. Ask her. This isn’t about Eli or Miguel anymore. I don’t give a shit about that. You can quit the band, tell Eli to go screw himself. I don’t care. But believe me when I tell you that some very bad guys are looking for you. If you won’t tell me where you are, then please call 911 and tell the cops.”
More breathing. “Nobody’ll find me.”
“These guys will. Eventually. Just tell me where you are. I don�
�t care if it’s Fiji. I’ll come get you.”
“No … they won’t find me.”
“TJ, please. You’re not safe.”
“I … I gotta go.”
“Wait! Please—”
But he was gone. All that was left was dial tone in my ear.
“Damn!” I yelled, and smashed a fist onto the dashboard. “Damn!”
I dropped Eddie’s cell phone and pulled out my own. I quickly called Arlene Sommerset. She wasn’t home.
I left her a brief message, telling her about my conversation with TJ and imploring her to call him. Maybe she could get through to him. I reiterated my offer to go get him, no matter where he was.
I sat in my truck for a few minutes, feeling supremely frustrated. Figuring that I might as well keep the feeling going, I started the engine and headed for the offices of Global Talent Inc.
* * *
“I’d fire you, Garrity, if I thought it would make any difference,” Eli said, his lips tight. “But it’s too late now. You haven’t found him and it’s too late to bring in someone else. I’m fucked either way.”
I said nothing. George sat next to me, chagrined, his eyes downcast. I looked over at him. He didn’t meet my gaze.
Eli sat across from us, behind his huge desk. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “This is all your fault,” he said, looking up at George. “You vouched for him. Said he was an ace.”
George leaned forward at his boss. “Eli—”
“Shut the fuck up, George. You said he could find anyone. You said going with him instead of that agency what’s his name recommended would be quieter. Attract less attention. Less attention…,” Eli muttered to himself softly, almost breaking into a rueful laugh. Then he exploded, finger jabbing at George. “Now I’ve got fucking Entertainment Tonight calling about TJ’s murdered cousin!”
So the word was out. I was surprised that the press hadn’t found me yet. They would. Soon. They always did.
“You see these?” Eli said, scooping up a handful of pink phone messages. “They all wanna talk to TJ. Some are lawyers asking if he has representation! What the fuck does he need representation for, George? You’re the fucking vice president of security! You’re supposed to keep the little shits outta trouble. This is not less attention!”
“Hey, Eli,” I said. “Relax.”
He wheeled on me. “What?!”
“Relax. Havin’ a tantrum isn’t gonna help.”
“What?!”
“So,” I said. “Can I get one of those hazelnut coffees you guys have? They’re tasty.”
Eli’s eyes bulged and apoplexy kept him from speaking. Throwing a non sequitur at him like that was meant to break his rhythm. Interrupt his tirade. It seemed to be working. Plus, I wouldn’t mind one of those coffees. They really were tasty.
“Look,” I said. “You can’t blame George for Eddie gettin’ killed. He had nothin’ to do with it. Hell, I had nothin’ to do with it and I ended up with the poor bastard’s head on my kitchen table.” They both just stared at me. I seemed to be speaking with some authority, and they were floundering for some direction, any direction. “And it’s nobody’s fault that TJ and Eddie were related. TJ’s bad luck to have a scumbag cousin. He ain’t the first, believe me.”
There was a beat before Eli said, “I am so fucked.”
“Probably,” I said. “But havin’ a hissy fit ain’t gonna make it feel any better. Now, which do you want first, the good news or the bad news?”
Eli’s head drooped. “Bad news? You mean more bad news?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Shit. Why not? Dump it all on me. Bury me in it, and if I’m lucky, I’ll be crushed to death.”
“Alright. The bad news is that even if I find him, I don’t think TJ’s comin’ back. I think he quit the band.”
Definitely not what they wanted to hear. The statement hung there, suspended over the desk, everyone staring at it, nobody wanting to touch it, like some dirigible turd.
“What did you say?” Eli finally said.
“Yeah, you heard me. I don’t know it for fact, but my girlish intuition tells me he’s done. You should start thinkin’ about contingency plans.”
“What’re you saying?” Eli hissed. “That he quit? Are you nuts?”
“That’s my hunch. And I think you know why.” I met Eli’s gaze directly. George cut his eyes back and forth between us. He had no idea what I was talking about.
“I don’t believe it,” Eli said.
“That’s your prerogative.” I decided not to mention the real bad news: my fear that TJ was contemplating suicide. It was too speculative and too inflammatory.
“What’s the good news?” George asked. For such a big, hulking guy, his demeanor was meek—timid, even.
“Actually, I have two things. Whatever trouble Eddie Sommerset was in that got him whacked, I don’t think TJ had anything to do with it. I don’t think he needs any legal representation.” I smiled. “Although, advice of counsel is always prudent.”
“That’s the good news?” Eli said. “That TJ isn’t involved in his cousin’s murder? That’s our new threshold for good news?”
“If TJ is innocent,” I said, “the Boyz Klub image and reputation remain intact.”
“What the hell do I care?” Eli barked. “If TJ quits, there is no Boyz Klub! They could all be murderers and rapists, for all I care. The sponsorships are gone either way.”
A real sweetheart, this Eli Elizondo.
“What’s the other thing?” George asked. “You said there were two things.”
“Yeah. I talked to him.”
George didn’t get it. “Him?”
“Yeah.”
“You mean TJ?” Eli said, standing. He leaned forward onto his desk. “You talked to TJ?”
“Yeah. On the phone.”
“When?” George said eagerly, grabbing my forearm.
Before I could answer his question or, more likely, tell him to take his big paws from my person, Eli’s office door opened. His assistant poked her head in.
“Eli?”
“Not now!” Eli shouted, still staring at me.
“Uh,” the assistant continued, “the police are here.” That got Eli’s attention. He swiveled his head at her. “They want to talk to you.”
The door swung wider, and instead of seeing Orange County detectives Diaz and Crowley, in walked Orlando City detectives Joe Vincent and Gary Richards. They spotted me and George.
“Well, no shit,” said Joe, smiling, looking at the two of us. “It’s old-home week. Garrity, where you been? I been lookin’ all over for you.” I nodded a greeting at them.
“How you doin’, Mikey?” Richards said with what appeared to be sincere concern.
“Eh,” I said. “You know. Good days and bad days.”
“Yeah,” Richards said.
“So, Garrity,” Joe said. “Can we go somewheres and talk? We got a lotta catchin’ up to do.”
* * *
Joe Vincent was about my age, with a full head of thick, salt-and-pepper hair and bushy eyebrows that could use a trim. He was in decent shape, still lifted a couple times a week in the department gym, but had gone a little soft since he’d left the patrol car a few years ago. I never knew him real well, but I got along with him okay when I was still on the job. He was a hard-ass detective, a pit bull who favored the direct, browbeating approach in suspect interviews. I wondered how he’d treat me now.
“So, no bullshit now, Garrity,” Joe said, leaning back in the imported leather conference-room chair. “What are they like? The Boyz.”
“Uh,” I said, not expecting the question, “you mean the band?”
“Yeah. What’re they really like?”
“They’re okay, I guess.”
“Assholes, right? They gotta be. You don’t get that rich that young and not turn into an asshole. I know I would.”
“I dunno,” I said. “I only met ’em a couple times. They seemed okay. A lot mor
e talented than I thought. I expected smoke and mirrors, y’know? But they’re actually good.”
“No shit.” Joe Vincent smiled over at Gary Richards, who didn’t return it. It was just the three of us in Global Talent’s enormous main conference room.
Gary Richards was a couple years younger, with a thin, studious face. I don’t think I could recall a single time I had ever seen him when he didn’t look just a little sad, with his brows slightly furrowed, and the only smiles offered being of the wry, melancholy variety. I guess I couldn’t blame him. Richards had lost his wife three years ago to breast cancer, leaving him a single parent of two kids under four years old.
“So, Mikey,” Richards said. “Where’d they cut you?”
I turned my head and parted the hair over my ear so he could see the biopsy scar. Richards shook his head slowly.
“That’s a bitch, man,” said Joe. “A goddamn bitch, there.”
“Yeah,” I said, wondering how Bob felt about being called a bitch. “So why do I have to do this dance with you guys? I spent hours with Orange County last night.”
“Jurisdictional bullshit,” said Joe. “We found the body first, so it’s our case. But they say the head trumps everything else. We say, get lost, the head is just another piece of evidence like you found a finger or a kneecap or something. They tell us to release the body. We tell ’em to shove it. They call the county commissioner. We call the mayor. Yada yada. It’ll come back to us eventually, but I don’t want the case to get cold while I’m waitin’.”
Richards was staring at me, something going on behind those professor eyes. “Why you, Mikey?”
I took a deep breath and went through the whole sordid story again. I told them all the same things I’d told Diaz last night. I also told them I gave the .22 pistol to Diaz. I related the phone call I got from the “friend of a friend,” as well as Diaz’s information about the Mustang’s tag and the partial print lifted from the gun.
The two detectives filled pages with notes. The only thing I held back was Eddie’s cell phone, which remained safely in the glove box of my truck.
When I was done, they looked at each other. Something unspoken passed between them. Joe was the primary, but Richards clearly wanted to ask something. Joe sat back signaling Richards to go ahead.
Head Games Page 17
