Silenced by the Yams (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #3)

by Cantwell, Karen

  Mertz nodded and Jorge was gone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Since Clarence was still packing his things, we agreed to wait for him at the coffee shop across the street. Guy wanted to ask a couple of questions before going back to work, so he joined us.

  The heat and humidity walloped us as we stepped onto the sidewalk and crossed the two lane street. Feeling far too hot for coffee, I ordered an iced tea while Guy declined anything and Colt sucked down an ice cold bottle of water. Despite our desire for air conditioning, we waited at a small table outside so we could see Clarence when he exited the Tanner building. DC business suits and tourists passed by our table at irregular intervals. I looked at my watch and cringed. It was 1:30 in the afternoon. We’d been in that place for two and a half hours and I’d promised Howard that I would get home. I really needed to see my girls, take care of Mama Marr, and possibly fit a nap in there somewhere, but I didn’t want to leave Colt and Clarence until I knew they were going to be okay together.

  Colt was unusually introspective. I suspected he was rehearsing his next conversation with Clarence. Things were likely to be very awkward between them. Would he ask for a DNA test? Truthfully, it wasn’t necessary. The resemblance was uncanny. If Clarence cut his stringy hair, they would practically look like twins.

  While waiting for Clarence, we filled Guy in on the circumstances that lead us to the confrontation in the banquet hall. Somehow we boiled the tale down to about three sentences, to which Guy responded, when we were done: “You don’t say.”

  “Thank you for helping us out,” I said. “Your text was most timely.”

  He tipped his fedora. “Happy to be of service. I hope you’ll include me in more of your adventures. This was quite a lot of fun.”

  I sighed. To be honest, it all felt very anti-climactic. And I still didn’t have any information that would help me vindicate Frankie. Maybe Frankie was correct that he was being framed as revenge by friends of Vivanna Buttaro’s. Colt said if that were the case, time to stop this train and get off, because we took that trip once already and it wasn’t pretty. We’d learned the hard way not to mess with Mafia, even the misfit kind.

  Sadly, he was right.

  Guy tapped his umbrella tip a couple of times on the concrete beneath our feet. “Don’t you wonder why Senator Juarez would want to talk with Jorge?”

  Actually, it hadn’t registered on my radar. “Maybe he wanted to rent the ACL building for an event. A fundraiser or something. Jorge said that it’s rented out for all sorts of reasons by all sorts of organizations.”

  Guy harrumphed. “Seemed more important. ‘The Senator insists’ were the receptionist’s exact words if I recall. And who tells a Senator that he’ll ‘call him back later’? Just appears like there’s a relationship there that goes beyond simple party arranging.”

  “You think he’s gay too?” I asked.

  “Not that kind of relationship,” Guy said, shaking his head and staring at the building. “Senator Juarez is very straight. He was caught with his pants down receiving some gratitude from a young female intern many years ago, but the story never made the headlines because of a much larger scandal involving a president and an intern with a stain on her dress.”

  “I have a friend who wants to work on Juarez’s presidential campaign, if he runs.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see if he runs. He’s being investigated for voter fraud during his last run for senator.”

  “Really?” Colt said. “That hasn’t been in the news, has it?”

  Guy sniffed. “I just told you—news is all relative. The syndicates broadcast the stories that are most likely to entice viewers to change the channel from Seinfeld reruns or Jersey Shore. This story isn’t big enough yet. Not enough facts.”

  I chewed on that for a while. “What does any of that have to do with Jorge, do you think?”

  “Nothing, I guess. It just wouldn’t seem that they’d run in the same circles is all.”

  Finally, Clarence appeared on the sidewalk in front of the ACL building bearing a sad face and a small box which presumably contained his possessions. I was relieved, because the heat was overwhelming. We could finally wrap everything up and head our separate ways.

  I called his name. When he spotted us he waited for a couple of cars, then crossed the street. He set the box down on our table. “Guess that’s it. Time to find a new job.”

  “Call me tomorrow at the station,” Guy offered. “I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll try to see if there are any openings you’d be qualified for.”

  Clarence appeared grateful for the gesture. Meanwhile, Colt’s mental wheels had been turning, I could tell. Something Guy said about the Senator got him going. “Hey, kid,” Colt said. “How much do you think Jorge makes a year working for that place?”

  “I don’t just think, I know. The office manager and I hit Happy Hour together and she talks a lot when she drinks. He makes ninety thousand and some change. Plus he gets a company car and a country club membership.”

  “You know where he lives?”

  “Has a house in Dupont Circle.”

  I whistled. Houses in Dupont Circle were outrageously expensive.

  Colt pressed on. “You mean an apartment?”

  Clarence shook his head. “No, I mean a million-dollar house. He just renovated the whole thing. It’s quite a place, apparently. He talks about it all of the time, but never invites anyone over. I guess I know why now,” he laughed. “Poor Randolph Rutter—outed before he was ready.”

  “That’s not a lot of salary for someone with such an extravagant lifestyle, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Sure. We all say it. Dan, the other projectionist, says Jorge supplements his income by providing high profile celebs with prescription pain killers.” He winked. “But he waives the prescription requirement, if you catch my drift.”

  I slugged his arm. “Why didn’t you tell us that before!” Suddenly, Jorge Borrego was on my list of suspects again. I didn’t care what he said about no stinkin’ ipecac.

  “Hey!” Clarence rubbed his arm and gave me that sad puppy dog look again. “Why did you do that? What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is that I’m pretty sure that Kurt Baugh was addicted to prescription pain killers. Sorry I hit you. The heat’s making me cranky.”

  My iced tea was completely drained, so I pulled an ice cube out of the cup and rubbed it on the back of my neck. Then I relayed my interesting phone conversation with Judi Horner about Kurt Baugh’s documentary and her suspicions that he popped a pill or two himself. While I talked, Colt was busy tapping and scrolling on his smartphone.

  “Bingo!” he shouted, holding it for everyone to see. Which really didn’t work so well since we were standing in blinding sunlight. The screen just reflected it back at us. “Benito Juarez—guess where he went to college?”

  “Santa Fe U?” I guessed, although at this point, it wasn’t really a guess. I think Colt’s question was rhetorical.

  “And the Baugh brothers?”

  Someone entirely different answered that question. Evidently, while we were all burning our retinas trying to see the screen on Colt’s phone, Andy Baugh had wandered up behind us without anyone noticing.

  “We called ourselves The Fantastic Five,” he said.

  I cringed and he acknowledged my cringe with an understanding nod. “I know. Bad name. We were young, what can I say? And for the record, my brother was a recovering addict. The documentary was his way of giving back; educating people about the dangers of prescription pain killers. He could be a real dick, but he didn’t deserve to be murdered. Especially by someone he called a friend.”

  The rest of us exchanged what-the-hell-just-happened glances. There were five of them. Remove Andy and Kurt from the equation, and the person he was referring to had to be one of the other three—Randolph, Jorge, or Juarez.

  “Susan called me,” he said. “She told me about the syrup of ipecac.”

  Now I was really
confused. “But then you know it was just a prank gone wrong.”

  “No. Now I know who framed your friend.”

  “Who?”

  “Only three people knew about Kurt’s condition. His doctor, me,” he looked across the street at the ACL building and his eyes narrowed, “and there’s the third man now.”

  Jorge Borrego had slipped elegantly through the glass front door of the ACL building. He stopped, pulled a pair of sunglasses from his inside suit pocket and slid them onto his nose with the grace of an A-list movie star.

  Andy moved toward the curb and was about to step into the street. I stood abruptly, knocking my chair over, and managed to grab his elbow. “You mean Jorge killed your brother because he knew about the drug dealing?”

  He kept his eyes on Jorge. “Not the drugs. Kurt knew the depth of the Senator’s crimes and Jorge is Juarez’s henchman. I’m guessing he killed Kurt because he was ordered to.”

  Before I could digest the words, Andy had jerked his elbow from my grasp and was into the street, chugging full-steam ahead, shouting Jorge’s name. At the same moment, and sleek stretch limo slid to the curb in front of the ACL building. Cars were honking and skidding to sudden stops to avoid hitting Andy, who wasn’t paying attention to anyone except Jorge.

  Without a second thought, I followed Andy into the street, intent on stopping him. Then, from my peripheral vision, two men appeared. They wore black jeans and black t-shirts and something about the uniformity of it triggered my this-isn’t-good alarm. Sadly, I didn’t pay enough attention to the inner Barb that knew something bad was about to go down; I just kept following Andy Baugh. And when the third man in black appeared, I heard Colt hollering for me to stop. The terror in his voice hit home, but not soon enough.

  Unfortunately, I’ve experienced the deafening sound of gunfire way too many times, so when the first shot was fired, I started looking for cover. Andy had already reached the sidewalk when a second pop fired and Jorge fell. A third bullet dropped Andy right in front of me. I could hear Colt’s screams through the mayhem that had ensued on the street and on the surrounding sidewalks. My legs went numb and I couldn’t move. A part of me wondered if I’d been shot and didn’t know it.

  Suddenly, a car sped from around the corner and slowed just enough for doors to open and the three men to jump in. It peeled off, burning rubber. Something about the car was familiar, but my head was spinning and nausea was setting in. That’s when I looked into the street and saw Colt face down, and Clarence kneeling over him.

  Not two seconds after the mystery car sped away, a black SUV with flashing blue and red lights followed in hot pursuit with sirens blaring. My knees finally gave way and I crumpled to the ground just as I spied a vision that made my heart sing.

  No, it wasn’t Steven Spielberg floating in from a camera crane, shouting “Cut! That’s a wrap!” Although that would have been really cool.

  It was Howard, gun drawn, face full of concern, dodging cars, running my way. I smiled, content that I was about to be saved from this horror. Agents Smith and Price had their fire power focused on the doors of the limousine.

  With the promise of salvation on the horizon, I felt sensation in my legs again. I sat up enough to wriggle them with my hands. I wanted to be ready for Howard to walk me away to a quiet place where I could pass out peacefully.

  Andy Baugh was moaning just in front of me. Blood oozed from his left leg and pooled on the concrete. I told him help was on the way and prayed that his leg was the only place he’d been hit.

  Colt was too far away for me to see, and a crowd had converged around him.

  A tingling on my neck caused me to reach and rub, but when I did, my hand touched the cold steel of a handgun barrel. At the same time, I felt my wrist wrenched hard behind my back and a voice whisper in my ear. “Up on your feet fast, lady.”

  It was the man of many hair plugs, Randolph Rutter. And me, without my mace.

  Chapter TwentyHoward had stopped on the far side of the road when he saw Randolph.

  I didn’t dare turn my head to see if anyone was closer.

  “Get up,” said Randolph. When my legs didn’t move, he applied pressure to the gun. “Now. I’m running out of time.”

  Trying my best to obey, I pushed up on my legs, while he pulled with the strength of his other arm. “Please don’t hurt me.” I fought back tears. “I have three daughters. I’m not the greatest cook in the world, but I try to be a good mother. I promise I’ll attend more PTA meetings and learn to sew and take them all to Disney World like they’ve begged for years.”

  “Are you talking to me or to God?”

  “Anyone who will listen.”

  Half crouched and with his gun lowered, Howard made short, careful steps in our direction. “Randolph Rutter, we promise you fair treatment. Just put the gun down and release the hostage.”

  The bit about “releasing the hostage” annoyed me. “Howard, I’m not a hostage, I’m your wife! Can’t you be a little more forceful than that?”

  That’s when I realized I probably should have kept my mouth shut.

  “That’s your husband?”

  “Yeah, of all the gin joints, huh?”

  “Now I’m really done for. Crap!” He dragged me further down the sidewalk until we stood next to a red BMW parked at the curb. A man sat in the passenger’s seat looking a little bewildered. Randolph tapped hard on the passenger side window then shoved hard into my neck again. “Out of the car! Or I’ll shoot her!”

  I couldn’t help but notice how quickly Randolph had transformed from blubbering, innocent prankster to villainous, armed hijacker.

  The man in the car didn’t move fast enough for Randolph who banged harder on the window. “Now, man! Or she’s a dead mother. Leave the keys!”

  The driver’s side door flew open and the terrified little man backed away with his hands in the air. Randolph ordered me to get in through the passenger door and slide across. Once in the driver’s seat, I realized that the car was already running and the radio was playing “Desperado.” The irony would have caused me to chuckle if I didn’t feel like tossing my tortillas all over the dashboard.

  “Now what?” I asked as I peeked in the rearview mirror, hopeful that Howard was somewhere near, aimed to plug Randolph Rutter full of the FBI’s best ammunition. Unfortunately, he wasn’t anywhere in sight.

  Randolph pulled the gear shift out of park and wagged the gun in my face. “Drive, you idiot!”

  The car lurched. I did as he said and pulled away from the curb, viewing the side mirror for any glimpse of agents or vehicles ready to pounce. Not surprisingly, the speed of our departure wasn’t enough for Randolph. He shoved the gun into my ribs. “Faster!”

  Determined to live another day, I shoved my foot into the gas pedal. BMWs, it turns out, have a lot of kick, and that baby took off like a shot. Great, I thought. My one chance probably ever, to test a sweet ride like a BMW, and it has to be at gunpoint. Then I panicked, realizing that if I didn’t control the situation just right, that gun could very well end my chance of driving any car ever again.

  It was time to get a grip. I’d been in dangerous situations before. Not too long ago, long-lost Mafia boss Tito Buttaro had aimed his gun right between my eyes hoping to save his own skin. Did I die? No. And when a cross-dressing, fugitive bank robber wanted to drop me down an elevator shaft, I didn’t die either. And I wasn’t going to die now. I silently prayed that the FBI was smarter than Randolph Rutter. And until they came through, I determined that I would aid in my own survival by a) driving with the skill of a seasoned mother who had three appointments to make in twenty minutes, and b) talking down an armed lunatic the way you talk a cranky toddler into eating those last two brussels sprouts at dinner time.

  That’s right. Randolph Rutter hadn’t chosen just any old hostage to make his getaway. He’d tackled a bigger opponent than he’d counted on—he’d taken on Barbara Marr, mother of three. Because mothers don’t get mad, they get even.

/>   Roads in Washington, DC are a nightmare. They don’t follow straight lines, half the streets are one-way, and you never know when you’re going to hit a traffic circle. Traffic circles, in particular, are disasters waiting to happen. On a good day—one without a wigged-out maniac holding a gun to your ribs—you’re tempting death when you enter one.

  I screeched to a halt at a traffic light and asked my captor: “Which way?”

  “Don’t stop!”

  Well, that wasn’t an answer to my question, but obviously I was supposed to ignore my training and break all laws to keep us moving. That made sense. Telling someone not to stop in DC, however, is kind of like telling Meryl Streep not to act or Robin Williams not to ham it up in an interview. It’s impossible. The streets are narrow and vehicles innumerable. But I gave it the old college try and flipped a quick right-hand turn, prompting the guy I cut off to lay on his horn. Somehow, when you have a gun poking you in the side, this doesn’t bother you as much. I weaved around cars, thankful that the hot little BMW was smaller and maneuvered better than my mini-van. I honked at pedestrians and screamed, “outa my way!” at several intersections. I could hear sirens, but that’s not an uncommon sound in the District, so I could only hope they were looking for me.

  “What’s your plan, Randolph?” I asked, careening through a red light and blaring my horn.

  “I don’t know.”

  Truthfully, that didn’t surprise me.

  “Well, here’s the thing.” I flipped a fast right and realized that if I kept going straight, I’d hit Constitution Avenue. “You need a plan.”

  Meanwhile, I was mentally calculating my own.

  “Yeah, I need a plan.” He leaned back in the seat, and I saw his grip on the gun relax. “I just didn’t want to lose my job is all.”

  “And so you kidnapped someone? You think this is really a good career move?” Without thinking, I stopped at a red light. Good habits run deep, what can I say? But Randolph didn’t notice. He was obviously having second thoughts.