“She’s a different sort. She has this special focus. For all her physical gifts, it was her mind and emotional fortitude that wowed me when I first worked with her.”
We continued like this, discussing the various competitors as they came and went. Harold found fault with everyone’s technique, stance, or attitude on some level. He really knew his stuff. For some reason, at about one o’clock, they gave the judges a fifteen-minute break.
“It’s like the seventh inning stretch,” Harold said, lifting his arms and yawning.
“We gonna sing Take Me Out to the Ball Game?” Dana asked.
“Ha, ha,” Harold mouthed.
Everyone took turns going to the bathroom, first the women, then Harold and I. The bathroom sometimes produced my clearest moments of thought. For whatever reason the gentle echoing of the porcelain and the running water from the sink outside my stall, brought contemplation. In my lucid state, thoughts of Jermaine LaGrange swirled. The man had rage in spades. He had killed at least two people, that much was certain. But something was wrong in his motivations. He had made dire mistakes. Even assuming the man was justified, his rage was poorly directed. Like eating when what you really wanted was a hug from daddy. His was a crime of substitution, of misplaced justice. Who did he truly feel wronged by, and why hadn’t he taken it out on them?
As I washed my hands I came back to the same thought I often had about motive: people much preferred to redirect their emotional energy anywhere but where it really belonged. Confronting your true emotional source was beyond daunting, it was only for those of a rarely brave nature. Murderers sometimes exhibited such bravery, but mostly, just like the rest of us, they substituted someone else for the person they never could or never would deal with directly. Usually someone from childhood. In Jermaine’s case, I had no doubt his childhood had been a hot mess. For all I knew, his father, uncle, or mother were dead, so killing them was not an option, although even if it was, it was very unlikely he’d actually do that.
I finished washing my hands and did a quick flossing to questioning looks from the other patrons. Harold was outside the bathroom, waiting.
“I thought you’d fallen in.”
“Sorry. I just got to thinking about Jermaine.”
“Man, can we stay off all that depressing shit for an afternoon?”
“All right. We’ll stay off that for the afternoon.”
As we walked back, he stopped me. “You have a way of making me feel like I want to know what you know, so spill. What about this asshole you want to ask?”
“I feel like your grandmother and Kendal got screwed, because they did nothing to the actual killer. Sure, Gilroy put him up to it.”
Harold held up a hand. “Let me stop you there. Gilroy killed ‘em, not fucking Jermaine. Gilroy wanted all this to happen. Jermaine was like, I dunno.”
“A substitute?”
“Yeah, that’s it, a substitute. Gilroy’s a fucking coward. If you’re going to do something, at least have the guts to do it yourself.”
I was about to mention that Gilroy did not intend to kill Francine, but thought better of it.
“It also got me thinking about who Jermaine really wanted dead. Who he felt wronged by. Didn’t you tell me some story before about a judge?”
“Yeah, that’s what I noticed today, too.”
My skin broke out in a cold sweat. “What did you notice?”
“The judges, for today’s match. The one sitting in the middle of that table, she’s the same one who d-qed Isabelle’s uncle all those years ago. That’s why I was ... ”
The crowd roared as Isabelle LaGrange was announced.
As I raced back to the arena, Harold yelled, “Boise! Wait up”
Chapter 37
Bursting out of the hallway, I shoved through the milling people who guzzled beer, munched on fried food, and chatted about all of the mundane things people chat about. I heard a snatch of conversation as I rushed by a couple swaying to their own song.
“Hey baby, what’s your smoke signal?” the man intoned. “You like arrows?”
Everything shifted into slow motion, while I dodged and weaved through the crowd and Harold struggled to keep pace, my knee felt incredible, like some kind of lightning surged through it. Ever since the basic training accident had ended my military career, I had a slight limp. But every time my heart moaned to walk normally, I tried to be grateful for it could have, probably should have, been a lot worse. I should never have walked again. Now, here I was over a decade later, running with the practiced ease of my nineteen-year-old self. Perhaps I was the mother who suddenly has the strength to lift the car off her child. However, I wasn’t going to save my child, I was going to save someone I didn’t even know.
As I pounded up the bleacher steps I suddenly knew why I’d accepted the gun from Leber without a fight. Why all my protestations about guns were hollow. Why the pepper spray wasn’t enough. Why the Taser wouldn’t do, either. It was for this very moment. I would need to pull out the weapon before anyone else knew why and I could be executed for that. I wished there were time to do something more logical. Something less deadly, both for myself and for Isabelle. Surely she was misguided or she was the product of some elaborate brain-washing scheme triggered by the queen of hearts. Deep down, I knew that wasn’t the case. Isabelle had made the choice to leave Harold and join Jermaine. Yes, she’d been young and impressionable, but she was now a worldly woman who could discern right from wrong. She’d had years to correct her error. She had chosen wrong and stayed the course.
I burst out of the stairwell in time to see Isabelle move into position. It seemed so obvious now. Her training to shoot multiple arrows so quickly. That was not training for competition, it was training for an assassin. Jermaine LaGrange had turned his daughter into a killer. That’s what he’d meant when he’d said, “She was unbeatable at all of it.”
She had already shot arrows at the target, all in the golden ring. She was exhibiting that legendary focus Harold spoke about. If my guess was right, her next shot would follow a pivot to her right, just as they’d practiced at the range over and over as I watched. Her target sat in the middle seat at the judges’ table. Her target was Jermaine’s tormentor. The female judge who had dared to stand up to him all those years ago and disqualify him from competition.
There were people between me and Isabelle.
“Move! Move!” I yelled, but most of the patrons were focused on the competition.
One fat man shoved me back as I tried to pass. “You ain’t blockin’ my view.”
Then I pulled out Leber’s gun. He stepped back, raising his hands, spilling his cup of beer over his shoulder onto someone’s back. The victim of the spill turned and shoved the fat man. A commotion erupted as everyone joined the fray. Isabelle was nocking her arrow, ready for the final shot. She raised her elbow, just like Harold had taught her, just like he’d shown me. Her form really was perfect, even to my untrained eye. She had red facepaint on, a line in each direction. She had feathers in her hair, like extensions. She looked every bit the warrior her uncle had formed her into. She breathed calmly, exhaling as she pivoted on her right leg and planted her left, a slight bend in her knees. Perfect balance. The arrow centered on its target, right above the paper that said the name of the judge. I slid to a stop, also planting in a shooter’s stance, my gun held firm. I squeezed the trigger, felt the recoil and saw my target jerk at the last possible second, the arrow flying upward and over the judge’s head, glanced off a metal railing and landed harmlessly on a patch of grass.
Before I could see anything else, I was gang-tackled from behind and held down by three people. Harold charged up beside the woman and the two men holding me. The woman had already wrested the gun from my weary hand. I did not resist.
Harold yelled, “It’s okay, it’s okay. He’s a private detective. Man, he’s cool!”
They did not listen. They held
me fast until Leber arrived. Leber must have heard my description over the radio because he was first on the scene.
“How’d you get here so fast?” I asked.
“I was here. Thought I should see this guy’s daughter shoot.” Then, as he put me into the front seat in handcuffs, he said, “I had a feeling about you and that gun.”
“Is she dead?” I asked, feeling sick to my stomach.
“Nope. Where were you aiming?”
“Center mass, where else?”
“You a bad shot. You hit her thigh. She’ll live.”
I breathed a thick sigh of relief.
Chapter 38
Aweek later, I paraded about in a pirate outfit for a party at Dana’s place. Pickering had paid me, but refused to give me my so-called bonus, claiming I’d technically failed to meet the criteria of one week. I took what he offered and paid my rent at both The Manner and my office.
Harold Bacon, true to his surfer nature, was casual about the whole thing, including paying me the remainder of my fee. I had amassed many hours on the case, exceeding his initial retainer.
I repeatedly tried to contact Junior. After leaving a dozen voicemails, my last call was met with the “I’m sorry, but this number is no longer in service” greeting. The Bacons refused me entrance through their main gate. Hillary had needed me at the end, but any illusions of us being long-term friends was madness. Then, I got a call from her late one night. I was dozing off on the used couch I’d gotten for my office while contemplating which straw fedora on my hat rack I’d wear the next day.
“Boise? This Boise?”
“Yes, it’s Boise. Who’s this?”
“Hill Bacon. You remember me?” She laughed knowing I would not forget her. She slurred the next sentence. “You ruined our family, you little bastard.”
“Hillary, are you hitting the bottle?”
“No. How dare you! I’m, I’m tired. I take medication. It makes me drowsy.”
What Hillary didn’t know was that I was also a bit plastered on nine Guinnesses and a shot of vodka the bartender had poured as the last “I’m-cutting-you-off” shot. My stomach wailed like a cat in heat, which was why I hadn’t lost consciousness yet, but had chosen to crash at my office which was a lot closer than The Manner. On the other hand, I held my liquor better than Aunt Hillary.
“Hillary, since I’ve got you on the line, what’s the deal with Junior? I tried to come see him, but your bulldogs wouldn’t let me on the property.”
“Junior. You mean my son that I never got to raise, who I don’t even know.”
She paused. I imagined her taking a drink, probably champagne or white wine. Auburn lips against her pale skin. She was attractive in a broken and battered way, like a chipped and used piece of expensive china. I waited, willing her silently to tell me about Junior and maybe feel some guilt about being cheap.
“Taking a pill ... with water. Helps me sleep. I don’t sleep much anymore.”
“Uh-huh.” I wandered over to my desk and looked down into the wastebasket. I swore under my breath.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing, Hillary. That wasn’t for you.”
“You are a cheeky bastard, aren’t you? Junior’s gone. So’s his father. Herbie never could take it when things got hard. As long as he got to play the dutiful father and I resigned myself to playing the withering aunt, all was well. Once I told the truth, well, you can guess how that turned out. Like father, like son.”
“What about their inheritances?”
“I’m sure they’ll turn up in time to collect that, but the lawyers say it’s going to be some time. This whole thing is a mess, and I plan to contest.”
“Hillary. Please don’t do that.”
“Why-ever not?”
“Because the reparation package that Francine set up might be her only legacy. It would be something others could aspire to. There’s not a lot of that in the world right now. She died for it.”
She bellowed laughter into the phone. “So what, how’s that my problem? I need to live, Boise. I need to live. Some selfish old lady has some dream of what, confessing at the end and making up for all the bad shit she did?”
“You’ll have enough to live.”
“You mind contributing?”
“What’s that mean?”
“Well, big shot, if I can give up millions, you can give up what we owe you. Junior did send one text to me. Just one. He said we should pay you what we owe you. You believe that? He vanishes like the Loch Ness Monster and that’s all he says to his mother. As if this was all my fault. I always get the blame.”
She had a point. I should put my money where my mouth was. It was a couple thousand dollars. Was it worth fighting over? I stared at the green paper in the wastebasket, and was furious about something else. Why couldn’t this goddamned building get a decent cleaning crew? Why was a sheet of paper I’d thrown in my wastebasket still there after a goddamn month? I had to call them and tell them what was what.
“Sure, Hill, keep it. Give it to the people who were wronged. Just remember, I supported and continue to support Francine and Kendal’s cause. I just proved it.”
She laughed again. A spiteful laugh full of pepper and grease. “Here’s hoping I never see you again, Detective.”
The line disconnected. Even when it was derisive, I got a jolt out of being called, “Detective.”
I dialed my building management company to complain about my wastebasket. By the time the nighttime voicemail finished talking about leasing opportunities and listing a special number to call about after-hours emergencies, my anger had wilted. I hung up, fished the green paper out of the wastebasket and dropped it back on top of the desk.
I muttered to myself, “If not now, when?”
THAT HAD BEEN THREE days ago. I arrived at Dana’s party to shouts of laughter and blaring music. Dana stood in the back, serving drinks while she watched Annie dance in the middle of her living room, her arms around one of the men who worked at the paper.
“What’ll it be, Boise?” Dana asked, reaching behind her into a cooler and pulling out a Guinness. I put my hand on top of hers before she opened the can.
“Annie’s back, I see.”
“Yup,” Dana said with a smile of contentment only a profound and long-lasting human relationship can bring.
“You got any seltzer?”
She laughed as if I’d just told her the best joke of the year, then the grin fell off her face like the glue had melted. I pulled out the green paper without unfolding it.
“Why you pirate!”
“Arrrrr.”
I shoved the paper back into my pocket.
Then she asked, “How many days?”
“Two.”
“Good for you, Boise. I’m proud ... ”
“Don’t get excited. I’m not much of a joiner. Nice party.”
I didn’t feel like spilling my guts right now to Dana, so I took my seltzer and wandered away, saying polite hellos and laughing with whomever I ran into. I was only looking for one person. She wasn’t there, so I flopped on the couch between a vampire who smelled like stale menthols and a devil-nurse whose mascara had started to run. I scooped party peanuts from a bowl and munched. I’d nearly finished the seltzer. Nervous energy. God, I wanted a drink.
Leber appeared followed by some guy I didn’t recognize. Neither of them wore a costume.
“You too good for a costume?” I asked, then shook Leber’s hand. The guy with him said something I couldn’t hear, then excused himself. Leber eyed my nearly empty cup.
“What you drinking?” he asked.
“Gin and tonic,” I replied.
“What kind of gin?”
“Tanqueray,” I said after a slight pause. He probably saw I had no lime and knew I was full of shit. Detectives.
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you talk to Dan
a?” I asked.
“’Course, she’s the hostess, isn’t she?”
“Leber, I’m tired of seeing so much of you. You did me right, saving my life and all, but I need a break, what say another week before we chat.”
“One thing, Boise. That whole Sherlock move on the boat.” I stared at him blankly. “You don’t remember? When were we out viewing Francine’s crime scene. The nick in the side of the Bacon boat, High Hopes. You thought it was from Francine’s shoe.”
“Leber, you never seemed like the ‘I told you so’ type.”
“I’m not, but you must admit, it was a big error. Gilroy did it on Distilled in Paradise. There was a nick from her shoe on his boat too, but also a little drag along the outer hull as she went in.”
“Distilled in Paradise. That’s the name of Gilroy’s boat?” I asked. He nodded. “I never got a good look at the name. So, you’re giving me a backhanded compliment? Like Boise got the evidence right, but the location wrong?”
“No man, I’m giving you a compliment-compliment. Because of you, I was on the lookout for that evidence on Gilroy’s ride. Barnes was impressed when I figured it out.”
“You tell him you got the idea from me?”
He laughed. “You kidding? Hells, no. I’m taking full police custody of that deduction.”
That’s when I spotted Irene, seething sex. She had something, even if years of booze had used up some of her glow, she still had a way of putting a charge into me. She had her tattooed arms draped over the shoulders of a guy wearing a Ronald Reagan mask who was probably twice her age, if I knew Irene’s taste.
I swatted at something tickling my ear. It tickled me again, and I jerked around. Someone in a bear costume was running her furry bear finger gently over my ear.
“Hey, man, what gives?”
“Your ear smells like honey, I was about to bite it,” said the voice of Yarey Gilroy from inside the bear costume.
A giant smile spread across my face. “Just the person I was looking for. You want to get out of here?”
Sweet Paradise Page 26
