by A. J. Lape
“I want to dance with the devil,” I shrugged, smacking my lips.
As usual, they looked at me like I was a buffoon.
Thing was, Lincoln usually brought a party with him. Last year, he talked someone through a hostage situation while sitting on the patio. Some thief said he’d only speak to Lincoln, and while throngs of LA’s finest had him cornered in a convenience store, Lincoln promised him everything from no jail time to the secret recipe for Kentucky Fried Chicken. I’m not sure he had a chance of getting what he wanted, but Lincoln had this voice … a mesmerizing seduction ... and you found yourself doing things even if your gut told you it wasn’t safe.
“Shouldn’t you retire soon?” Dylan joked.
“Ten more years or so.”
“You’ll be past 70,” Dylan laughed.
“I’ve always been an overachiever,” Lincoln quipped.
When Dylan’s grandmother, Alexandra, boarded, Dylan pushed out of his seat to hug her, “Kalimera, YaYa.”
“Kalimera, Dylan,” she smiled. She loved it when he addressed her in Greek. “YaYa” meant grandma in Greek, and “Kalimera” said good morning. The two words I knew—other than the forbidden curse words, I smiled to myself.
Wearing an emerald green sundress, Alexandra pawed at your senses. She oozed black-eyed passion on a bilingual smart mouth that made her the biggest personality in the room; her stature, however, was itty-bitty.
“Where are Mom and Sydney?” Dylan asked her.
Her lips curled. “Sydney decided to pack some extra bags.”
“Oh, God,” Dylan prayed. “The plane will never make it off the ground.”
I had to agree. Sydney packing light included two garment bags, a Louis Vuitton trunk, and four pieces of matching luggage. Anything more would land us at the bottom of the Ohio River.
“Plus,” she reluctantly laughed, “she’s breaking up with her boyfriend over the phone.”
Dylan rolled his eyes, sitting back down. “Classic Sydney,” he groaned, “the love ’em and leave ’em type.”
“When’s Willow joining us, Alexandra?” Lincoln grumbled.
She touched his arm. “She’s wrapping up some business. In a few days, Lincoln.”
“I’ve heard that before,” he bit out. Like her brother, Willow was an entrepreneur. She declared herself independent at age 16 to model in Europe, and as far as I knew, her license picture simply said “Willow.” And that made Lincoln very, very … well?? I really didn’t know what that made him, but let’s just say the definition blinked in all-caps, boldfaced, and underscored.
He took his gun out of the waistband of his pants, double-checking the safety. I’m not sure whom he thought he needed to shoot on this flight, but the man always liked to be prepared. He’d nicknamed his gun “Jackal,” the moniker he’d branded his son with during his teen years. A jackal stirred up game for lions. Apparently, Colton occasionally performed that feat for Lincoln before arrests.
An aura of calm fell over Dylan’s father as he struck the “send” key on his last email. If I didn’t strike now, no way would I hit gold. Leaning over, I lightly tugged on his hand, trying to look doe-eyed innocent.
I almost laughed … me and doe-eyed … crazy thought.
“Can I use your laptop for a second to send an email?” I blinked. To troyoncrime, I mumbled in my head.
A blissful smile played at his lips. “Keep it dear, I’m done for two weeks. I intend on doing absolutely nothing. I want no fires to put out, and frankly, zero excitement.”
No excitement for me resembled a forced hunger strike. You couldn’t survive on what nature deemed essential. “Sounds great,” I lied.
He slid it across the tray table then turned and pummeled his father.
I quickly logged onto my account and sent an email to Marjorie that said to be good, mind her manners, and that nudity was on an as-needed-basis only. Then I constructed a new email account under Jester. Jester from Jesterville, to be exact. Once I was up and running, I looked at the clock and realized the time said 7:55AM—only five minutes to unearth potential clues. Troy claimed he loved the ladies, so perhaps it’d be as simple as getting my flirt on and wowing him with my bad-girlitude. I shot out an email in hopes we could talk real-time.
DATE: August 10, 07:55AM
TO: Troyoncrime
FROM: Jester from Jesterville
RE: Cisco Medina
Hey, Troy,
Are you there? I have information on Cisco Medina.
Jester
Feeling a set of eyes tunnel through me, my head nervously shot over to Dylan. His advice was shrewd, careful, and always with a desired end. In other words, he’d tell me I was headed to sin-city. I had to watch myself. He had this guiding light, guru, mystic quality that sometimes killed my buzz.
He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why all the smiles?”
More teeth, Walker. More teeth … more teeth … more teeth.
“Just excited,” I shrugged, smiling sunnily.
“Don’t flash those pearly whites at me,” Dylan smirked, pausing to rub his chest. “You know that breaks my heart.”
Animated laughter from the front of the cabin alerted me that Susan and Sydney Taylor had stepped onboard. Colton frowned deeply, followed by a sharp groan. Several minutes late into his vacation, he acted as though he wanted to skin their hides, hang them up, and beat them like a piñata. But all it took was a smile of atonement, and his face lit up like a Christmas tree.
Ugh, happily married people.
Sometimes it gave me hope; sometimes it reminded me what I didn’t have at home.
Dylan’s mother glided in with her hair in a smooth ponytail wearing a white linen skirt, matching sleeveless blouse, and brown leather strappy heels. The weight of the gold adorning her body might’ve been a third of her total weight, but then again, she was born to wear nice things. An inch shorter than me, she was a debutante sorority girl that fell for a middleclass boy. Translation? She went gaga for Colton’s body.
“Sorry, Colt,” she cooed to her husband, bending down to kiss him. “Sydney was tidying up some loose ends.”
Dylan called his older sister, Sydney, the black widow. She lured boys into her web then killed them before they could crawl out of the red hourglass trance. I hadn’t met this guy, but it remained just as well. I tried not to get attached to people in her life … neater that way.
You couldn’t deny the allure. At 5’7”, she weighed next to nothing, with the delicate face of her mother and dark coloring of her father. Like the black widow, she sported an hourglass shape with a swayback that tipped her derriere out so far it practically hit her in the back of the head. On top of that, she had a morning voice that provided bedroom sultriness 24/7. Trouble was, I think it gave guys ideas.
Poured into a red miniskirt, matching tank and heels, she carried a bag that cost more than Murphy’s monthly mortgage. She gently yanked on my hair then stopped obediently in front of her father.
I stared at the computer screen … zippo. Thumping my nails on the table, I sang the ABC Song twice, rapped the Pledge to Allegiance, debated my cholesterol level, and before I knew it, voilà an email was returned.
No waaaaaay. That meant my sins were meant-to-be, right?
DATE: August 10, 08:02AM
TO: Jester from Jesterville
FROM: Troyoncrime, The Orlando Sentinel
RE: Cisco Medina
Jester,
Are you okay? Is it Lola? Girl, that’s where the problem is. Let’s get together.
Troy Brown
Man worried about jesters
I gulped, swallowed some gastric juices, and thankfully passed gas as a burp. I’d just struck it rich and barely lifted a finger. Lola Medina—as well as Cisco’s father—had been cleared according to yesterday’s paper, but what specifically had transpired in Lola’s world that left Troy suspicious? If anything, Troy gave me a starting place. Find Lola Medina, find clue number one.
You’re p
laying with fire, I said to myself. You like the burn, my alter ego countered.
That’s the way I made decisions. An angel lived on one shoulder, the devil on the other. Unfortunately, that little devil had too big of a say-so—the main reason I traveled the short road to Hades.
I keyboarded a simple, “Yes.”
And waited.
Annnd waited.
Annnnnnnnd … waited.
Rapping my fingers on the keyboard, I deliberated what Troy had seen or heard that tipped him off to a less than honest mother. Nervousness? Lack of nervousness? Sketchy story? Rehearsed answers?
Jittery from head to toe, I plucked Colton’s ink pen out from his ear, then rocked back and forth, and inked the words, “The truth shall set you free” on my left palm. Next, I gnawed off the pinky nail on my right hand. Finally, Colton’s laptop chimed again.
DATE: August 10, 08:07AM
TO: Jester from Jesterville
FROM: Troyoncrime, The Orlando Sentinel
RE: Cisco Medina
Jester,
Contact me at 407-555-1234 or via email. Be careful.
Troy
Many wondering why Ms. Ovaries is masquerading as Jester
I sucked in a sharp breath … I thought I’d been subtle. Thing was, Ms. Ovaries didn’t know whose fist to dodge first. I erased the history of my transgressions then settled in as Cody lifted us to a cruising altitude of 38,000 feet. Right when I prematurely unbuckled, a big bump sent me slamming chest-first into the tray table.
“Oh, God,” Colton prayed, suddenly nervous about the turbulence. “Are you all right, dear?”
“I’m good,” I mumbled, but my ribs weren’t, and chances were Divine Discipline had come into play. “I just need to relax.”
“What do you do to relax at home?” he muttered offhandedly.
“Sometimes I go outside and shoot the squirrels. Just depends.”
He attempted a laugh, but I feared he was moments from a complete psychotic episode. For an international businessman, air travel packed some major fear factor for Colton. Evidently, Pegasus almost crashed once, and he hadn’t found Xanadu since.
When the 12,000-pound plane jumped forward again, Colton cursed under his breath—clearly needing his mommy. If I had a Marlboro, I’d smoke it. I glanced over to my soulmate. Dylan sat tranquil—reading Sports Illustrated—not scared poopless like his lying best friend. “Ah, Darc,” he sighed, closing up the magazine, “don’t be scared.”
Don’t be scared? I currently did the doggie paddle down the ditch of desperation. “I-I—”
I couldn’t form words.
“What does my girl need?”
A brain transplant. Leaning across the aisle, he gently rubbed his thumb back and forth over the top of my extended hand. Dylan could help you find your stride, and he’d called me “his girl” since eighth grade. As much as I hated to admit it, I wanted to crawl onto his lap and have him promise me I could pull off the impossible … before I died a liar.
Toward the end of the flight, the blood born Taylors went to the rear of the plane for their version of the Olympic Games. Grandma Alexandra would speak in her native tongue, and the grandchildren attempted to interpret, Colton being the judge. Since it was “all Greek to me,” Lincoln and I settled up front.
“What are you reading, Darcy?” he murmured. I’d pored over the copy of the Cisco Medina story for the past thirty minutes. Honestly, I’m surprised it took him so long to ask. But all I could think was I’d jumped out of the frying pan into the proverbial fire. Troy was probably giddy with what he expected to be front-page news when I remained thousands of feet in the air … a big, fat lying idiot.
Nudging the paper over, I painted on my concerned citizen face. “The article said he simply vanished. Who do you think did it?”
Pulling reading glasses from his pocket-T, he slid them on his nose then took his finger and speed-read down the page. Lincoln looked scary to the average person. His holster may say he carried a gun, but the bulge of his hands said he’d rather shove an M80 up your fill-in-the-blank.
“Most abduction cases are the other parent,” he murmured, “but the article said they were cleared.” Not according to Troy, I thought. Troy acted like momma might know something she wanted to remain underground. “That leaves psychopaths and predators. It’s not a pretty picture.”
Recalling that no ransom had ever been paid, I agreed the outlook for this little boy appeared grim. If, in fact, he was living, it wasn’t for money that the abductor could collect. A plea would’ve already been made, and one would think reported on. I twirled a tendril of my hair as I digested what little information I did have, and that was Lola Medina.
“Where would you look?” I asked.
“The places I’m sure they already have. When you exhaust yourself on the ground, if it were me, I’d keep plugging away on what didn’t feel right. Why the curiosity?”
Honestly? I didn’t know. Call me a concerned citizen; call me an older sibling of a six-year-old nudist. Either way, my laundry list of reasons boiled down to one thing: boredom. Boredom and my hound dog nose sniffed ridiculously along the trail. Did I have the skills to get this done? That remained to be seen. Sure, I’d solved who killed three people in Valley, but the difference there was my personal involvement. With this, I wasn’t even remotely involved. Heck, I wasn’t even in the same hometown.
But I would be.
“I guess my heart breaks for little kids,” I explained. “If you were coming in blind, where would you start?”
He shaved a hand down over his day-old beard, deep in thought. “I’d start with the people that knew your routine … your neighbors. I’d ask whom he liked to play with, what he liked to play, what he always had in his possession, if he had any enemies. The person that nabbed him might’ve been someone that had their eye on him for a while or simply might’ve been an opportunist. I’d retrace his steps.”
I briefly wondered why someone would hurt a child. Why do some allow their humanity to drain away? In a perfect world, you were supposed to protect children, clear the obstacles, give them the chances you never had; tell them they could do anything—be anything—even if odds and talent were stacked against them.
But it wasn’t a perfect world … that BS slapping me in the face every day.
5. PONKEYS
WHEN YOU’RE HYPER, YOU HAVE a tendency to feel caged in. This happened to be one of those times, and being in a jet right before landing didn’t help matters. Most people feared the lift-off … not me. The landing left me scared-stiff and blowing chunks. What if you never got to your final destination? Talk about disappointing. You went on vacation to have fun; at least, you hoped the dang plane crashed on the way back.
I forced myself to relax, breathe deep, and search for something to occupy my mind.
Lincoln had pushed out of his seat to visit the restroom, leaving four black-and-white surveillance photographs sprawled out on the table between us. First off, you should never leave anything lying around that you didn’t want me to look at. Secondly, my guess was they were crooks so looking at them seemed like a social service on my part. Plus, I remembered the cryptic text message I’d read earlier:
Midnight tonight. He either talks or he’s dead.
A touch on the theatrical, but hey, that’s what I lived for.
I couldn’t help but ponder what choice the “he” had made. Did his tongue take the hint, or would he meet some untimely demise? In Lincoln’s world, that wouldn’t necessarily mean a bullet. There’s a good chance it could range from a car bomb to an axe to the head. Thing was, Lincoln and his partner must be referring to a specific threat against this man that both of them knew about. Furthermore, did that text even relate to the video I’d viewed? It did follow the same conversation thread, but it remained possible it represented a totally different case.
Stealing a quick glance around the cabin, everyone had strapped themselves in for landing. Dylan chatted with his mother, S
ydney cuddled next to her father, and Zander informed Alexandra why hooters should be a food group.
Status quo, coast was clear, in my book.
Looking without touching tortured my eye sockets. My fingers got all jumpy, but right when I lifted the top photograph to my eyes, Lincoln’s BlackBerry practically jumped out of the seat he’d left it in. That was an FAA no-no, so I grabbed it and thumbed down the volume before anyone could complain.
Pulling it to my eyes, another LA prefixed message lit up the screen:
Making all kinds of weird demands. Told him to kiss my ass.
I was no stranger to the donkey word. My aunt used it at least ten times an hour. It didn’t take a genius to deduce this might be the same man that if he didn’t talk, death was imminent, either. And in my humble opinion, he just might be a donkey if he didn’t take the original deal.
I shrugged away his stupidity, leaving Lincoln’s phone where I’d found it, but then it vibrated with another message. I snatched it up again, covering the noise with both hands. Clicking the screen, I nearly bit my tongue in two when I scanned the words:
Opened a locker at the subway on a tip and found someone’s foot. It was as swollen as a pregnant pig. Sick crap, so I know it was him. Gotta love this job.
I had a horrible habit of biting my nails when nervous. I’d bitten down to three nubs on my right hand, my thumb and forefinger the only two remaining looking normal. How should I respond? Throw up? Pray? Beg for a picture? I erased the history of my earlier texts, in case Lincoln felt the urge to purge his inbox. If he found out I’d assumed his identity, God only knew the ramifications. The video, however, was evidence. It seemed too important to delete.
