by A. J. Lape
“I’m going to kill them,” Dylan seethed, reopening his eyes. He closed the barely one foot between us, hugging me to his shirtless side. It felt goooood, but I still smelled like mayonnaise.
“Sorry about the mayo,” I whispered.
Dylan leaned over and carefully picked a piece of lettuce from my hair, wiping it on a napkin. “Shut up, Darcy,” he warned.
Duly noted.
“I don’t know this Kyd, but Neptune’s a good boy,” the detective added. “He works both ends of the law, and frankly, I let him.”
Dylan roared, “He’s 17!”
The detective shrugged, continuing to jot down notes. “Some kids show potential early on. You simply have to corral it.”
Lincoln grinned, appraising his son. “Jackal did. He worked a lot of stings for his old man.” For a brief moment, some sort of father/son thing went on. Both men were all business and currently dressed for the next day. Who in the heck did that at 2AM? Frankly, I wasn’t convinced they were entirely Homo sapiens, but my guess was they had a date with OBT.
“Well, Darcy’s not going to use her potential while she’s under my roof,” Colton finally said. “That’s not up for discussion.” That would require some major effort on my part—probably futile—but I nonetheless gave him a lying smile that I’d try.
“Amen to that,” Lincoln grumbled.
I’m not sure why, but suddenly I had the urge to act like a lady, all smiles and so ingratiatingly polite it sickened the testosterone in me. I crossed my legs and realized I’d flashed my panties.
Squeezing my legs together, I leaned toward Colton. “Umm, I owe you a butter knife.”
His black eyes flew wide. “A what?”
“My weapon of choice,” I shrugged. “I lost it in the fall. Don’t let anyone ever tell you that butter knives only cut butter, folks. My skirt is proof. I would’ve dug around in the truck, but we ran out of time, and I honestly couldn’t tell you the last time I had a tetanus shot.”
It took each of them a few breaths before they unscrambled what I’d just confessed. But I guess if the name of the game was to clear your conscience, it needed to be on the list of offenses.
Colton opened his mouth, closed it, but Detective Battle actually spoke first. He scratched his neck, saying, “What did you see?”
Man, I’d skin a puppy for a cookie right now, but I had a feeling they weren’t there for me. “Can I have a cookie?” I whispered to Dylan.
Dylan automatically jumped to his gentlemanly ways, picking up the choicest double chocolate-chip, slamming it into my palm.
“Thanks,” I tried not to laugh.
“Answer,” he grumbled.
I took a big bite. “The people Lola gambles with. She calls herself Lynx, and they play in a warehouse off the main strip.”
“How many people are we talking about?” Battle asked.
“Ten were in that room. Twelve with Tricky and me.”
I spouted off the license plate numbers along with the makes and models of the automobiles. Next, I described each of them as best my recollection would allow. Each person stopped to stare. I’d impressed them; unfortunately, it didn’t impress me.
“Extraordinary recall,” the detective bragged, casting a strange look at Colton. “Do you normally have that?”
“Only on things I care about.”
“Anything else?” he asked.
“I saw a light under a door as I headed toward the restroom.”
“What were they doing?” Lincoln added.
How did you say amputation-by-cleaver? When I couldn’t find a discreet way to say it, I simply blurted out, “I witnessed a middle-aged man get his finger chopped off with a cleaver.”
A string of profanity fell out of someone’s mouth … not sure whose. Detective Battle put down his notebook, his cookie falling from his hand straight to the thousand-dollar rug. His brows knit together, and he glanced to Lincoln before focusing back on me. “You what?” he asked flatly.
I sighed and repeated, “I witnessed a middle-aged man get his finger chopped off with a cleaver.”
After a few minutes of what-the-heck, I provided specifics … from the two making-out like cockroaches, down to the women on the burgundy leather couch snorting a line of blow. “They were snorting blow,” I explained.
Colton’s eyes darkened like crude oil. “Did you snort blow?”
“No.”
“What would you have done if they’d suggested you snort blow?” Lincoln interrupted.
Good question … ugh. “I guess I would’ve found a way to not do it, or at least act like I was enjoying it,” I said quietly.
Dylan pushed off the couch and exited the room, the tension escalating to warzone.
“Did any of those people see you?” Lincoln asked stiffly.
“No,” I lied. It felt right coming out of my mouth … wrong once I thought about it.
“Thank God for the little things,” Colton said sarcastically.
Detective Battle steered the conversation back on track when Colton couldn’t stop mumbling to himself about Willow, me, and how Dylan might shoot someone before he’s 18. “Back to this card game,” Battle said professionally.
“Before Tricky and I entered the card room,” I explained, “I noticed a light shining underneath one other door. It was four doors down on the right. When I casually asked what happened in that room, the quote I received was ‘out of town business.’ The business obviously required a meat cleaver.”
“Who provided the quote?” Battle asked. I described the Aston Martin man, balanced the cookie in my teeth, then slipped two fingers inside my right sandal and pulled out his business card. What resembled egg yolk and ham shavings stuck to its front. “Salad,” I giggled.
“Good Lord,” Colton prayed.
Detective Battle glanced at the card then angled his body sideways, whispering to Lincoln and Colton. Colton slowly leaned forward and knocked the breath out of me with his eyes. “You’re to stay in this house, do you hear me?” he bellowed.
No one said anything … we just let that threat sink in … and believe me, it was a threat of some kind. Dylan finally padded back into the room and sat down, breaking the mood, exhaling deeply. “Darcy hears you, Dad. Don’t you, Darcy?”
Oh, boy, double formalities.
I slumped back into the cushion, pulling my hat down over my eyes. “Can’t we come to a compromise? I could wear body armor or something.”
His father seethed even lower. “Notice I’m not laughing, and let me make myself clear. You will never write the terms on negotiations with me.”
Well, we’d see about that.
Dylan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, massaging his temples with his thumbs. “Maybe you should just kill me now, Darcy, because anything would be better than this. Talk to me,” he begged hoarsely. “Tell me what you’re lacking in your life that makes you flirt with death so easily. If you don’t think anyone will miss you, you’re wrong.” For a brief moment, everyone melted away in the room, and Dylan grabbed ahold of my soul and wouldn’t let go. “I’d be destroyed if you were suddenly gone from my life,” he whispered. “Do you not want to live, honey? Do you not even care how we feel? How I feel? Promise him. Promise him that you aren’t motivated by a death wish that will claim you before we’re even 25.”
Dylan had some wicked guilt skills. Trouble was, his words weren’t delivered merely to make me feel bad. He seemed desolate, his eyes completely bleak. He meant every, single word.
My eyes bounced to all three of theirs. Lincoln looked bewildered, Colton seemed madder than a hornet, and Dylan teetered on the verge of a psychopathic breakdown. Of course, I cared how they felt, and I was sorry. I just didn’t know how to let it go. “Copy that,” I whispered, twining my finger in his.
Reluctantly.
“You ran across the Grizzly, Darcy,” Detective Battle explained. “You’re lucky you made it out alive and a single woman. He looooves young girls.” Dylan click
ed his jaw, exchanging worried glances with his father. As far as I knew, he didn’t act like a bear, but he did insinuate he had something on Lola.
Taking another bite of cookie, I added, “Grizzly has something on Lola.”
“Grizzly has something on everybody,” Detective Battle muttered.
“Could he know who has Lola’s son?”
Detective Battle knocked back the last of his coffee and picked up a sugar cookie. “Perhaps, but blackmail isn’t his style. If the child is even still alive.”
That statement angered me. “He’s alive, I saw him,” I declared adamantly. “Grizzly told me Lola had gotten herself into trouble. He never mentioned her son, and that would be the first thing any normal person would mention.”
“Grizzly isn’t normal,” he contested. “What else did he say?”
“He said Lola plays for someone named X.”
“Does he know X?” Lincoln asked.
“He said he had suspicions.”
Detective Battle munched the last morsel and looked at his notes. “The red Porsche Turbo, right?”
“Yes,” I replied. “X is a woman, and he said if Lola didn’t take care of her personal problems he would before it bled onto him.”
“He said that?” the detective asked, eyes narrowing.
“Tricky and I both heard it,” I clarified. Almost on command, the three expelled some sort of curse.
“Who owns the building?” Lincoln asked Battle, acting as though he already knew the answer.
Battle closed up his notebook, giving Lincoln one of those we’ll-talk-alone stares. “The man on the card,” he said. “Walter Ivanhoe. Grizzly owns half of the real estate in OBT.”
I’d never been in the company of angels, but a heavenly chorus belted out a rock song and did a conga line over my head. I’d met the Ivanhoe—or should I say the Walter Ivanhoe—Hector had been struck speechless over. A smile tempted to show, but a glance at Dylan—whose face was racked with grief and disbelief—made me opt for an appropriate, albeit fake, fear.
I wasn’t afraid; oddly, I felt aroused.
After the verbal smackdown, I showered in Bath & Body Works White Citrus, changed into turquoise blue leggings, my “Zombie Princess” t-shirt, and pulled my hair up into a wet braid. I sported my I-don’t-care look. Trouble was, I cared a lot.
Even this contemporary space of a bathroom signaled perfection. A copper vessel sink sat atop a marble countertop, with fixtures that could probably buy a small country in Asia. Everything matched, from the spigots down to the doorknobs. The only thing out of place was … me. Glancing in the mirror, I thought, My God, what have I just done?
A man had lost his finger … and why? Did they finish the job? Let him go? And how had I compartmentalized this so well? I should be beside myself, or worse yet, moments from a tranquilizer.
Shell-shocked. This must be what shell-shocked looked like.
The Taylor house painted the perfect picture of Rockwellian peace tonight. It was pitch black, nothing disturbed anywhere, except for the shadow of a floor lamp in the living room. Tiptoeing down the hall, I expected to find Lincoln working but instead found an android-like Dylan. No eye contact, no unnecessary movements, pretty much stone-faced and stone cold.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. What did I expect? Whistling Dixie?
Dylan pulled two quilts out of the hall closet, giving the fluffiest one to me, collapsing with the other onto Lincoln’s spot on the neighboring couch. He was too quiet. Words were scarce if any at all. Our gazes met, his searching to understand, mine searching to explain. Dylan waited for something profound and insightful to spew from my mouth, something to piece together my behavior in terms he could understand … but it didn’t.
With an exhausted sigh, he gazed at me as if he were seeing me for the first time. My behavior had been bizarre of late, but it wasn’t as though I was a stranger to trouble. I’d dodged bullets in the spring and my school’s detention several times by piping up the wattage of my smile. I’d even talked Murphy out of grounding me by faking some tears. I had a talent for talking my way out of jams, and Dylan had front row seats for many occasions. But I had to admit I’d never snuck out of a home and traveled to a venue that had been compared to the biblical hellhole of Sodom and Gomorrah.
Tonight was a night of firsts.
As I watched him nod off, my heart ached for him to understand. Upon first glance, he appeared to be sleeping like a baby, but when I dared to investigate further, I observed a vertical worry-line between his eyes. No, Dylan didn’t fall asleep thinking of me as his favorite girl in the world. I’m not positive how he’d term me anymore—a vertical worry-line, perhaps. I whispered a heartfelt “Sorry” in his direction, but he didn’t hear. Once again, his words rang ominous. Was I victim of an unexplainable urge to shorten my days before the age of 25? Kyd had suggested the same. Switching off the TV, I left my teeth to decay and snuggled the blanket up under my chin, while the truth reverberated in my chest.
I wished I was capable of letting it go … but I wasn’t.
25. RESTLESS LEGS SYNDROME
TWO DAYS LATER, DYLAN STILL hadn’t let me leave his sight. I’d always believed we had the language of twins, but he took my Siamese twins separated at birth angle a little too seriously. The time ticked at half past midnight, Tuesday morning. We lay on his bed; my eyes watching a Ghost Hunters rerun; his at half-mast begging for sleep. He nodded off every thirty seconds, so I removed my head from his shoulder and rolled onto my elbow to stare at him.
“Do you still love me?” I sighed.
“From sea to shining sea, sweetheart,” he murmured with a moan. At least, he was back to calling me sweetheart. For how long? I didn’t know, but prudence told me to take what I could get.
Lincoln had been on the telephone for over an hour talking to Paddy. Paddy phoned in a mood, and at last count, Lincoln had left him to pontificate three times into dead air, and Paddy hadn’t even noticed. I’d padded into Dylan’s room to watch TV, but he kept falling asleep. That’s what happened when you got up with the chickens, people. Verification that early risers were stupid.
Trouble was, I happened to be in serious need of some action. Call me my own brand of opportunist, but before Detective Battle left the other night, I straight up asked him what he knew about Howie’s head. His jaw dropped all the way to the ground, and he practically tripped over it. When I explained I’d found the head, he actually looked afraid of me. I laughed out loud. Not a good move because then I sounded evil. Long and short of it, he didn’t give me jack about the head. He was lying, too; the untruth written all over his dilated eyes.
Snuggling closer to Dylan, I ran my fingers through the thick hair at his nape. With my other hand, I fumbled around on his nightstand, retrieved my iPhone, and dialed Troy. One last cautionary look at Dylan, and he was dunzo. He’d fallen into his heavy breathing phase.
“Hey, Troy,” I said, speaking lowly when he answered. “Do you have anything?”
Troy took a slurpy swig of a drink, sounding tired. “I wanted to call but feared it was too late. Bank of America’s definitely still accepting donations, and Fix It, Incorporated is in actuality FX, Incorporated … written capital FX. A man in Miami known as Felix Xavier runs the joint. The FX previously printed as Fix It merely represents his initials. These guys have a stellar reputation, Jester, and when I called, they said the trail ran cold months ago.”
To say I felt shocked was an understatement. “They aren’t actively working the case?”
“Not like they used to. They bill if they’re chasing a lead, but they haven’t charged the trust for two months.”
“So Herbie’s money is just sitting there,” I whispered to myself.
The borders in the puzzle were in place—Lola, Elmer, the Medinas, and FX, Incorporated, but who was the figure in the middle? Who was X?
How in the world did all of these things connect?
For one thing, Elmer said Polly Teasdale worked a
t a bank. I didn’t know if Polly was the brains behind the operation, or if she and Elmer worked in conjunction. Polly didn’t strike me as the mastermind type, which would make her X, but looks could be deceiving. If Elmer set up the trust, could Polly be funneling the funds out? Either way, I got the feeling Elmer was a scapegoat.
“Something’s going on at that bank, Troy.”
“Do you really think so?” I felt so.
“Yes, I do,” I answered. “What do you know about a Polly Teasdale?”
“Never heard of her.”
“Well, she’s best buds with Elmer Herschel, and she works at a bank in town. It wouldn’t surprise me if it’s the one where the trust resides.” That’s all I gave him since I didn’t want to spell out my feelings that Herbie had been swindled until my suspicions were confirmed.
“What do you know about a man called Grizzly?” I asked.
Troy went speechless, screeched like he sat in the front seat of a rollercoaster, then knocked an object over on his desk in a thwap. “Bad news, Jester.”
Figures. It was a crying shame I was going to contact him again.
After we disconnected, I switched off the TV and wandered into the living room where Lincoln scrutinized new surveillance photographs of Mr. Thanksgiving Dinner himself … Turkey Cardoza.
He sipped on what my discriminating nose told me was coffee just this side of the tar pit. It smelled sharp, thick, and deadly to the intestines all at the same time. Sometime earlier, he’d chewed a couple of packs of gum and carelessly dropped the silver-foiled wrappers on the tile. Evidently, his anxiety had pulled a double shift.
“Any word on Turkey?” I asked, squatting down to pick up the wrappers.
Stretching both arms high, he left them to rest behind his head. In old black sweats and a white t-shirt that had three holes under the arm, he looked like a hobo. With one eye trained on the door for Willow, he removed his glasses and patted the seat next to him.
