by Jude Hardin
“Cut the bullshit, Terry. I know you took it.”
“All right, so I took it. Big deal. It’s just a briefcase. Who comes all the way to California over something like that? It’s not like I burned your house down or anything.”
“Why did you take it?” I said.
“I don’t know. Just seemed like the thing to do at the time. I got kind of pissed when you asked how long it had been since I’ve seen my dad. It’s just a briefcase, man. You can have it back.”
“Where is it?”
“It’s in my room back in Florida. Where me and Darrel are staying. It’s in the closet, back behind some other things.”
“Where are you and Darrel staying?” I said.
“His cousin’s place. Over off Kingsley in Orange Park.”
“I need an address.”
Terry told me the address. I wrote it down with the pen and notepad I’d taken from the hotel. I read it back to him to make sure it was correct. A few seconds later, I heard him spooling off some toilet paper.
“California’s pretty cool,” he said. “I’m thinking about moving out here and staying with my dad. He’s trying to work it out with the lawyers and all. Wouldn’t that be great?”
“Yeah. That would be great. I need to ask you one more thing, Terry.”
“OK.”
“Did you open the—”
He flushed the toilet in the middle of my sentence. I was waiting for the noise to die down when he opened the door and stepped out of the stall.
He walked over and turned the water on to wash his hands.
“Sorry,” he said. “Could you repeat that?”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to hit him with the question I’d flown all the way to California to ask, because I was afraid of what the answer might be. If Terry had seen those phony credentials, I was going to have to pull my pistol out and drill a nine-millimeter slug into his brain. I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want to hit him with the question, but I didn’t have a choice. I had to know.
“Did you open the briefcase?” I said.
He yanked a few paper towels from the dispenser on the wall, looked at me with those beautiful blue eyes of his.
“Did I open it? Why do you ask?”
“I have to know,” I said.
“What’s the big deal?”
“Terry, it’s a yes or no question. Did you or did you not open the briefcase?”
He shrugged. “I did not open your stupid briefcase,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Why? You got some weed stashed in there or something?”
“Just some things I don’t want anyone to see. Some private papers.”
“I didn’t open it. It was locked, and I didn’t want to tear it up. I was planning on giving it back next time I saw you. Sorry I caused you all this trouble.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll fly back to Florida tonight, and I’ll stop by the address you gave me first thing in the morning. No harm, no foul. But do me a favor. Call your stepfather and tell him I’m coming, so he’ll know to expect me.”
“Sure. Want to come and hang out with me and my dad for a while?”
“Thanks, but I better get going. You enjoy your time with your dad. Oh, and is there a phone number where I can reach you if I need to?”
He told me his father’s number. I wrote it down.
“Have a good vacation,” I said.
“All right. Well, see ya later, Mr. Colt.”
“See ya, Terry.”
He tossed the paper towels into the trash barrel and exited the restroom. I felt like celebrating. Now I knew the location of the briefcase, and I wasn’t going to have to kill my favorite student.
I looked in the mirror and smiled at myself. I was about to turn for the door and find my way out of the stadium when my cell phone vibrated. The caller ID said Juliet. I picked up.
“Hello?”
“Who’s Perry Wendell Davis?” she said.
Damn.
I told Juliet not to say another word. Not over the phone. But she didn’t listen. She started crying and giving me hell, accusing me of using the alias for extramarital affairs. For checking into hotels. For fancy dinners and such. Apparently I had a woman in Jacksonville, and one in California, and no telling how many others all across the country. She was livid, her suspicions sounding more and more delusional with every passing second. There was no reasoning with her, so I finally just had to hang up.
I’ve never understood men who cheat on their wives. There’s something masochistic about it. It’s hard enough to coexist peacefully with one woman. Why anyone would want to multiply the misery is beyond me.
Juliet had hired a private investigator. I got that much out of her before I hung up. But how he had found out about Perry Wendell Davis was still a mystery. I couldn’t imagine. Everything that had to do with Inspector Davis was either in the briefcase or in the gun locker in my camper. The briefcase was at Darrel Vine’s cousin’s house, hidden in Terry’s bedroom closet, and I’d hand-delivered the other things to Diana last night. There was no way a PI could have gotten to any of it.
And yet he had. Max Marlin. I didn’t know the name, but I would surely have some questions for him when I got back to Florida. Juliet said he was in the hospital with two broken ankles, so he wouldn’t be hard to find.
I stopped at Walmart on the way back to the hotel and bought a pair of khaki cargo pants and a black polo. Pack of socks, pack of underwear. I bought some deodorant and a Three Musketeers bar and a humongous roast beef sub wrapped in cellophane. I was standing in the checkout line when I decided some beer would be good, so I went back and grabbed a six-pack of Samuel Adams Boston Lager.
I drove to the Holiday Inn, took the elevator to my room on the third floor. I drank two of the beers and took a long hot shower. By the time I toweled off and got dressed, it was almost eight o’clock. I ate as much of the sandwich as I could stomach, and threw the rest in the trash along with my original set of clothes. I felt better than I had all day. My head was clear and my body was clean. I opened another beer and was about halfway through it when the phone on the bedside table rang. I walked over and sat on the bed and picked up the receiver.
“This is Colt,” I said.
“It’s me,” Di said. “How did it go?”
“Great. I found Terry, and he admitted to taking the briefcase.”
“Did you get it?”
“It’s in Florida. Orange Park. I’m going to pick it up tomorrow. Terry never opened it, so I didn’t need the Glock. I put it back in the locker at Union Station.”
“Good. I’m glad you didn’t need it. I want you to meet me at the safe house again tomorrow night. I have some things I need to go over with you, some new developments. And of course I’ll need you to bring me the briefcase.”
“Same time?” I said.
“Right. Twenty-one hundred.”
“OK.”
We disconnected. I finished my beer, and then I brushed my teeth and splashed on some aftershave. I checked out of the Holiday Inn, drove to Hertz and dropped the rental car off, and from there walked to the terminal at LAX. Most people would have taken a cab. It was a long walk, probably half a mile, but I had plenty of time. My flight wasn’t scheduled to depart until twelve fifteen. I didn’t have any luggage and it was a beautiful night and I enjoyed the walk.
Maybe Diana wasn’t monitoring my phone calls after all. She hadn’t said anything about Juliet. That was my greatest fear now, that Juliet had somehow actually seen the phony Perry Wendell Davis credentials. If she had, and if Di found out about it, Juliet’s life would be in danger. Surely Diana wouldn’t expect me to kill my own wife, but the problem would be taken care of one way or another. Like the problem with Kurt Von Lepstein had been taken care of.
I tried to call Juliet on my walk to the terminal, hoping she had calmed down enough for me to get some explanations. She didn’t answer, so I left a message:
“Hey babe, i
t’s me. Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone anything about Perry Wendell Davis. Not your sister, not your best friend, nobody. Don’t even say the name out loud. I’m very serious about this, Jules. Your life, and the life of anyone you talk to, could be in jeopardy. I’ll explain when I get home. Love you.”
The redeye going east took off as scheduled. I normally can’t sleep on airplanes, even long flights, but for some reason I didn’t have a problem this time. I didn’t wake up until we landed in Atlanta at five-thirty in the morning. I caught my connecting flight, and when the plane landed in Jacksonville I took a cab to Diana’s safe house, where my Jimmy was parked. I was on my way to Orange Park by nine a.m.
The address Terry had given me was a couple of blocks from the tennis courts on Gano Avenue. I mounted the porch and rang the bell, and a few seconds later an elderly woman with bright orange hair and a shotgun answered.
She talked to me through the screen door.
“What do you want?” she said. She held the gun like a hunter walking through the woods, with the barrel angled toward the ground. There was a cigarette dangling from her thin and wrinkled lips.
“I’m looking for Darrel Vine,” I said.
“Ain’t nobody by that name here.”
“Are you his cousin?”
She laughed. “This is Florida, mister. We’re all cousins, don’t you know? But I ain’t never heard of no Darrel Vine. My sister used to go out with a Bobby Vine. Damn near married the asshole. But I ain’t never heard of no Darrel.”
“I must have gotten the address wrong,” I said.
“Must have. Maybe someone by that name lives around here, but I probably wouldn’t know it if they did. I pretty much keep to myself. I don’t bother nobody as long as they don’t bother me.”
“Do you always come to the door with a shotgun?”
“Huh? Oh, sorry about that. I was just giving old Betsy here a good cleaning. Guess it didn’t appear too friendly, did it?”
The ash fell from her cigarette. She ground it into the carpet with her foot.
“Thanks for your time,” I said. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
“Have a good one.”
“Yeah. You too.”
She closed the door. I walked back to my car, climbed in and started the engine. I sat there for a while, wondering why Terry had lied to me. I hadn’t gotten the address wrong. This was the number Terry had given me. I was a hundred percent certain of that. I’d written it down, and then I’d read it back to him. He’d given me the wrong address on purpose.
Or maybe he’d gotten mixed up on the house number. It was just a temporary living situation, after all. Maybe Terry had made an honest mistake. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but when I tried the California phone number he’d given me for his dad, that wasn’t any good either. A recording told me the number had been disconnected.
For some reason, Terry Vine had purposefully given me bogus information.
I was supposed to meet Di at the safe house at twenty-one hundred. Nine p.m. I was supposed to bring the briefcase, but suddenly I wasn’t any closer to having it in my hands than before I went to California. I’d wasted a lot of time and money. Diana was going to be pissed.
I hadn’t thought to ask Terry his dad’s name, so I was back to square one. No way to locate him on the air force base. Maybe Di would just go ahead and execute me tonight. Maybe in her world stupidity was a capital offense.
I couldn’t think of any more ways to try to solve the briefcase mystery, so I decided to go have a word with Max Marlin, PI. He’d been admitted at Orange Park Medical Center, which was only a few blocks away. Unless Juliet had lied to me as well, but I couldn’t think of any reason she would have wanted to. Not about that, anyway.
I backed out of Shotgun Granny’s driveway and headed toward the hospital. I just hoped they hadn’t discharged him yet.
I got lucky. He was still there.
The lady at the information desk said he was on the orthopedics unit. I took the elevator to the fourth floor and then wandered around for a millennium or two until I finally found it. I stopped at the nurse’s station, and a very large woman in pink scrubs pointed me in the right direction.
It was a semiprivate room at the end of the hall. I walked in and closed the door. Max was in the bed by the window, the one closest to the far wall. He lay there shirtless, eyes closed, listening to something on an iPod. I guessed him to be in his late twenties. He was built like Johnny Bravo. Both of his legs were in stirrups, and a trapeze handle dangled a couple of feet above his broad and hairless chest. The other bed was vacant. I stood there and stared at him for a minute, trying to telepathically transmit my contempt. He finally opened his eyes and pulled out the ear buds.
“You don’t look like a private investigator,” I said.
“Who are you?”
“You know damn well who I am.”
He squinted at me. “Sorry, I don’t have my glasses. They got trashed in the accident. I should have some new ones by later this afternoon.”
“Nicholas Colt,” I said.
“Shit.”
“Yeah. You don’t look like a PI, and you’re not very good at being one either.”
He chuckled, but it came from a nervous place. “So what’s a PI look like?” he said.
“Like me. Strikingly handsome, but not all bulked up from steroids. Die young and leave a beautiful corpse, right?”
“Whatever. Your wife hired me to check you out, Colt. I was just doing my job.”
He grabbed the trapeze and scooted up in the bed a little.
“What do you know about Perry Wendell Davis?” I said.
“Nothing. Just what I saw in the briefcase.”
I had a feeling my mind was about to be blown.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“Juliet gave me a key to your studio, and she told me the code to your alarm system. I went in there late Friday night to take a look around. I saw the briefcase, and I wanted to know what was inside. It was locked, and I didn’t want to hang around there long enough to open it, so I took it with me. I was planning to bring it back before you came in Saturday morning, but then some drunken asshole crossed the center line and plowed into me.”
“Where’s the briefcase now?” I said, trying to conceal my astonishment.
“I guess it’s still in the trunk of my car.”
“And where’s that?”
“Bill’s Auto. Up on a hundred and third. I’m waiting on an estimate for the insurance company. It’s probably going to be totaled.”
“I need you to call there and give me authorization to take the briefcase out of the trunk,” I said.
“OK. I don’t have a problem with that.”
“Do it now.”
He grabbed his wallet from the bedside table, ferreted through it and pulled out a business card. He lifted the cheap-looking white plastic handset from the nightstand and started punching in numbers.
He glanced up at me. “My fucking iPhone got broke in the wreck too,” he said.
“Show some respect,” I said. “Watch your fucking language.”
The phone at Bill’s Auto must have rung about a thousand times. Someone finally answered, and Max Marlin told them I would be there to get the briefcase out of his trunk. The call lasted less than a minute.
“How long you going to be wearing those casts?” I said.
“Six weeks. Then I’ll be in braces another six. My leg muscles are going to atrophy down to nothing, man. It’ll take me a year to get them back in shape. But the guy who hit me has money, and I’m suing his ass. I might never have to work again.”
“If you do ever work again, don’t work on me,” I said. “Unless you want some more broken bones.”
I drove to Bill’s and got the briefcase. I opened it, and everything appeared to be there. It felt good to have it in my possession. Tonight I would give it back to Diana and be done with it.
I couldn’t belie
ve Terry Vine had deceived me that way. He’d even come up with a fake address and phone number. But why? I’d always been good to him. I’d loaned him a very nice guitar, and I was giving him free lessons. I was probably the only adult in his life who actually gave a damn. Terry and I were going to have to sit down for a nice long talk when he got back from California. He was a good kid, but I couldn’t tolerate him messing with my mind like that. The time had come to lay down the law.
I locked the briefcase and set it on the rear floorboard and headed for home. It was going on noon by the time I got there.
Juliet was outside planting some flowers in one of the rock beds at the front of our house. She wore jeans and a big straw hat and gardening gloves. She glanced up when I pulled into the driveway, then went back to what she was doing.
I got out of the car and walked up behind her.
“Those are nice,” I said, referring to the flowers.
She mumbled some sort of affirmation.
“I’ve been all the way to California and back,” I said. “Can I get a hug, or at least a welcome home or something?”
“I told you to stay in California.”
“But you didn’t mean it. You love me, and you want me here with you.”
She stood and faced me. There were tears in her eyes. “Why have you been lying to me?” she said.
“We have some things to talk about. Let’s go inside.”
She followed me inside to the kitchen. I asked if she wanted me to make a pot of coffee. She didn’t, so I decided to settle for instant. Times like these were made for Taster’s Choice, I thought. I nuked some water and spooned in some grounds and sat across from her at the table.
“I’m listening,” she said.
“First of all, what I’m going to tell you is—”
Before I said in strict confidence, it occurred to me that Diana might have planted some listening devices in our home. I didn’t think so, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I motioned for Juliet to follow me. I led her to the bathroom and closed the door and turned the shower on. The noise from the water running would effectively cover our voices, especially if we whispered. I turned it on cold so the room wouldn’t get steamy.
