Full Scoop

by Janet Evanovich

  They waited. The car, an old sedan, slowed and pulled off in front of them. “Shit!” Carl Lee’s eyes darted to the body as the sedan backed toward them. He grabbed a worn baseball cap from the back floor, slapped it on his head, and reached into his shirt pocket for his glasses and fake teeth.

  The driver’s door opened, and a teenage boy climbed out. He walked toward them, trying to shield his eyes from the glare of their headlights. “Ya’ll having car trouble?” the kid said.

  “Let me do all the talking,” Carl Lee told Cook.

  Cook was doubled over, trying to gulp air. “Don’t kill him, Carl Lee,” he said with difficulty.

  Carl Lee quickly walked toward the kid. He chuckled. “My friend is carsick,” he said.

  The boy nodded. “That’s too bad. My sister has problems with that. I think my old man keeps motion-sickness pills in the glove compartment. You think your friend could hold one down?” He tried to see past Carl Lee.

  Carl Lee stepped in front of him. “He’ll be okay.”

  “Well, if you’re sure. Sorry I couldn’t be of help.” He turned.

  Suddenly, Cook gave a loud heave and fell against the car, making a loud thud.

  The teenager whipped around. “Oh, man, he sounds bad. I should probably help you get him into the car.”

  “No.” Carl Lee’s tone was cold as he tugged the bill of his cap low on his eyes. “You need to move on, kid.”

  The young man looked up quickly. “Hey, I didn’t mean to make you mad, mister.”

  Carl Lee sounded more relaxed when he spoke again. “My friend is embarrassed,” he said. “You understand.”

  “Yeah, sure.” The teenager turned and walked away but glanced over his shoulder a couple of times as he went.

  Carl Lee waited until the car pulled away before he joined Cook. He yanked him up straight. “Get in the car before I shoot you in the kneecaps and leave you on the side of the road.”

  “I’m sorry, man.” Cook did as he was told.

  Carl Lee dragged the body across the ditch, glancing up from time to time to check for headlights, pausing once to catch his breath before pulling Loopy up the incline leading to a stand of pines. His glasses fell off, and he had to stop and look for them. Once he pulled the dead man into the copse, he let go of his feet and they hit the ground with a thud. “Sar-ro-nar-o, asshole,” he said.

  “Ladies, thank you for all your hard work,” Zack told the hens shortly after six A.M. the next morning. They didn’t seem interested in what he had to say as they plucked the feed he’d tossed on the ground inside the henhouse. He held out the basket of eggs he had just collected and bowed. “You can take the rest of the day off.” He carried the eggs inside the house, left them on the kitchen counter, and went back out to feed the goat and rabbits.

  Zack led Butterbean from the garage and staked her beneath the big oak tree in the backyard. She watched him curiously as he filled her bowls with food and water. His cell phone rang, and he pulled it from the pocket of his jeans. Max spoke from the other end.

  “The fingerprints lifted from the Jeep Cherokee were put through AFIS and hit pay dirt on Carl Lee Stanton’s buddies.”

  “How’d you get into AFIS?” Zack asked.

  Max chuckled. “I could tell you, but then you’d have to arrest me.”

  “Forget I asked.”

  “Both men spent time in Texas Federal Prison. Raymond Boyd, aka Sam Griffin, Peter Hardy, nickname Cook, was skimming money from an S and L.”

  “I recognize the name Sam Griffin from Carl Lee’s visitor’s log,” Zack said. “Griffin was there several times over the past six months. Or should I say Raymond Boyd.”

  “We have photos of Boyd, using the name Sam Griffin, from prison security cameras. Obviously in disguise,” Max added. “The other guy, Luis Perez—his friends call him Loopy—was a postal worker with a bad habit of stealing checks that came through the mail. He had quite a racket going until he got busted and became Boyd’s roommate.”

  “How about the blood in the backseat?” Zack asked.

  “Type O. Both Stanton and Perez have O. But the hair on the backseat was black like Perez’s. Stanton’s hair is dark red; several strands were lifted from both headrests in the front. There was quite a bit of blood, by the way, and its location on the seat suggests an abdominal injury. For all we know he could be dead.”

  “So we could have a possible body,” Zack said.

  “Could be. As soon as your new office is up and running, give me a call, and I’ll fax or e-mail you everything I’ve got.”

  “Great. Anything on stolen vehicles?”

  “We found the owner of the Jeep Cherokee. He’s out of town and had no idea the car was gone. I’m sure Boyd or Perez planned it that way. We don’t have a make or model on what they’re driving at the moment,” Max added. “In other words—”

  “We don’t have a clue in hell,” Zack finished for him.

  Maggie’s hair was still wet from her shower when she entered the kitchen wearing white shorts and a navy pullover. She saw the basket of eggs and a folded newspaper on the table. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Zack collecting eggs from a flock of fussy hens. She peeked into the living room where a bed pillow rested against the arm of the sofa, and she wondered how much sleep he’d managed to get.

  She poured a cup of coffee, sat down at the kitchen table, and opened the newspaper.

  Carl Lee Stanton’s face stared back at her.

  Her mouth went dry.

  It was an older version of Carl Lee, but she recognized in him the young man she had known so many years before. He was still attractive, despite the deep lines at his mouth and brow, and the flat, emotionless eyes that painted a picture of a man who’d grown hard sitting in prison. Maggie scanned the article quickly. Two guards still listed in critical condition, several others wounded but expected to recover. Witnesses were unable to give a description of the shooters; one was dressed in a clown suit, and the driver wore a bright orange wig and oversized cartoonlike sunglasses.

  The last paragraph generated a sigh from Maggie.

  Local pediatrician Dr. Maggie Davenport, who had close ties with Carl Lee Stanton before his crime spree fourteen years ago, refused to talk to the press.

  Maggie folded the newspaper and stuffed it in the trash beneath the sink so Mel wouldn’t see it.

  Now what?

  She would close her practice and move, that’s what. She wondered if Mel would like Portland or Seattle or maybe Canada.

  The telephone rang. Maggie hurried to answer it before it woke Mel.

  “Dr. Margaret Davenport?” a man asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Dr. Davenport, you don’t know me. I’m Dr. James McKelvey. I’m the psychiatrist at Texas Federal Prison, and I’m calling in regard to Carl Lee Stanton.”

  Maggie felt as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. She sat down. Took in air. “I’m listening,” she said, wishing she didn’t sound like she’d just finished a 5K run.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard he has escaped. I just want to make sure you have adequate protection.”

  She wouldn’t mention Zack. “I’m having an alarm system installed today,” she said instead. “Do you have reason to believe Carl Lee will come here? You obviously know him.” It would be unprofessional for her to come right out and ask if he was treating Carl Lee, and it would be unethical for him to say.

  “I wish I knew,” McKelvey said. “I shouldn’t be getting involved in this, but—” He paused. “I feel I know you.”

  He had just answered her question; deliberately, but in a roundabout way. Carl Lee had talked to McKelvey about her. “I don’t know what I’m up against,” Maggie said, trying to toss another line to the man on the other end. “I worry that he might be, um, unstable,” she said, instead of coming right out and asking if Carl Lee was psycho.

  Silence. Finally, “He’s been sitting in a jail cell for fourteen years, Dr. Davenport.” McK
elvey sighed. “I’ve said too much. We never had this conversation, okay?”

  Maggie had more questions, but the next thing she heard was a click. “Damn!”

  The dead bolt turned in the door. Zack stepped inside. “The people installing the alarm system just pulled into the driveway.” He frowned. “Why does your face have a greenish tint to it?”

  Maggie stared at the caller ID. No number listed. She could call McKelvey at the prison, but she suspected he wouldn’t like it, and he’d be less inclined to talk to her.

  Zack crossed the room, took the phone from her and put it to his ear, then checked the ID. “Who called?” he asked. “Was it Stanton?”

  She looked up, did a double take. He’d shaved his beard! Queenie was right. The man was about as good-looking as they came.

  “Maggie?”

  “Dr. James McKelvey,” she said.

  “The prison psychiatrist? What did he want?”

  Zack had done his homework. “He called to warn me about Carl Lee and make sure I had enough protection. I didn’t mention you, of course.”

  He smiled. “Good girl. Are you okay?”

  Hell, no, she wasn’t okay, she wanted to shout to the rafters, but she was determined to keep her cool. She saw that Zack was looking at her legs. Oh, great, she had obviously nicked herself shaving. She glanced down quickly, half expecting to see blood trickling down from one knee, and was relieved to see that it wasn’t. Finally, he looked up.

  Maggie gave herself a mental shake. “I got the feeling Dr. McKelvey knows Carl Lee very well,” she said. “He’s probably treating him for some terrible and dangerous psychiatric disorder. What do you know about it?”

  “Same as you,” Zack said. “Carl Lee Stanton doesn’t give a damn who he hurts as long as he gets what he wants.”

  The doorbell rang. Zack started to turn, but Maggie touched his arm and looked into his eyes. He had somehow managed to get his hands on Carl Lee’s psychiatric records. She didn’t know how he had accomplished such a feat, but she knew instinctively that he had. “Is there any mention of Mel?”

  “He knows you have a daughter, Maggie, but it’s all about you. Stanton has kept tabs on you over the years. He has newspaper clippings, which were obviously sent by a family member or friend.”

  The doorbell rang again. “I need to get that.” He surprised her with a grin. “You might want to change out of those shorts. These guys I hired are good, but they won’t be able to concentrate once they get a look at those legs.” He suddenly smacked his head. “Uh-oh, the FBI manual clearly states that I’m not supposed to notice things like that. Forget I said anything.”

  Maggie watched him go. She was supposed to forget that Zack Madden liked her legs? Oh, yeah, right.

  Destiny Moultrie sailed through the double glass doors leading into the Beaumont Gazette shortly after nine A.M. Oversized breasts were barely contained in a stretchy leopard print tank top, and a thigh-high denim skirt exposed shapely legs. Her long dark hair had been pinned up, no doubt due to the heat.

  Vera gave the outfit a disapproving look. “I hope an animal didn’t have to die for that blouse,” she said, even though it was obviously not the case.

  Vera and Destiny’s relationship consisted mainly of squabbling, although it had never been mean-spirited. Gazette employees had grown to expect it, and they found it amusing. This was why Jamie had given Destiny the desk closest to Vera.

  Destiny ignored the barb and gave Vera a pleasant smile. “Wow, it’s hot out there! I am wet and sticky in places I didn’t even know I had.”

  “Please don’t share,” Vera said. “I don’t want to have to think about it.” She gave an exaggerated shudder.

  “You know, Vera,” Destiny said, “a good roll in the hay would go a long way toward improving your disposition. Even old people have needs.”

  “Who are you calling old? Even if I was old, which I’m not, I’d rather be old than crazy, which you are. Miss Love Goddess,” she muttered.

  “My advice column has brought in tons of new readers.”

  “Goes to show you how many nutso cases there are in this town.”

  Destiny looked thoughtful. “You’d better be nice to me or I’ll send my new friend Earl G. Potts to haunt your house. Before he met his untimely demise in a bad fall during his famous trapeze act, his hobby was cross-dressing. He paints his toenails.”

  Vera just looked at her. She made no secret that she thought Destiny strange, and Destiny did all she could to live up to it.

  Jamie opened the door and stalked from her office, her expression furious. “I don’t know why the two of you come in on Saturday. You should be enjoying your weekends.”

  “So should you,” Destiny said.

  “I have no place else to go. My house is filled with contactors, remember?” She looked at Vera. “Has Mike called?”

  “No. Did he do something wrong?” Vera asked. “Again?” she added.

  “He decided to tack on a few lines to the article he wrote about Carl Lee Stanton. Which he did not run by me for approval before it went to press,” she added.

  Vera held out her hand. “Let me see.”

  Jamie handed her the newspaper and crossed her arms. “Read the last paragraph.”

  Vera read quickly and pressed her lips in annoyance. “What was he thinking? Like Maggie Davenport doesn’t have enough problems.”

  “I’m just worried she’ll think I gave him the okay,” she said. “I need to talk to her.”

  Destiny read the paragraph next. “Jerk,” she said. “I’m glad I didn’t sleep with him.”

  Jamie took a deep calming breath. “I’m going to handle this like a professional businesswoman,” she said. “I’m going to have a meeting with him, discuss those areas I find problematic, put him on a probationary period, and follow up with a letter to him, a copy of which will go in a folder for future reference,” she added.

  “That’s an excellent plan,” Vera said.

  “And then, once it gets dark, I’m going to slash his tires,” Jamie added.

  Vera looked impressed. “An even better plan! But slashing tires is hard and dirty work when I can just as easily shoot holes in them with my thirty-eight.”

  Destiny handed Jamie a purple folder with gold moons and stars adorning the front. “I just stopped by to drop off what mail I’ve answered.” Jamie took it.

  Vera stood. “I need to run this to the back real quick,” she told Jamie. “How about catching the calls for a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “Sooo, how’s it going?” Destiny asked, once she and Jamie were alone. “Any luck in the you-know-what department?”

  “Huh?”

  “I know you’re trying to get pregnant,” Destiny whispered. “I’m psychic, remember? Plus, I’ve seen the way you look at Frankie Jr.”

  “I didn’t know I had any maternal instincts until he came along,” Jamie said quietly. “I wonder if anyone else suspects.”

  “I doubt it. And I’m not going to say anything.”

  “Well, to answer your question, so far nothing has happened. I finally tossed my home pregnancy kits in the trash like Maggie suggested. She thinks I’m trying too hard.” She paused and looked at Destiny. “Do you ever think about having children?”

  “No way. I don’t even want a dog.” Vera returned and went to her desk. “I can’t handle pets after what happened to my goldfish,” Destiny added.

  “What happened?” Jamie asked.

  “He committed suicide.”

  Vera sighed but didn’t look up.

  “How awful,” Jamie said.

  “Yep. I came home one day and there he was lying on the coffee table. Jumped right out of his bowl. He’d been depressed.”

  Vera just looked at her.

  “How do you know it wasn’t an accident?” Jamie asked.

  “Do you have any idea how hard it is for a goldfish to jump out of his bowl? That little bugger had to practice. He hated me. We never bonded.�
��

  “That’s so sad.” Jamie shook her head.

  “He was obviously desperate to get out of our relationship. I know what it’s like because that’s exactly how I felt with my third husband. I think we all feel stuck in our fishbowls from time to time, just like poor little Petey.”

  “Oh, good grief!” Vera said loudly, looking at Destiny. “That is the dumbest thing that has ever come out of your mouth. You made that up.”

  Destiny looked indignant. “I did not. I still have the little box containing his remains. I had him cremated.”

  “I can’t listen to this,” Vera said, “or I will go crazy.”

  Destiny reached for the phone messages on her desk. “Oh, no, Freddy Baylor called! Three times!” She waved the messages at Jamie. “See, I told you trouble was on the way. First, that convict escapes, and now bait store owner Freddy Baylor, who keeps his hands in disgusting stuff”—she paused and gave a huge shudder—“is hot on my trail!”

  “Maybe he wears latex gloves,” Jamie said.

  Destiny ignored her. “It’s worse. I heard his friends had him chewing tobacco!” She grimaced. “It seems I’ve always got some strange man following me,” she said. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Vera gazed at her computer screen. “You could maybe stop dressing like a tramp.”

  “Uh-oh,” Jamie said.

  Destiny looked Vera’s way. “And do what? Shop for my clothes at the Bargain Barn? Haven’t you already cleaned them out of polyester?”

  “Be nice,” Jamie said, although it was all she could do to keep a straight face.

  Vera opened her mouth to respond, but the phone rang.

  “Remember, if it’s Mike I want to talk to him,” Jamie said.

  Vera nodded and answered the phone in a pleasant voice. No one would have suspected she had offered to put bullet holes through someone’s tires only minutes before.

  Jamie stepped close to Destiny. “You were just kidding about having your goldfish cremated, right?”

  Destiny winked. “I’ve never even had a goldfish, but don’t tell Vera.”

  Vera finished with the caller and hung up. “No, it wasn’t Mike,” she said to Jamie’s questioning look. “And if you’re going to spend the afternoon fretting over what Maggie might think, you need to drive over and set the record straight.”