“Molly,” said a male voice. “I was like, totally stoked, that you came to me for help.”
“Oh?” My mind raced. Whom had I asked for help that would say something so weird? Jose. I had put the drawing of the messenger on his windshield yesterday. “How are you, Jose?”
“Filthy, home slice. How ‘bout you?”
Say, what? How was someone supposed to respond nowadays to being called a dirty piece of pizza? “Oh, the same, more or less.”
“Kooky. You’re not, like, gonna believe this, hut I’m with Roke at the mall and—”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in school right now?”
“We decided to bump study hall. Anyways, Roke and me were just lampin’ outside of the Java Bean, when in walks this, like, reality-impaired dude with a shaved head. Roke and me both think he kind of looks like the guy in your drawing.”
I hopped to my feet. This could be the break I’d been waiting for! “Where is he now?”
“Having a cup of java at the Bean. Cherokee’s keeping an eye on him.”
“Okay. I’II be right there. If he tries to leave, do your best to stall him.”
“No problemo, dudette.” He hung up.
I dialed Sergeant Newton’s office, but got his machine. I hung up, not willing to wait through his recorded greeting. I hollered upstairs to Jim that I was going to run to the store and I’d be right back. Then I dashed to my car before Jim could respond.
I broke every speed limit driving to the mall, but fortunately kept control of the car despite rain-slicked roads, and pulled into a space. I hadn’t taken the time to put on a coat, and now had to ignore the rain soaking into my sweatshirt and jeans as I ran to the main entrance. Having just opened for the day, the mall was fairly quiet except for piped-in instrumental music. The Carlton Mall had been built a couple of years after I’d left town, so I was not familiar with its layout, and it was enormous. I ran across the parquet floor to the nearest “You Are Here” map, located between two huge white ceramic-tile planters.
Though I’d been there once or twice, I had no recollection of where the Java Bean was located, not even whether it was on the main level or upstairs. Under normal conditions, the maps were very easy to decipher, but nothing slows any task like trying to do it quickly. The Java Bean sold bags of coffee blends, so was it under “Restaurants” or “Specialty Stores”? Blue color-coded. That meant it was on the second floor.
I found it on the map at last. The shop was at the very opposite end of the mall. I charged up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time while jamming my keys into a back pocket of my jeans.
When I finally reached the doorway of the restaurant, I was sweaty and out of breath. I gasped for air and scanned the little shop and restaurant. The coffee aroma was over-whelming and made my mouth water. The restaurant was shaped in a long rectangle, with coffee and its paraphernalia sold along the left wall and a single row of small, aqua-marine tables lining the right wall. A long sales-counter island in the middle formed a divider between the two sales functions. Two old women, getting a refill from a waitress, were at a table near me. Jose and Cherokee were sitting in the far corner with a young man with a shaved head. Even sitting down, Cherokee was a good inch taller than his companion, though that may have been an illusion caused by Cherokee’s curly hair.
Jose’s back was turned. He was so thin and wiry I could see the bumps of his backbone wrinkling the fabric of his white T-shirt. Cherokee and their companion were facing me. The man certainly looked like the messenger, all right. He had the same thick eyelids and crooked nose. Without the blue hair it was hard to be certain. The three of them seemed to be chatting pleasantly, though I’m sure the phrase “chatting pleasantly” would never have crossed their young lips.
I swept back my damp bangs and tried to get one last deep breath. Forcing myself to ignore my pounding heart, I walked casually toward their table. I had not taken three steps when both Bald Head and Cherokee looked up and saw me. Cherokee, who had never gotten a good look at me sans disguise, registered no reaction.
Bald Head’s eyes widened, however. He stood up so fast he knocked over his bentwood chair. Just as the thought: He’s trapped; I’m in front of the exit flashed through my brain, he bolted toward me. Before I could even react, he gave me a straight-arm that sent me flying backwards. I landed on my bottom, right on my car keys. Momentum carried me partway into a backward somersault. I managed to get an arm down to break the impact of the back of my head hitting the linoleum floor. The waitress, carrying a pot of coffee, gasped and whirled around, sending a stream of scalding coffee onto me, most of which hit my right shin.
All at once someone screamed. A woman’s voice cried, “Are you all right?”
A male voice said, “Molly?”
But my attention was focused on pulling on the hem of my jeans to separate the searing, wet fabric from my skin. In the process, I rolled onto my knees.
I gestured blindly and wildly at the entranceway. “I’m fine. Just catch him.”
Through vision blurred with pain, I recognized Jose’s retreating form as he tore after Bald Head. Someone with a strong grip had grabbed my upper arm to help me up, “Don’t worry,” said a deep voice. I craned my neck. It was Cherokee. “Jose’s a track star.”
“The guy might be able to identify Tiffany’s father’s killer,” I said.
Cherokee instantly released his grip on my arm and raced after Jose. The waitress took Cherokee’s place, though she was so preoccupied with gushing out apologies for the spilled coffee that she was more of a hindrance than a help. The two elderly women had risen, and chattered at once about “that awful boy,” and “Did you know him? Is he your son?”
My son? Oh, fine. In one week I’d gone from being a teenage impersonator to mother of a twenty-something man.
Though I was certain the imprint of my key was permanently tattooed on my behind and my shin still smarted, I was not seriously injured. I ignored the women and limped out into the center area in time to look across the wood-and-metal railings and see Jose tackle Bald Head halfway across the mall from me. Cherokee was just a few strides away from the other two and sat on the guy’s legs to keep him down.
My burned leg was killing me. Forcing myself into a rapid step, lunge, step, lunge, I made my way toward them. A salesman from a menswear store leaned out of his nearby shop, surveyed the scene, and said to me, “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll call security.”
My first words, when I reached the boys, were to the prone Bald Head, who was struggling to free himself under the weight of both Jose and Cherokee. “Hey, jerk-face,” I yelled, panting, “that hurt! Don’t you realize the police have been looking for you for the last ten days?”
“Yeah, I know.” He struggled again. “Tell these baboons to get off my back so I can breathe.”
“Sure. Just as soon as you answer my questions. What’s your name?”
“Dayton.”
“What’s your first name?”
Though the side of his head was flat against the floor he managed to affix a fierce glare on me. “That is my first name. Last name’s Smith. Look it, lady. I’ll talk to you once I stand up.” He panted and barked back at Cherokee, “Hey you. Get off me or I’ll fart in your face.”
Cherokee grimaced and let him go. Dayton jerked free from Jose’s grip as well and rolled over, rubbing his shoulder as he sat up. His face was bright red. He glared at me and said, “Whatever crap was in those boxes, I had nothing to do with it, okay?” I smiled at his unintentional pun as he continued, “I’m no idiot. I figured they prob’ly contained drugs, but the guy gave me a hundred dollars apiece to deliver the pair of ‘em, and I needed the money.”
“What guy?”
He rose, “It was some grungy-looking black dude,” Dayton answered. “Met him in a bar. We were shooting pool and got to talking.”
“Did he tell you his name or where he lived?”
“Just said his name was Bob. We arranged to meet at th
e park last Monday morning. He gave me the boxes and a hundred-dollar bill; told me he’d give me the other hundred after I got the two signatures to prove I’d made the deliveries.”
“Two signatures?”
“Yeah. Mike Masters and Preston Saunders.”
“And what happened when you went to the Saunderses’ house?”
“Nobody answered the doorbell. So I went away and had a smoke, then I came back after about a half hour. This time a man answered the door, said he was Preston Saunders, and signed for the package.”
A half an hour later? Would Stephanie have been in the bathroom all that time? I asked Dayton, “What did he look like?”
“Tall. Kinda old. White hair.”
That fit Preston’s description, all right, though only a person younger than twenty-two or so would call a thirty-seven-year-old man “kind of old.”
“Then what?”
“I was supposed to meet up with the guy at the Java Bean and show him the signatures, but he never showed. Then I heard on the news about Preston Saunders getting shot, so I split. Till I found out my ol’ lady filed a missing-persons report. I got back in town yesterday.”
“Yesterday? Did you deliver a second package to my house yesterday?”
Dayton shook his head. “I haven’t seen that black guy since he gave me the first two boxes. If I ever find him, I’m sure as hell not going to do another delivery for him.”
“What’s your address, Dayton?” I asked.
“Fourteen sixty-eight Groves Road,” he answered quickly. That was a fairly major road that ran the length of downtown Carlton. I borrowed a pen from Cherokee and jotted down Dayton Smith’s name and address on a facial tissue I’d found in my pocket.
Where was a security guard? Surely there couldn’t be many disturbances at a few minutes after ten in the morning keeping them occupied. “Dayton, the boxes didn’t contain drugs, so you don’t have to worry. It’s extremely important that you tell what you just told me to the police. They need to find the man who hired you.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said with a shrug. “No problem.”
Hmm. He skips town, barrels me over to get away, then claims he’ll just go complacently to the police. He was planning to bolt. Where was Security? “The three of you stay right here. I’ll go get someone from Security to contact the police.”
Cherokee, who was the tallest and bulkiest of the three young men, crossed his arms and stared at Dayton. Jose grinned and gave me a little salute, ignoring the shock of straight black hair that had fallen into his eyes.
Security personnel, I knew, were stationed in a booth near the stairs by the south entrance. Which was, of course, assuming I could find south, considering that my internal compass played “Wheel of Fortune” with me on a regular basis. It would be faster to get the nearest salesperson to call Security. I darted into the men’s clothing store next door. The salesman who’d said he’d call Security was now deeply involved in showing someone a sports jacket.
“Excuse me,” I said, not bothering to disguise my aggravation. “Did you—”
A male voice shouted my name from the open space of the mall I whirled around just as the same voice cried, “He’s getting away!”
I ran out of the clothing store. All three boys were out of sight. They had to have run into JCPenney. By repeatedly asking sales clerks if a young man or two ran by this way, I eventually found a very angry Jose and a distraught Cherokee by a JCPenney exit.
Jose flicked his hair out of his eyes and panted. “Lost him. There was a Fatty Arbuckle blocking my way down the escalator.”
Cherokee said, “The three of us were just standing there, and then he goes, ‘I got some unpaid parking tickets.’ Then he Audi Five-thousands.”
“He ran away?” I translated.
Cherokee nodded.
“Did he go outside?” I asked Jose.
He shrugged. “Maybe. Could still be hiding out inside.”
I put a hand on each boy’s arm. “Check the parking lots for a motorcycle. He drives some sort of a dirt bike.”
They dashed outside, charging off in opposite directions on the sidewalk. I asked every shopper and sales clerk I came across if they had seen a young man with a shaved head, but had no luck. I made my way to the opposite side of the mall, figuring that was where Cherokee and Jose would likely meet up at some point.
Several minutes later, Jose and Cherokee trudged in, red-faced and winded. Jose shook his head. “No motorcycles out there at all.”
“Yeah,” Cherokee said. “We got to get to our English class now, but we’ll help you look for a while longer if you want.”
“No. I’d hate for you to miss English, of all things. Should I write your teacher a note, explaining why you’re late?”
Jose let out a guffaw, but then smiled sweetly. “Nah. We’ll take our chances.”
I thanked them for their Herculean efforts. They left for school, and I grabbed my cell phone. I would have to call Sergeant Tommy and try to explain all of this. At least I had Dayton’s name and address. Then again, I’d simply taken his word. With his outstanding “parking tickets,” that information was worth almost as much as the facial tissue I’d written them on.
Once again, I got Tommy’s machine, instructing me to leave a message or press one to get transferred to the dispatcher.
“Tommy?” I began, opting to leave a message. “This is Molly. I saw the messenger at the mall. He says his name is Dayton Smith and he lives at Fourteen sixty-eight Groves Road. He says a grungy-looking black dude paid him a hundred dollars to deliver the packages to me and Preston, but then he couldn’t find the black guy again to get the other hundred. There’s more, but the thing is, he’s gone now. I was trying to get a call in to you when he ran away. So, that’s about it. Good luck.”
By the time I made my way to my car, I was limping badly. However, sitting down on my bruised behind didn’t feel much better. This was my just desserts for letting him get away, I decided as I drove toward the exit.
The light was red. I stopped behind a van, then scanned in my rearview mirror for vehicles pulling up behind mine, hoping against logic that I would spot Dayton’s motorcycle. Two cars were approaching. I did a double take at the driver in the second car, a bright red Subaru. Was that a bald head, or just a pink, skin-tight hat?
My view was partially blocked by the vehicle between ours. I yanked the parking brake on and stepped out of my car to look into the Subaru.
It was Dayton. His jaw dropped at the sight of me. He threw his car into reverse and pulled a squealing U-turn.
Chapter 16
Think “Horses”
Dayton sped diagonally across the parking lot. The license plate was caked with mud. I couldn’t make out a single number. I gave in to a stupid impulse to run after him for a short distance, then charged back to my car and got in. One vehicle was in front of me, another was behind, and a traffic island plus two cars in the adjacent lane prevented me from turning. I was stuck in the middle like the filling of one big, automotive panic sandwich.
I turned and gestured wildly for the driver behind me to back up. It was one of the old ladies from the coffee shop.
She gave me a wan smile and answered me with a gentle hand gesture that said, “No, dearie. We’re supposed to go forward now.”
I growled in frustration, then shook my steering wheel so hard the airbag could have inflated. I scanned the island wondering if I could drive over it, but it featured a steep cement planter that held daffodils. “Sit here and wait for the World’s Slowest Traffic Light but, hey, at least there are some damn daffodils to look at!”
At last the light turned green. My tires squealed and shot out a spray of puddle water as I pulled a U-turn and sped toward the entrance opposite this one, in the direction Dayton had driven.
I screeched my Toyota to a stop as I neared the rear mall entrance, seeing no sign of the red Subaru. This entrance was at an intersection in which Dayton could have gone any of three
directions. He had escaped.
I went home. Jim, wearing a red flannel shirt and blue sweatpants, was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper. Though he had excellent eyesight, he always furrowed his brow when he read. My mind flashed on the first time I’d ever seen him: at the CU library when he was a junior engineering student and I was a sophomore in journalism. He was fidgeting with the ends of his hair that reached past the collar of his denim jacket. I was with two girlfriends, and one whispered to me as we neared him, “What a cutie.” Just then he looked up, did a barely detectable double take at me, and returned to his reading. My girlfriends and I passed his table, but my friends, both of whom had boyfriends, dared me to go talk to him. I never could resist a good dare. So, with butterflies in my stomach and my cheeks burning, I crossed the room and said, “Hi. What are you reading?”
“The sports section,” he answered as I snapped back into the present moment. His vision stayed riveted on his newspaper. “The comics are on the counter by the microwave.”
I sighed. I pulled out an oak chair across from him, but wasn’t sure I really felt like sitting. For one thing, I had too much adrenaline to sit, and for another, my tailbone was still very sore.
He looked up at me, then scanned the kitchen counters in confusion. “Didn’t you get anything at the store?”
“Almost, but it got away.”
He grimaced, but said nothing and waited for me to continue.
I kicked one leg of the chair with my sneaker. “If only I’d insisted Cherokee and Jose sit on the guy till Security came.”
Jim groaned. “Who’s this ‘guy’ that the other two people didn’t get the chance to wrestle to the ground for you?”
“The messenger. You know. The one that brought the box of dog poop.”
“Oh, of course.” He rubbed his forehead. “And who are Cherokee and Jose?”
“They’re just kids. Friends of Tiffany’s.”
Jim refolded his newspaper and stood up. “What’s Sergeant Newton’s number?”
“Why?”
Death Comes to Suburbia (Book 2 Molly Masters Mysteries) Page 19
