Fire and Rain

by Katy Munger

  “Tell me about Rodney,” I said.

  She looked up, surprised. “Rodney?”

  “Yes, Rodney Salem. Your boyfriend.”

  “Why?” she said glumly. “What’s this got to do with him?”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?” I asked.

  She would not meet my eyes and stared at the blank television screen instead. I waited her out.

  “I had a date with him this afternoon,” she finally admitted.

  “That isn’t what I asked.”

  “He was supposed to meet me here, in the hotel.” She looked around the room, as if suspecting Rodney was hiding in a closet somewhere.

  “He didn’t show, did he?” When she didn’t answer, I lost my shit and yelled, “Look at me! Did he show or not?”

  Bobby D. almost choked on his steak. “Down, girl,” he mumbled.

  I glanced at Bobby. “It’s the boyfriend,” I predicted. “He’s the one who took Candy and killed Rats. Sure as shit. And she needs to come clean.”

  “Rodney would never do something like that,” Roxy suddenly screamed. It scared the crap out of me. I jumped up in alarm as she hopped up on the bed, sending salad spilling onto the covers. She got right up in my grill, teetering on the overstuffed mattress. She was like an angry badger who could talk. “Rodney is a good guy and he loves me. He would never do something like this.”

  “Did you see him this afternoon?” I asked calmly. That girl’s temper went from zero to sixty in a heartbeat.

  She sat back down, defeated. “No. He didn’t show.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Do you like telling people you’ve been stood up?” she asked.

  “What’s his affiliation?” I demanded.

  “What do you mean?” Roxy looked down at her bare feet. Her toenails were painted hot pink. Her big toes had tiny red hearts affixed to the center of each nail.

  “You know exactly what I mean. Who does he ride with?”

  “The Renegades,” she said. I could barely hear her. “Out of Greensboro.”

  I shook my head, disgusted. The Renegades were an outlier club. Not known for playing well with others. If Rodney liked people who were different, as his sister claimed, he’d found a whole bunch of them to ride with—but more than a few had rap sheets as long as my housekeeping To Do list. They were mostly low level criminals who almost always got caught due to their exceptional stupidity and drug-addled brains.

  “Rodney would never hurt Candy,” Roxy insisted.

  “He might for $1.3 million,” Bobby interrupted as he dabbed daintily at his mouth with a cloth napkin.

  “A ransom note came in?” I asked. Why was I always the last to know?

  “It was waiting for Roxy at the front desk when we got back here,” he explained.

  “Where is it now?”

  “Where do you think?” Bobby said. “The cops have it. I’m not letting you get into any more trouble with them. You’ve got a bad habit of withholding evidence. My job is to break you of that habit.”

  I glared at him, but he was too busy chasing down peas to notice.

  “$1.3 million?” I said to Roxy. “That’s a lot of money. Why $1.3 million? Does your family have that kind of dough?”

  Bobby D. coughed softly.

  “You have that much money?!” I asked Roxy.

  She was offended by my skepticism. “Candy and me, we only have a few good years left in us and then we’ll be too old to dance. We have to make all we can, while we can, so that we know Robert Jr. will be okay for the rest of his life. He could live to be ninety years old.” She looked away. “Chances are Candy and me won’t last that long. We don’t live as long as normal-sized people.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, knowing it was completely inadequate under the circumstances.

  “And we need to put some away for ourselves,” she added, defiant once again. “It’s not like we can be exotic dancers forever.”

  I thought of the crowd of yahoos that had packed their last gig and was not so sure that boobs hanging below their waists would be a deal breaker. But I kept my opinion to myself. Instead, I stared at Bobby pointedly. He knew what I was thinking. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged in silent agreement.

  “What?” Roxy demanded.

  “Exactly how much money do you have saved up in total?” I asked.

  “About that much,” she said softly. “A million and a half, actually. I have an account no one else knows about but me. That adds a little.”

  A little? It was more money than I’d earned in my entire life.

  “Did Rodney know that you and Candy had saved that much money?”

  She did not answer.

  “Did Rodney know that?” I asked more loudly.

  She nodded her head grudgingly and I let out a sigh. “Look, Roxy. The supposed kidnappers left a note at the hotel desk. That’s means they’re close to you. They knew where you and Candy were staying. My money is on either Rodney or Candy—or both.”

  “It’s not either one of them,” she suddenly screamed with the frustration and fury of a thwarted weightlifter high on steroids. “I’m sick of saying this, so could everyone please get this through your big fat heads so we can all save a lot of time? Candy had nothing to do with this. Rodney had nothing to do with this. Neither one of them would ever hurt anyone. And the fact that no one will believe me? Do you know what that means? Do you? Do you?” She delivered the last few sentences inches from me, at full volume, her face contorted and red with anger.

  “What does it mean?” I asked calmly, gently pushing her away. She was dangerously close to abandoning all control. This was how people went postal.

  She dropped to the bed abruptly, defeated, and began to sob. “It means no one is really looking for Candy. It means no one believes someone took her. It means that they aren’t really going to look for her, not if they think she is behind this. Which means whoever took her can do whatever they want to her, for as long as they want. Because it means that no one is coming to her rescue.”

  The breakdown that followed this realization was epic. Roxy threw herself across the bed and began to sob, her whole body shaking with anguish and fear.

  I stared at Booby, paralyzed. He nodded toward the door. He knew I needed to go. He’d take care of what he had to in the meantime.

  “I’m sorry,” I said gently to Roxy. I’m not sure she even heard me. “I believe you. I will look for her. I promise. Someone will come to her rescue.”

  Roxy ignored me and I turned back to Bobby. “I’ll be back in a little while,” I told him. “But we need to move her. Obviously, the kidnappers know where to find her. I doubt one guy on the door is going to stop them if they come for Roxy.”

  “Where are you going?” Bobby asked me.

  “To tell Bill Butler and his detective buddies about the boyfriend. And to bring Bill the threatening letters they got. But don’t get too comfortable. I will be back eventually for more answers.”

  “Answers from me?” Roxy asked between sobs.

  “I’ve got to start somewhere, sweetheart. It might as well be with you.”

  I couldn’t afford to be kind if I hoped to find Candy before it was too late.

  ●

  I was barely through the door of the Raleigh Police Department when the desk sergeant looked up from his phone call, saw me, and said, "Butler is at the Hole. He said to meet him there."

  God, but it was annoying the way that man knew what I was going to do next.

  The Hole in the Wall was a couple blocks down Hillsborough Street. If you didn't know it was there, you’d walk right past it. Which was probably why so many cops liked to hang out there.

  Bill was at the bar, sitting alone like he was waiting for me.

  "How did you know I'd come looking for you?" I demanded.

  He patted the seat of the barstool next to him and I claimed my spot. It was where we used to sit when we were dating, a million years ago.

  "Beca
use I know you,” Bill said. “And I know you'll be obsessing about this case until one of us solves it. Because I know that instead of letting yourself feel bad about your friend, you’re going to dive into non-stop, act-before-thinking, frantic, and possibly reckless action, until you end up dead yourself or you get your answer. I also know that you're holding something back from me and that your conscience is starting to bother you." He took a rather self-satisfied sip of his own whiskey and gave me another smile. "Besides, you just can't bear to stay away from me."

  The sound I made at that pronouncement could most accurately be described as a snarl, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances.

  “Got the letters?” he asked, holding out a hand.

  I gave him the envelope full of typed threats and he glanced at them briefly, frowning, then read a couple of them more carefully.

  “What?” I said. “I’m not holding anything back.”

  “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s the letters themselves.” He held one up. “Don’t they seem a little too perfect to you? There’s not a typo or misspelled word in the bunch.”

  “So, it’s a stalker with high standards,” I suggested.

  Bill rolled his eyes and handed the letters over to a waiting patrolman who had been standing by the pool tables. The guy grabbed the envelope and took off for the door.

  “Impressive,” I said. “You appear to have minions.”

  “Minions? Why does everyone use that word these days?” Bill asked as he waved the bartender over and pointed at me. “Never mind. I don’t really want to know. It’s one of those cultural references I never get, right?”

  “That’s right, Gramps.” I smiled at him. “Want to stuff ourselves into a phone booth and swallow live goldfish?”

  Bill ignored me.

  The bartender—who looked like he lobbed bombs for the IRA and didn't care who knew it— put a generous portion of Jack Daniels in front of me without having to be told what I wanted. I didn’t exactly remember him but, apparently, he remembered me.

  The whiskey burned a line down my throat and into my stomach. It was scary, sometimes, how much I needed that feeling. I knew the fire would bloom into a lovely, growing sense of calm that would snake its way into my bloodstream and take the edge off my grief and anxiety. I'd never needed it more. I had overlooked clients in danger, become lost in my own grief, and then had made a promise to rescue Candy that I wasn’t at all confident I could keep. The truth was that I did need time to mourn my friend’s death, but Roxy was probably right. Who knew what was happening to Candy or what might happen if no one got to her in time? But I needed help if I was going to be any help myself. "How much do you know already?" I finally asked Bill, once I trusted myself to be able to speak without giving away how close I was to tears. I had staved them off with frantic action all afternoon and into the evening, but I could feel the salt tide starting to rise.

  “What do I know? I know that you and Rats were good friends and that his death has really gotten to you,” he answered, pretending not to notice when I quickly wiped the corner of my eyes with a soggy bar napkin.

  “Do you know what I’m willing to do to find out who did it and make sure they pay for killing him?” I asked, falling prey, as so many people do, to the age old trap of disguising my grief with a self-righteous thirst for revenge.

  Bill shrugged. “I don’t think I want to know.” He lifted his glass. The bartender was there in seconds, pouring a double shot without a word being exchanged between them. I wondered why Bill was drinking so heavily. Maybe there was trouble at home with his wife? God, I hoped so. People who live happily ever after while you flounder through life are incredibly annoying.

  "Well?" I prompted. "What else have you got? I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours."

  Bill nodded. He knew I’d find out anyway. "The state boys talked to Frieda Salem,” he said. “And they know you hauled ass out her back door, so you can stop pretending to be so innocent. They also know that her brother Rodney is dating Roxy. But get this: Rodney was at the club around noon today, only he was there with Candy, not Roxy."

  That surprised me. Candy had told me she needed to be there to mend a costume, not meet Rodney. "How do you know?"

  "Mr. Lopez," Bill explained. He took another sip and waited for me to beg for details.

  "And who exactly is Mr. Lopez? Please." Hey, if I had to beg, I would.

  "Mr. Lopez is the sad-looking Mexican man who takes care of the Shetland pony for them and acts as an all-around roadie," Bill explained smugly.

  "I didn't realize you spoke Spanish," I shot back.

  "I don't. But Mr. Lopez speaks very good English." He smiled at me.

  "Just tell me what the hell he said," I complained. "If you’re going to make me beg for every scrap of intel, I might not tell you what I know."

  "Sorry. Force of habit. Truth be told—you don't look like you're in a joking mood. And you looked pretty rattled at the crime scene earlier. I guess you knew our deceased Mr. Templeton pretty well?" He was fishing.

  "I did. But I'm not ready to talk about it."

  "Fair enough." Bill stared at me for a second and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew what I was going through better than I did.

  “Well?” I prompted him.

  "According to Mr. Lopez, who sleeps in the trailer with the pony—"

  "With the pony?" I interrupted.

  "Yes. The Tinajero sisters pay him well but he takes his responsibilities seriously. He has a large family to support and sends most of his paycheck back to them in Mexico. He sleeps in the trailer wherever the sisters go, to save money and to make sure no drunken yokels bother the pony. I get the impression he often has more than a few bottles of Corona to keep him company. Nonetheless, according to him, he heard nothing all that unusual, at least not for the back of a topless bar on a Saturday afternoon. He heard a truck pulling up to make deliveries, a couple cars, some men going in and out of the club—according to him they were talking in Spanish about having to double mop the floors—and then a motorcycle pulled in sometime around noon. He didn't hear the shots that killed Rats and he doesn't remember when any of the vehicles left. The motorcycle was in the gravel parking lot out back when we got there, by the way. We’re processing it now."

  "Was Mr. Lopez the one who found Rats?"

  "He was indeed. He went into the club to look for a missing halter and found Mr. Templeton dead in the hallway. He wasted no time. He called us right away. The guy is clean, green card and all."

  I needed to know one thing right away and I knew Bill would have the answer by now. “Are the girls really just dancers?”

  Bill nodded. “It appears they are earning their money on their feet, not on their backs. At least according to Mr. Lopez. And the half dozen sheriffs in the various counties I checked with, just to make sure, agree with him.”

  That was some good news. It narrowed down the suspect pool a little.

  “What else?” I asked, knowing I was pushing my luck.

  "Oh, no," Bill said, shaking his head. "Your turn."

  "Well, you already know about Rodney Salem dating Roxy,” I said. “And I’m assuming that you know the ransom request is pretty much exactly what the girls have in the bank, minus a secret stash Roxy has.”

  Bill nodded. "Yes, we know. That was interesting indeed."

  “Did you talk to the hotel front desk clerk?”

  He nodded. “He didn’t see the guy who dropped off the ransom note. Says it was left on the front counter sometime during the afternoon and no one even noticed it until he came on duty at 4:00 PM.”

  "You think Rodney and Candy planned it together, don't you?" I guessed. "You think that while he was dating Roxy, Rodney also spent time with Candy and decided he liked the sweeter sister better? You think he and Candy ran off together and they’re trying to extort the whole nest egg from the family so they can take off and live on a beach somewhere for the rest of their lives."

&nb
sp; Bill shrugged. "As theories go, it's not a bad one."

  “I'm not buying it.” I told him what Frieda had said about her brother, about him being a good guy. I told him what I knew about Candy and her sister’s unshakable belief she could not be involved. Bill was not impressed.

  "Just about every killer on the planet has neighbors who are shocked, absolutely shocked, to hear he likes to chop people up into little pieces and feed them to his dogs. Besides, the brother belongs to the Renegades. Those are not bikers who play well with others. If there is such a thing.”

  “The Renegades are like the gang that couldn’t ride straight. I don’t think it’s him,” I said firmly. “Which doesn’t mean it isn’t bikers. The girls both knew a lot of them.”

  “Speaking of bikers,” Bill said, “I heard you have an eye on a new one.”

  “Who told you that?” I demanded.

  He gave me a smug smile but did not answer.

  I wondered how he knew so much about my personal life. I’d only met Cody Sherrill last night. My drool was practically still fresh on his leather jacket. Was someone keeping an eye on me for Bill?

  "I’m still not sold on Rodney being a killer,” I said. “Apparently, he's been a good guy his whole life. A really good guy. People don't change that much. How do you go from being someone who beats up bullies in high school for making fun of a special kid to killing someone the way poor Rats was killed?"

  I guess something in my voice must've given me away. Bill could hear it. "You really liked Rats, didn't you? I don't think I've ever seen you so upset at a crime scene. You barely said a word and I don’t think you made a single joke. It’s not like you to be that quiet. No offense."

  I shrugged, trying to hide the grief I felt for Rats from Bill, though I didn't quite understand why. "Yeah, I liked Rats. We were kindred spirits, I guess." I stared into my whiskey, remembering all the nights that Rats and I had sat in his bar, long after the club closed, swapping stories about our hardscrabble youths, each trying to outdo each other with tales of the pitiful poverty we had grown up with and talking about how hard it had been to escape.