by Katy Munger
"Close enough that Cody would never have killed him?" I asked.
"Since when is being close to someone a reason not to kill them?" Burly asked. "Seems to me that most people are killed by people close to them."
“Good point,” I admitted.
"Why are you so interested in Cody Sherrill anyway?" Burly asked. "I told you he was bad news."
"You did. More to the point, Bill Butler showed me his file after you ratted me out and told him I was interested in Cody. So now I'm convinced. Cody Sherrill is bad news.”
I guess I sounded resentful.
"You can do what you want," Burly said. “I’ve never tried to stop you from doing what you wanted, ever. Not that it would have done any good if I had. I did call Bill. So what? I thought he should know. You get distracted, let's just put it that way. I want you to be safe. Is that a crime?" He looked at his phone. “I’ve got to go. Try not to get killed.”
Burly wanted me to be safe. It wasn't much, but I clung to it, even as we said our goodbyes. As I watched him drive out of my life yet again, I realized he had left me with fresh regrets. And more. The older I get, the more I see myself clearly. And what I was starting to realize was that, apparently, I was one of those people who never really appreciates someone until they are gone. I was going to lead a lonely life if I kept that up.
●
An hour and a half later, I was standing in front of the strip club where poor Rats had been killed and Candy Tinajero had been taken. I'd been telling the truth when I told the cops that Rats wouldn't tolerate drugs in his clubs. At least not willingly. He could hardly search every customer. That would have killed his business. But he did insist his employees be clean. Sometimes, he’d brought me in to make sure that was the case. He’d asked me to check the club out more than once in the wee hours of the morning, after the last countertop had been wiped and the cleaning crew had polished the dance poles until they sparkled once again. My job was to go through the lockers that staff used to store their personal belongings and get back to him if I found out anyone was using. It was a dirty job, but someone had to be paid to do it.
On those occasions, Rats always left me a key to a side door that no one but him ever used. The door led directly into his office so that he could come and go without anyone in the club noticing. If I could find that key, I’d snoop around the place. I knew Rats better than just about anyone else. If the cops had missed something in their search of the club, I would find it. I wanted to know if what Burly had told me was true. I needed to know if Rats had been laundering money for the wrong guys.
Unfortunately, Rats always hid the key for me inside one of those fake plaster rocks with a secret compartment, piling the fake rock in with a bunch of real rocks that surrounded a tree in an alleyway beside his club. The trouble was, thanks to the passage of time and weather, there was zero difference between the fake rock and the real rocks, even under the closest of scrutiny. Only the lighter weight would give it away. It took me a good twenty minutes to find the fake rock—but the key was inside it once I did. The real miracle was that no one had looked twice at me as I stacked rocks in the dirt by the side of the alley. Raleigh was becoming a bigger city by the minute and it took a lot to surprise the downtown locals these days.
The cops had taped off the club, of course. They had been working the crime scene for days, but, judging by the silence, appeared to be done. I slipped inside the side door cautiously. The office was deserted and I heard no one else in the club’s interior. Just to be sure, I crept out into the hallway and tiptoed toward the bar area. I passed the spot in the hallway where Rats had been killed and his blood had soaked into the carpet. A long rectangle had been cut from the carpet and was probably being processed. I tried not to think about it and kept going.
Fortunately, the club was deserted, so far as I could tell, so I returned to the office and began to search.
I'd known Rats for over a decade and had spent hours sitting in this very office, listening to the stories of his dirt poor upbringing and the empire he intended to build as a way to leave his memories of poverty behind once and for all. He had no illusions about who he was. In fact, Rats had been ruthlessly honest about himself and where he had come from, which made him as endearing as a runty, rat-faced man with a fondness for augmented breasts can be.
Rats had also been an organized man. The relentless order of his office had been preserved by the crime scene crew, making my job a little easier. I worked quickly and quietly, aware that I might be busted at any moment. The last thing I needed was to be caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
I started with the filing cabinets and paged through employee records quickly, then moved on to tedious files about medical insurance and payroll. I briefly wondered what the dozen or so people who worked at the club would do for jobs now, then continued searching. His filing cabinet drawers turned up nothing. A careful examination of the shelves lining one wall of the office turned up nothing as well. But I knew Rats—and I knew he was as resourceful and sly as his namesake. I was not about to give up.
I got down on my hands and knees and ran my fingers over the carpet, searching for a bump beneath the pile. Nada. Then I checked out the private bathroom, even taking the paper towel dispenser apart and inspecting the toilet’s flush tank to see if anything was taped inside. No luck at all.
About an hour into the search—did I mention I was stubborn?—I found what I was looking for. It was inside a gilded Buddha statue the size of a cat that sat on a stool below the office window. I'd never known Rats to be a particularly spiritual person, and figured the Buddha had been a good luck gift from a customer when he’d first opened the club. But when I lifted it, it was very light and I realized the statue was hollow. I turned it over to examine the bottom and discovered an opening just big enough to hold a small package taped inside. At first, I thought I had found a packet of drugs. That would have turned my whole worldview of Rats upside down. Then I realized it was a plastic bag containing a computer zip drive no bigger than a box of matches. I pulled it out and stuck it in my pocket. If Rats had gone to the trouble of hiding it, there was something important on that drive.
I kept searching for another ten minutes but found nothing else. Before I left, I had to scoot into the Ladies Room for a quick pee—that happens a lot when you mainline coffee—and for just a moment, I imagined my sweet Rats the last time I had seen him alive, stepping out of the Ladies Room into the hallway, looking up at me in surprise.
The image stopped me in my tracks. It seemed as real as the day it had happened. I wanted to reach out and touch his face. But, of course, it was just my memory playing tricks on me. Rats was gone.
Just as I was leaving the Ladies Room, I heard a bang inside the main area. Someone was coming in the front door. I was out the side door in seconds, locking it behind me and pocketing the key. Who knew when I might need to come back in?
By then, it was mid-afternoon and the streets were nearly deserted. As I walked back to my office, I passed a handful of bums, two cops examining an abandoned car, and a bored-looking prostitute with orange hair. The sun shone brightly in the sky and I was sweating. Just another autumn afternoon in the new South.
Bobby D. rents space for us above a bail bondsman who set up shop across from the new courthouse. We share the building with a couple of quick-buck lawyers and a court-mandated alcohol treatment center plus a company that monitors ankle bracelets. We were like a one-stop shop for the flotsam and jetsam that regularly got ground up by the justice system and spit out into the streets again.
My plan was to check out the zip drive first, to see if I could figure out what Rats was up to that needed hiding. Unfortunately, Frieda Salem had other ideas. She was waiting for me in the closet I call my office. She took up a good quarter of the room and was as weepy as when I first saw her at her house in Durham and broke the news to her about Candy and her brother. She was methodically pulling Kleenex from the box I keep on my desk for when I deliver
bad news about cheating spouses and drug-addicted children who fail to stay clean.
I took a seat across from Frieda and waited for her to gain control. I had a bad feeling. What if she had heard something I didn't know yet? Had they found her brother and Candy dead?
After a moment, she blew her nose with a gusto that could have dropped a Canada goose from the sky, looked up at me tearfully, and apologized for intruding on my workday. People who apologize their way through life annoy me, but I tried hard to hide it. "You're not intruding," I said tersely. "This is what I do."
"I want to hire you to find my brother Rodney," she said, sensing my impatience. Poor Frieda. I needed to be kinder.
"How do you know he's not the one who killed Rats?" I asked quietly. "If I find him, I have to let the cops know.”
"Something bad has happened to him," she said. "I can feel it. Please. He's the only family I have left. I haven't spoken to my parents in years. Rodney is all I have."
Oh, man. I am a sucker for people trying to hold on to what little family they have. I know exactly what it feels like.
"Have you heard from him?" I asked.
"No. And that's why I think something bad has happened to him. I'm sure he'd be in touch with me if he could."
I wished I knew whether Frieda saw her brother realistically. It seemed unlikely he was the good guy she claimed he was. On the other hand, Roxy had wanted to dump Rodney for being too much of a nice guy. Maybe I was just a cynical bitch and Frieda was right—her brother was in trouble.
"Have you heard from the cops again?" I asked.
She shook her head again. "They questioned me for a long time after you came to my house. But I haven't heard from them since."
"Then you should know that your phone line is probably tapped and they’re waiting for him to call you," I warned her. "He's their number one suspect. They probably think you're lying and know where he is. It's a good thing he hasn't been in contact with you."
She wasn't buying any of it. "No. I know my brother. He wouldn't do something like this and he wouldn't let me worry. Something bad has happened to him. Can you help? I will pay you anything you ask. I have money. I can pay."
As much as the thought of a second fee was appealing, I had a conflict of interest. "I'm already looking for Candy Tinajero,” I explained. "Technically, she is still my client, and her sister wants me to find her. Chances are good that when I do find Candy, your brother will be with her. But chances are also good that when I find your brother, he could turn out to be the one who killed Sammy Templeton. You have to be prepared for that possibility."
“Then I want to pay you to find Candy, too. That’s not a conflict of interest, is it?” She put a stack of bills neatly wrapped with a paper band on my desk. It was hard to tell whether I was looking at fifties or hundreds, and it seemed tacky to lean over and check, so I just pulled the money toward me and swept it into a drawer. “Okay, I’ll use that for expenses,” I murmured, though mentally I was envisioning the overdue utility bills and credit card payments I’d be able to take care of by Friday. I was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when it involved cold hard cash. Besides, Frieda's faith in her brother was unwavering and I needed a little faith just then.
Frieda accepted what little hope she could glean from my offer to keep her posted on my progress and rose to go. Though not before she thanked me effusively, and for way too long, then apologized for taking up my time—leaving me wondering if the world was so unkind to her that she felt the need to show gratitude for common decency, or if Frieda Salem was simply one of those lost souls who is unequipped to deal with life's realities. No matter. Whoever Frieda Salem was, I had, for all practical purposes, somehow promised to find her brother for her and I would do my best to keep that promise.
●
The moment Frieda left, I pulled a chair up to Bobby D.'s desk, ready to ask him for a favor. He was deep into a foot-long meatball sandwich from Jersey Mike's and it was a wonder he could hear me over all the chomping and groans of satisfaction he emitted. I've often thought restaurants should hire Bobby D. to sit at an outside table and eat their food. His rapturous noises would attract customers in droves.
"Let me guess," he said through a mouthful of meat and tomato sauce. "I detected a distinct Sappho vibe. That girl walks on the wild side, right?"
"That girl mostly seems to wander in the wilderness. Nonetheless, I have promised to find both Candy Tinajero and her brother for her."
Bobby swallowed hard and belched, then leaned back in his chair. Sometimes he comes up for air. "You're doing a lot of promising on this case, aren't you, Babe?"
"Don’t call me ‘Babe.’” I reminded him. "I’m not a little pig you need to pat on the head. And I need your help. Remember, we are still on the Tinajero payroll. That’s two payrolls we’re on now. We’re going to have to get some results, so focus."
"Hey, I'm not the one who got roaring drunk, then lost an entire day and night recovering from it.”
I ignored him. That's not usually possible with Bobby, so I take the opportunity to do so when I can.
"Still no word from the kidnappers?" I asked.
Bobby shook his head. "Nothing since the ransom note and some bullshit anonymous call.”
“I heard. So the cops still think Rodney did it?"
Bobby shrugged. "I am pretty sure they have absolutely no idea who did it. I can tell you that there was no one else’s blood at the scene, other than what Rats lost. So if anyone was taken, they went willingly. Or at least didn't put up a fight."
The mention of Rats reminded me of Bobby’s kindness, of how he had paid for his burial and service. I stared at him, not sure how to put it.
“What?” he asked, dabbing at his chin with a napkin. “Do I have food on my face?”
The real question was, when did Bobby not have food on his face? But I passed on the chance to point that out and instead simply said, “Thank you.”
“For what?” he demanded.
“For paying for the funeral service for Rats. I know it was you.”
Bobby pretended to be interested in the clock on the wall, which had read 3:33 for as long as I had worked there. “It was no big deal,” he mumbled. “I called in a favor.”
“You did a favor for me,” I said. “Rats really was a good man beneath all that sleaze. You did a good thing.”
Bobby looked embarrassed so I moved on. “You sure about no signs of a struggle?” I asked. It was a strike against Candy and Rodney, if it was true.
“That was what I was told,” he said. “Can’t guarantee it. Cost me a hundred bucks.”
"I have a lead," I said, not sounding hopeful. "I have a source who says Rats was laundering money for a Mob family up north. I'm looking into that now."
Bobby's eyebrows rose to within a few inches of his trademark toupee. "Do not drag me into this," he said. "I have not lived to the ripe old age of sixty-four by taking on cases that involve the Mob."
"I'll try my best not to make you a target," I promised sarcastically. But the truth was that I knew Bobby would be there for me, no matter what. He was that kind of a friend—and that's why I forgave him his terrible wardrobe. "And I may or may not have found proof of the money laundering.”
"You're going to get yourself in a lot of trouble one day if you keep rooting around crime scenes without your cop buddies knowing it."
Damn. That man knew me too well. It was time to put him to work and distract him. "I need you to track down the girls’ manager and talk to him and also follow up with the guy who takes care of the pony. Most of all, I need you to look into the background of Roxy and Candy's parents," I said.
His eyebrows did a little dance. "Why?"
“Roxy is convinced that her parents have been hiding things from her and her sister. It could be related. It could be why Candy was taken."
"If she was taken," Bobby interrupted. "I’m putting my money on her being the person who set this whole thing up."
"If she was taken,” I conceded. “But there is something a little off about the parents. I noticed it, too. Everything just seems so by the book. By the Good Book, to be specific. The father’s like a super-religious Ken doll and mom, well, mom is like a Bratz doll ready to follow Jim Jones into Guyana. Can you run a background check on both of them for me?" I asked. "I'll owe you one."
"No you won't," Bobby promised. "I'm taking my cut of the fee, remember?"
"If they have any money left to pay our fee," I pointed out. “Remember the ransom note? Someone’s going to get a call sometime about that money. That much I know.”
“I may need to spread some cash around on this one. How much did your new client slip you?” Bobby asked.
I was astonished. “How did you know that?”
“I can hear money sliding across a desktop at four hundred paces,” he said.
I was impressed. “Spend what you need to. I’ll cover it,” I promised.
●
By the time I had poked around the zip drive I’d taken from The Pink Pussycat, it was late afternoon and I knew one thing for sure: Rats have been funneling a hell of a lot of money through his club. I knew it could not possibly be from legitimate operations. The zip drive was filled with six month’s worth of meticulous daily records, cash in by the barrel and out by the book. The Mob story had legs. I would have to find a way to let Bill Butler know about it.
It took me another half hour to copy the information onto my own computer, then sneak into the strip club again and put the zip drive back where I had found it. This time, I was in and out within three minutes. This was long enough to wipe my fingerprints off everything I had touched, which was conspicuous in its own right, but I didn’t want to risk being busted if they decided to process the office for a second time once they found the drive.
