I lifted the ice-cold hitch off the chains with a big grunt, it being heavier than I had thought it would be. After I humped the sucker over to the side, I was rewarded with a twinge in my lower back. Tomorrow Bengay for strained muscles, Neosporin for scratches. What a life.
After throwing open the hatch, I descended the stairs into a six by six cellar made of cement. The rain hammered down on the stairs, but I saw the floor, ceiling, and walls were musty-smelling but relatively dry.
Barely six feet in height, a single bulb dangled from overhead. I gave the string a yank. The low-watt bulb offered little in the way of illumination. I’m guessing the cellar was rarely used other than for storage.
Eight metal filing cabinets were crammed against two opposite walls of the cellar, four on each side facing one another. All the drawers were opened, and there was barely enough room to walk in between. Other than the eight filing cabinets, the cellar was empty, with not even room for a chair.
I examined the drawers one by one, even removing them from the cabinets for a good look behind. I was rewarded with a crumpled sheet of paper containing email addresses, and a small frog. I popped the crumpled paper into my pants pocket, snatched up the frog – because I’m not the sort of person who believes the old wives’ tale about getting warts if you touch a frog – and climbed the stairs again.
I thought about dropping the frog into the brush near my pal, the garter snake, with a hurried introduction. But I wasn’t sure about the culinary tastes of either one of them and there had been enough carnage for one day. Better off to release ‘Kermit’ farther away. So I did. After he hopped off, I put the cellar’s disguise back in place and took stock of my situation. Or rather, my predicament.
There I was, no phone to call for a cab or help, drenched, cold, wearing torn clothes, wet hair filled with leaves and branches, and slathered in mud and soot. And I was ravenous. Not for the first time, I wondered if it was too late to become a nurse. This P.I. stuff was highly overrated.
Chapter Fourteen
Just Shoot Me
Carrying my precious box, I crunched around to the front of the building, looking for a drier spot. Nada. The hard rain stopped as quickly as it had begun, becoming a light sprinkle again. I needed to recharge my phone, and me, before I could even deal with anything else. I remembered a small corner bar about a block away and sloshed toward it.
Rivulets of water ran over, around, and through my toes. I looked down to see my feet and calves being dyed a lovely shade of blue from squishy, ruined sandals. Suede really is too volatile a material for a P.I. to wear, so I need to get over myself. This isn’t the first time I’ve had it bleed all over me when I was caught in the elements. It’s enough to break a girl’s heart.
I arrived at the neighborhood bar, which was a pretty seedy-looking place. The top half of the front door featured cracked, dirty, and missing stained glass. The bottom half held warped and rotting wood. I’m guessing the last time it saw a paintbrush was maybe around the Civil War. Given how I looked, it was the ideal place for me.
I pushed open the door and waited for my eyes to adjust to the lack of light. The empty room had a dozen or so tiny round tables and an odd assortment of chairs, all in varying shades of faded black, mange brown, and mottled grey.
There was no sign of life, other than a barkeep and an overhead television, showing two teams of men having a fine time kicking a big ball around. The barkeep was picture perfect for his surroundings and seemed about the same age, plus or minus a few hundred years.
He glanced up, as the door swung shut with a drawn-out creak, not unlike the sound in a horror film. Then he stopped wiping down the bar with the filthiest cloth I’d seen in years, and stared. I forced a bright smile to my face and tried to keep a positive attitude, even though he looked at me as if I’d just crawled out of a grave.
“Hi,” I said, in a voice so high-pitched and loud the glasses behind him vibrated. “Listen, I know how this looks but it’s not really what it seems. Well, maybe it is, but I…”
I stopped speaking. He continued to stare at me open-mouthed. I stared back, nixing the positive attitude.
“Oh, never mind. Just give me a Sazerac cocktail.”
I dropped the box on the nearest table, thankful that with the décor of choice, the soot wouldn’t show. The thud of the box on the tabletop caused the barkeep to back up, as if he’d been struck.
“Sazerac cocktail?” He stuttered. “I don’t even know what goes into that.”
“Okay. What do you have?”
“I got whiskey, I got beer.”
“A Boiler Maker it is. Where’s your ladies room?”
“My ladies room?” He stuttered again. “We don’t have a ladies room. We got a bathroom, but men and women use it.” He pointed a shaky hand toward the back of the bar.
“Well, not at the same time, I hope.”
I gave him an idiot grin. He blinked.
“Oh, criminy,” I muttered. “Why do I bother?”
I headed for the back, and pushed open a door with the letters W.C. on it.
No matter how much you tell yourself you’re prepared for it, you never are. I mean, once I got a gander of my reflection in the cracked mirror over the stained and dirty sink, I blinked just like the barkeep.
I had several long but superficial scratches on my face and nose and a few smaller ones on my neck. The rest of me was covered with soot, as black as boot polish. In my hair, a twig stood upright like an antenna, a small leaf dangling from the end. Another twig was entangled in damp curls over my left ear and several others acted as bangs on my forehead. I looked at my scratched and sooty hands and arms. Then down at my mud-dappled Capri pants, a large rip running halfway across the thigh. By God, I did look like I’d crawled out from a grave. Give the barkeep a prize.
Not one to wallow in my patheticness, I scrubbed as much of the soot off me as I could, and smeared Neosporin on the scratches from the tube I always carry, me being in the business I’m in. Then I unraveled some of the larger twigs out of my hair. The rest would have to be cut out later. I couldn’t do anything about the tear in my pants and didn’t have the energy to try. I returned to the bar lusting for my Boiler Maker.
A shot of whisky and a large glass of beer sat on the edge of the bar. The barkeep kept as much distance between him and me as possible. I said nothing, but pulled a twenty out of my fanny pack, and dropped it on the bar. He didn’t come over to retrieve the twenty until after I picked up the two glasses, and crossed back to the table. He also didn’t offer change.
I pulled out my solar charger, grateful the fanny pack was waterproof, and set it on the table. I made sure Lady Blue was hidden from sight, because that just might be the thing to send the barkeep over the edge. I plunked the phone down on top of the charger, heard the ‘bleep-bleep’ and knew it was charging. While I juiced the sucker up, I dropped the shot of whisky in the glass of beer with a kerplop, watched it foam over, and drank down half of it in one greedy gulp.
After a satisfying burp, I turned to the barkeep, still studying me with a look of horror. I no longer cared.
“Do you have anything to eat?’
“Eat?”
“Food? Do you have any?”
“No, no. I only have beer nuts and potato chips, bar-b-q flavored.”
“Okay, give me one of each. Please,” I added when he didn’t move.
He nodded, turned around, and pulled two bags down from a stand behind him. He tossed them on the bar then stepped back.
I got up, went over, and snatched up the bags. “You let me know when I use up that twenty. There’s plenty more where that came from.” I winked, tearing open the bag of nuts. His jaw dropped open.
This was kind of fun, I decided. After a minute or two, my phone did that beep-be-de-beep-beep thing it does when there’s a text coming in. Obviously it had been juiced up enough to receive messages.
I sauntered over and looked down at my beeping phone. The beauty of texting
hit me then. The barkeep was watching me like I was a rattlesnake that had returned to its hole but could pop back up at any minute. He concentrated on my every move with his total being. He may have even had a shotgun hidden behind the bar for all I knew. I smiled and almost flicked my tongue at him. Maybe it was forked by now.
I sat down and pulled the phone and charger to me, and went into messaging. It was Richard.
L- Where are you? Found 3 Samuel Randolph’s. Still looking. Any more info?
I hit reply. A space to type in showed up on the screen. So far, so good.
I started banging away with my thumbs and found the phone offered certain words it thought you wanted before you even finished typing. I can see why it’s called ‘smart’. A little wunderkind. I finally managed to do one sentence consisting of six words in about ten minute’s time. As I said before, I’m pretty stupid with these things.
R – Partial plate # attached. See photo.
Then I got an idea. I was in no condition to hike back to the hotel, especially carrying a heavy, wet box. Probably no self-respecting cabbie would stop and take me there, either. I resumed typing.
Come get me. Desperate. Bring towels. Am at…
I looked over at the man still watching me.
“What’s the address here?”
The barkeep told me with a stutter and I typed it in. The address, not the stutter. I attached the photo of the Jag’s backend and sent the message off. This wasn’t so tough. I crammed more nuts into my mouth and decided to text Gurn, if for no other reason than practice.
G - Hurry back. Luv ya, L
Twenty minutes later, I finished the bag of nuts, the Boiler Maker, and was working my way through the chips when the door burst open. Richard stepped inside, Tío directly behind him. They stood gawking at me, frozen in the doorway.
“Good God,” Richard said.
“Dios mio,” Tío said.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s me, not Al Jolson,” I said.
Tío raced to the table and hugged me. He smelled of something lemony; I smelled of burned rubbish. Soot, twigs, wringing wet, and off-putting smells never stopped this man from showing his love. Then he wrapped two towels around me, one over my shoulders and the other around my unruly mop, all the while cooing in Spanish. Everybody should have a Tío in their lives. I mean, really.
Richard came to the table gingerly.
“I’d ask what happened, but maybe I don’t want to know.”
“Let’s go.” I stood, feeling warm and a little woozy from the booze. “I need some real food.”
“I bring with me left-over frittata I make at the shelter. It’s in the car,” Tío said. “It’s not hot but --”
“It sounds delicious, Tío. I’ll love it.”
I turned to the man behind the bar, who was watching us with an even increased level of alarm. Now it was three against one. I gave him a charming smile or tried to.
“Do you have a large plastic bag?”
He gaped.
“Bag. Plastic. Large. Do you have one? Make that two. I want to put this box into one and I’d better sit on the other or my brother will never get his deposit back from the car rental. They’re already pretty miffed at him.”
Mr. Barkeep bent over and disappeared behind the bar. Seconds later he came up with two black plastic bags. How he found them in the dark, I’ll never know.
I walked to the bar, the keep backed away, and I picked up the plastic bags. Feeling sorry for the man, I tossed another twenty on the bar then turned my attention to my guys.
“You’d better let me do this, gentlemen. There’s no need for either you to get dirty. As you can see, I am beyond repair.”
“What’s in the box besides incinerated trash?” Richard whispered, coming up from behind. I turned to him and whispered in kind.
“Evidence of a child pornography ring, courtesy of Dennis Manning. And enough, I’m hoping, to take a lot of people down. But I’m turning this over to you. I’ve done my bit.”
We went back to the table, and I handed one plastic bag off to Richard who opened it wide. I shoved the soot-covered box inside. Holding it as far from him as possible, Richard carried it outside without saying another word. With Tío’s arm around me, I walked to the door, but paused before I left, addressing the man behind the bar.
“Thank you, my good man, for an excellent repast.”
I looked at Tío. “Yes, I’m being sarcastic.” We exited.
Chapter Fifteen
Priorities Will Tell
Tío opened the back door of the car for me, spread the plastic bag on the seat next to the other bulging black plastic bag, and handed me a paper plate. The plate was piled high with his world-famous frittata, filled with chorizo, potatoes and seasonings.
Richard stood next to the driver’s side of the car talking on his phone with a local lab about drying out and separating the papers he’d taken. While looking me up and down, he mentioned words like ‘rush’ ‘urgent’ and ‘vital’ then threw in the phrase ‘life and death’ in case they hadn’t gotten the message. I guess having a pregnant wife accused of murder does something to a man, even my nerdy baby brother. I was impressed.
Meanwhile, I climbed into the back of the car, frittata in one hand, charging phone in the other. Tío sat in the passenger’s seat and handed me a plastic fork and napkin. Setting the charging phone on the seat, I took a huge bite of food and nearly passed out from pleasure. Some people say chocolate can be better than sex. Well, Tío’s frittatas are better than any chocolate I’ve had. But I didn’t realize I was making guttural sounds.
“Shhh, Lee!” Richard leaned in the car window and looked at me, annoyance written all over his face. “I can’t hear what they’re saying.”
“Sorry.” I slowed down a little or at least, kept quiet as I ate.
After a few minutes, Richard hung up, got in the car, and looked at me in the rearview mirror. “The plan is to drop the box off to them before I take you to your hotel. This way they can get started right away. Did you know your feet were blue?”
“Yes, I know. Blue is the in color this year.”
“You can be so weird, Lee.”
He clucked and shook his head just the way Mom does. I stuck my tongue out at him and he cleared his throat.
“Never mind. You can last for a few more minutes, right?” He studied me in the rearview mirror, as he pulled out into the street. “Are you okay?”
“Sure. As long as I’ve got my frittata, I’m good. How’s Vicki doing, Richard?” I chomped into a chorizo. Nirvana.
“Much better. I don’t know what you said to her, but thanks, Lee. Even the doctors are surprised at her rapid recovery. She and the baby are out of danger, but that cop, Devereux, is still hanging around. As soon as I get done with this, I’m going to take her back to Mrs. Llewellyn’s. That is, if Vicki doesn’t get arrested.”
“She still doesn’t know about the dead man?”
“She knows, Sobrina,” Tío answered. “But she does not know she might be blamed for his death.”
“Maybe we should tell her,” I offered. “Just sort of as a heads up.”
“Your brother thinks it is unwise,” said Tío. The expression on Tío’s face showed he didn’t share the opinion.
“There’s no point in worrying her,” said Richard.
Honestly, sometimes men like to protect us women right into prison.
“Moving on,” my brother said, not wanting to have a discussion about his decision regarding his wife. “The report came back on the voodoo doll. Covered in chicken blood. Sells on the internet for about fifteen dollars.”
“The chicken blood?” I made a face.
“No, the doll, you ninny. Why would anybody buy chicken blood off the internet?”
“I don’t know,” I countered. “Maybe because that’s the way you phrased it. And don’t call me a ninny because you can’t explain yourself.”
“Says she with the blue feet.”
“Niños, bast
a. We are all the adults here.” Tío’s commanding tone made the both of us stop our sibling silliness.
“You’re right. Sorry, Tío.” Richard said. “Sorry, Lee.”
“Yeah, yeah, me, too. Go ahead, Richard. Update me, please.”
“Before I called the lab, I texted Andy to take the first flight here and help me go through this stuff. He arrives in a few hours. You think there’s enough there to convict Manning and all those involved? It has to be, right? Or else he wouldn’t be burning it.”
“It’s not last week’s laundry list, for sure. But whatever’s there, let’s keep it to ourselves. Might be a handy-dandy bargaining chip with the Feds. You know, in case Vicki gets arrested. You’ll have to tell her then, Richard.” I shoved another forkful in my already full mouth.
“Sobrina,” Tío chided me with a smile. “There is no need to be the comilona. No one steals the food from you.”
Before I could reply, my phone made a completely different set of sounds. I looked over at it in horror.
“What does it want now? It’s not ringing; it’s not doing the Morse code thing. What the hell is this?” Richard took a corner so fast, it almost threw me, the phone, and the plastic covered box off the seat. “And take it easy. I’d like to take a shower before I get killed in an automobile accident.”
“Your phone is signaling you have voicemail messages. Don’t you know anything?” He didn’t acknowledge my comment on his driving.
I picked up the phone, charged enough for jazz, and pressed voice mail. There was one message from Gurn and two from the hotel where we were staying, with only the curt words to ‘call them immediately’ in both messages. I did so, as we careened down the streets of New Orleans for I know not where. I’d call Gurn later.
“Hello?” I said when the hotel answered. “This is Lee Alvarez, suite one-oh-one. You wanted to speak to me?”
A suave male voice answered on the other line, with just enough courtesy and authority to be effective. “Yes, Miss Alvarez, this is Mr. Lemans, the hotel manager. We wanted to let you know that while we allow pets to stay with our patrons in their rooms, the animals are not permitted to wander the premises unaccompanied.
DEAD....If Only (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Book 4) Page 11
