I bypassed the crowd hovering around the café counter and made my way toward the back where the mysteries were stocked. Titles were arranged alphabetically along an island on the left and I browsed the far-end, picking up Out Cold, the latest in William Tapply’s Brady Coyne series. Despite the warm June day, “out cold” was an appropriate assessment of my investigation.
Two elderly women at the other end of the shelves were debating which cat mystery to buy. I thought about how close Fluffy had come to being a murder victim.
I was ten pages into Brady’s New England adventure when Fletcher arrived.
He stepped beside me and pulled a book at random. “Too bad our mystery can’t be solved in three hundred pages.”
I glanced up to make sure the feline fans were still engrossed in their conversation and then turned to Fletcher. “I’d be happy just to get to a new chapter.” I tucked Tapply’s novel under my arm. “The café’s crowded. Get a table for two. I’ll follow in a few minutes and ask to join you. We don’t know each other.”
Fletcher replaced his book and returned to the front of the store. I made a pretense of scanning a few more titles as I walked along the aisle. As I neared the two women, they smiled and turned toward me.
“Here’s a good one.” The lady on the left held up a paperback with only the words “The Cat Who” visible above her fingers.
“Thanks, but I just started The Cat Who Shared a Casket.” I slipped past them, and took a quick peek over my shoulder. Both women were frantically digging through the shelves.
I bought my book and crossed from the book section of the store to the café. Fletcher sat at a back table. I waited a few minutes in line, ordered a lemonade and carrot-walnut muffin, and then read the dust jacket of my book while I made sure all the tables were occupied. Fletcher drank coffee and read a free tourist magazine.
I eased beside the chair opposite him. “Do you mind if I share your table?”
He didn’t look up. “Suit yourself.”
As I sat, Fletcher shifted in his chair, turning away from the other patrons. To my surprise, he freed his cell phone from his belt and put it to his ear. I hadn’t heard it ring.
“Damn. I was followed.”
I glanced toward the front door. A guy wearing threadbare denim overalls, no shirt, and sandals stood at the café counter. Beside him, a woman in a dirty floral-print shift scanned the room. She looked to be in her late teens or early twenties. The man probably had a few years on her. He certainly had a few feet. I pegged him at six-five. His companion only came up to his chest.
Fletcher shielded himself from their view. I slid my chair back and opened my new book. I hoped we looked like two strangers forced to share a table. Fletcher was obviously talking to someone else on his phone.
I turned a page in the book, freezing my eyes on the top line where I could also view the couple. While they waited for their order, the girl moved deeper into the café. Again, she played her gaze over the room and this time caught sight of Fletcher. She quickly withdrew to the man.
“She spotted you,” I said.
The girl pointed at us. Mr. Overalls studied Fletcher for a second and then looked at me. I flipped another page. In my peripheral vision, I saw the man wave his hand at the woman behind the counter, refusing the two drinks he’d ordered.
I closed the book. “They’re leaving.”
The man grabbed the girl by the upper arm and pulled her through the door.
Fletcher wheeled around. “They know the dead girl. They wanted money for her name. I was supposed to meet them later.”
I jumped to my feet. “Then we can’t let them get away.”
With Fletcher close on my heels, I ran through the tables of stunned booklovers. Outside, the sidewalk bustled with pedestrians enjoying late afternoon window shopping. I looked right and left but the couple had disappeared. Across the street, people strolled without any sign that they’d been jostled by the fleeing pair.
Fletcher threw up his hands in exasperation. “Where’d they go?”
“Did they have a car?”
“I met them at the park at the end of Haywood. When we split, they walked in the opposite direction.”
I examined the vehicles parked across the street. Halfway down the block, I noticed a black Hummer big enough to transport a SWAT team. The horn beeped and headlights flashed as someone used a remote to unlock the Hummer’s doors. A middle-aged woman who looked like she had as much business driving the monstrosity as climbing into the cockpit of an F-14 fighter jet stepped from the curb and walked toward the driver’s door of the Hummer. She clutched a shopping bag in one hand and her keys in the other. As she rounded the left front fender, she turned her head and peered back through the windshield.
“Watch the front of the Hummer.” I jogged along the sidewalk to where I could see the rear of the vehicle. The stoplight at the end of the block turned green and the heavy two-way traffic formed a barrier as effective as a swift-moving stream.
I pulled my badge, prepared to identify myself if we flushed the couple. Just as the rear of the Hummer came into view, the two sprang from behind the vehicle and ran darting and weaving through the pedestrians.
“There they go!” I ran parallel to the traffic, holding up my badge and motioning the cars to stop. Tires squealed beside me. I jumped into the middle of the street and ran down the center line. An oncoming delivery van swerved to the right. I zigzagged on its tail, momentarily running away from our quarry. When I reached the other side of the street, the two had disappeared around the corner.
Horns blared behind me and I knew Fletcher must be making his mad dash. I turned up Battery Park Avenue and saw the couple half a block away. The girl lagged, unable to keep up. The man flailed his arms, urging her to hurry.
“Police!” I held the badge above my head.
Any thoughts Mr. Overalls had of protecting the woman vanished. He turned tail and bolted like a scared rabbit. The woman cried “Chip” and lunged forward, but her left foot twisted in her thong sandal and she tumbled to the concrete.
As I stood over the girl, winded from the short sprint, she curled into a fetal ball with her face buried in her forearm and started crying.
“I’m Deputy Barry Clayton. I just have some questions. That’s all.”
“He’ll kill me if I talk to you.” The words came out in halting, guttural gasps.
“No he won’t. Now look at me.”
She lifted her head and braced herself on one arm. Tears ran from her dark hollow eyes and clear mucous streamed from her nose. Now that I could get a close look at her, the girl showed all the classic signs of methamphetamine abuse. Her skin was pale and dry and seemed to hang on her frail body. She was sweating far more than a girl her age should, even after a short run. She already had the beginnings of “meth mouth,” the black staining of her teeth. In a few more years, they’d be rotten.
I’d seen her kind countless times while on patrol in Charlotte. I would arrest an innocent-looking eighteen-year-old for a first-time drug offense and think her biggest problem should be getting a date for the prom, not getting her next fix. A year later, I’d arrest her again, only this time she looked a hard thirty and there was no innocence left.
Fletcher came up beside me. “Where can we talk to her?”
“You lied to me.” The girl screeched like a tormented cat.
I stooped down closer. “Didn’t my friend tell you he was looking for someone?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the truth. We’re not interested in you. Now we can go down to police headquarters where everyone will see you and they’ll figure you’re telling us all sorts of secrets. Or I can put this badge back in my pocket and we’ll have a little chat in the open air. Your choice.”
She looked at me and then Fletcher. “You only want to know about the girl?”
I nodded. “That’s all, although the way your boyfriend ran out on you, I don’t think you owe him anything.”
&
nbsp; “Chip’s on parole.” She got both feet under her and tried to stand. “He was afraid he was being set up.”
I grabbed her right hand and helped her up. She was light as a dandelion wisp, a body that burned meth rather than food. “Set up for what?”
“Nothing.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Fletcher. “We were just selling information.” She turned to me. “Is it true you’re police?”
“Yes.”
She thought a second. “Chip said this guy might be trying to frame him. Claim Chip offered him drugs.”
I got the sense she was making this up. “Where’d y’all meet?”
She leaned on me as she straightened her twisted sandal. “The park at Haywood and Patton.”
That was right around the corner, the park across from the bank. “Let’s go back there and start over.” I turned to Fletcher. “Would you get my book and papers from Malaprop’s? I’ll want to show—” I stopped. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”
“Dale.”
The words clicked. Chip and Dale. “Don’t get cute with me.”
Her anemic pallor reddened slightly. “No. I swear. That’s why Chip says we’re made for each other.”
Dale and I started walking toward the park as Fletcher jogged back to the bookstore. Chip and Dale. A match made in Disney World. I was glad Tommy Lee wasn’t there to see the turn my investigation had taken.
Fletcher caught up with us just as we claimed a bench facing Patton Avenue. A late afternoon breeze cooled the air. Dale sat between Fletcher and me, her hands in her lap, nervously picking her fingernails. Fletcher passed me my portfolio and I pulled out the picture of the girl smiling at the security camera.
“Who is this?” I set the photo on Dale’s lap.
Dale brushed her fingers across the girl’s face. “She’s not going to get in trouble, is she?”
“I’m afraid it’s more than trouble. She’s dead. I’d like to give her a name. I’d like to notify next of kin.”
A breath caught in Dale’s throat, stifling her cry into a faint squeak. Her hands started shaking. “No. Not Crystal. Not Crystal.”
“She was shot. Was that what she was into? Crystal meth?”
Dale kept staring at the picture. “Crystal was her name. Crystal Hodges. She steered clear of meth.”
“How did you know her?”
“We worked together. At the Mellow Mushroom. But that’s been a while ago.”
I glanced at Fletcher. He shrugged. This was new to him.
I took back the picture. “Was that the information you were planning to sell? Her name?”
Dale nodded. “That was Chip’s idea. Score some cash.”
“Without this photo, how did you know Crystal was the girl we were looking for?”
Dale turned to Fletcher. “Because of what you said.”
Fletcher nodded. “That’s right. I was sitting on this bench, zoning out in the sunshine. I’d made some inquiries on the street and was hoping word would get to somebody who knew something. After about ten minutes, Dale asked if she could sit down. She said she’d heard I was looking for a man named Lincoln.”
“It was Chip’s idea for me to talk to you,” Dale said. “He was afraid you were a cop.”
“I told her the man I was looking for drove a blue Lincoln and I’d heard he’d picked up with a girl in Asheville who looked something like her. Lincoln owed me money and I was going to collect. I made it sound like a threat.”
I studied Dale’s face. “He scared you?”
“Yeah. I told him the girl wasn’t me, and I left. Chip said it sounded like Lincoln owed his supplier. He’d heard Lincoln was into cotton.”
“Cotton?” The girl had lost me.
“Oxycotton.”
I understood. OxyContin. Things were beginning to fall into place. “How’d you know Crystal was involved with Lincoln?”
“I’d seen them together last week. I didn’t know his name, but Crystal got out of the car he was driving.”
“So you told Chip what Fletcher said?”
The sound of a burned-out muffler rose above the street noise. A beat-up Nissan Sentra cruised down the far lane. Dale looked at the car and gnawed on her lower lip.
“Chip?” I asked.
“Yeah. I guess he’s worried about me.”
What a guy. The knight in rusted armor had abandoned her on the sidewalk and now watched from the safety of his car.
“You spoke to Chip?” I asked Fletcher.
“Yeah. After Dale left, I waited. In about fifteen minutes, I heard a voice behind me say, ‘You supply, huh? You supply Lincoln?’ I hadn’t seen him come up so I just ignored him. Then, like a bad actor, he said, ‘Hey, I’m talking to you.’
“I stood up, opened my phone, and took his picture.” Fletcher couldn’t help but grin. “That got his attention. I told him I just wanted my bosses to see who I was dealing with. In case we had a misunderstanding. He backed off big time, mumbling he knew the girl I was looking for and he thought her name might be worth something.”
“He was willing to sell the girl out to a perfect stranger?” I asked the question for Dale’s benefit to point out what a heel the other half of her chipmunk team was.
“Yeah. We settled on two hundred bucks. I told him I didn’t have the money with me, but I’d meet him tonight. I gave him my cell number and let him think about the Detroit area code. Guess I spooked him too much since he followed me.”
Dale hung her head. “Chip didn’t really think you were a cop. He thought you might be setting him up, you know, to kill him.”
“He must have nice friends,” I said.
Fletcher frowned. “Meth head paranoia.”
Dale flinched and looked up the street. The Nissan turned the corner for a second pass down the block. She jumped to her feet and ran toward the car. Fletcher started after her.
“Let her go.”
Fletcher turned around. “Why?”
“What are we going to do with her? I think she’s told us what she knows. We’ve got the name Crystal Hodges, the connection to Lincoln and OxyContin, and the Mellow Mushroom as a place of employment. I’d say we’ve done pretty well.”
We watched Dale hop in the Nissan. Chip flipped us the finger and sped off.
I stood up and slapped Fletcher on the back. “And you’ve got the phone photo of Chip in case we need to track him down again.”
“There’s only one problem. I’m afraid I took a picture of my thumb.”
Fletcher headed back to Gainesboro to assist Uncle Wayne and Freddie with Mildred Cosgrove. I decided to stay in Asheville for supper. A pizza and beer from the Mellow Mushroom sounded like the perfect combination of business and pleasure.
At five-thirty, the evening crowd hadn’t yet hit and I was able to get an outside table under a trellis of vines that covered the patio. A slim blonde waitress in hip-hugger jeans brought me a glass of water and a menu.
She pulled an order pad from a pouch in front of her waist. “I’m Karen. Can I get you something else to drink?”
“Yes.” I paused as if deciding. “Is Crystal here? She recommended a great beer last time.”
Karen smiled sympathetically. “I’m sorry, sir. Crystal no longer works here. Was the beer dark or light?”
“How about Dale?”
Her smile disappeared. “Dale’s not here anymore.” The tone of her voice told me Dale wasn’t missed.
“Quite the turnover. I sure hope you’ll be here next time, Karen.”
She blushed. “If not, it means I found something better.”
“I’ll take a double cheese and pepperoni and a Newcastle Brown.” I handed her back the menu. “Is the manager here?”
Her smooth forehead wrinkled. “Is there something wrong?”
“Not at all. I’ve just got a question about the franchise. See if he can spare me five minutes.”
The waitress left, unconvinced that I wasn’t about to register some complaint.
A
few minutes later, a portly man in his mid-forties came to the table with an empty glass and my bottle of beer. His black hair and moustache were liberally salted with gray and his dark brown eyes cautiously appraised me. “Karen said you wanted to speak to me.”
I flipped open my badge. “Just a few questions. I didn’t want to alarm anyone.”
He gave a quick glance to either side to make sure I wasn’t scaring his customers, and sat down at the table. “I’m Joe Patterson. Is there some problem?” He pushed the bottle and glass in front of me like a peace offering.
I slid Crystal’s picture to him. “Know this girl?”
He looked down at the photo. “Sure. Crystal Hodges. Is she in some sort of trouble?”
I sidestepped his question. “She doesn’t work here anymore?”
“She quit two weeks ago. Said she had an unexpected opportunity.”
“A new job?”
“Something in health care. She didn’t say much about it. Said she’d get some career training.”
I gave Patterson the composite of Artie Lincoln. “Did you ever see her with this man?”
He studied the image carefully. “Maybe. Kind of a common face. I think I’ve seen him in here. Crystal might have waited on him.”
“How about Dale?”
He frowned. “Now there’s someone I’d expect you to ask about.”
“Were she and Crystal friends?”
“They got along I guess. I don’t get involved in my employees’ personal lives.”
“Unless it affects the job.” I slowly poured the brown ale into my glass. “Is that what happened with Dale?”
Patterson shrugged. “Personnel issues are supposed to be confidential.”
“And young women like Crystal are supposed to die of old age.”
Patterson looked like I’d slapped him. “She’s dead?”
“You heard about the shooting in Gainesboro last Friday?”
“Oh, Jesus.” He ran his fingers through his hair and looked at the photo again. “Are you sure?”
“Dale identified this picture less than twenty minutes ago. I haven’t even had a chance to notify her family.”
“God damn Dale. What did that slut get Crystal hooked into?”
Final Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series) Page 11
