by A W Hartoin
“And that book’s gonna solve it?”
I laughed. “It’s never that simple. It’s evidence, much needed evidence.”
“Evidence, like what you see when you look at me,” said Tiny and the sparkle went out of his eye.
“I suppose so.”
“You think I’m going to die.”
“Yes, I do and pretty soon if you don’t do something. I’d hate for that to happen.”
He stuck out his big hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mercy. I hope you got what you needed.”
“I did, and thank you for not arresting me.”
“Ah, shoot. I can’t arrest you. I’d have your old man down here, doing a dance on my head.” He slapped the hood of the cart and they drove away. I’d probably never see Tiny again. But I’d read too many studies, looked at too many fatty livers, not to know. It broke my heart. Tiny was one of the good guys.
I went down the escalator to find a convenient cab, waiting at the curb. I gave the driver Nana’s address and was once again told it didn’t exist. After a five minute argument, we were on our way into the city. I relaxed on the cold vinyl seat in the back and read Sheila’s last words with a lump in my throat. I was in those flower-patterned pages and she’d been kind. Lucky for me, Sheila had an eye for detail. She noted that I had green eyes, instead of Marilyn’s blue. It was an important distinction that few noticed. She also noticed that Fish looked a whole lot like Mr. Schwartz and that Fish glanced at Mr. Schwartz with a frown when he called him a distant cousin. Sheila wrote her opinion in purple ink. She thought Fish and Mr. Schwartz were brothers.
I snapped the diary shut and pulled out my phone. “Dad, I got it.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
DAD FOUND ANDREW Marlin, aka Fish, in a Motel 6 with a teenaged prostitute before Chuck got his eleven o’clock pressure check. My father was a lot of things. He was not slow. Or restrained, for that matter. There was some talk of a police brutality charge, but since Dad wasn’t a cop anymore, it came to nothing. Dad figured if a forty-year-old man takes a sixteen-year-old girl into a hotel room, he deserves to get punched in the ear six times. It turned out that plenty of people agreed, me included.
After Andrew was arrested in Missouri, I handed over the diary to Cortier. She wasn’t happy. First, that I hadn’t told her about Andrew and his resemblance to Mr. Schwartz and second, because Dad was flying down to watch her eat catfish. The other Berrys had readily admitted to suggesting Tulio to their relations at Andrew’s suggestion. They hadn’t been charged, but it wasn’t out of the question. Dad thought they were clueless pawns in the scheme to kill Rob and Donatella. No one was certain how Blankenship fit in, but nobody thought the shooting was a coincidence. Dad said it would take some time, but they’d find the connection.
I curled up on my sleeper chair next to Chuck’s inert body and let Dad lecture me on the death penalty in Missouri vs Louisiana. It was better to have Andrew in Missouri, for some reason. I couldn’t have cared less either way. It was over. Dad graciously said he’d let me tell Donatella the whole story and I pretended to be grateful. I wasn’t, not a bit. The whole story included Sheila and who wanted to tell the wife about her? At least Abrielle and Colton were safe from living with the other Berrys. I’d done my job as Dad kept telling me over and over. But I didn’t exactly feel like I’d done it. Blankenship’s smile crept back into my mind and the thought of him was like having an intestinal parasite, gross and bad for the digestion.
I went to sleep with his face in the forefront of my mind and when I woke up, he was still there. I began to feel like Andrew and the Schwartzes were getting away with it. Dad was confident that the connection between Blankenship and Andrew would be found. The more I thought about it, the more I doubted it. If the cops didn’t lock down the part they played in the Tulio murders with solid evidence, Andrew and the Schwartzes would go to some federal prison to play tennis. The other Berrys would walk away untouched. The thought made me sick. I sat in Chuck’s room, watching his monitor, waiting for an idea to come to me. None did.
Chuck woke up migraine-free and starving. He ate the hospital breakfast and everything I brought up from the cafeteria. I got one apple chip and a latte, only because the doc didn’t want Chuck to have coffee. One apple chip? I was starving and trucking down the hall in search of a vending machine when I happened upon Derek, who was studying a room’s placard.
“What are you doing here?” I asked and the kid jumped a foot. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I was looking for you.”
“I’ll pay you twenty bucks to get me a chocolate croissant from the pastry cart next to the information desk downstairs,” I said.
He frowned. “How come you can’t go?”
“Doc’s coming up to examine Chuck and I want to be there.”
“Okay. Sure.”
I gave Derek twenty-five dollars that he tried to refuse and I ended up stuffing the money in his back pocket. He took off for the elevators and I went back to Chuck’s room to find him flirting shamelessly with Cortier. She wasn’t happy to see me. That bothered me even less than usual, since her questioning was solely to get one over on my dad.
“It’s well known that Tommy uses you for grunt work and doesn’t pay you,” Cortier said to me. “This is your chance to pull one over on him.”
“Pass. He’s my father, remember? I’m stuck with that weirdo for life.”
Cartier had no hope. Nobody beat my dad, except my mother. That was only because he loved her so much. She brought out the stupid in him and, believe me, it wasn’t much. If I had any secret ammo to use against Dad, I’d use it for myself. Cortier could eat her catfish. Bummer for her.
Chuck laughed and crossed his arms. The muscles bulged under the short sleeves of his hospital gown. I tried not to notice and failed. Miserably.
“Come on. Can’t you give me something on him? I’d rather eat a homeless man’s underwear than eat one bite of catfish.” She looked desperate. I knew the feeling. I could’ve lost to Wellow. My victory was hollow, considering that he would be eating through a straw for the foreseeable future. As much as I liked to win, I wouldn’t be serving liquid crab.
“I can’t because I don’t have anything,” I said.
“You’re his kid. You’ve got the genes.”
“Do I look like I have the genes?”
“You’ve got the brain. I’m not eating that catfish.” She pointed at me like that was going to do something for her. Puh-lease.
Derek walked in with a beautiful little white pastry bag. “Here you go.”
Chuck reached out. “You are the man. Gimme.”
I smacked his hands. “Back off, buzzard. That’s mine.”
“But I’m starving.”
“You’ve had 1200 calories so far today. You’re good.” I took the bag from Derek and gave him a hug just to irritate Chuck. It worked. He crossed his arms and glared at Derek, who retreated to the far side of the room.
“Don’t scare off my assistant,” I said. “If it weren’t for him, you’d probably be in the morgue with a brick-shaped hole in your head.
Chuck snorted, but Cortier got interested. “Oh, yeah. Derek, the frat boy assistant.”
Oh, no. Did Derek do anything illegal? No. Maybe. No. Not sure. Oh, no.
Cortier took off her jacket and exposed her badge clipped at her waist. Derek looked at it and then me. Fantastic. The poor kid didn’t know anything that would help her, but she’d grill him until he peed. Literally.
Chuck tapped my thigh with his foot and when Cortier advanced on Derek, he mouthed, “Remember Stevie. Get her out.”
I’d completely forgotten about Stevie. Now he was something Cortier could use against Dad. She’d arrest Stevie, instead of letting him surrender, and ruin Big Steve’s scheme to protect his goofy offspring. Dad couldn’t have that and she’d win.
“So,” I said, “let’s go for a coffee and talk about it.”
Cortier turned, her eyes glitter
ing. “That’s right. I know Tommy Watts.”
Huh?
“This kid is your assistant, your protégé.”
Where is she going with this?
“Yeah, sure. He’s been a huge help,” I said.
“In other words, you owe him,” said Cortier.
Derek brightened up like my cat, Skanky, when I brought home smoky cheddar. A cat’s gotta have his smoky cheddar.
“Yes,” I said, slowly.
“I can help you out with that,” said Cortier.
Chuck mouthed, “Oh shit.”
“That’s right, handsome,” she said. “Everybody knows that a Watts takes care of their people. Hell, that’s why Miss Mercy’s down here in the first place, taking care of Officer Ameche. He’s Donatella Berry’s brother, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” I said.
“He helped you out, and now you’re helping him.”
“Yes.”
“So Derek helped you and he wants to be in criminal justice.” She looked hard at Derek and he nodded. “I can help him. I can be his mentor here in New Orleans, on the scene. That is…”
Groan.
“If I help you get out of catfish,” I said.
She fired a finger pistol at me and I contained a grimace. Derek was looking so damn shiny and eager, what could I do? “How much mentoring?”
“Plenty. That kid’ll skip the police department and go straight to the FBI,” she said.
Derek was doing the wee-wee dance, he was so excited.
“And all I have to do is get you out of catfish?” I asked quickly, so he wouldn’t pee himself.
“That’s the deal.”
I stuck out my hand. “Deal, but it might take a few days.”
Cortier nodded and I hustled her and her new protégé out of Chuck’s room. Derek couldn’t stop gushing about how he’d work so hard and blah, blah, blah. I had to get them out of there. It was near eleven. Stevie was a late sleeper, but he could show up at any second. If Cortier got interested and decided to run his name, I’d be screwed and so would Derek. She wouldn’t owe me a thing.
I grabbed Derek by the shoulders. “It was great having you on my team. You are going to be an asset to Cortier.” I hugged him and whispered in his ear, “Get her out of here.”
“Sure,” he said.
“Sure what?” asked Cortier.
“Sure would like to…buy you a cup of coffee, so I can pick your brain,” said Derek, masterfully covering.
“Sounds great. Always in need of coffee.”
They said goodbye and walked away. Derek gave me a thumbs up as they turned the corner and I returned it. He was a good kid. I hoped Cortier would really help him, and then I smiled. If she didn’t, Cortier would answer to Dad. He was serious about taking care of people.
Back in Chuck’s room, I found him trying to take out his IV.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked.
“I’m checking myself out.”
“This isn’t a hotel.”
“It is now. I’m not sick,” he said with his best smile. “All I need is some Motrin and I’m all good.”
“No NSAIDS post-concussion.”
He gave me a lecherous grin. “I hope that’s not no sex.”
“It’s no Motrin, dumbass.”
“We’re all set then.”
“Hardly.” I pushed him back onto the bed. “You have a head injury, which is made all the more apparent by this craziness.”
Chuck snorted and picked at the tape on his wrist. “I’ve been hurt worse, playing tennis.”
“What kind of tennis are you playing?”
“Combat tennis.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is in my world.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. It was off the wall, even for someone in my life.
“Did I hear someone say combat tennis?” asked Dr. Purdy, walking in with an open chart.
“You play?” asked Chuck.
“It’s the best rush you can get on a flat surface.”
Chuck waggled his eyebrows at me. “I don’t know about that.”
Dr. Purdy laughed. “I take it back. You play double points?”
“Is there any other way to play?”
I plopped down on my chair. “This cannot be a thing. What’s double points?”
“You play doubles and you can score points against the other team and your own partner.”
“What do you do, tackle them?”
Chuck showed me his pearly whites. “I bite.”
He and Dr. Purdy shared a hearty laugh and got down to business. We reviewed Chuck’s stats, checked his stitches, and went over his aftercare instructions. Then they moved onto the intricacies of combat tennis and I went to my happy place; me on my sofa, under an afghan, drinking Aaron’s hot chocolate and watching Pride and Prejudice, the good version.
“Mercy?” Chuck’s voice broke into my luscious thoughts.
“Huh?”
“Doc says I’m outta here.”
Dr. Purdy nodded. “Pronto.”
I smiled at pronto. In hospitals, pronto means eventually, when we get your paperwork done.
In Chuck’s case, pronto meant four hours. His latest labs went missing for a time and there were two codes on the floor. If I hadn’t taken out his IV, we might’ve been there for the rest of the day. But I did take it out and we got home at two. Despite Chuck’s protests, I made him take a nap. He was asleep before I tucked him in.
I decided I’d better locate Stevie before taking a shower. The Costillas hadn’t shown up yet, and I figured they were past due. A part of me was afraid Stevie’d been nabbed on his date, possibly along with his date, and the thought was bothersome. I called him and heard a faint ringing on the second floor. I checked all the bedrooms and ended up in my bathroom. Stevie was asleep in the tub with his phone ringing away on his chest.
“Stevie,” I said.
One unfocused eye crept open.
“Why are you in here?”
“Feels good on my back.”
“You’re twenty. Everything feels good on your back. Go to bed.”
“I did.” He turned off his phone without answering it and rolled over. I sighed before covering him with a couple of towels. No shower for me in there so I went into my bedroom to get my robe and found Blackie perched on the headboard, watching me as if I were late.
“How do you keep getting in here?” I asked as I plucked him up and tucked him under my arm for the trip to the back door.
No meow. No nothing. I had the vague notion that the cat didn’t much care what I did. I certainly didn’t have any effect on him.
I tossed him out the back door and he plopped down on his skinny rump and watched me in the doorway. I made a shooing motion. “Go away. The neighbor’s supposed to have food for you.”
Nothing. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve questioned whether or not he was breathing.
“Blink,” I ordered.
The cat didn’t blink, not a whisker moved. So disturbing.
“Fine, you freak. One of these days I’m going to figure out how you’re getting in and then I’ll fix your wagon.” Pop Pop always said the wagon thing and it never made sense to me. How was fixing someone’s wagon a bad thing? Now I was saying it. Pretty soon, I’d be telling patients to finish their dinners because it would put hair on their chests.
I closed the door and, since Stevie was in my shower and I had nothing better to do for once, I went to bed to dream of green-eyed cats and menacing shadows that I would later realize were the Costilla brothers.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
CHUCK WOKE UP before me. I found him in the kitchen, freshly showered and reading a Sports Illustrated. He glanced up and frowned at my rumpled appearance. I’d slept in my clothes. Not sure how that happened. I meant to put on a big tee and somehow missed the mark.
“Wow. You look worse than me, and I got hit with a brick,” he said.
“Coffee.”
I stumbled toward Nana’s beloved espresso machine.
Chuck headed me off. “I’ll make you a latte. You go get ready.”
“For what?”
“You won the bet, didn’t you?”
I blinked slowly. My eyeballs felt like parchment paper. “I’m not making Wellow eat crab. He’s been punished enough.”
“Nobody’s eating crab, especially not Wellow. They wired his jaw shut, remember?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I’m taking you to Irene’s to celebrate,” said Chuck, assuming a triumphant stance. I don’t know who he thought he’d triumphed over, but I had a suspicion that it was me.
“What for?”
“You solved the listeriosis case.”
“Farrell confessed?” I asked.
Chuck snorted and looked like he pitied me. “No. There was a truckload of evidence in his attic, including pie charts and case studies. Why do you always ask that? They never confess. This isn’t Perry Mason.”
“Perry Mason?”
“You know, that old detective show. Lawyer in a wheelchair. They always confessed on the stand.”
“How old are you?” I asked.
“My mom says I’m eighty-five,” said Chuck, smiling.
“That’s because your mother is perpetually fifteen.”
“I’d give her sixteen, but you’re close. So it’s Irene’s at seven.” He turned me around and pushed me by my rear toward the door. “Hurry up.”
I tried to go back to the espresso machine. “You got reservations at Irene’s in prime time. I don’t think so.”
He turned me again. “I have my ways.”
I eyed him over my shoulder. “Do you perhaps have a date later with a buxom maître d’?
“Yes, to the buxom. No, to the maître d’. Go.”
“Waitress?”
“You. I have a date with you.”
I was out the door, but my heels were digging into the thick oriental carpet runner. “It’s not a date.”
“It’s not a business meeting,” said Chuck.
“I have a boyfriend and you’re you.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Yeah, we will. It’s not a date.”
