Fool Me Once: A Tarot Mystery

by Steve Hockensmith

  “‘Discount for seniors’?” I said dubiously.

  Clarice shrugged. “Hit men can’t have a sense of humor?”

  “The ones I’ve known didn’t,” I almost said.

  It wasn’t a memory I wanted to dwell on, let alone joke about.

  “Well, I guess the next step is to send the guy a message and see what happens,” I said. “Let me sit down.”

  Clarice and Ceecee looked at each other. Neither made a move to get out of my way.

  “What?” I said.

  “We already sent a message,” Ceecee said.

  “What?”

  “Don’t freak out,” Clarice told me. “We used a fake gmail account. There’s no way it can be traced back to us.”

  “Well, what did you say?”

  “Not much,” Clarice said. “‘I’ve got a problem that needs fixing—a people problem. Willing to pay to make it go away for good. Write back for details.’ Something like that. Vague…but clear enough.”

  “Oh god,” I groaned. “I’ve known you less than a month, and already you might have a hit man for a pen pal thanks to me.”

  Ceecee and Clarice grinned.

  “Yeah,” Ceecee said. “Isn’t it great?”

  “Look,” I said. “No more tonight, okay? And next time you’ll ask before you do anything beyond googling, right?”

  Clarice and Ceecee nodded.

  “Okay,” said Ceecee.

  “Next time we’ll ask,” said Clarice.

  I didn’t believe them for a second.

  I pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and tossed it onto the table. “Go get something to eat. You’ve earned it.”

  They both reached for it. Clarice was a little faster.

  “Don’t you want to come with us?” she asked me.

  “I’d love to, but I have things to do.”

  Clarice started to open her mouth.

  “Ask what and I’ll take that twenty back,” I said. I reached out for the bill.

  Clarice was faster than me, too. She shoved the money into her jeans and bolted for the stairs.

  “Come on! Let’s go to El Zorro Azul!”

  “Again?” Ceecee said as she got up to follow. “I’m getting kinda sick of that place…”

  Once I heard the back door open and slam shut downstairs, I unplugged the laptop and hid it in the one place I knew Clarice would never look: the dishwasher. She seemed to think that if you left all your dirty dishes in the sink, the washing elves would come take care of them in the middle of the night.

  Then I headed down the stairs and out to the black Caddy. I had some backtracking to do, and I didn’t want the girls zooming ahead while I did it.

  I drove through the darkening desert to the little town called Cottonwood and 3801 Pioneer Drive.

  There were two cars in the driveway now. The Subaru Forester I’d seen there earlier and a decidedly more masculine Dodge Charger.

  State Trooper Michael LoTempio was home.

  I walked up to the house and rang the doorbell. I heard voices inside, then footsteps. The porch light came on.

  The door opened.

  I found myself facing a fortyish man with the burly build of a linebacker and the down-to-the-bone buzz cut of a marine. He was wearing a loose-fitting hockey jersey and cargo pants, but it was obvious he’d been in uniform not long before that.

  The expression on his face was pleasant, solicitous.

  Then suddenly it wasn’t.

  He had sharp eyes. We’d been half a block apart when I’d spotted his cruiser outside the Riggs’s house, but he recognized me.

  “Yes?” he said gruffly.

  “I need you to come outside and talk to me.”

  “About what?”

  “You know. You’ve seen me before. And I’ve seen you.”

  LoTempio put a hand on the door and took a step back. He was about to close the door.

  “You’d better leave. Now.”

  “You were stalking Bill Riggs,” I said quickly but quietly. “That’s enough to cost you your job. I don’t want to make a stink about it, but I can.”

  The door stayed open.

  There were footsteps behind LoTempio.

  “I’m Gladys Kravitz,” I whispered. “I’m back to talk about the party at the McNallys’ Sunday night.”

  “Who is it, Mike?” a woman said.

  “It’s Gladys Kravitz,” said LoTempio. “She’s back to talk about the party at the McNallys’ Sunday night.”

  I peered around LoTempio and saw his wife watching us from the hallway.

  “Hi, Marion! Can I borrow your husband for a minute? He just offered to talk to the McNallys with me and clear all this party business up once and for all.”

  Marion smiled and fluttered a hand at LoTempio’s broad back.

  “Keep him for as long as you like. He already washed the dishes, so I’m through with him for the day.”

  “Thanks, Marion! Come on—let’s go, Mike.”

  I turned and walked away. When I looked back, LoTempio was following me and scowling.

  “I don’t like being threatened,” he growled once the house was far enough behind us.

  “And I don’t like threatening people. So we both have good reason to get this over with quick. Why were you hanging around Bill Riggs’s house?”

  “Riggs claimed the meth I found in his car was planted there. I wanted to find proof that he really was using or dealing.”

  “So you investigate by hanging out on his block in a state patrol cruiser?”

  “I was trying to identify his associates.”

  “No. You were trying to intimidate Riggs. You knew Charles Dischler was his attorney and there was a good chance he was about to sue the state over the way you roughed him up. Your job was on the line, and you were trying to send Riggs a message.”

  We’d followed the road as it curved and climbed until we were out of sight of LoTempio’s home. There were other houses lining the road, but they were silent and still aside from the gray flicker of a television here or there.

  No one was around, it was dark, and I’d just called a large, hotheaded man a liar.

  I’ve never taken an IQ test, but there are times I wonder how I’d do.

  “That’s not it,” LoTempio said. “I mean…not entirely. I wasn’t really thinking it through. I just wanted Riggs to know I was out there. I wanted him looking over his shoulder, wondering where I was. I wanted him to sweat. But that’s all it was. Just an ‘eff you’ to a guy who deserved it.”

  I stopped walking. My Cadillac was just a dozen yards beyond us now—within quick sprinting distance, if it came to that.

  “Now that story I believe,” I told LoTempio. “So here’s what I really want to ask you. You spent the last week or so basically staking out Riggs’s house. Did you see anything?”

  “What’s it to you? Who are you, anyway?”

  “A friend of Bill Riggs’s wife. I don’t particularly care that Bill is dead. But I do care that she’s being charged with murder.”

  LoTempio took a moment to process that. It was too dark to clearly see the expression on his face, but it looked like the processing took a lot of effort.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “I may as well tell you ’cuz I can’t tell anyone else. I did see something. A delivery.”

  “A delivery? Like Fed-Ex?”

  “Like drugs. A guy goes up to the house with a backpack, talks to Riggs, goes inside, then comes out a minute later without the backpack.”

  “When was this?”

  “Sunday.”

  “Sunday?”

  LoTempio nodded.

  Bill Riggs had been murdered Sunday night.

  “What did this guy look like?” I asked.

  “Big. Bald. Muscles. Flannel.”

  “And driving a pickup with Huggins Construction printed on the side, am I right?”

  “Yeah, that is right. You know who he is?”

  “Not yet. But I know that he and Riggs used t
o work for the same people.”

  LoTempio’s eyebrows shot up. “Meth dealers?”

  I shook my head. “Real-estate developers.”

  LoTempio frowned as if that was just as bad.

  “Did you see anything else important?” I asked him.

  “No. I was only there three or four times, and I never stuck around long.”

  “Okay. Thanks. You won’t see me again.”

  I turned and started toward my car.

  I didn’t get far.

  LoTempio reached out, grabbed me by the wrist, and jerked me back.

  “Thanks?” he snarled. “You come to my house, speak to my wife, blackmail me into answering your questions, and then you say thanks?”

  His grip felt hard as steel. Maybe a knee to the groin or slap to the ear would get him to loosen up enough for me to break away and run. But then again, maybe it wouldn’t. And if it didn’t work, there’d be a steep price to pay.

  I decided not to resist him. Yet.

  He pulled me so close we were practically rubbing noses, and when he spoke again I caught the sour smell of Budweiser on his breath.

  “Yeah, lady, I’d better not ever see you again. Because if I do, you’re going to end up looking worse than Riggs.”

  He shoved me away and let me go, and I stumbled and tripped and almost fell. When I had my feet firmly under me again, I simply turned and moved quickly—not quite running—to the Caddy.

  It was not the time for a snappy comeback. I had what I’d come for, as well as all of my teeth. That was a win.

  If you’re always trying to get the last word, Biddle used to tell me, one day they’ll be your final words.

  The point: sometimes you just shut up and go.

  Which is exactly what I did.

  I was jittery and jangled as I drove away. Confronting LoTempio alone had been dumb. Who knows? If he’d downed one more Bud before I showed up, maybe making a threat wouldn’t have been enough for him.

  I needed backup. But where was I supposed to get it?

  My phone started playing “Desperado”—a song I’d picked out for a certain phone number just an hour before.

  I took the call.

  “Thanks for calling me back, Fletcher.”

  “Please. It’s GW to my friends, remember? And of course I was going to call you back. I’m not about to let you mess with the Fixer on your own.”

  “So you’ve actually heard of the guy?”

  “Heard of him? He’s a legend—the bad kind. Like Dracula or the Wolfman.”

  “So he’s not a plumber.”

  “I don’t know. He might be in his spare time, when he’s not killing people.”

  “Shit. I was hoping he was…hell, I don’t know what I was hoping. But not this.”

  “How are you mixed up with him?”

  “I’m not. Yet.”

  “Well, what can I do to help?”

  I drove in silence for a moment.

  I needed someone to watch my back.

  I needed a wingman who was unburdened with scruples or respect for the law.

  Damn it. It looked like I needed GW Fletcher.

  “Alanis? You still there?”

  “I’m still here. As for how you can help…”

  I went silent again.

  Was I going to say it?

  Yes, I was going to say it.

  “GW, how would you feel about a little breaking and entering tonight?”

  Whoa—a knight thrown from his horse. Pretty humiliating. There’ll be a lot of pointing and laughing the next time you’re in Camelot. Don’t worry, though; you can still continue your quest. You just have to get back in the saddle, but be more careful this time. That trusty steed you’re riding doesn’t seem to be so trusty after all—and the next time you end up under its hooves, even your armor might not protect you.

  Miss Chance, Infinite Roads to Knowing

  Fletcher met me at 1703 O’Hara Drive—until recently, the home of William Riggs.

  “That’s a good look for you,” I said as he slipped into the Cadillac.

  “That’s a good look for you,” he replied.

  We were dressed almost identically in dark sweatpants and hoodies and running shoes for either pretending to be late-night joggers or, if need be, running.

  “So…you want to tell me again why I’m about to commit criminal trespassing?” Fletcher said.

  I ran through the story one more time, as I had on the phone an hour before. A friend was in trouble. Her husband murdered. The killer had been looking for something. I had reason to believe it might be a backpack—and I had no idea what was in it.

  “And that’s really it?” Fletcher said. “We’re just doing a good deed for a friend in need?”

  “You sound skeptical.”

  “Well, burglary usually isn’t quite so altruistic.”

  “This time it is.”

  Fletcher nodded. “That’s good enough for me.” He pointed at the Riggs’s house. “That’s the place?”

  There was still police tape across the front door. Not that it mattered to us. We didn’t plan on going in that way.

  “That’s the place,” I said.

  Fletcher leaned forward to gaze up at the sky.

  “Crescent moon,” he said. “Perfect for a B&E…not that I’ve ever B&E-ed before.”

  “Of course not. You’ve just read about it in books.”

  Fletcher smiled. “I’m very well-read.”

  Fletcher reached into his hoodie and pulled out two pairs of blue rubber gloves. One he handed to me.

  “Playtex gloves? For a burglary?” I said.

  Fletcher tugged his on, then rubbed the fingers together. “Better grip than cloth. And thinner, too.”

  “Or so you’ve read.”

  “Exactly.” Fletcher nodded at the house. “We’ll try the back door first. Always better to walk in than climb, if you can. Shall we?”

  “Not quite yet. Before we do this, I want to hear more about the Fixer.”

  “He’s bad news. I’m not sure what else to tell you.”

  “Well, how about his name, where he lives, who he usually works for?”

  “You want his social security number while I’m at it? Because I don’t know that either, Alanis. He’s a freelancer with a good reputation for being bad; that’s all I know. Now we really ought to get moving. Every second we sit here gives someone another chance to notice us. The books are very clear about that.”

  “All right, fine. Let’s go.”

  We got out of the car and walked casually toward the house—just two upstanding citizens out for a midnight stroll dressed as ninja dishwashers.

  When we reached the back door, Fletcher knelt down by the knob and pulled what looked like a small black loaf of bread from under his hoodie. He rolled it out to reveal pouches filled with screwdrivers and pliers and miniature flashlights and metal tools I didn’t recognize. He chose one—an L-shaped something-or-other—and grinned when he noticed me cocking an eyebrow at it.

  “Tension wrench,” he whispered. “You put it into the lower part of the keyhole, like so, then apply some light pressure. That tells you which way the key turns to open the door.” He extracted a thin pick from his case and stuck it into the upper part of the keyhole. “This helps you feel the pins in the lock.”

  “Or so the books say.”

  “They’re very detailed books.”

  While Fletcher fiddled with the door knob, I took a quick look around us. Nothing moved, and all I could hear was the occasional car driving by in the distance. Of course, that didn’t mean someone wasn’t watching us from their darkened home, maybe saying something like “Quick, Phoebe—call the police! A couple blue-handed people are breaking into the old Riggs place!”

  “Interesting,” Fletcher said.

  “What?”

  Fletcher slid his tools back into the case, then put his hand on the door knob and gave it a twist. The door swung open.

  “Looks like I r
ead all those books for nothing,” Fletcher said.

  “The door wasn’t locked?”

  “It couldn’t be. Lock’s busted.”

  “Very interesting,” I said.

  We were going in the same way the killer had.

  Fletcher handed me a flashlight, took one out for himself, then rolled his tools up and stuffed them back under his hoodie.

  We went inside. Once the door was closed behind us, we turned on the flashlights, making sure the beams were aimed low.

  We were in the kitchen. Every cabinet door was open, and boxes of cereal and macaroni and cake mix had been swept off the shelves and onto the floor.

  We found the same kind of mess in the dining room. Papers littered the floor and the well-worn maple table, and all the drawers of a matching hutch had been pulled out and upended. In the living room, the furniture had been pulled away from the walls, and the back of the couch had been slashed open to reveal the crisscrossing wood and springs inside it. A roll-top desk had been tipped over and its back panels smashed.

  And that wasn’t all that had been smashed there. Dark red splatters stained the carpet and walls.

  “How’d the guy die?” Fletcher asked.

  “Baseball bat,” I said.

  Fletcher winced. “Ouch.”

  “That’s a bit of an understatement.”

  “May we—?”

  Fletcher gestured toward a hallway to our left.

  “Good idea,” I said.

  We continued our search elsewhere, finding the same destructive mess in the bathrooms and bedroom and closets.

  “The cops said the place had been ransacked, but this is more like demolished,” I said.

  “Yeah. Someone put a lot of energy into it. Not a lot of smarts, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the books offer plenty of tips for where to look when you’re doing this kind of thing, and I saw three perfect hiding places that haven’t been checked yet.”

  “Oh?”

  I gave Fletcher a look that said impress me. He turned and waved for me to follow him.

  “Check out this closet in the hall, for starters. The killer pulled everything out but left the carpeting in place.”

  “So?”

  Fletcher knelt by the closet. He reached down and picked at a corner of the carpeting, then lifted it up to reveal a square in the floorboards beneath.

  A trapdoor.