Bad Debt (Savannah Martin Mysteries Book 14)

by Jenna Bennett

  Rafe grinned. “Young love.”

  They were both older than us, but OK. “They look good together, don’t they?”

  “Your sister’s a pretty woman,” Rafe said.

  She was. Or maybe striking was a better description. And Nolan wasn’t a bad-looking guy, in spite of the beaky nose and the slightly oversized ears.

  “I feel like we didn’t learn a whole lot.”

  “I didn’t think we would,” Rafe said. “He’s a cop. Not like he’s gonna be inclined to tell you much about an ongoing investigation. Specially when he knows you think they’re investigating the wrong person.”

  Maybe so. “I’m used to talking to Tamara Grimaldi. She tells me things.”

  “She don’t tell you everything, either. Not when it’s none of your business.”

  Maybe not. “He had a point about the gun. If Robbie shot himself, there’d be a gun somewhere.”

  Rafe nodded.

  “And there wasn’t.”

  He shook his head.

  “So maybe Robbie didn’t shoot himself.”

  “Maybe not.” He looked up as the waiter—short and Hispanic—approached the table. “Buenas tardes, amigo.”

  He prattled on in Spanish, ordering me a glass of sweet tea and himself a bottle of Corona. And a bowl of cheese dip to go with the bowl of chips and salsa the waiter had put on the table. I was able to follow the conversation up to that point, mostly because I know the basic food names. I couldn’t follow what came after that, so I didn’t try. When the waiter took himself off to fill the drink order and bring the chile con queso, I arched my brows at Rafe.

  “Just making conversation.” He filled a chip with salsa and lifted it to his mouth.

  “I keep forgetting how well you speak Spanish.”

  He shrugged and swallowed. “You don’t spend ten years trying to work your way into a South American theft gang without having to learn some Spanish.”

  It had sounded like more than some, but what did I know? He had managed to pull off a few months undercover as Jorge Pena, professional hitman, though, so I figured his Spanish was probably pretty damn—darn—good.

  We got what we ordered, anyway—or so I assume, since Rafe didn’t send it back—and spent an enjoyable meal discussing murder, mayhem, and other related subjects. He detailed his march through the woods, searching for a way off the Skinners’ property, including the time he’d been out of cell phone range and his worry that something would happen to him while he had no way to call for help. I made him laugh by telling him about Pearl’s bath. Her brief dispatch of the small stuffed animal I’d bought her made him frown, though. “Not sure I like that.”

  I hadn’t liked it, either. However— “It’s not her fault. It’s what she was trained to do.”

  “I’m not blaming her, darlin’. But there’s a reason dogs that have been used for fighting don’t make good pets. They’ve been trained to be vicious.”

  “Pearl’s not vicious,” I objected. “When it comes to us, she’s just very protective.” And so far she had listened to me when I’d told her not to attack, so I wasn’t too worried about her going at the wrong person.

  “I’m glad she’s protective,” Rafe said. “And I know you want her. But what happens when we have a baby crawling on the floor?”

  I hadn’t thought about that. I probably should have.

  No, scratch that. I definitely should have.

  “You don’t think she would do anything to the baby, do you? I mean, there’s a big difference between a baby and a puppy or a kitten. Or another dog.”

  “Maybe not to Pearl,” Rafe said.

  Maybe not.

  “I have an appointment with the vet in the morning. I’ll ask him what he thinks.”

  Rafe nodded. “You want dessert?”

  I didn’t. I had gorged myself on fajitas and cheese dip and chips and a lot of other things—some of which included sour cream and avocado—so I was full. “You go ahead.”

  “I had a different kind of dessert in mind.” He winked.

  “By the time we get back to the mansion, I’m sure I’ll be up for that.” I smiled back. Just give the food time to settle, and I’d be hungry for ‘dessert,’ too.

  “Then let’s get outta here.” He signaled the waiter for the check, which arrived promptly. Rafe paid the bill and added an exorbitant tip. I’d even go as far as to call it obscene.

  I arched my brows at him, but he just smiled. And then, when we were on our way out the door, after the waiter had picked up the receipt and seen the amount of money he’d been given, Rafe stopped to ask a question. I waited for a minute while the two of them went back and forth, and then Rafe nodded and came toward me. “Let’s go.” He put his hand on my lower back and nudged me out the door, into the chilly dark of the fall night.

  “What?” I said.

  He glanced down at me. “Since Vasquez struck out on the marijuana angle, I figured I’d tap another source.”

  “The waiter? How do you know that he knows anything about it?” He hadn’t smelled like marijuana, and after this morning, I knew that smell well.

  “I don’t.” He unlocked the car and opened my door. “But she said most of the trade is South American. I thought there was a chance he mighta picked something up.”

  I guess maybe the South Americans liked Mexican food, too. I guess it made sense that they would. And maybe they liked Mexican beer, or Tequila. And maybe, if they had a little too much Tequila or Mexican beer, they talked.

  “Good idea,” I said. “I guess that explains the tip.”

  “I figured it couldn’t hurt.” He shut my door and walked around the car to the driver’s side. “Let’s go home.”

  “Back to the mansion?”

  He nodded. “Might as well wait somewhere comfortable.”

  I thought about saying something about the fact that he was comfortable enough there now to call it home, but then I thought that that might just make it awkward. So I didn’t. But I noticed.

  “Fine with me,” I said instead. “You still owe me dessert.”

  He grinned. “Starting to get in the mood?”

  “I’m always in the mood. I just thought it might be best to give the food a chance to settle. There isn’t a lot of room left in my stomach these days.”

  He reached over. “Everything OK in there?”

  “As far as I can tell.” My stomach moved, and I smiled. “Did you feel that? He turned over. Or she.”

  We still weren’t sure what we were having. The latest ultrasound had been undecided. The technician had ventured what she thought was an educated guess, but until I knew for sure, I wasn’t going to make up my mind one way or the other. The nursery at home was yellow. Once we knew what we were having, I’d throw in some blue or pink to match, but I still had a month and a half or so to go. And maybe more, since first babies are often a little late.

  The baby did another somersault, and Rafe chuckled. “Looks like we’ve got a gymnast.”

  “Or kick-boxer.” I grimaced as a tiny foot got me in the ribs.

  He rubbed soothing circles, I guess in an effort to make the little athlete inside settle down. Unfortunately, it seemed to have the opposite effect. Junior knew that Daddy was paying attention, and was getting excited.

  “Let’s just go home,” I said, with both hands on my stomach now. It was literally shifting back and forth as the baby moved.

  “Lean your seat back a little. You’ll be more comfortable.” He put the car in gear and we rolled out of the parking lot and down the street as I fumbled for the lever between the door and seat.

  Leaning back felt better. The heartburn subsided, and the baby felt less squeezed. “I’ve had a pretty good pregnancy,” I said, as I watched the streetlights flicker past outside the window. One. Two. Three. “After I stopped throwing up, anyway. And apart from all the extra visits to the hospital because something happened and we needed to check that the baby was all right. I haven’t been feeling too bad the
last couple of months. And I didn’t get the gestational diabetes or anything like that. It’s been good.”

  He glanced at me. “But?”

  “I’m getting ready for it to be over. I feel like an elephant.”

  “It could be worse,” Rafe said. “It could be ninety degrees.”

  True. And don’t think I hadn’t thought about that. “I’m starting to feel sort of unwieldy. It’s hard to get out of bed in the morning.”

  “Hasn’t it been hard to get out of bed all along? You’ve been sleeping a lot.”

  “It takes a lot of effort to make a baby. But that wasn’t what I meant. It’s literally hard to get out of bed. I can’t sit up anymore. I have to roll, like a beached whale, over to the edge of the bed, and tip myself off onto the floor.”

  He chuckled. “You don’t look like an elephant or a whale. You’re gorgeous. But I get that it’s tough.”

  “You can’t possibly get it,” I said grumpily. “You’ve still got your body. There’s nothing stopping you from jumping out of bed in the morning.”

  “Sure there is.” He grinned.

  “Not like that.” But I smiled back. It was impossible not to.

  He reached over and took my hand. “It’ll be over soon. By Christmas, we’ll have a baby.”

  We would. His and mine. And life would never be the same again. I folded my fingers around his and held on as the car left the lights of Columbia behind and traveled the dark road toward Sweetwater.

  * * *

  We were about halfway there—in fact, we were just coming up on the shuttered Beulah’s Meat’n Three, although I’m sure that was a total coincidence—when Rafe swore.

  I was almost asleep by then, or at least so relaxed and full of food that I hadn’t been paying attention to our surroundings. Not until Rafe said a bad word and yanked the wheel hard to the left. I straightened my seat as we bumped off the paved road and into the graveled lot outside Beulah’s. “What happened? Did we get pulled over?”

  “You could say that.” He fought the car for a few seconds until he managed to slow it down and turn it toward the road again. I looked out. There were no blue lights in sight. But as I watched, a big truck with round headlights and a row of lights on the roof of the cab followed us into the lot. And parked at the entrance to the road, so we couldn’t leave. The interior of the Volvo was lit up almost as bright as day.

  I squinted. “Who’s that? Police?”

  “No.” Rafe’s voice was grim. My heart skittered in my chest as he reached for his gun and the door handle. “Stay here.”

  He opened his door.

  “Where are you going?” Panic laced through my voice. “Who’s out there?”

  He leaned down to peer into the car. “Just stay here. If something happens to me, scoot over to the driver’s seat and get the hell away.”

  Have you lost your mind?

  I bit back the words. “Should I call the sheriff?”

  “Not yet.” He straightened. “Just stay inside the car where it’s safe.”

  That I could do. I wouldn’t do anything to risk harming the baby, at least not until I had no other choice. But if something happened to him, I was damned if I’d drive off and leave him there. And if he thought so, he didn’t know me at all.

  I didn’t say that, either, just nodded and stayed inside the car. Rafe shut the driver’s side door and walked toward the truck. His hands were up, with the gun clearly visible, although there was absolutely nothing about him that looked like he was surrendering. More that he was signaling he wasn’t going to shoot first.

  After a second, the lights on the truck turned off. A voice called out in Spanish, and Rafe turned toward me. “Kill the lights.”

  I reached over and flipped off the headlights on the Volvo. The clearing plunged into darkness.

  Twenty

  It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust. Since nothing happened in those few seconds, it turned out to be no big deal.

  I got my sight back in time to see the doors on the truck open. Two men got out, one from each side. And when I say that they got out, I mean that they climbed down. The truck was big, with huge tires, and the men were both short. Short and dark, with broad cheekbones and black hair.

  This wasn’t exactly how I’d hoped the waiter would come through with his information about the drug dealers. We could die here in this parking lot, and nobody would ever know what happened to us.

  Neither of the men glanced at the Volvo, but I scooted down a little in the seat anyway. I knew it was stupid—if the waiter had tipped them off, they knew I was here—but it made me feel better. At least the baby was safely tucked below the dashboard. That wouldn’t help if they shot me in the head, but it was the best I could do. I couldn’t keep from peering out across the dashboard to see what was happening.

  Rafe did nothing. Just stood there, a few feet from the corner of the Volvo. He’d lowered his hands, but kept the gun out and clearly visible. It was in his hand, but he wasn’t pointing it at anyone. The South Americans did the same. Each had a pistol in his hand, but they weren’t pointed at Rafe (or me). My impression was that they were more there for show than anything else. It was as if all three of them wanted the others to know that they were armed and dangerous, but that they wouldn’t shoot unless the other team shot first.

  I wondered whether they thought I was in here with a gun of my own.

  If this kind of thing continued to happen, maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get one. And learn how to use it.

  The two men stopped a few feet in front of Rafe. Close enough to talk, but far enough away that he couldn’t reach out and grab either of them. With the windows closed, I had no idea what they were saying. And since they were presumably speaking Spanish, I doubt I would have understood much even if I had been able to hear.

  I concentrated on watching, instead. Watching their hands, in case one of them suddenly decided to bring the gun up and shoot. And watching their faces, so I could pick them out of a lineup if I had to.

  One was Rafe’s age, a year or two past thirty. Short, with broad shoulders and skinny legs. The other was younger, early or mid-twenties. A brother, maybe, or just a friend. A little taller, with longer hair and a ratty, little goatee. They were both wearing jeans and dark jackets, and I memorized their faces as best I could, just in case I’d have occasion to identify them later.

  Not that they were behaving in a threatening way. They weren’t. Each was almost a head shorter than Rafe, and quite a bit smaller all around. If he knocked their heads together, he’d probably knock them both unconscious. And neither made any move to attack. The pistols stayed loose and low in their hands. In Rafe’s, too.

  The conversation continued for about ten minutes, during which I became aware of an increasing need to pee. It might have been nerves—the situation was scary, even if no one was shooting; I was quite aware that things could turn on a dime—although it was more likely to be the tea I’d had with dinner. Under normal circumstances, we’d be close to the mansion by now. Instead, I had to sit here in the dark, while my husband was having an armed discussion outside, and try to hold it.

  A car appeared on the road, and conversation ceased as all three of them watched it drive by. It didn’t pull into the parking lot, and when it was out of sight, they went back to talking. But the conversation was mostly over by now. About a minute later, the two strangers headed back to their truck. Rafe stayed where he was, outside ours, while they turned their lights back on and bathed the clearing in a glare. My heart started beating faster. Now would be the time to shoot him, if they were going to. As they were driving away.

  But nothing happened. They backed off, into the street. Where they took off toward Columbia with a squeal of tires. Rafe waited until the truck was completely gone before he holstered his pistol and came back to the car.

  He locked the door behind him and put his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. “I’m glad that’s over.”

  “Scar
y?” I asked.

  He rolled his head to look at me. “I’ve been in scarier.”

  I knew he had. “You’ll excuse me for being a little worried. I thought they might shoot you.”

  “I thought they might, too. That’s why I made sure they understood that I’m not working vice and I’m not interested in their business.”

  He leaned forward to put the car in gear again and headed for the road.

  “Had you met them before?” I wanted to know, as we left the bumpy gravel of Beulah’s parking lot for the smooth blacktop of the road.

  He shook his head. “They knew who I was, though. Or Pablo did.”

  “The older one?”

  He nodded. “He knew Hector. And couldn’t be happier that Hector’s out of the picture.”

  “That’s good.” At least we weren’t looking at someone else who wanted to avenge their mighty leader’s incarceration. One of those had been enough.

  “I made sure he knew that the case against Hector is old news. I’m not interested in coming after him. All I wanted to know, was if they had anything to do with shooting the Skinners.”

  “And?”

  He glanced at me. We were zooming toward Sweetwater at a good clip. “He said they didn’t.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Pablo pointed out that the last thing they’d wanna do is draw attention to themselves. It makes sense.”

  It did.

  “He said, if they’d wanted to get rid of the marijuana crop, they’d have set fire to the greenhouses instead.”

  And all of the Devil’s Backbone would get high from the smoke. I could just picture it. A haze of pot smoke all over Maury County.

  “They alibied each other,” Rafe added. “For the night the Skinners were murdered.”

  “Are they gay?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t get that impression. They musta been together doing something, I guess. Either that, or they’re lying.”

  “Wouldn’t you be able to tell if they were lying?” He’d always been able to tell when I was lying, anyway. Then again, I’m possibly the world’s worst liar. Not in the sense that I do it a lot; in the sense that I do it badly.