[Cutthroat Business 01.0 - 03.0] Boxed Set

by Jenna Bennett

  I nodded. “In that case, this picture would be a couple of years old.”

  “And that’s about the time Chrysler started making these cars. This could be him.”

  “Did you find anything down here?”

  He shook his head. “Not so far. This picture is our best clue.”

  “Glad to help.” I looked around. “This is going to be a big job.”

  Dix nodded. “The information is here somewhere. Someone knows what happened and where this boy is. We can check Elspeth’s financial records and her travel itineraries and her phone records. Whatever it takes to find this kid.”

  I nodded. “Do you have to do it now?”

  He looked up at me. “You ready to go, sis?”

  “I’d like to get home. To my apartment. To Nashville.” Where I might be able to corner Tamara Grimaldi. And where I could hibernate in bed with a box of Kleenex and cry my heart out without worrying about what anyone would think. I knew Dix loved me, and he hadn’t seemed too surprised at my reaction to the news that Rafe was dead, but I had been more subdued than I would have been had I been alone when I found out. I wanted to be by myself, to howl and mourn in peace.

  “I’ll take you back to your car,” Dix said. “I can always come back here later.” He looked around, and added, “I’ll have to. There’s enough work here for a couple of days, at least.”

  “I can stay and help if you want.”

  He shook his head. “Go home. Take care of yourself. Do you want me to let you know what I find out?”

  “Please,” I said. There was no Rafe to tell anymore—Elspeth hadn’t told him she was pregnant, and now he’d never know he had a son—but I’d still like to know. At least that the boy was well taken care of and happy. Although what I’d do if he wasn’t, I didn’t know. “I’d like a copy of the picture, too, please. If you don’t mind.”

  “I’ll send it to your phone,” Dix promised and put his arm around my shoulders. “And keep you posted about everything else. Including the funeral.”

  “Funeral?” What made him think I’d want to go to Elspeth’s funeral?

  “For Collier? He’ll probably go in the ground up on Oak Street, don’t you think? Where his mother is buried?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t want to think about it. And Dix, bless his heart, must have realized it, because he kept his mouth shut on the drive from Damascus back to Sweetwater.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I cried most of the way back to Nashville. Not loudly, not in a way that made me a menace to the other people on the road, but quietly, softly, with tears running down my face. By the time I reached Nashville, my eyes were puffy and sore, and my face was swollen. I looked awful. That didn’t stop me from driving directly to 101 Potsdam Street to knock on the door. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had this crazy hope that once I got there, maybe it would all be OK. It would turn out to have been a misunderstanding, and Rafe would be there and everything would be all right.

  But of course he wasn’t. There was no answer to my knock, and the house was locked up tight while the driveway was empty. I got back in the car and drove downtown to Police Plaza, where I demanded to see Tamara Grimaldi.

  The guard on duty seemed a little leery of letting me upstairs, and paid extra special attention to the contents of my handbag—including confiscating my lipstick pepper spray and miniature lipstick knife—but eventually he let me in. By the time the elevator opened on Tamara’s floor, she was standing in the hallway waiting for me.

  And she looked almost as bad as I felt. Her eyes weren’t red from crying, but they were bloodshot and puffy from lack of sleep. Her face was drawn, her color was bad, and she was still wearing the same clothes she’d worn last night. I deduced she hadn’t been to bed yet.

  She was on the ball, though. One look at my face, and she dragged me into an empty interrogation room away from everyone else, pushed me down on a chair, and sat down across the table from me. “What’s wrong?”

  “You told me he’d be OK. You said you’d take care of him.”

  “What?”

  “You told me he’d be OK. You said you’d take care of him.” My mouth seemed to be stuck on instant replay.

  She shook her head, not in negation but to clear it. “What are you talking about?”

  “Rafe. You told me he’d be OK. You said you’d take care of him. That nothing bad would happen if he didn’t get to the hospital right away.”

  “So?”

  So?

  “So you lied.” My voice was shaking, and I grabbed the edge of the table to steady myself. “And I can understand why. I really can. I mean, if you’d told me the truth, I would have had a gibbering meltdown right there; I realize that. So I understand why you did it. But I didn’t get to say goodbye. And now...”

  I was crying again. Tamara looked at me for a second before getting up and leaving the room. When she came back, she was carrying a can of Diet Coke and an economy-sized box of Kleenex. She put both on the table in front of me. “Listen.”

  I sniffed into a tissue.

  “I have no idea what you’ve heard, or from whom—”

  “I left you a message,” I said.

  “I know. I tried to call you back. Your brother answered.”

  “You told him Rafe was dead.”

  “Of course I did. I...”

  “ You told me you’d take care of him. You said he’d be OK!” I snatched another tissue.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” She was waving her hands. “Of course he’s OK. I told you he would be. Did you think he died?”

  She looked at me, and her face changed. “You did think he died.”

  “You mean he didn’t?”

  “Of course he didn’t! I told you he wouldn’t. He told you he wouldn’t. He took a bullet to the shoulder. The doctor dug it out and slapped a Band Aid on the hole. You thought he died?”

  “Dix told me he died!” I said. Shrieked, really. “He said Todd told him, and that the sheriff had told Todd. And then he asked you, and you said Rafe had died!”

  “Ah.” She nodded.

  Ah? What the hell? “You sound like that makes sense to you.”

  “That’s because it does. See, it’s like this...”

  She explained. By the time she was finished, I had to admit it did sort of make sense. If word got out that Rafe was dead, that would protect him from whoever had sent Jorge after him, as well as from anyone else who might be tempted to take him out in the future. And if Rafe was dead, then Jorge would have to be alive. But...

  “Sheriff Satterfield doesn’t know? How did you manage that?”

  “Told him that Mrs. Jenkins would want the body taken to Nashville to bury next to his father.” Tamara shrugged.

  “And... that was Jorge Pena’s body?”

  She nodded. “We made sure the sheriff didn’t get a good look at it. There’s a resemblance, but not so strong that someone who knew Mr. Collier wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.”

  “Oh, believe me, Sheriff Satterfield knows Rafe. He arrested him often enough as a teenager.”

  “That’s what you said. Mr. Craig had thought ahead and brought a van, so we loaded the body in there and he took it with him. Along with Mr. Collier, of course. We picked him up on the road; he walked through the woods from the trailer so the sheriff wouldn’t see him. Ms. Caulfield’s body we left for Sheriff Satterfield. To give him something to do to keep him busy.”

  “I’m sure he appreciates that.” My voice was a little weak, both from the crying and from the relief. “So where is he now?”

  “The sheriff is in Sweetwater. Mr. Pena’s body is at the morgue, with Mr. Collier’s name on it. As for Wendell Craig...”

  “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  Tamara grimaced. “He’s in Jorge’s motel room.”

  “Where?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if we want people to believe that
he’s dead, he can’t have you showing up at his motel.”

  “I’ll dress up as a hooker,” I said. “And pretend that Jorge called for some company.”

  She looked at me, up and down, for a second, before her mouth quirked. “It’d be worth it, just to see that. I’m almost tempted to let you.”

  “Please. I really need to see him. He’s going to be leaving town again, isn’t he?”

  She nodded. “For a week or two. Just until we can figure out who sent Jorge after him and put them behind bars.”

  “And you don’t think that’ll take more than two weeks?”

  “I doubt it. A month at the most.”

  “If he’s going away again,” I said, “I definitely need to see him before he goes. It doesn’t have to be at his motel. It doesn’t even have to be in private. I’ll take a phone call, if it’s all I can get. But I want to hear his voice and know he’s all right.”

  She arched her brows. “Don’t you trust me?”

  “I trust you. I just want to hear it for myself.” I hesitated for a second. “There’s something I have to tell him.”

  “Ah.” She didn’t argue with that. “All right. I’ll see what I can do. Where are you headed when you leave here?”

  I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was going on three o’clock. “I’m going back to my apartment. And I’m staying there. Unless you call and tell me to get my hooker-clothes on.”

  “You own hooker-clothes?” She got to her feet without waiting for my answer. And no, I don’t.

  Although I could put on my new red dress again, I supposed. It was more suited to an expensive call-girl than a hooker, but it was as close as I could get. And springing it on Rafe a second time might prove... interesting.

  “Pack up anything of Officer Slater’s that you come across and I’ll send her out to pick it up later. I’ll be in touch.”

  I walked out of there, got in my car, and went home.

  * * *

  It was nice to be back. Nice not to have to worry about people breaking in or gunning for me. Nice to know that Rafe wasn’t dead after all.

  Damn Tamara Grimaldi and Wendell, though, for not calling and telling me right away what their plan was. And damn Rafe most of all. How could he not know that I’d freak out if I heard he’d died? He should have called me and told me himself, dammit. It was the least he could do.

  Unless he really had no idea that I cared. Maybe I’d somehow succeeded in convincing him that I ran to him just for sex the other night. Maybe he thought, when I showed up again yesterday—in another skimpy cocktail dress, straight from another date with Todd—that I wanted more of the same. Just more of the same. Not that I wanted to see him because I—so help me, God—was in love with him and being with him made me—so help me, God—happy.

  Was that a good thing, I wondered as I moved wet clothes from the washer to the dryer.

  Maybe it was. I couldn’t have a relationship with him. No matter how happy being with him made me. I couldn’t bring him into the family. It would be uncomfortable for him as well as for them, not to mention for me, stuck in the middle. And honestly, it was still a little uncomfortable to go anywhere with him. In public, I mean. Here in Nashville it wasn’t such a big deal; people here are used to seeing mixed couples. Nobody stared at us at Fidelio’s or that other place he’d taken me to once, the Short Stop Sports Bar. But at Beulah’s the other morning... it had been like walking a gauntlet. All those eyes, and whispers. All that avid interest in what really ought to be just between the two of us.

  How can you have a relationship with someone, if you’re too embarrassed—or too afraid—to be seen in public with him?

  You can’t. And shouldn’t. So maybe it was all for the best that he didn’t know. Maybe, if I was too embarrassed and afraid to be with him, openly, I didn’t deserve him anyway.

  * * *

  By the end of the workday, Megan Slater had stopped by to pick up her bag of possessions; she did look rather a lot like me, if in much better shape physically. I’d never make it through the police academy. Also, Dix had emailed the picture from Elspeth’s night table to my cell phone, along with the news that he had no further information. He was confident he would discover the truth, though. Elspeth’s house was full of paperwork and old journals, and somewhere in the mess, there was sure to be something helpful. I emailed back to ask that he please let me know what it was when he found it and then I left it at that.

  Tamara Grimaldi called at seven. “Get your hooker-clothes on. He’s staying at the Congress Inn on Dickerson Pike. Room 116. And he won’t be there for long, so you’d better hurry.”

  She hung up, before I could express my thanks.

  Ten minutes later I was on my way, red satin dress, silver sandals, and all.

  The Congress Inn is a fifteen minute drive, roughly, from my apartment, but it’s in a part of East Nashville that’s nowhere near as nice or safe. In fact, it’s not too far from Apple Annie’s Motel, which rents rooms by the hour. It’s also not too far from the Stor-All facility that Rafe and I had burgled two months earlier, when I was trying to figure out who killed Brenda Puckett. And finally, it’s only a few blocks from Potsdam Street.

  In other words, it was the perfect location for Jorge.

  I had noticed the place before, driving past. It’s right at the intersection of Dickerson Pike and Hart Lane, and the main building must have been a beautiful house once upon a time. Long ago now, but the traces of old beauty are still there. It’s an Italianate Victorian, late 1800s, two stories tall, painted white.

  That’s not where the motel rooms are, of course. They surround the main house in long, low brick strips. Rafe’s—AKA Jorge Pena’s—room, 116, was close to the front.

  I took a deep breath before I opened the car door and got out onto the pavement, on legs that shook. And then it took me a second to adjust the red satin dress—up, not down—before I made my way toward room 116. Accompanied by shrill whistles from a couple of gentlemen on the other side of the parking lot, sitting outside their own rooms sharing a six-pack or two of beer. I’ll spare you the remarks they directed my way, but basically they ran to the suggestion that if I didn’t find what I was looking for on my side of the motel, I should try theirs.

  Oh, and how much did I charge?

  At first when I knocked on the door to room 116, there was no answer. I could hear rustling from inside, though, so I knocked again. And stood back when the curtain fluttered, so he could see me.

  Then the door opened, and I took another step back.

  He looked different, and it wasn’t just the gun he let me see for a second before stashing it out of sight behind his back. His eyes were hard and his jaw tight, and his hair was styled in a way I wasn’t used to, but that I’d seen on Jorge. He was unshaven, too, with the beginnings of Jorge’s little goatee. There was a small silver cross in his ear, that he hadn’t had yesterday, and I didn’t doubt that when he turned around, I’d find a copy of Jorge’s dragon tattoo on his back. Just above that gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

  There was a piece of gauze taped to his shoulder; quite small considering that it was covering a gunshot wound. Yet it was considerably larger than the Band Aid Tamara Grimaldi had told me about.

  And he looked like he was ready for a visit from a hooker, with his shirt off and his jeans zipped only halfway up and the button at the waistband open. He was wearing no underwear that I could see.

  I swallowed.

  “Hey, man!” one of the inebriated gentlemen from across the parking lot hollered, “when you’re done with her, send her over here, huh?”

  Rafe’s response was pithy and crude and very graphic, even the parts of it I didn’t understand because he spoke Spanish. I blushed. He looked at me, with a grin that was hot enough to sizzle metal. “C’mon in, querida. I ain’t got much time, so you’re gonna have to work fast.”

  He even sounded a little like Jorge.

  I took a steadying breath before
I stepped through the door. The room beyond was awful. Small and dark and smelly, with stained 1970s shag carpet on the floor, and a bare bulb under the ceiling. There was a single bed, unmade, and through an opening in the back wall, I could see a dingy bathroom with black mold around the tub.

  I shuddered. You couldn’t pay me enough to spend the night here.

  Unless he asked me to stay. Then I might be able to get over my squeamishness.

  “You shouldn’t be here, darlin’.”

  I turned to look at him. His eyes were sober now; that raunchy heat gone along with the flinty hardness, and he’d finished zipping and fastening his jeans. It was almost disappointing.

  I moved my attention back up to his face. “I had to see you before you left town again.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Aside from the fact that I think I’m in love with you? “They told me you were dead. I wanted to see for myself that you weren’t.”

  He looked surprised. “Who told you I was dead?”

  “My brother Dix. Todd Satterfield told him—” unable to contain his glee, no doubt, “and the sheriff told Todd.”

  He nodded. “And nobody told you.” He reached out to run a finger down my cheek. “Sorry, darlin’. Guess we all figured you’d know.”

  “It’s been a rough day,” I said, blinking to stave off the tears that threatened.

  “C’mere.” He reached out a hand. I stepped into his embrace and put my head against his shoulder. The uninjured one. He wrapped his arms around me, and we stood like that for a minute, while I enjoyed the warm softness of his skin against my cheek and the steady movement of his breath against my hair.

  When I lifted my head to look up at him, he kissed me. Softly. And then he smiled. “I’d ask you to stay awhile, so I can prove that all the parts still work, but I don’t have the time.”

  I nodded. “It’s becoming almost a habit, isn’t it?” Having to say goodbye before he hightailed it out of town again. “How long will you be gone this time?”

  “If I’m lucky, just a few weeks.”

  “And if not?”