Fatal Debt

by Dorothy Howell

  Leonard grumbled a curse and pulled his wallet from his hip pocket. Inside was a wad of bills.

  I got a sick feeling about just what sort of work Leonard’s new job entailed.

  He pulled out almost all of the cash and handed it to me.

  “Give that to Granny,” he said, and shoved his wallet into his pocket.

  “Leonard, it’s great that you’re giving her this money, but your grandmother needs you,” I said.

  “I told you to stay away from this,” Leonard said, his voice rising. “I told you.”

  “You haven’t told me anything,” I said. “We haven’t seen each other since you paid off your last account in my office.”

  “I sent my home boy with a message,” he told me. “Twice.”

  My stomach knotted and bounced into my throat. I gulped it down.

  “At Club Vibe and the post office? That was your friend?” I asked. “He scared the crap out of me.”

  “Better scared than dead,” he said.

  A heaviness bore down on me, the kind of feeling you get when the one thing you dread the most comes true.

  “You know what happened to your grandfather, don’t you, Leonard?” I said.

  He threw both hands up and backed off a step, shaking his head.

  “I didn’t have nothing to do with that,” he said. “I didn’t know that was going down.”

  “But you were there,” I said, as my knees started to tremble.

  Leonard didn’t say anything.

  “You were there,” I said again. “Outside? Down the block, waiting? You recognized me when I walked into your grandfather’s house.”

  “Stay out of this. I’m not telling you no more. You’re on your own.”

  Leonard cut around me and disappeared.

  I crammed the money into my pocket, then hurried outside.

  Nick. Where was Nick? He needed to talk to Leonard.

  I darted through the crowd, but didn’t spot him. Apparently he hadn’t hung around to try and find me, or explain things, or work anything out.

  I guess I should have expected that.

  I hopped in my Honda and circled the parking lot thinking I’d catch Leonard leaving so I could follow him, see where he went, maybe learn where he lived. No luck.

  I pulled out onto the street and headed north, hoping I’d chosen the right direction and would spot Leonard up ahead. I didn’t. I gave up and went home.

  * * *

  Seven Eleven met me at the door. I scooped her up and stroked her head while I stuffed the cash Leonard had given me into my underwear drawer. I’d take it to Mrs. Sullivan tomorrow; maybe by then I could think of what to tell her about Leonard.

  I plopped down on my sofa ready to do some serious thinking. A lot of what I’d believed in just a few days ago had been proven wrong, which troubled me—the big thing being that good hadn’t triumphed over evil.

  Like Sean Griffin’s murder, and Leonard Sullivan’s involvement in his grandfather’s death. Things with Nick definitely had not evened out.

  Seven Eleven crawled onto my lap and made herself comfortable. I patted her little head and considered calling Nick, telling him what I suspected.

  Leonard had been near—or at—the scene of Mr. Sullivan’s murder. I hadn’t wanted to face the possibility that he’d actually murdered his grandfather, but now I wasn’t so sure.

  He’d seen me at the house that evening and recognized me. I guess he felt we shared enough history that he wanted to protect me from the guy who’d run into me inside the house—the guy probably thought I could identify him—and to do that Leonard had sent one of his posse to warn me away from the investigation.

  I suspected too that, somehow, Kirk Redmond was involved in all of this.

  The afternoon Sean Griffin was murdered Slade had told me that Kirk Redmond, the building contractor, wasn’t much of a building contractor. He worked a few jobs, just enough to make the place look legit, but really used the business to launder drug money.

  After finally finding Leonard, seeing him in person, I knew he’d turned to dealing drugs. The new car, the nice clothes, the cash—what else could it be?

  But was Leonard working with Kirk Redmond? Or was he a rival in some drug dealers’ territory dispute? Had Leonard murdered Mr. Sullivan because he threatened to go to the police? Or had Redmond shot him as a warning to Leonard to get out of the business?

  I didn’t know. But I was sure either Leonard or Redmond had murdered Mr. Sullivan.

  I had no proof, of course. All I had were names in circles written on a legal pad.

  But that was enough—for me, anyway.

  Again, I considered telling Nick about my suspicion. But there was a good chance he had already figured all of this out, and I didn’t want to look like an idiot—or a bigger idiot than I already felt like for pouring out my heart to him in the parking lot of the Home Depot—by telling him something he already knew.

  I stewed on this for a while and decided I’d think about it over the weekend and, depending how things looked on Monday, call Nick then.

  I pushed the whole matter out of my mind and checked my phone messages. Mom had called.

  I grabbed a soda from my fridge and returned her call. She wanted to know that I was okay since she hadn’t heard from me yesterday.

  You’re got to love a mom like that.

  She was excited about the party she and Dad were going to tonight, mum plant and all. It sounded like a yawner to me but Mom was happy and that’s all I cared about.

  I called Jillian. She was in a dither about her Halloween costume, Felderman’s party, who’d be there, who wouldn’t. After she wound down I told her I’d pick her up at 8:00.

  I took a nap, and awoke rested, refreshed, my mind wiped clean of all the things had had taken up so much space there these last weeks. I had a Halloween party to go to tonight and a killer costume to wear. That would be the center of my little universe for the next several hours.

  Since I was masquerading as a vixen pirate tonight, I went heavy on the makeup. I dressed in a short—very short—black skirt, fishnets, and thigh-high boots. My white blouse had elastic at the top so I pulled it down to bare both shoulders. I had to wear a strapless bra, but that was to be expected—it wasn’t a special occasion without uncomfortable underwear.

  I applied a temporary tattoo of a green parrot to my left shoulder, then tied a red polka dot scarf around my head, and finished off the look with a pair of huge silver earrings.

  I stepped back from the mirror for a final check. Seven Eleven meowed her approval. I gave her a cuddle, got my things, and left.

  Jillian needed help getting down the steps at her apartment and into my car. Her fair maiden costume was a pink sparkly ankle-length dress she could barely walk in, a wispy wrap and a pointed hat with three layers of pink veils swinging around it. Jillian really would be a damsel in distress if she needed to make an emergency run to the bathroom tonight.

  This was another thing I wanted to change when I took over the world, but honestly, I didn’t know how I’d manage it.

  Felderman lived in the upscale area of Maywood. The party was wide-open when Jillian and I pulled up. Cars jammed the street in both directions. I parked two blocks away, and even from there we heard the music.

  We left our purses in the trunk and off we went, Jillian taking baby steps in her long dress and me teetering on four inch stilettos.

  The neighborhood screamed Halloween. Jack-o-lanterns sat on porches, scarecrows and witches stared out from windows. No trick-or-treaters, since Monday was Halloween. Tonight was strictly for the party crowd.

  As we drew near Felderman’s big two story house, we saw people on his lawn laughing, drinking, talking too loud. Every window in the house was lit. The front door stood open. People drifted in and out.

  Everybody was in costume—everything imaginable, to every degree of taste. I spotted a cowboy, a showgirl, and a sumo wrestler that I could have gone my whole life without seeing.
Jillian and I found friends right away. We chatted about each other’s costumes, waved and yelled to people as we made our way inside.

  The place was packed. We squeezed toward the rear of the house in the direction of the bar, where the biggest crowd congregated. French doors opened to the patio. Outside, the deejay had set up at the edge of a makeshift dance floor that was killing Felderman’s grass.

  “Hey, Dana,” someone called.

  Jarrod Parker appeared at my elbow.

  Stunned, I asked, “What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged. “Everybody comes to Felderman’s party. Want a drink?”

  I wish I could say I liked Jarrod better since Nick told me this afternoon that he had no criminal record and no involvement in Mr. Sullivan or Sean Griffin’s murders. There was still something weird about the guy.

  But at least I didn’t have to be afraid of Jarrod. He was harmless. And as long as I couldn’t seem to get rid of him, he might as well do something for me.

  “Get me a beer, will you?” I asked, and he headed toward the kegs.

  Jillian and I mingled. Jarrod fought his way back to me with a plastic cup of beer. I grabbed it and we headed for the nearest exit, the French doors.

  The music pounded. The crowd was close. I sipped my beer feeling that everything was right in my little world.

  I spotted a couple of friends at the corner of the house, so Jillian and I worked our way toward them. Somehow, Jarrod ended up at my side again, and I was ready to tell him to get lost when Jillian caught my arm and spun me around. She pointed toward the dance floor.

  “Are those your parents?” she asked.

  The crowd around the dance floor had broken back and was clapping along with a solitary couple at center stage—my parents, all right.

  Mom had given herself big hair and had on a dress I remembered from my junior high graduation. Dad wore his powder blue leisure suit. They were dancing the bump to “Brick House.”

  Jarrod elbowed me. “Cool costumes.”

  “Yeah, my folks are way cool,” I said. And they were.

  We circled the house, went through the gate in the wooden fence that enclosed the backyard, and found an open spot on the front lawn. For some reason, Jarrod came, too.

  I sipped my beer while people flowed around us drinking, talking, gathering in knots and moving on again. Jarrod blabbed on about something I wasn’t paying attention to.

  When I finished my beer, Jarrod offered to get me another. I turned to answer him, but my gaze caught the profile of a face in a group of men across the lawn.

  I stood there for a minute watching him, thinking, trying to place him.

  Then I remembered.

  He was the man I’d seen in Mr. Sullivan’s living room.

  Chapter 23

  My heart beat faster. My knees felt wobbly.

  It was definitely the man I’d seen at the Sullivan house. The man who’d knocked me down. No doubt about it.

  I eased my way across the yard and inserted myself into a cluster of people a little closer to him. He was tall, six-three easily, slender, blond. Good looking.

  His costume was a pinstripe suit reminiscent of the ’20s, complete with a fedora. He looked like an old school gangster, but a classy one. If my suspicion was correct, his choice of costume wasn’t coincidental.

  He stood in profile so I caught just the side of his face, the tip of his nose, his cheekbone, his chin. Just like at Mr. Sullivan’s house. The lighting here wasn’t great, same as at Mr. Sullivan’s, but it was good enough for me to know this was the man, and I was sure he was Kirk Redmond, the final name I’d entered in the circles on my legal pad. The name that completed my dot-to-dot puzzle and formed a complete picture. The picture of a murderer.

  My stomach did an oh-my-God heave, and I wished I could get a do-over on my decision not to call Nick with my suspicion.

  My thoughts raced. Why was Redmond here? Maybe he was just a party guest. Everybody came to Felderman’s party.

  Or was he here because of me?

  But how would he have known I’d be here? True, it wasn’t exactly a secret. He might have followed me, a thought that made my skin crawl, or maybe—

  Leonard. I’d told Leonard I was coming to the party when I’d seen him this afternoon at Ryan’s Electronics Warehouse. He must have told Redmond.

  I realized then that I hadn’t seen Leonard here tonight, even though he’d said he was coming.

  I started to feel sick. Seemed Leonard and Redmond were in business together, after all.

  It hit me that since I’d spotted Redmond, he might spot me, too. He knew who I was, especially since I’d been thoughtful enough to telephone his place of business, identify myself, report that I knew he’d been at Mr. Sullivan’s house—no wonder he saw me as a threat—and even provided him with my contact info.

  I felt relatively safe in the big party crowd. Still, I had to do something.

  If I called the cops they’d come with sirens blaring and would surely incite a panic. I’d seen several under-age kids drinking beer inside the house, and at least two people who weren’t here with their spouses; the scent of something illegal floated in the air.

  Somebody might get trampled. Kirk Redmond could easily slip away in the confusion.

  I’d call Nick. But how to get in touch with him?

  My cell phone was locked up safe and sound in the trunk of my car two blocks down the street. My pepper spray was there, too. Slade would be so disappointed in me.

  My herding instinct—the one that drove women to the restroom in packs—was doing double duty right now, so no way was I leaving the safety of the party.

  Jillian had found some friends and Jarrod had vanished in a puff of smoke, so I headed into the house. I climbed the staircase to the second floor and opened the first bedroom on my right. Two people had gotten to this room before me and were heavily involved in what I suppose in some cultures passed for love making. I slammed the door and continued down the hallway.

  I found the master bedroom, situated at the front of the house. It was unoccupied. I peered out the window as I picked up the telephone beside the bed, and called the police.

  I was transferred a few times, put on hold, and while I waited I realized that if Redmond decided to leave the party, he could disappear and who knew when he’d surface again? If, as I suspected, he knew I could identify him and tie him to Mr. Sullivan’s murder, he might head for safer climes.

  I tapped my stiletto heel against Felderman’s gray carpet and finally somebody picked up. I told the guy who I was, explained the situation as best I could, and asked him to forward my message to Nick immediately.

  I hung up and glanced out the window again. Redmond wasn’t standing with the same group of people. No way was I going to let him get away. I hurried downstairs.

  I eased through the crowd wearing a fake smile, trying to look for him without being obvious about it. I got jostled, had beer spilled on my arm and my butt grabbed, but I didn’t see him.

  In the backyard the dance floor was packed. I made my way around to the side of the house and walked through the wooden gate.

  A hand closed around my arm pulling me up short. I gasped and glanced over my shoulder.

  Kirk Redmond.

  His face was shadowed by the fedora he wore. He leaned down and I felt his breath against my cheek.

  “Dana Mackenzie,” he whispered.

  “Kirk Redmond,” I said, finding strength from somewhere to make my lips move.

  “Let’s you and me go for a little walk,” he said.

  I dug my stiletto heels into the ground and said, “I don’t think so.”

  Redmond pulled a pistol from the pocket of his pinstripe jacket just far enough that I could see it in his hand.

  “Want to change your answer, Dana?” he asked.

  A chill went down my spine. I shook my head and said, “I’ll stay here.”

  Redmond stretched his chin up, took a deep breath, and eased clo
ser until his body touched mine. He leaned down and spoke softly into my ear.

  “Then how about I go into the backyard and ask your mother to go with me?”

  I nearly fainted.

  Redmond jerked my arm. “What’s it going to be, Dana? You or your mom?”

  How could he have found out about my mom? How did he know who she was?

  Then a really sick feeling swept over me. I’d given him my folks’ phone number so my dad could talk to him about painting the Sullivan house. Redmond had found out where they lived—no big trick with the Internet these days—checked them out, had them followed, and was probably delighted to realize they were headed to Felderman’s party.

  “I’ll go with you,” I said.

  He kept his left hand locked around my upper arm and his right hand in his pocket with the gun. We skirted the edge of Felderman’s lawn, bypassing the other party-goers, and headed down the sidewalk.

  I glanced over my shoulder. No sign of Jillian, my best friend. All the other people I knew were laughing, drinking, and partying hearty. Even that idiot Jarrod Parker was nowhere to be seen, the one time I needed him.

  I had the sickening feeling this was the last party I’d ever go to.

  Redmond pulled me between two parked cars and across the street. We stepped up onto the sidewalk on the other side and kept walking. I guessed he was taking me to his car and it was parked a good ways from the party, as was mine. Only mine was in the opposite direction.

  At this point I figured I was a goner. I was no match for Redmond’s strength. He had a gun. I doubted he had any reservations about using it—again—so I decided I may as well satisfy my own curiosity about everything that had gone down.

  “Did Belinda pick out that costume for you?” I asked.

  Redmond’s steps faltered. He glared down at me but kept walking, giving me my answer.

  “You were the contractor on the patio at her house. That’s how you met, right?” I said.

  Home improvements financed by Mid-America’s second mortgage. Home improvements that eventually cost Sean Griffin his life.