Rest for the Wicked

by Ellen Hart

  “I’m good.”

  Finally taking a breath, Cordelia said, “Anything new on the sleuthing front?”

  “Actually, there is,” said Jane, glad for the chance to give Cordelia an update. “I talked to one of DeAndre’s best friends a few minutes ago. Looks like he was in town searching for his sister.”

  Cordelia’s eyes widened. “From his bio family?”

  “Exactly. Her name’s Sabrina. He never told anyone in his adopted family about her.”

  “Wow. Now that’s what I call progress.” Spying Nolan’s family album on the table next her, she said, “What’s this?” She opened the cover. “Is that Nolan as a kid?”

  “It’s his family album.”

  “I love family albums They always reek of dysfunction.” Licking ganache off her fingers, she added, “I’d say he’s in high school here. Look at that Afro. I didn’t know he had it in him.”

  Jane rose from the rocker and sat down next to her. “He could have starred in The Mod Squad.”

  Starting on page four, Nolan had written names under a few of the pictures. There were several photos of Nolan’s parents. A few of his two sisters, Fannie Lou and Malinda. Pictures of the house where he lived as a kid. College graduation. Several pages of marriage photos. One particularly handsome photo of him dressed in his beat cop uniform. Midway into the book came a section of shots of Fannie Lou’s family.

  “Those must be DeAndre’s brothers,” said Jane. The names James, Kellan, Antoine, and DeAndre were written underneath.

  A few pages on, Cordelia pointed out that Antoine didn’t like DeAndre.

  “How on earth could you possibly know that?” asked Jane.

  “Look at the way they’re sitting on that couch. James and Kellan have their arms around DeAndre. Antoine is sitting apart. And here. They’re playing checkers at the kitchen table. See the way Antoine is looking at DeAndre? He’s shooting daggers at him. When the four boys are together, Antoine rarely sits next to him. When he does, DeAndre goes all rigid, won’t look at the camera. And see,” she said, turning pages more quickly, “it doesn’t change.” She pointed to a photo of DeAndre at his high school graduation, wearing cap and gown. Antoine was standing beside him, beaming at the camera. DeAndre stood stiffly, unsmiling. “Must be a story there.”

  Cordelia was good at reading people. She was undoubtedly right.

  Toward the end of the album, they came across a few pictures of a celebratory dinner at a restaurant. Underneath, Nolan had written, “DeAndre’s twenty-first birthday party.” Nolan was at the table, as were DeAndre’s mom, his dad, and two of his brothers.

  “Antoine is nowhere to be found,” said Cordelia. “You should ask Nolan about it.”

  “I didn’t tell him I took the album.”

  “Ah, thievery.” She stifled a hiccup.

  “Are you sloshed?”

  “Pretty near. I don’t think I should drive.”

  “Want me to take you home?”

  “If it’s okay with you, I think I’ll stay the night, just like old times. I’ll give Bolger a call. He can get Hattie up and off to school in the morning.” She poured herself another glass of champagne. “It’s not every day I quit my job and begin a new life.” Her eyes brightening, she said, “Let’s order a pizza and watch a tearjerker. Now, Voyager. An Affair to Remember. Love Story.”

  “The Way We Were.”

  “Yes!” said Cordelia. “That’s the one. What do you say?”

  Jane closed the album. What she really wanted was to dig into Avi’s book. She might still get a chance if Cordelia fell asleep watching the movie. “I’ll order the pizza. You go find the flick.”

  “Division of labor. I like that.”

  18

  Vince broke apart his pistol and began to clean it while willing his cell phone to ring. Why the hell hadn’t Crowder called him back? It was déjà vu all over again. The joke elicited a sour smile. For about five seconds.

  After scrolling through the flight options online, Vince had picked a couple that looked promising. Not too early in the morning. Nonstops. He didn’t, however, book the flight. Instead, he called Crowder, hoping to give him the details, see which date made the most sense. When he was put through to voice mail, the anxious feeling inside his chest expanded so fast that it nearly cut off his breath. This time he left a testy message, swearing and saying that he wasn’t going to book the flight until they’d talked. He told Crowder to call him ASAP. ASAP.

  That had been three hours ago. It was going on eleven and still no word from him. The difference in time zones shouldn’t have created a problem, because Crowder had said he’d be home all evening.

  The door to Vince’s office cracked open, and Shanice stuck her head inside. “Got a minute for some good news?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, motioning her to the chair next to the desk. Once she’d swaggered in and taken a seat he added, “I need more blow.”

  “Is that why you wanted to talk to me? I can’t get it to you until tomorrow. Completely sold out.”

  He saw no reason to hide his displeasure. “Is everyone in this place a cokehead?”

  “A few of your employees might as well sign their checks over to me. Most of what they earn goes up their nose.”

  He didn’t really like Shanice. He thought her managerial skills were good, but her arrogance was hard to take. She was, however, his drug purveyor of choice. A discreet and usually well stocked dealer was hard to come by. “The good news?”

  “Oh, right. Just found out that Café Bacchus is about to receive a stellar review in one of the local rags.”

  “One of the major restaurant reviewers?”

  “No, a guest reviewer. A big name—you’ll know him. It’ll be a great review because—” She tapped the side of her nose.

  “He buys from you.”

  “Didn’t hear it from these lips.”

  Shanice had a hard-on, if he could put it that way, about being a chef. Café Bacchus was her first big break.

  She leaned into the desk and lowered her voice. “Listen, since I’ve got your attention, I need to warn you about something.”

  “Such as?”

  “There’s a woman who’s come to the club a couple of times. Her name’s Jane Lawless.”

  “Sure, I met her. She’s a restaurateur. I’m trying to interest her in investing in Gaudylights.”

  Shanice crossed her legs. Then her arms. “You might want to rethink that.”

  “Because?”

  “She’s been snooping around, asking questions about the guy who got murdered in the alley. She’s always meddling in other people’s business. Thinks she’s a PI.” This time, she tapped her head. “A real head case, know what I mean?”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I worked at one of her restaurants. Nobody liked her.”

  “Well, you might be right, but I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “I’m just telling you. We don’t want her messing in our business.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Well, think.” She uncrossed everything and got up. Pausing at the door, she glanced back at him. “Just a word to the wise.”

  Vince stared, shuddering, at the spot where she’d been standing. Something about Shanice gave him the creeps.

  Taking a sip of bourbon, he shook her out of his thoughts. Maybe he’d talk to Jane Lawless again and maybe he wouldn’t. It was his call, not hers.

  Propping his cell phone against a stack of magazines, he decided that if he couldn’t fly to Salt Lake City right away it wouldn’t be the end of the world. On the other hand, if Crowder didn’t call him back, and soon, it just might be.

  * * *

  Emmett sat on the living room couch, feet resting on a footstool, his MacBook on in his lap, with papers and books strewn around him. Across the room, the TV was on, turned to the local news. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon writing the report for AirNorth, which he’d finally finished and wo
uld deliver in the morning. Roddy had called right after school and said he needed to study for a test and wanted to do it at a friend’s house, where he’d been invited to stay for dinner. The fact that his son was out past his curfew again barely registered. What compelled Emmett’s attention was a series of quotes that he’d found on the Internet. He was mulling them over, deciding which of them to use for his meeting with Kingston, when his son came through the front door.

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Roddy, dropping his backpack next to the coffee table.

  Emmett glanced up. “You all ready for your test tomorrow?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. Ready as I’ll ever be.” He pushed some of the papers aside and sat down on the other end of the couch so he could watch the TV.

  The news anchor finished a story on the governor, switching to one about a St. Paul teen who’d hanged herself in the basement of her family’s home on Wednesday night.

  “Hey,” said Emmett, stopping to listen. “They said she went to your school. Did you know her?”

  “I’d seen her around. Knew who she was. Everyone was talking about it today.”

  “Why’d she do it?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  “So sad.”

  “What’s that?” asked Roddy, picking up a five-by-seven photograph. “Hey, that’s you, right? Were you on a baseball team or something? You’re all wearing uniforms.”

  “The Gillford Wildcats. It was a National Adult Baseball Association league. Twelve teams in all. The year before I joined the air force, I used to play for them—just for fun.”

  “Is that guy there”—he pointed—“Mr. Bessetti?”

  “We were all young once.”

  “And the man with his arm draped over your shoulders. He looks like that guy who got out of St. Peter a few months ago. Can’t remember his name.”

  “Royal Rudmann. Yeah, we were a wild bunch.”

  “Seriously wild?”

  The question made Emmett’s skin crawl. “No, just guys being rowdy. You know. All in good fun.”

  “Why’d you dig the picture out?”

  “No reason really. Just remembering my wasted youth.” In truth, the memory of that time was a like a cement block lodged inside his stomach, one that never went away.

  “Your hair looks silly.”

  “You better think about getting to bed.”

  Roddy understood how important it was to keep up his grades. If he didn’t, the football scholarship at LSU would be withdrawn. Emmett wasn’t worried. Roddy was the one part of his life that had always worked, no matter what. If they had problems, they dealt with them and moved on.

  “What are you working on?” asked Roddy.

  “I finished my report on last Monday night’s flight. I asked to talk to my supervisor when I submit it.”

  Roddy nodded.

  “Nothing to worry about. I’ve got it covered.” He reached over and clamped a hand onto his son’s shoulder. “You’re growing into a fine man, son. I’m proud of you.”

  Roddy rose and grabbed his backpack. “Gonna hit the sack. Night.”

  “Night,” said Emmett, returning to his attention to his Internet browser. After his meeting tomorrow, it would all be over. If he got canned, well … he’d figure it out.

  19

  Avi carried a plate with a single chocolate cupcake, a candle stuck in its center, into the living room and set it down in the middle of the carpet. After switching off all but the light over the stove in the kitchen, she lay down on her stomach in the darkness and struck a match.

  “Happy birthday,” she whispered, chin propped on her fists, staring at the flame, watching the wax melt to within millimeters of the frosting. She finally blew it out. Some birthday, she thought bitterly. After five years, nine months, and seventeen days—then again, who was counting—spent with a woman she intended to live with and love for the rest of her life, she was on her own. Again. It was too early to get involved with anyone else, and she knew it. She was attracted to Jane, perhaps more than just attracted, but also concerned that her growing interest wasn’t smart. It wasn’t good to get too close to anyone right now since it would only complicate matters.

  Before she could figure out a way to get comfortable on the carpet, her phone gave two quick rings, alerting her that someone was outside. Rushing to answer it, she said hello.

  “Um, hi. Can you buzz me in?”

  “Dorsey?”

  “Can’t seem to find my keys.”

  She pressed number 4 and held it. A minute later she heard a soft knock on her door. She looked through the peephole to make sure it was him. “What’s going on?”

  “Am I interrupting something?” he asked, pulling a half-full bottle of Jack Daniel’s out from under his coat. “It’s dark in your apartment.”

  She quickly snapped on some lights. “Where’d you lose your keys?”

  “Don’t know,” he said, leaning against the door frame. “Probably somewhere between here and there.”

  “You been drinking?”

  “Sharp as a tack. Nothing gets past you.”

  “We better call the super, see if he can let you into your apartment.”

  “No,” he said abruptly. “Won’t work.”

  “Why?”

  He ambled into the room and slumped down on a chair. “For one thing, he’s not home. He always stays at his girlfriend’s place on Thursday nights.”

  “You know this how?”

  “He told me. Shit, I need to think this through.” He pressed his palm to his eye.

  Avi watched him get up and weave his way past the cupcake on the carpet, heading toward the kitchen.

  “The cupcake’s an interesting decorative touch. Kind of worries me, though. Your friends trip over it much?” He dropped his heavy winter coat on the floor in the dining room. Underneath he had on a pair of baggy jeans, a bulky wool turtleneck, and a military green sleeveless jacket. “This apartment has the same layout as mine, except reversed. Don’t suppose you’ve got any munchies.”

  “In the cupboard above the refrigerator.”

  “Crap,” he said, lifting down a package of Sun Chips. “I hate these. You got anything else?”

  “I’m not a 7-Eleven.” She’d never seen him so much as take one single drink before.

  “No problem, I’m good.” He bumped past her on his way to the living room couch, where he dropped down and lifted his heavy boots up on top of the coffee table, dripping water on her magazines.

  “Take those boots off,” she ordered, picking up the cupcake and blowing out the candle.

  “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” He removed them, rubbing his feet with a blissed-out expression.

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  Drinking straight from the bottle, he said, “So? Can I stay? It’s either your place or I sleep in the stairwell.”

  “Are you kidding me? You actually think you can walk in here and just—”

  “Here’s what I’m thinking. I could leave the super a message, tell him I lost my apartment key, that I need another. He could leave the new one with you.”

  “Why can’t he give it to you?”

  “I may not be around.”

  “He could let you into your place in the morning and give you the key then.”

  “I don’t want him anywhere near my apartment. I just need the new key.” He spread his legs wide and held the bottle in his lap. “He brings it up, gives it to you, and you give it to me. Simple.”

  “What if he won’t give me the key?”

  “Yeah, I suppose that could present a problem. I’ll tell him there’s a twenty in it for him. That should do it.”

  “Why don’t you want him in your apartment?”

  “Because I’m building an intercontinental ballistic missile.” He offered her the bottle.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “You think?” He shrugged at her disinterest in the booze. “Seems kind of early for bed. What should we do?” He snapped his fingers. �
��I’ve got it. We’ll play the truth game.”

  “I haven’t even said you can stay.” She perched on the arm of a chair. “You are something else, you know that?”

  “No funny business, I swear to God. I’ll sleep right here, won’t make a peep.”

  Her instincts told her to toss him out. Her history, however, tugged her in a different direction. She’d crashed on many a friend’s couch in her life and always appreciated the kindness. He was such a mess, if she told him to leave, he might freeze to death on his way to a motel. “Okay, I guess you can stay.”

  “You’re creating good karma, Avi. Everything we do comes back to us in the end.”

  “I hope not,” she said, shivering.

  He opened the bag of chips and pulled one out, sniffed it, grimaced, then popped it into his mouth. “Okay, so here’s how we play. I tell you three stories about my life. You tell me which one is true. Ready?”

  She groaned as she slipped sideways down into the chair. He was slurring his words, so maybe she’d get lucky and he’d fall asleep midsentence. That way, she could just throw a blanket over him and go to bed.

  “Here’s scenario number one. I was born on a farm in Iowa. My parents were God-fearing Christians. I was raised up right, to love God and keep his commandments. My duty was to find a good wife, get married, and raise a passel of God-fearing kids.”

  “On a farm in Iowa.”

  “Heaven on earth.”

  Instead, thought Avi, you’re a gay man working in a strip bar surrounded by a bunch of seminaked women. There was a certain irresistible symmetry about this one.

  “Scenario number two,” he said, tipping the bottle back to take another sip. “I’m an inner-city kid. Mother was a barkeep. Father was a Mafia don. Well, maybe not a don, exactly. I’m exaggerating. More like a well-paid thug. He told me he worked for the FBI, which I believed because I was a stupid kid.”

  “Far more colorful than the first story,” said Avi.

  Dorsey held up three fingers. “Third scenario. I was an orphan, smuggled out of an orphanage by a handsome male attendant who wanted to have his way with me. I escaped and was raised by wolves, thus my perfect manners.”