“Tristan Fall told me she was with your son a month ago. She said he was going to talk to someone named Dicks.”
She did not reply.
“Ms. Rhodes, I cannot do what you are paying me to do if you keep things from me.”
She said the answer Blu already guessed because he knew her maiden name. “George Dicks is Jeremy’s grandfather. We’re estranged.”
Blu inhaled a lungful of vapor and exhaled. “What would you like me to do now?”
Cynthia Rhodes breathed in deeply and let it out. “Follow the lead. If he’s involved with Jeremy, I want to know. I’ll handle the Falls.”
She hung up.
He loved watching powerful people at work and thought he was about to witness just how much clout Cynthia Rhodes carried.
Chapter Ten
Sunday evening, eight p.m.
Mick Crome stood at the bar, one foot propped up on a rest, and took a long pull of his second beer of the evening. His last job, being a leg-breaker for this loan shark, had ended well. At least for Crome. And now he was tired and grungy from being on the road all day, only wanting a hot shower and a soft bed. But first he needed to get some food down which was what had brought him to this particular establishment.
It certainly wasn’t the clientele. While Crome, with his long brown hair and handlebar mustache, could blend in most places thanks to America being America and no one really knowing who had how much, he preferred dives like this hole in the wall. Frequented by ex-cons, soon-to-be cons, and men living on the fringes like himself working whatever jobs happened to be paying at the present time, this place always seemed to have the latest information. Or rumors.
And Crome never tired of either. It was how he’d made a living the last few years.
Also, the short order cook made a mean cheeseburger, one of which the bartender had just set in front of him along with a mound of fries.
His plan to take a vacation from being a PI had turned into a three-year sabbatical, sort of a “Kung Fu walk the earth” kind of thing.
Crome ate his food and was mopping up the last of the ketchup on his plate with a remaining french fry when two guys, bikers in leather vests, mounted the stools to his left. He nodded at them but kept to himself, preferring to eavesdrop over actual conversation.
One of them said, “He dropped all three of them? What was this guy’s name again?”
The other said, “Some PI lowlife in Charleston. Name’s Blu Carraway. And he did it in like ten seconds.”
With the mention of his old partner’s name, Crome realized he probably wouldn’t be getting that night’s sleep he’d been wanting after all.
Monday morning, ten a.m.
From the front porch, Blu watched his old partner, Mick Crome, pull his Harley to a stop next to the Land Cruiser, lower the stand, and lean the bike onto it. He’d heard the barely legal chugga-chugga of the V-twin motor and guessed who it was long before his friend came into view. So had the horses.
Most of them had herded to the far corner of the island, away from the noise, led by Blu’s favorite, the black one he’d named Murder. Dink and Doofus, undaunted, had stuck around. Simple minds sometimes had an easier lot in life, he guessed.
The two curious animals approached Crome with their usual absent-minded sniffing and snorting. Blu watched the cold-blooded killer pull out a paper sack from a saddle bag on his bike and reward each of them with a fresh carrot. The horses chewed the treat while he patted their heads.
It had been a while since Blu had seen Crome, about the same time they had returned Kincaid’s daughter. Crome generally shied away from schedules and prided himself on unpredictability. It had made him a savage soldier, but not a very reliable business partner.
Crome said, “Hola, muchacho.”
Blu’s second language was Spanish thanks to his Cuban mother. Crome had learned to speak it while in the Rangers.
From the doorway of his home, Blu said, “Hola. To what do I owe this honor?”
Folks had said Blu looked younger than his age. The opposite could be said about Crome. He’d chosen a rough life, and it showed in the sun burnt lines on his face and weathered tats on his arms. His long wind-blown hair, its brown color bleached by the sun, hung down below a do-rag.
From the chest pocket of an unzipped black leather vest, Crome pulled out a vaporizer, an identical unit to Blu’s, took a drag, and exhaled.
Crome pointed the device at Blu. “You got another big job.” It was a statement.
“And you figured I could use help, how nice.”
“Well, can’t ya?”
Blu said, “It’s a simple missing person job.”
A grin emerged from underneath Crome’s untrimmed mustache. “You took three of Caldwell Fall’s best head-on. I think you need a better strategy.”
Folding his arms across his chest and ignoring for the moment how Crome had come up with the intel so fast, Blu said, “I beat ’em, didn’t I?”
“Not by much, from what I heard.”
His friend was more right than he knew. While Blu had in fact won, his friend’s observation of “not by much” was really about timing—how far ahead of an opponent one could be always determined the outcome. Blu felt he had beat the three men by two seconds—a pretty thin margin, all things considered. As usual, Crome read the situation right.
Blu asked, “Want a drink?”
“You on the hooch, now?” Crome asked. “That would explain things.”
“No. I’ll buy you one, though.”
In his younger days, Crome had kept his edge with amphetamines. But Blu had seen him change over the last decade. Age was not taking a vacation for either of them. Crome had mellowed, but only as far as the red pills went. The last time Blu had seen him, he’d still had more drive than any two men. The newfound clarity after conquering the pill addiction had only made Crome more selective, more calculating, and more dangerous.
The ex-speed addict opened the Land Cruiser’s passenger door, which squeaked on unoiled hinges, and got in.
Blu assumed it meant his friend wanted him to drive. And buy the rounds.
Sitting at the bar, a dive on Folly Beach, Blu watched Crome down a shot of Crown and take a long pull from his bottle of Shiner Bock.
Crome asked, “You wanna tell me what you’re into?”
Blu squeezed more lemon into a sweet tea. “Not really.”
“I thought we were partners.”
“Me too, Mick. But then partners communicate more often than every few years. At least some of them do.”
Another grin. “I’ve been busy.”
Unlike Blu with his inherited island and horses, Crome had no dependents aside from his Harley. The money they made off Adam Kincaid had been a substantial sum. Even more so if it didn’t have to go toward any personal bills, as in Crome’s case.
Blu said, “What you’re really saying is you blew through the last payout and need some work.”
Another pull from the Shiner Bock. “Something like that. I’m sitting in this bar, doesn’t matter where, minding my own business, and these two guys on the job are talking a few stools down.” On the job in the parlance of Blu and Crome meant private security with a twist, the twist being the fine line between legitimate and not so. “Posers, both of them. But what should come out of one of their mouths but your name.”
“They said my name, huh?”
“Yeah, I have a word with them and get the story about the three guys you dropped.”
The “have a word” bit, coming from Crome, usually meant he extracted information by beating the ever-living daylights out of someone. Blu saw no reason to doubt the two loudmouths at the bar would be out of commission for a month or so, if they were still alive.
“Did they say anything about who I was looking for?”
“Naw,” Crome said. �
��Just that you kidnapped some princess and now her daddy’s all pissed off.”
Blu said, “Kidnapping isn’t really an accurate term.”
“So I’m guessin’ the princess ain’t the job.”
Blu pulled a folded copy of Jeremy Rhodes’ picture out of his back pocket, unfolded it, and slid it over to Crome.
Crome, holding his beer in his left hand, picked up the photo with his right. “Looks like your basic degenerate.”
“That’s what Gladys said.”
With a chuckle, Crome said, “How is our DMV girl?”
“Counting down the days to retirement. Lucky for us, she’s still got a few years left.”
“No kidding,” Crome said. “Otherwise you might actually have to do some work.”
Blu turned in his stool to face Crome. “You mean instead of wasting away in Key West or wherever the hell you’ve been the past three years?”
Crome let the photo drop on the bar and met Blu’s gaze. “That’s right.”
Their underlying problem went back a long time. They had a chance to sign on with this banker and run his private security. Six-figure salaries each. All expenses paid. Guaranteed five-year contract. Guaranteed!
And Crome wanted nothing to do with it. He’d said it would handcuff them. Which really meant it would handcuff him. Blu already had roots in the form of his island. At the time, Crome had nothing but his Harley, which was registered to Blu’s island address, and a rent-by-the-week furnished apartment, which he could ditch any time.
Blu said, “Crome, we’re blood brothers and nothing’s going to change that. But don’t think you can ride back into town and throw stones.”
Crome set his beer on a coaster and gave, what felt to Blu, a heavy look. Then he slid his hand into the inside pocket of his leather vest, pulled out a thin white number ten envelope, and laid it on top of Jeremy Rhodes’ photo.
Blu asked, “What’s that?”
Raising his beer to his mouth, Crome said, “Open it.”
There was nothing Blu could say or do. He’d tried to call Crome out for being the absent partner and had internally seethed at the missed opportunity with the security job. He picked up the envelope. It was sealed.
Again, Crome said, “Open it.”
Blu slipped a Benchmade knife out of his front pocket, rotated the blade out, and sliced the envelope open. Inside was a cashier’s check. With a very large amount printed on it.
“It’s all there,” Crome said.
What he referred to was the exact amount Crome had vanished with after the Kincaid job.
Blu didn’t know what to say.
Crome said, “I wanna buy back into the business.”
Sliding the check into the envelope, Blu laid it over Jeremy’s face. “Should I ask?”
His business partner said, “I had an odd job or two along the way. Something I had to do alone.”
“I see.”
“I hope so,” Crome said. “Sounded like you were about to say I wasn’t earnin’ my keep.”
Blu looked down at the bar. “At this point, it looks like I’m the only one not earning his keep.”
Crome chuckled and slapped him on the back. “Well, you got a good job right now, don’tcha?”
“True that.” Blu picked up his drink.
Tapping the photo with a finger, Crome said, “So tell me about our Jeremy Rhodes.”
Over another round of drinks, Blu told his partner what he’d learned so far. Afterwards, he drove them back to his island.
Crome moved into the spare bedroom, his belongings consisting of a bedroll and a small bag, and rode off, saying he wanted to check on a few things. Blu didn’t have much in the way of possessions, but he couldn’t recall a time since the Army when he could fit everything he owned into the saddle bags of a motorcycle.
Before Crome had left, Blu gave him the burner he’d bought before Rick had shown up with the high-dollar iPhone. Crome looked at the thing with angst and apprehension, but in the end, accepted it from him and slid it into a pocket.
Alone again, Blu filled the water trough for the horses and headed out into the city.
Chapter Eleven
Monday, mid-afternoon
The lead to Jeremy’s grandfather, George Dicks, was an odd one. Gladys helped with the information. The old man lived on Kiawah Island, a barrier island south of Charleston. Apparently, there was no lack of money in this family as Kiawah was an exclusive resort.
Dicks lived in a modest McMansion on the island where homes went for seven figures. And according to Gladys, he leased a new Range Rover and a new Jaguar. So of course he wouldn’t mind when Blu lumbered up in his ancient Land Cruiser that leaked oil and grease and parked on his artisan stone drive.
The guard eyed Blu as he had him sign in and wait while he stepped inside to call Dicks. Apparently, he didn’t believe Blu when he’d said he was an acquaintance of Dicks’ daughter.
After what seemed to Blu like an extra long moment, the gate opened. The guard waved him through.
Dicks’ elevated five-thousand-square-foot craftsman home overlooked a cove and had the aforementioned stone drive.
It didn’t bother Blu that his truck leaked a few drops everywhere it parked. He thought of it as an animal marking its territory. Of course, Dicks would probably have a different view, which made it all the more fun.
An older gentleman, who Blu guessed was George Dicks, waited for him on the massive front porch as he pulled up. His arms and face were tan. White hair peeked out from underneath a golf cap. A white golf polo and yellow golf trousers hung on a small but stocky frame. A white mustache made up most of the character of the man’s face.
Blu opened his driver’s side door, which gave a loud squeal, smiled, and swung it closed behind him.
Before he could speak, Dicks said, “I’m not sure why you’re here. I haven’t spoken to my daughter in a long time. Is something wrong with her?”
Blu walked up the stairs to Dicks, holding out a hand. “Mr. Dicks? Blu Carraway. Your daughter hired me to look into a situation regarding your grandson.”
“I know who you are.” He gave a smile. “As I told you already, I haven’t spoken with my daughter. Is my grandson in some sort of trouble?”
“I’ve got some information Jeremy was going to contact you. You’re telling me he hasn’t yet?”
Dicks shook his head. “Like I said, I don’t know anything.”
Not knowing anything and not speaking with someone were two entirely different situations.
“Will you let me know if he does contact you, sir?”
Dicks said, “You didn’t answer my question. Is he in trouble?”
Blu held his hands out, open palmed. “I don’t have any real evidence either way.”
“Now what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Blu said, stifling his frustration for the sake of pragmatism, “I can’t answer the question. If you have something or know something about him, it would be a big help, sir.”
“My daughter and I haven’t spoken in a long time. Her choice. Not sure exactly what I did, but that’s that. If the kid’s in trouble, I’ll help any way I can.”
Blu handed him a business card. “I’d appreciate a call if you hear from Jeremy or if you think of anything.”
Dicks said, “Sure thing. How’d Cynthia find you, anyway? Your reputation precedes you.”
Blu nodded but didn’t reply.
“Client confidentiality, I suppose,” the old man said. “I get it. Sure thing, I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
The men shook hands. Blu turned and went back to his truck.
Chapter Twelve
Monday evening, nine p.m.
The Land Cruiser lumbered down Highway 162 through Hollywood, South Carolina, the drive giving Blu time to thin
k. At this time of the night, there wasn’t much—meaning zero—traffic.
A pair of headlights appeared in the rearview mirror. A few seconds later, Blu checked the mirror again. It looked like the vehicle was gaining on him. His inner alarm sounded. Most of the time it was overly sensitive. But he liked being prepared, nonetheless.
As a precaution, he retrieved a Glock from the glove box and set it on his lap within easy reach.
The lights loomed larger. He kept his cool. His turn was coming up anyway.
The approaching vehicle veered into the other lane, Blu assumed, to pass.
Except it pulled alongside and stayed there. All Blu could see was a dark-colored two-door car with a driver and two passengers.
He reached for the Glock but couldn’t get there before the front passenger of the passing car shot out his front tire.
The Land Cruiser veered to the left and the car with the shooter pulled in front of him. Blu corrected the steering and kept the large wagon from tipping over, pulling to a stop on the side of the road. His gun and the contents of the passenger seat fell to the floor. Fifty feet ahead, the car stopped and the passenger door opened.
Wasting no time, Blu bent over to pick up the Glock.
Bullets peppered the front of his truck and windshield, flying over his head. A staccato of clanks echoed as the lead punctured the steel of his beloved truck.
They had him pinned down. At least he wanted them to think they did.
More shots came through the windshield.
Blu slid over the center console and onto the back floorboard with the Glock.
From behind the front seat, he raised up slowly and looked out the windshield. The impact of the bullets had spider-webbed the glass. Two distorted figures faced Blu from ten feet away and were reloading their weapons. Amateurs.
The car they’d gotten out of was behind them, its brake lights illuminating the scene.
Blu lifted his Glock between the seats, pulled the trigger twice, and nailed both of them with headshots. The two figures dropped to the ground.
In It for the Money Page 6
