Skin in the Game

by D P Lyle

  “Well, it don’t.” Jean picked up another rib.

  “They heard about the body we found,” Cutler said.

  “Parts,” Jean said. “Body parts.”

  Cutler scowled. “See? Mother has a way with words.”

  “The remains weren’t the girl we were looking for,” Harper said.

  Jean looked at her daughter. “I hear it was that missing school teacher. From over near Lynchburg.”

  Cutler nodded.

  Jean took a sip from her beer. “That’s terrible. I swear. The world’s coming apart. Car breaks down and she ends up pig food.”

  “Mother.”

  Jean shrugged. “Well, it’s true.” She looked at Cain. “What’s your story?”

  “Be careful what you say,” Cutler said. “Mother’s a crime writer. You might end up in one of her books.”

  “A writer? That’s great. Anything I might know of?”

  “Probably not. I’m more of a local phenomenon.”

  “You’re a phenomenon all right,” Cutler said.

  Cain smiled. “I suspect I can get your books at a local bookstore?”

  “Better than that.” Jean again licked sauce from her fingers, scrubbed them with a frayed napkin. She pulled a book from the bag on the ground beside her. “I’ve got one for you right here.” A pen appeared. “I’ll even sign it.”

  “He can afford to buy one,” Cutler said. “He has an expense account.”

  “Shish,” Jean said, and then to me, “How do you spell your name?”

  “Cain with a C. Bobby Cain. And Harper McCoy.”

  She scribbled the personalization and handed Cain the book. He looked at it and passed it to Harper.

  “Thanks,” Harper said. “We look forward to reading it.”

  “It’s about a serial killer.”

  “My favorite type,” Harper said.

  “Good. Mine, too. Enjoy it.”

  “I’m sure we will.” Harper slipped the book into her purse.

  A twinkle appeared in Jean’s eyes. “I expect you to go to Amazon and give it five stars.”

  “You can bet on it,” Harper said.

  “Got to run,” Jean said as she stood and gathered her plate and plastic flatware. “I need to chat with the mayor.”

  “Mother, leave Tom alone.”

  “I pay my taxes.”

  Cutler sighed. “That’s not the point.”

  “Sure ain’t. The point is he won’t give me the green light on using the park for my fundraiser.”

  “Yes, he will. He told you he would. But you have to submit the proper paperwork.”

  Jean parked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t have a secretary do all that crap. He does. He should do it.”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Guess we’ll see, won’t we?” She nodded to her daughter, then to Cain and Harper. “I’m sure I’ll see you later.” And she was off.

  “Welcome to my life,” Cutler said.

  “She’s feisty,” Harper said.

  “Not the word I’d choose.”

  They walked to the adjacent field. A group of girls were doing cheerleading routines, twirling and falling and laughing, while a dozen boys tossed a football around. Beyond, near the tree line, a group of older kids were firing arrows from long bows at a series of hay bales, maybe a hundred feet away, each fixed with targets and a dozen or so balloons. Cutler led them that way. A man, dressed in khakis, a black tee shirt, and a safari hat was directing the shooting efforts.

  He turned as they approached. “Chief,” he said.

  “Martin. This is Bobby Cain and Harper McCoy. This is Martin Stenson. Our local archery expert.”

  Stenson was fit, trim, well-tanned, pleasant smile. One of those guys whose age was impossible to guess. Blue eyes, blond hair peeking from beneath his hat. Could be thirty or fifty. Probably would look the same until he was seventy.

  A balloon popped. Martin turned. “Good shot, Danny.” The thin, mullet-haired boy beamed. “You’re getting better.”

  “Martin’s a big bow hunter,” Cutler said.

  “There are several of us around,” Stenson said.

  “Bow hunting isn’t easy,” Cain said. “Takes a lot of patience.”

  Stenson smiled. “That it does.”

  “What do you hunt?”

  “Deer and wild boar mostly. Sometimes we go up to Montana or Wyoming for Big Horn Sheep.”

  “That’s serious stuff,” Cain said.

  “You hunt?” Stenson asked.

  “Not since I was a kid.”

  “Let me guess,” Stenson said. “Rifles and shotguns.”

  Cain nodded.

  “You ever bow hunt?”

  “Some. As a kid. Wasn’t very good though.”

  “Bobby was better with knives,” Harper said.

  “What?” Confusion spread over Stenson’s face. “How do you hunt with knives?”

  Cain smiled. “Patience.”

  Stenson laughed. “I’d like to see that.”

  “Another time.”

  “Go ahead,” Harper said. “You need the practice.” She smiled.

  Harper extracted the two knives she had from her purse, handing them to Cain.

  “You always keep knives in there?” Cutler asked.

  “Usually,” Harper said. “Bobby’s not very good at keeping up with things.” She gave him a smile, an eyebrow bounce. “So, I’m his pack animal.”

  Part of their routine. They never exposed their real weapons. Unless they planned to use them. These were for show. Like now.

  Cain nodded toward the hay bales. “What color balloons do you want?”

  Stenson hesitated as if trying to decide if he was kidding.

  “Pick two of them,” Harper said.

  Stenson pointed toward a bale that had a half dozen balloons of varying colors attached. “Red and yellow.”

  Cain turned that way. A flick of his right hand followed by his left. Pop, pop. Red, then yellow.

  “That’s amazing,” Cutler said. “How’d you learn to do that?”

  “Misspent youth.”

  Stenson shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like that. Why don’t you come out to the house some time. My guys would love to see that.”

  “Martin has a ranch near here,” Cutler said. “He’s got quite the archery set up out there.”

  “I do,” Stenson said. “Come on out. We’ll do a barbecue, shoot some arrows. And watch you throw knives. Maybe you can teach my guys a thing or two.”

  “I’d love to,” Cain said. “Next time we’re this way.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Nashville.”

  “Not that far.” He watched as one of the girls burst a balloon with a well-placed arrow. “Good shot, Ellen.” He looked back at Cain. “What brings you down this way?”

  Cutler answered before Cain could. “They’re private investigators. Looking for a missing girl.”

  “Someone from here?” Stenson asked.

  “She went missing in Nashville,” Harper said, shaking her head. “We heard about the body Chief Cutler found, but it wasn’t the person we’re seeking.”

  Stenson looked at Cutler. “I understand it was Rose Sanders.”

  Cutler nodded.

  “Tragic. I didn’t know her but I do know the principal over there in Lynchburg. David Walton. Good man.”

  “Yes, he is,” Cutler said.

  A brief moment of silence.

  “I’d better get back to it,” Stenson said. “Hope you guys enjoy your time here.” He turned away, stopped and looked back. “The invite to my place is open any time.”

  “We’ll do it,” Harper said.

  They walked back toward the pavilions. Cain noticed that Jean had the mayor and his wife cornered near the water’s edge. The mayor seemed to be on the defensive.

  Cutler followed his gaze. “That woman is going to be the death of me. Seems like half the time I spend with the mayor, or w
ith the City Council, I’m cleaning up some mess she’s created.”

  “She does seem to be a pistol,” Harper said.

  “She’s a Gatling gun.”

  CHAPTER 23

  After planning to hook up with Cutler later at a bar called Maxie’s to listen to some local music, Cain and Harper headed to the B&B Cutler had arranged for them. They debated begging off and returning to Nashville but ultimately decided that until the website was up they couldn’t approach Adam Parker, and maybe an evening of relaxation and small-town life was in order.

  Lily’s Creekside Inn, a perfectly restored Victorian, white with lavender trim, occupied a tree-shaded corner lot only a block from the PD. The owner, Lily Butler, a short, stocky black woman with a round face, bright eyes, and an infectious smile, greeted them when they entered. “It ain’t often the Chief calls for reservations.” She laughed, swelling her cheeks, reducing her eyes to slits. “You must be important.”

  “Only in our minds,” Harper said.

  Another laugh. “Well, I got the best rooms in the house for you.”

  “Any room will be fine,” Cain said.

  “You’ll like these. Both corner, across from each other.” She spun the ledger on her counter. “Just sign in and I’ll show you the way.”

  The rooms were spacious, each with high ceilings, two large windows, a four-poster bed, and antiques everywhere. Everything smelled clean, fresh, and flowery.

  “Breakfast is served every day in the dining room,” Lily said. “Seven ‘til ten. Don’t miss it. It’s the best in town. Make the biscuits my own self.” Another belly laugh.

  “Sounds perfect,” Cain said.

  “Got a great wifi system. We’re all high-speed around here. The password’s on that card there.” She nodded toward an ancient roll top desk along one wall.

  After she left, Cain tugged his MAC Air and iPad from his canvas briefcase, settled it on the desk, and fired it up. A dozen emails, mostly SPAM, but two of interest. The first from Milner, asking if he had anything to report. Cain fired off a reply that said this was a dead end and that they’d be back in Nashville in the morning. The next, the one he’d been waiting for, was from Mama B.

  She wrote: “Here’s your pimp daddy site” followed by a link, and then, “Call when you can. Got the skinny on the guys you inquired about.”

  Harper came in the room. “I like this place.”

  “It’s very nice.”

  She nodded toward the computer. “Any news?”

  “Mama B came through. Let’s take a look.”

  Harper stood behind him as Cain clicked on the link. The world of high-end prostitution opened. Amazing. Mama B had hit a home run. The main page connected to several others revealing sub sites for various cities—New York, Chicago, Miami, LA, Houston, and Atlanta. Each had scores of pictures of scantily clad young women. Each beautiful, each a total fake. An 800 number was supplied for anyone looking for companionship.

  “She’s unbelievable,” Harper said. “This looks legit.”

  Cain pulled out his iPhone, put it on speaker, and called Mama B.

  “This is fantastic,” Cain said.

  “You expected less?” Mama B asked.

  “Not even close,” Harper said. “It’s exactly what we need.”

  “The number will connect to me,” Mama B said. “Anyone calls and I’ll give them the old two-step and let you know.”

  “Perfect.”

  “When you dig into it you’ll see it’s packaged as a very private and exclusive club. Not for public consumption. Requires a membership. That way the carrot will be bigger.”

  “Great idea,” Harper said. “Wish I’d thought of that.”

  “That’s why you have me.” A soft chuckle. “I figured that would end any questions they might have about it not being out there in their world. With the riff-raff.”

  “I like it,” Cain said. “We’ll be inviting them into a secret society.”

  “My thoughts exactly. If I read what I’ve learned about Adam Parker and Carlos Campos correctly, they’ll love it. Make them feel important. Special. Eager to invite you into their set up.”

  “Exactly what we need,” Harper said.

  “What have you found on them?” Cain asked.

  “Adam Parker is indeed a grad student. Smart kid. Straight As. He’s in the MBA program now. Has a condo just off campus. I’ll send you all his contact info.”

  “Good,” Cain said. “I plan to track him down tomorrow.”

  “The other guy, Carlos Campos, is a different story. He’s got a sheet with the local PD. Drug possession, a pair of assaults, a B&E, and was tagged for selling stolen items. TV’s, phones, laptops, that sort of stuff. Did a couple of months in lock up. That was for one of the assaults. Three years ago. Also got popped for pimping but that was dropped due to lack of cooperation from the girl involved.”

  “Sounds like dependence or intimidation,” Harper said.

  “Probably both,” Mama B said. “She initially agreed to come clean, be the good citizen. Changed her mind when it came right down to it.”

  “Not surprising,” Cain said. “Seems these girls never roll on their pimps.”

  “Looks like Carlos has a crew of sorts.”

  “We know he has at least two,” Cain said. “No names, but one of the girls had at least met them.”

  “I’m on it. I suspect they’ll turn out to be small-time street miscreants.”

  “My favorite type,” Cain said.

  “Try not to hurt them too badly,” Mama B said.

  “That depends on them, I suspect.”

  “Doesn’t it always. That’s all I have right now.”

  “You’re a genius.”

  “Of course I am. Later.” She ended the call.

  They had an hour before they were scheduled to meet Cutler so they walked around town. Pleasant and friendly, folks nodding and saying “howdy” more than once. Finally, they strolled into Maxie’s.

  To the left was a long bar, each stool occupied, and to the right a couple of dozen tables, also occupied. In the near corner a young man, hunched over, face hidden behind stringy hair, strummed country blues from a worn, acoustic Gibson amplified through a Seymour Duncan amp. He was in the middle of some catchy tune Cain didn’t recognize. Maybe something he wrote himself.

  Cain saw Cutler in the back, at a table beneath a picture of a narrow lake. Probably one of the many fingers of Tims Ford. She held a long-necked PBR, working the label loose with a thumbnail. A waitress followed them to the table. They ordered a pair of PBRs, too.

  “Got it.” She looked at Cutler. “You’re food will be right up.” She turned and left.

  “Food?” Cain asked.

  “Hot wings.”

  Cain rubbed his stomach. “Not sure I can help you there. After all the barbecue I ate today.” Cain had had seconds.

  After the knife throwing exposition, and meandering around the marina, Cutler telling them bits and pieces of Moss Landing’s history, the trio grabbed some food and sat at one of the picnic tables.

  “You some kind of wimp?” Cutler asked.

  “Just need to watch my figure.”

  “I’m sure that’s it,” Cutler said.

  “I’ll help,” Harper said.

  “That a girl,” Cutler said. She took a slug of beer. “Anything new with your investigation?”

  “Our site’s up and running,” Cain said.

  “That fast?”

  “We have resources,” Harper said.

  Cutler eyed her, and then said, “I still don’t get what you do.” She shrugged. “Maybe I don’t want to know.”

  The waitress placed two beers on the table. “Here you go. We got plenty more where that came from so drink up.” She wiped her hands on the small towel tucked beneath her apron tie. “Anything else?”

  “Wings,” Cutler said.

  “Got it.”

  Cain asked, “What’s your wifi password?”

  “MAX2013.
That’s the year we set it up.” Then she was gone.

  Cain opened his laptop, logged in, and headed to the page Mama B had created. He spun the computer toward Cutler. She studied the page and then looked over the screen. “I take what I said back. You’d make a great pimp.”

  “He would,” Harper added.

  “Funny,” Cain said.

  “This’s amazing.” Cutler clicked a few pages, going through the various cities. “It definitely looks official.”

  “Hopefully it’s good enough to fool Adam Parker and get us up the food chain.”

  “It will. No doubt.”

  The wings arrived. Cain closed the laptop and put it away. Cutler grabbed a wing; Harper, too.

  Cutler gnawed one to the bone, tossing it in the bowl provided, then licked sauce from her fingers. “You going to visit this Adam dude tomorrow?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “I’d love to see that.”

  “We’ll give you a call afterwards if you want. Let you know how it went.”

  “I’d like that.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Cindy Grant sat against the bars of her cage, cotton pants and a tee shirt, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She had cried off and on all afternoon, to the point that her ribs burned. As the sun set, she regained some semblance of control over her emotions. Her sobs now low whimpers, eyes raw, nose dripping trapped tears.

  What time was it? It had been dark for a couple of hours. Maybe longer. Time wasn’t easily judged once the sun faded. The temperature had drifted downward and he hadn’t turned on the space heater when he left. She tugged the blanket more tightly around her shoulders.

  When would he return? And when he did, what next?

  He had said she would be presented to the world. Be a star. What the hell did that mean? The dread that had held her for the past week deepened. Her mouth dry, sticky, acidic, her stomach a hard knot. The only thing she knew for sure was that she wouldn’t survive whatever it was. No way he could or would allow that.

  She stared at the door. Wishing he would come, fearing he might. This was purgatory. Not quite hell, not yet anyway, maybe close. Wasn’t purgatory hell’s waiting room? She thought she learned that once. Somewhere.

  She drew her bare feet against her buttocks, tucked the blanket around them, and rocked gently. Come on, she wanted to scream. Get this over with. Whatever is going to happen, let it begin. It couldn’t be worse than the anticipation.