by A W Hartoin
“Are any of these other names familiar to you?” I asked. “Any of you?”
They shook their heads while staring intently at the names. I kept looking at Waylon Parks’ name, something about that guy. Wait. He was a defense lawyer before.
“Valentina, you said that Bobby was no problem until he was arrested by my dad, but someone told me he had no record.”
“Right,” she said.
“What about as a juvenile?” I asked.
She gave out a soft laugh. “Oh, that. Your father and Detective Sampson said it had nothing to do with the murders. Kid stuff.”
“What did he do?” asked Fats.
“Nothing violent,” she said quickly. “He and a couple of friends broke into a house and rearranged the furniture. They thought it was funny and they got caught. The judge gave them a stern talking to. He was sixteen.”
“It only happened one time?”
She laughed again. “Such idiots. No. They did it three times and got caught every single time.”
I looked down at the names again. Petty crimes. Banging Bob never got away with anything until he started killing people. Weird.
“Did he ever go to jail?” I asked.
Fats’ phone rang and she walked away from the table.
“No. Two warnings and community service,” said Valentina.
I got all tingly and pointed to Waylon Parks’ name. “I know it was a long time ago, but was he Bobby’s lawyer?”
“Waylon Parks? No. I’d remember a name like that.”
Dammit.
“But he had a lawyer,” I said.
“Yes. My father hired him. I can’t remember the name. It was a run-of-the-mill name, not like Waylon.”
Carl raised his hand like a schoolboy. “I remember it, if it helps.”
Fats ran over with her finger to her lips, stopping Carl as he took a breath. We all stared as she wrote on the paper. “Make up a name.”
“What?” mouthed Carl.
She pointed to him. “Make up a name,” she mouthed.
“I…think it was Gerald…Smith.”
“Gerald Smith,” said Valentina, eyeing Fats with suspicion. “Yes, that sounds about right.”
Fats pointed at my phone and wrote, “Someone’s using it as a listening device.”
The stitching group’s eyes went wide. Solving a murder just got real in a hurry.
“Carl,” said Fats. “How did you come up with that star design for the quilt? It’s gorgeous.”
“Well, I…uh…drew a simple star to start.” Carl started talking about the star and I prodded the rest of the group to talk about stitching and then said, “Oh, let me get my phone out of the way.” I took it out of the room to Valentina’s kitchen and put it under a heavy glass bowl and covered it in tea towels for good measure.
I returned to the sunroom and Lydia exclaimed, “That was exciting. We had an eavesdropper.”
“At least we know how he knew where I was going to be,” I said, then explained our theory that someone had been listening before. “How’d you know?”
“Your friend” —Fats held up her phone— “called me. He said that he heard something during your conversation and was able to track a sophisticated bit of spyware that had been snuck onto your phone, turning it into a listening device when triggered.”
“I never noticed any weird sounds,” I said.
“It was lucky that he triggered it when you were talking to your friend. Most people wouldn’t notice the sound and it probably wasn’t triggered during a conversation very often. You like to text.”
“This could be useful,” I said. “Now who was the real lawyer?”
Carl jumped. “Oh, right. John Evans was the name. I went with Valentina’s father to the office once to drop off a check.”
I would’ve let out a shriek of joy if my mouth didn’t hurt so much. Instead, I picked up a red pencil, wrote John Evans, and drew lines to both Waylon Parks and Bob. I thought I might cry for a moment. What a wuss! But there it was—finally, a connection between Bob and the dirtbag brigade.
I told them John Evans was Waylon Parks’ law partner, the one that killed himself.
“How does this help?” asked Valentina.
“Give me a second.” I asked for Fats’ unbugged phone and called Uncle Morty.
“I got nothing,” he grumbled. “Your damn father’s still asleep and I poked him. I poked him hard.”
“Stop poking my dad and listen. We don’t need him,” I said.
“The hell we don’t. You ain’t got shit.”
“Banging Bob had a juvie record. I’m with his mother right now.”
Uncle Morty started cursing and typing, two things he did very well. “I got it,” he said. “This ain’t no smoking gun. It was a stupid prank.”
“I know that.” I told him who was Bob’s lawyer. More cursing.
“Who arrested Bob?” I asked.
More cursing. “Nobody,” he said.
“Define nobody.”
“Nobody we give a crap about.”
“Uncle Morty!” I yelled and everyone got still like zebras when they sense a lioness.
He grumbled and said, “Laurie Gavrieli. Got married and left the force in ’99. Before you freaking ask, no, she never worked on The Brain Trust.”
“Did she have any partners?”
“They partnered her with other chicks. They used to do that. Thought it stopped problems from cropping up.”
This has to be it. It has to be.
“Okay. Who was her supervisor during Bob’s arrests?” I asked.
There was a drawn-out pause and then a yell. “Son of a bitch!”
“Avery?”
“Hell, no. Scott Frame.”
“Find Laurie Gavrieli.”
“On it.”
We hung up and I wrote Laurie’s name and connected it with Scott Frame and then to Bob. Fats clapped me on the back, ramming me into the table. “Finally. I knew you’d get it.”
“But Scott Frame’s dead,” said Carl. “It was on the news.”
“Like Mark Twain, reports of his death are greatly exaggerated,” I said.
“What about the blood?” asked Valentina.
“He was an EMT. He could draw his own blood and splash it around his car to throw us off the track.”
Valentina traced the line between her son and Detective Scott Frame. “You think Frame made Bobby do it? He’s the reason he got away with it so long?”
“Bobby’s lack of an MO supports it. He was all over the place, leaving no clues, always a step ahead. How do you stay ahead of The Brain Trust if you’re not the brightest bulb? You have somebody on the inside.”
“But why?” asked Carl. “Why would a detective want to kill all those people?”
“I don’t know. I’ll ask him when we catch him,” I said with a grin.
“You should call the police,” said Valentina.
“I’m considering it, but they’re not going to be jazzed about this idea.”
Fats phone rang and she answered. “It’s your Grandad and he is pissed.”
I held up my hands and backed away. “I’m good.”
“He’s your grandfather,” said Valentina.
“I’m aware.”
She took the phone from Fats and put it in my hands. “He’s a very experienced detective. He’ll know what to do.”
Is there no one who won’t bother me?
“Er…Hello?” I said.
“You are not doing this! The Frame family is absolutely frantic! They know Scott is probably dead, but they’re still hoping! I won’t have you implying that Scott did this to us!”
“Grandad—”
“No. Leo Frame is my friend.”
“I know, but—”
“You think Leo wouldn’t know if Scott colluded with a serial killer?”
“It fits.” I was strangely calm, especially since Grandad was yelling at me. It was a little shocking, but it didn’t matter. This was a lea
d. I had to follow it.
“Leo was the best detective I ever worked with. He was the only one who came close to Tommy. He was beyond excellent.”
Beyond excellent.
“But Scott wasn’t,” I said.
“What?” Grandad was still yelling and the whole room could hear him.
“Scott wasn’t beyond excellent. He wasn’t even excellent. Avery said he was average.”
Grandad sucked in a breath. “Scott was an expert in forensics.”
“Putting him in a great position to manipulate evidence in Banging Bob’s case.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying. Leo was the best. He was better than me.”
Better than you. Better than you.
“Did Scott resent that?” I asked.
“Resent what? There was nothing to resent.”
“Yes, there was. You were on the Bled Mansion break-in back in the day. Leo was the lead, but you got picked to investigate the break-ins at Prie Dieu and Josiah’s house. You got invited to dinner. Not Leo.”
Grandad’s voice went low. “How do you know that? Mercy, what have you been doing?”
“Your granddaughter became The Girls’ goddaughter. I was born in the Bled Mansion. Millicent and Myrtle gave Mom a house worth hundreds of thousands of dollars even back then. There’s plenty to resent.”
“Leo never resented anything. He never married. He doesn’t have children.”
“But he had Scott. Why didn’t he get our house if Leo was better than you? Why didn’t his kids get sent to Whitmore Academy?”
“I don’t know what you think you know, but I want you to stop. Stop right now and leave it alone,” said Grandad with a hint of fear. Something I’d never heard in him before.
“You went to investigate The Girls’ break-in and our lives changed forever. Why you? Why not Leo?”
“Mercy.”
“No. Think about it. Not only was Scott robbed of a privileged life, then he gets to work for your kid. Tommy Watts, the acknowledged best ever, outshining Leo. Avery said Scott was average. He’s a nice man, so I’m guessing Scott was actually mediocre. How’d he get on The Brain Trust?”
“I’m not going to discuss this. You’re wrong.”
“Leo got him on, didn’t he? He helped his nephew, as any good uncle would do, or perhaps a surrogate father. Did Scott like my dad? Or was the anger just under the surface? Did you see it?”
“Scott is dead, Mercy.”
“He’s not,” I said. “That blood in the car. That’s not right. I can feel it. Can’t you feel it?”
“I don’t. I can’t. He wouldn’t do this to Leo,” he said softly. “He loves Leo.”
“But he hates us more.”
“What about Keely, Avery, and John? Why would he hurt them? They have nothing to do with the Bleds.”
I took a sip of coffee and let that roll around in my head along with the plan that was forming. “They deserved to be on The Brain Trust. They were the best. They didn’t need anyone’s help to get there.”
“Mercy, sweetheart, Scott is dead. He’s a victim,” said Grandad.
“No, he’s not and I’ll prove it to you.”
“What? No!”
“Gotta go.” I hung up and turned to Fats. “I have a plan.”
“I don’t think I’m going to like this,” she said as her phone rang again. We looked at it and I swiped Grandad away.
“I think you’re going to hate it, but we’re putting an end to this today. Right now.” I ran and got my phone, covering the microphone.
“He’s listening,” I said. “We’re going to give him what he wants.”
“What does he want?” asked Carl.
“Me.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, I was in the Isabella alone and talking to myself. Well, not exactly. I was talking to Scott Frame. With any luck, he didn’t know it.
“So I’ll find that file,” I said. “Where would Dad hide it?”
Scott was a lousy detective. He should buy a secret Brain Trust file.
“Not the office. He wouldn’t put it in the office.”
I glanced in the rearview mirror, but I didn’t see Fats. She was supposed to tail me to my parents’ house in Carl’s ancient Impala and nab Scott when he showed up. We’d planted the idea that I’d gone rogue and run off, trying to prove that I could do it on my own. I figured he wouldn’t try to take me if she was by my side. He wasn’t that crazy.
I would park in front and dash inside alone, just in case he was watching, leaving the door unlocked. Hopefully, she’d get him before he went inside, but if she didn’t, I had my Mauser and the will to use it.
Mr. Knox was waiting at his pagoda at the entrance to Hawthorne Avenue. I rolled down the window slowly because the crank was so stiff. Nobody ever rolled down the windows in the Isabella.
“Where’s your bodyguard, Miss Mercy?” asked Mr. Knox.
“She’s coming in her truck,” I said. “Please let her in.”
“Of course. Why do you have the Isabella? Rocco had it this morning.”
“Long story. Let’s just say I enjoy annoying Chuck.”
A smile flickered on his lips, but his voice was stern. “You shouldn’t torment that man. He’s loved you all his life.”
“He’s a huge pain in the butt.”
“As all good men are. Ask your mother,” he said. “How is she?”
“Better and my dad’s back.” Sort of.
Mr. Knox heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. It’s as good as solved then.”
I bit back the truth. The great Tommy Watts back to save the day? Not.
“It’ll be solved any minute,” I said. “I just need evidence from the house.”
“That’s so good to hear. There’s nothing you Watts can’t do.” He went to open the gate and I drove through, glancing at my phone. “All I have to do is get that file and we’re all good.” I said it happily, without a hint of the nerves I felt.
Nothing the Watts can’t do. No wonder Scott hates us. Ace Watts. Tommy Watts. Mercy Watts. Blah. Blah. Blah.
I parked the Isabella in front of the house, nice and obvious. I looked back and didn’t see Fats. She was supposed to be far enough behind so Scott wouldn’t spot her, so I wasn’t worried. I got out and trotted up the walk, unlocking the front door and keying in my code.
I pulled the door to, but I left it cracked like I was in a hurry.
Where should I wait? Office? Bedroom? Kitchen. There’s coffee in the kitchen. Yes!
Carl’s phone buzzed in my pocket as I headed for the hall.
“Lock the door. I broke down,” texted Fats.”
“Shit!” I said.
“Something wrong?” a man’s voice said behind me.
I spun around and gasped. Standing inside the door was a man, pale and bloated, casually pointing a Glock at me. He closed the door and armed the alarm with my code. Dammit.
“Who the hell are you?” I knew who he was, but I had to say something.
“Oh, no.” He tilted his head sideways and stuck out his lower lip. “You don’t know? So sad. Tommy Watts’ daughter is as stupid as she looks.”
“Judging a book by its cover is always a smart move.” The stairs were to my left. Scott looked like hell and obese to boot. I could make it and maybe not get shot.
“If you don’t recognize me, you are an idiot. Where do you think he hid that file you’ve been chatting about like a moron?”
Stall. Stall.
“What file?”
Scott crept forward, his gun arm going stiff. “The one your father so unhelpfully tucked away.”
This is good.
“I’m not going to give it to you,” I said. “And I know who you are. Scott, the mediocre detective, Frame.”
He fired, shattering the glass of a framed lithograph. I shrieked but held my ground.
“Mediocre!” he screamed.
Don’t poke the crazy guy.
“N
ot my words,” I said, trying not to shake.
“Whose words then?”
“Someone is going to hear you.”
“Whose?”
I made a quick judgment call. What would make him less angry? “Avery Sampson.”
His gun arm relaxed a smidgen. “That fool. He was so close so many times and he never saw it.”
“What? That you’re a serial murderer?” I asked automatically.
“I’m not a murderer!” he screamed.
Dammit, Mercy. Shut up!
“Seriously. Someone will hear you.”
Scott pushed a lock of long, greasy hair out of his face. “On this street? Forget it. Your mother cried for help and not a damn thing happened.”
“Why her? Mom never did anything to you,” I said.
“I want that file.”
“I want to know why you attacked my mother and tried to rape her. For that matter, if nobody came to save her, why’d you stop?”
Beads of sweat broke out on his clammy face. “I was interrupted by that Judas, Denny.”
He was lying I could see it in his face. Denny was already dead or dying when he went after my mother.
Come on, Fats! Fix the car!
“Judas? What did Denny ever do to you?” I asked.
“He was my friend and then he went to work for your asshole father,” he said. “Where’s the file?”
“I don’t know. There are dozens of hiding places in this house,” I said.
“You better figure it out quick or I’ll shoot you like a dog.”
“Shoot dogs regularly, do you?” I asked.
He fired again and shattered a second lithograph.
Dammit. What is my problem? Oh, yeah. I hate him.
“If you shoot me, you’ll never find it. My dad’s at the hospital right now, talking to the FBI. Time’s a wasting,” I said.
“You’re full of crap. That arrogant bastard’s stuck in Chicago for being a dickhead, as usual.”
“Nope.”
“He is.”
“Not.”
“How the fuck did he get out?” Scott screamed.
Come on. Somebody has to hear that.
“I got him out. A little Unsub goes a long way.”
