“Okay, looks like we have on a pair of black skinny jeans and a silk, white polka dot top covered with a burgundy and gray poncho.”
Her lips drew a straight line and she clicked her heels.
“Oh yes, the shoes. Black-lace heels with a killer four inch spike that could take an eye out.”
“Stay on my good side and you’ll keep both of your eyes, mister.” Long fingers tickled my ribs, then she popped my abs and arched an eyebrow. “Someone is staying in good shape. Damn good shape.”
“So says the prettiest girl in America.”
Taking her hand in mind, we ambled toward our designation. She nuzzled against my shoulder, and I gripped her bicep. I felt a larger bump than normal.
“You been pumping iron?”
“You bet I have. I want to make sure if any thug tries to take me down, he’ll wish he picked on another ditzy blonde?”
“Ditzy?”
“Just making sure you’re paying attention.”
“Ah.”
We traded workout stories walking into our brunch spot, Bistro 31—at least the part that was shareable. I didn’t want Britney thinking Cindy was any kind of competition. If anything, she made me appreciate Britney even more.
Just as we settled into our corner booth adjacent to a window that overlooked a birdbath surrounded by ivy and lush trees, a middle-aged woman with a rock on her finger the size of a walnut passed by and touched Britney’s shoulder.
“Great seeing you today. Next time, we might have to try two-on-one.”
Britney waved and said, “Thanks for the extra workout. See you next week.”
Allowing her poncho to slink off her shoulders, showing off a few more veins on her forearms, Britney opened the menu, then felt my stare.
“What?”
“Two-on-one? You guys trying out for the Mavericks’ D-League team?”
She produced a confused squint.
“Sorry, that’s the Mavericks’ Development League.”
She nodded. “I get it. She’s just my workout partner.”
“Cool.” Cindi’s workout escapades pinged my mind, everything from her suggestive comments to her final act of bending over to add weights to the machine. What a psycho. “Did you guys have a contest of some kind, and you kicked her ass?”
“Something like that.”
“Just something?”
“Okay.” Lifting her chest, she glanced around the restaurant. “I’m taking Tai Kwan Do classes, and she was joking about our sparring matches today. I just happen to come out on top.”
Taking another glance at her forearms, I realized she’d recently made a distinctive choice in her life.
“Something got you spooked? You know, I’m not going to let anyone harm you.” I placed my hand on top of hers.
Dipping her head, she released a warm smile. “It’s just the murder the other night. It could happen to anyone, I suppose, although who knows what that Courtney Johnson was involved in.”
I could sense self-protection, which was completely understandable, given her fiancé’s horrific murder a few months back. “Well, I’m proud of you kicking that lady’s ass. Next time, go for the ring. Did you see the size of that sucker?”
We traded winks and drank flavored tea. A waiter took down our meal orders and padded away as I felt a buzz inside my coat pocket.
I opened a text from Alisa.
“What is it?” Britney asked.
I didn’t respond as I read the text message.
Might have new client. Renee Dubois – exec dir Dallas Perf Arts; 8 a.m. Monday.
Tapping the screen, I wondered if this meeting was connected to Courtney’s murder. It seemed obvious, but I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Maybe she had a personal issue that required my assistance. Having never met her, I didn’t know what she found important. Everyone had something they held close, whether it was their reputation, personal safety, or even retribution.
“Is it top secret?”
“Not really, no. Might have a new client, and I just don’t want it to lead the ten o’clock news.”
“I can keep a secret.” She bit her lower lip.
“I’m sure you can.” I flipped the phone around and showed her the text.
Her eyes drifted for a moment, then she rejoined the conversation, changing topics.
“Your mom is a hoot. I loved hearing all her stories. No embellishments, even about her one and only son?” Britney queried, carrying a grin.
I held up three fingers. “I’m not sure I’d admit it in a court of law, but to you, it’s all true.”
“Even Norah Jones?
“She used a longer name back then. I think her dad was some legendary Indian musician. But yes, Norah did serenade me, and I did almost pee my pants.”
She snickered, her checks a slight pink, almost as if she shared my embarrassment from almost twenty years earlier.
“You’ve mentioned your dad a couple of times. It’s pretty obvious he’s not around much.” She slurped fancy tea through a purple straw.
I understood Britney’s intent, wanting to peel apart all of my layers, maybe work through some type of healing process on the ones that still touched sensitive nerves. But at age thirty-one, and seemingly in a good place in my life, I had no reason or desire to walk down a path of self-actualization.
I drank from my tea glass, accidentally sloshing a bit down my chin. Blotting my face with a linen napkin, I summarized my feelings about dear old Dad.
“He’s a deadbeat, plain and simple.”
“O…kay.” She nodded purposefully, searching for a response or maybe another question. I figured I’d cut to the chase.
“Look, he might be a decent guy, I wouldn’t know. It’s not my job to provide ultimate judgment, but I can only provide feedback on what I’ve seen,” I said, clearing my throat. I downed another mouthful of tea and continued explaining the enigma known as Sean Adams. “As a little kid, I remember someone big, tall, and white coming to pick me up, taking me to a park, then sitting on his ass reading his newspaper or talking on one of these new gadgets called a cell phone.”
We shared a quick grin.
“He wasn’t mean or overly strange, but he just wasn’t there. Not even the handful of times he took me away for a couple of hours. It felt like he wanted to be any place but interacting with me.”
She brought a hand to her chest. “I’m not trying to dredge up bad memories. But, you know, we’re getting close, and I want to know about all of you, not just the modern day version.”
I nodded, feeling her authentic gesture.
“As a kid it hurt, especially when other boys would show up with their dads at practice or brag about their dads’ grandiose accomplishments. I knew some of them were like me, and they’d still say shit like their dad was out of town because he was preparing for his flight on the space shuttle. Another kid claimed his dad was a secret agent for the CIA and traveled around the world on undercover operations.”
Memories flooded my mind: a few with my dad, most with my friends, playing pickup football games, my first middle school practice where I met a skinny white kid named Justin, and when I signed the Letter of Intent to play football at UT.
“Did you lose yourself in thoughts about your dad?”
A waft of hot spices lingered in the air, and I realized I’d been staring at my brunch, a bowl of fresh fruit and an egg-white omelet topped with salsa.
“Oh, sorry. Not really. Just makes me think about my childhood, back when time lasted forever. Now, life can be a blur sometimes.”
I broke off a chunk of omelet, melted cheddar dangling from my fork, swirled it in hot sauce and ate it. Britney dug into her quiche.
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
I rested my fork on the plate.
“That’s my last question about him…today.” She ran a finger over her chest, crossing herself.
I scratched my goatee, then chewed a spoonful of strawberries and blueberries.
“I think he blew through Dallas just after I became a DPD officer. Kind of funny. The most times he appeared in my life was right before I signed with UT, and then just before I was kicked off the team. I guess he thought there was a chance I’d work my way up to starting quarterback, then from there to break school passing records, be named to an All-American team, get drafted in the first three rounds of the NFL draft. He probably saw dollar signs. Like I said earlier, deadbeat, plain and simple.”
Britney touched my hand, rubbing a thumb across my palm, her eyes warm and caring.
“Can I sit up from the couch now?” I asked while stuffing more omelet in my mouth, stringy cheese clinging to my facial hair.
“Only if you let me sit on you.” Britney lowered her voice, then popped her eyebrows northward.
I checked my phone. “I’m open. Want to head to my place?”
She chuckled, then fanned herself and sipped her tea. “It got a little hot in here. Seriously, I have a little project I’m working on.”
“Care to share?”
“It’s a bit of a surprise. But I’ll share it soon.”
I was intrigued, but there was something about Britney that always seemed a bit mysterious.
“So, you know all about my family. What about yours?”
“You’ve already witnessed Grammy. Wooo. She’s a piece of work.”
Britney was referencing the dreadful day—her supposed wedding day—when a bomb exploded at the Old Red Courthouse, killing her fiancé. Moments after, in a disturbing display of timing and content, Grammy spouted off one racist comment after another, with my Latin ex-fiancée cop standing right there. Even worse, however, was how she ridiculed Ashton, who’d been dead no more than ten minutes, accusing him of infidelity while engaged to Britney. I had no desire to pull Britney back into a depressive state of mind.
“You met up with your parents and siblings last night. I don’t know much about them.”
She sat back and put town her napkin. “You do know I didn’t invite you only because I knew you had the gig at The Jewel last night.”
Apparently, she could read my mind or my body language. “I’m just trying to keep the balance of knowledge even,” I said, shifting one arm up, the other one down.
“I know, and I think it’s cute. Next time they’re in town, I’m going to handcuff you to me and my family.”
“I’m game.”
“Just to give you the abridged version, both of my brothers go to college, Texas Tech. Dad’s an accountant. Been with the same company for thirty-two years. Mom’s a high school teacher, going on twenty-eight years, I think. Good parents, normal childhood. Kind of boring, all in all.”
My eyes must have given my thoughts away.
“And, yes, Grammy is still causing all sorts of hell. Lives on her ranch in Odessa. She has a caretaker friend, the only one who can put up with her shenanigans.”
I nodded but refused to ask more about Grammy and her unfiltered mouth.
“You missed a pretty good concert last night,” I said.
“Vanilla Ice, right in our own backyard. I bet Justin was in hog heaven.”
“And then some.”
“How many people filled up The Jewel?”
“Let me look down your shirt?”
“Huh?” She scrunched her nose.
“Want to make sure you’re not wearing a wire for the fire marshal.”
She flicked a wrist at me.
“Let’s just say Justin was fortunate to avoid a citation. He made quite the haul, though.”
“What about Ice Ice Baby?”
“He had the girls in a tither, all ages, jumping and gyrating all over the stage. Only performed three songs, but he rocked it out.”
“Wish I could have been there. You know, I used to dance when I was younger.”
Her eyes got wide, and I leaned closer in my chair, setting my napkin down.
“Do share.”
“I did ballet, jazz, and tap dance. I had a little bit of rhythm, you could say.”
“Still do.”
She shifted her eyes away for a moment. “Tell you what, one day I’ll dance for you…”
I think my tongue was hanging out, envisioning Britney performing a sultry dance, the two of us alone in the theatre, her prancing around me while I sat in a single chair, center stage.
“Only if you play the piano.”
Blood slowed to the pace of a snail. “Can you dance to chopsticks?”
“Whatever. You learned to play from the Norah Joneses of the world, right?”
She was yanking my chain. I think.
“How about that knuckle song?” I strummed my knuckles across the table.
We both laughed. The check came, and this time I insisted on paying.
Sauntering along a curved sidewalk, a full, warm sun leaning a bit from the west, we heard birds chirping in a tree overhead. She turned her head, extending her neck. I just reacted and leaned over and kissed it. She giggled.
“Do you want to catch a movie? One of the first multi-theatre cinemas started right over there.”
I pointed west across the complex.
“Don’t you remember, I have that little project I’m working on?”
“Right. I forgot.”
“That’s one of the reasons I wanted to meet here.”
“What’s the reason?”
“Shopping. We are at the mecca for shoppers.”
“You’re project involves shopping? I think you aced your project long ago.”
She punched the front socket of my shoulder, her teeth showing a bit.
“Hey now. Just joking. Kind of.” She didn’t know it, but she’d landed a punch in the same socket where I’d suffered more than one dislocation. I kept that part to myself.
She leaned in and kissed me. “We’ll meet at your place later?” she asked.
“It’s a date. By the way, that handcuff routine? Want to practice tonight?”
She winked.
8
By the time Alisa picked up her voicemail—apparently a late Sunday afternoon rush at The Jewel hadn’t even allowed enough time for a bathroom break—more than two hours had expired since the call came in from Janice Pittman. Once relayed to me, I hopped in my Saab and zipped across town to the twenty-five-story tower that housed the office of Spencer Pittman.
Gnawing on a toothpick, I eyed the tunnel that opened into the underground parking garage at Cityplace, a two-building office complex just east of Central Expressway.
“Quiet as a mouse,” I said to no one.
But that was to be expected on an early Sunday evening. No one worked on Sunday evening…unless you ran a bar that showed NFL games, or were a PI who tracked Mr. or Mrs. “Cheata.”
I’d just gotten off the phone with Alisa for a second time in the last thirty minutes, asking her to call the offices of Pittman & Paxton Staffing Services to see if by chance Pittman or his Asian companion would pick up the phone. As expected, it rolled to voicemail.
Flipping the toothpick to the dry side, I wondered if I’d missed my opportunity. From what Alisa had shared, Janice Pittman had been rather histrionic on the voicemail, saying something to the effect of, “Find that dickless piece of lard and his whore, and you get me high-rez pictures of them in the act. And then I’m going to cut his balls off!”
Unsure if that was a metaphor or Janice’s actual plan, I had all the incentive I needed, and a new tool to help me achieve our collective goal, at least the high-resolution picture component. Keeping one eye on the garage, I placed a shiny toy between my fingers and twisted it around, admiring its special qualities: the Sony Cyber-shot DSC-RX10 digital camera.
The last time I’d caught the lovebirds in action, my cell phone was all I had, and it produced photos that looked like an inkjet printer had spit them out. After leaving Britney earlier, I did some shopping of my own, knowing I could expense it to Janice. In the process, I’d learned that cell phones take great shots in daylight, but at night, th
ey just didn’t stack up. Unlike a cell phone that often slipped out of my enlarged hands, the RX10 was compact, yet gripped perfectly in my mitts. It was a point-and-shoot camera, featuring a real optical lens, not just a digital zoom found in smart phones. The RX10 would supply much better image quality.
Sliding the camera in the front inside pocket of my leather jacket, I released a breath.
“High risk, high reward.” I turned the Saab ignition, punched the gas, and glided away, realizing I might be leaving the spot that would allow me to locate the couple. I drove southeast, toward Greenville Avenue, to a Dallas institution known as Stan’s Blue Note, otherwise known as Justin’s nemesis, professionally speaking. The bar probably didn’t have as much character as The Jewel, but it did have that irreplaceable element of tradition. Maybe Justin’s PR home run with Vanilla Ice would sway the sentiment in his direction…or not.
I’d tracked Spencer and his girlfriend, known as Lola, four times previously. Twice, they stopped at Stan’s where Spencer enlarged his gut another couple of inches while he watched football and Lola stroked his hairy arms like she was petting a longhaired cat.
Times like these, when I could use more than one set of eyes in the field, made me think about the setup at Booker & Associates. Alisa had been a gift in so many ways—organization, appointments, bookkeeping, and most importantly, research. She’d hinted at wanting to try her hand in the field, but we’d never discussed it seriously, not with all of the business we’d received requiring research-oriented background checks. I’d also considered taking on a real partner, someone with law enforcement experience, possibly Paco. But when I threw the bone out there, he didn’t take it. He was happy dressing in blue every day and had a more flexible personality to deal with big-city bureaucracy.
I didn’t mind taking risks. In fact, it was my own way of challenging myself.
Downshifting, I hung a right onto Vanderbilt and drove to the end of the street, and parked along the curb. Stan’s was sitting at ten o’clock. I killed the headlights, pulled out my point-and-shoot RX10 and used it as a pair of binoculars. With temperatures in the sixties and no wind, there was a fair chance of spotting them at one of the outdoor tables in front. I scanned the area and came up empty, then zoomed in a little more and was able see patrons sitting at the bar and playing shuffleboard at the opposite wall.
BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) Page 31
