“Shut up and walk over there to that cooler, nice and easy. Both a you.”
Morgan’s entire body shook. “What are you talking about, working the rich bitch crowd? Answer me!”
The gun shrugged, just barely. “You really don’t know?”
“Know what?”
Earless nodded to himself. “To the cooler. Now!”
The thug was going to lock us in the freezer? Pulleeze. He’d been watching too many bad-guy movies. Walking to the cooler, Morgan swayed but kept going, planting each foot carefully like a drunk. After kicking off my sandals, I followed with bare feet, wondering if he was an alcoholic. I hadn’t smelled any booze on his breath. Strangely, his equilibrium was anything but settled. Maybe he had a medical condition.
“Go ahead, open it,” Earless demanded. “Doubt you’ll freeze to death. Somebody will find you when the restaurant opens.”
Pretending to reach for the walk-in’s lever handle, I spun and shoved his extended arm across his body—stepping into him so he wouldn’t have the advantage of leverage—and forced his wrist into a reverse twist. In an instant, I had his gun. I swung open the cylinder, dumped the six rounds, and passed the empty gun to Morgan.
“What the hell?” Earless came at me with balled fists. I sidestepped the first punch and threw a heel into his chin. His head snapped back. He came at me again. My next kick made contact with his kneecap, and he went down, pulling another revolver out of his boot. I trained the Ruger on him, but he was quick and we ended up in a standoff. Keeping the muzzle pointed at me, he crab-scooted backward on his butt. When he reached the back delivery door, he rolled through and slammed it shut. I went after him but couldn’t get the door open. He’d wedged something under the bottom to hold it shut from the outside. It was the thick metal type of door that would have broken a bone had I tried to kick it open. By the time I went through Argo’s front foyer and around the building, Earless was gone.
“Holy crap,” Morgan breathed, catching up. “That was amazing, how you took his gun away and fought him!”
“No need to bruise my hands with a fistfight.” We went inside through the back door. I found my sandals and slid back into them.
Morgan handed me the stranger’s gun. “Who was that guy?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“I swear, I have no idea. Maybe he saw the Gaffney van pull out and knew I was still here and wanted to rob me.”
Earless’s gun was an old .38 special that looked like it might have been purchased cheap at a pawnshop. Or stolen. I’d give it to Dirk and let his department send it through ballistics. That’s the great thing about having a friend on Wilmington PD’s payroll—getting things done without too many questions. “Morgan, I can certainly pretend to be an idiot when the situation warrants. But trust me, I’m not.”
He breathed deep and emptied his lungs with a lengthy sigh. “I can only figure that Garland had some sort of relationship with him. And he obviously knew my mother, or wanted me to think he did.”
“What do you suppose he meant about her working the rich crowd?”
Morgan made a clueless gesture with his hands.
“Let’s go see what’s in that safe,” I said. “If it’s private family business, then I’ll leave you to it. If not, you might need my help.”
“I don’t need anybody’s help!”
Arms crossed over my chest, I waited. A fat drop of blood rolled down his chin and plopped to the floor. His gaze followed it. “Okay, maybe I do need help. But I have no idea what I need help with. I don’t know why somebody broke into my apartment or what they were looking for. I don’t know why somebody searched my car. I don’t know anything about my father, except that he ran this restaurant and everybody loved him. That’s all I hear. How much everybody misses him. And my mother? Her thing was the garden club and volunteering. Working the ‘rich bitch’ crowd comment makes absolutely no sense. She was a schoolteacher, and when she retired from that, she helped Garland with the restaurant. She greeted people, and everybody loved her, too. Everybody adored both of them. They were like two of the most popular people on the planet. But they’re dead. And other than restaurant employees, the only person I knew in Wilmington has moved back to Texas to live with her ex-boss. So she’s dead, too, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t go out, I don’t have any friends, and I don’t know who the jerk with gun was or what he wanted. I’m only trying to live my life and run this damn restaurant!”
Breathing hard, Morgan lurched forward and nearly fell. He found a clean dishrag and held it to his bleeding mouth.
Ruger drawn in case Earless had plans to return, I headed to the safe, staying close to cover. Spent of words, Morgan followed. The safe’s door was open about an inch. Careful not to add my own prints to those already on it, I swung open the thick door with my elbow. The inside held two shelves. Both were empty. The entire safe was empty, except for a square of scrap carpet placed in the bottom. I found Gaffney’s invoice on the desk, dialed the cell phone number, and asked if he could tell me the contents of the safe he’d just opened. Earless could have swiped something after the safe tech left, before he’d tried to put me and Morgan in the cooler.
“Lady, the contents of a safe isn’t my business. I didn’t even pull the door all the way open because he didn’t want me to repair it.”
“But was there anything in there? Papers or boxes or anything?”
“Like I said, it ain’t my business to pore through somebody’s belongings. I’ve been in this business probably more years than you’ve been alive, and if you’re trying to accuse me of taking—”
“No, no,” I interrupted. “That’s not it. Did you see anyone else in the restaurant or parking lot when you left Argo’s?”
“No. Everything was quiet. Empty parking lot, except for a hearse.”
Morgan fell into the desk chair and shuffled stacks of newspapers, as though covering up something he didn’t want me to see. I sat in front of the open safe and removed the loose remnant of carpeting at the bottom. Nothing there but a solid metal base and two round holes, where the safe could be bolted to the floor from the inside. That would definitely keep somebody from hauling the thing away with a hand dolly, but Garland hadn’t bothered to bolt it down. I was about to replace the carpet when I spotted a tiny round pill. Half the size of an aspirin tablet, light blue, scored on one side, numbers on the other. I asked Morgan for a plastic bag and dropped in the tablet. Next, I removed both shelves. Both were covered with glued-on felt all the way around, except for the back edge. The top shelf was solid wood, about an inch thick. The middle one was the same thickness but made with two sheets of thin plywood, hollow in the center and open at the back. A large manila envelope was stuffed inside.
Inside was a handwritten list of names. Some had corresponding phone numbers. Beside the numbers were two-and three-letter abbreviations: PT, X, WL, and so on. Morgan took the papers, held by a snap clip, and flipped through.
“It’s my mother’s handwriting.” His voice was soft, barely audible. “I’d recognize it anywhere. She used to send handwritten cards. Short notes to tell me to have a happy week, or to let me know she was thinking of me.” He flipped through the pages again. “Some of these names … I’d have to check to be sure, but I think they’re regular customers. I recognize maybe half of them, anyway.”
I unfolded my legs and got off the floor. “Do you want my help to figure this thing out?”
“I don’t know anything about you.”
“And you are on familiar terms with plenty of other people in town who can help? Lend their expertise? Protect you? Find out why a man just tried to lock you in the walk-in?”
“Okay, okay. I guess you’re right.” His palms went to his face, covering what I suspected to be a frightened expression. “I admit it. I need help.”
“Now that that’s settled, you must quit lying to me.”
Morgan’s hands fell back to the desk as though his muscles were too tired to hold t
hem up any longer. “I haven’t lied to you, not really. Anyway, I can’t pay you. It’s not like I have a spare chunk of cash lying around. I’m still paying off the damn ring my ex took. And Garland and Mom’s estate hasn’t been settled yet.”
I sat on a corner of the desk and studied his eyes for a moment to make sure he was listening to me. “This job, Morgan, is a favor for your sister. I want to help you, and I’m here for you. But for this to work, you have to tell me everything you know.”
Eyes damp, he nodded.
I called Lieutenant Dirk. “I’m at Argo’s restaurant and a Caucasian male just tried to rob the owner at gunpoint.” The robbing part was a lie, but much easier than trying to explain the truth. “He took off, but I’ve got his gun. Maybe you want to shoot a bullet through it, see if there are any ballistics matches in the system? And if you could send somebody with a fingerprint kit, that would be great, too. Because he may have stolen something out of a small safe. Might be able to pick up a usable print from the door of the safe. That’s all I’ve got. No name, no vehicle, no tag number. Oh yeah, and the guy is missing about half of his left ear.”
“You bite it off?” Dirk said, half-serious.
“Really, Lieutenant. You should know that I don’t scratch, pull hair, or bite. Well, not during a fight, anyway.”
He made a snortlike sound.
“Will you do it?” I asked.
“The restaurant owner will need to file a report of a break-in.”
“No problem.”
Dirk agreed that he would run the weapon through the system and send someone to dust Morgan’s safe for prints.
Meanwhile, Morgan was in a cooperative mood. Even if it was fear induced, I figured I might as well take advantage. “Let’s go check out your folks’ house, shall we?”
“Why?”
“You got anything better to do right now?”
He said he didn’t.
“Good,” I said, “because we might find something that will tell us what your mother and father were up to.”
I offered to drive. Morgan wasn’t overly taken aback at the sight of the hearse. He was still recovering from his eventful morning. We’d barely gotten to Oleander Drive when my mobile buzzed. It was Trish.
“That dark blue Nissan Murano? The one I caught tailing Morgan? Think I’ve found him again, except this time the Nissan is wearing a South Carolina tag. Probably another prop plate. Male driver, nobody else in the vehicle.”
“Excellent,” I told her. “Where is he?”
“Right behind you,” she said. “Tailing Morgan, I’d guess.”
TEN
I spotted the Murano about three cars back. Its sole occupant had both ears. I turned into a convenience store, pulled up next to a gas pump, and idled until the tail pulled in. He drove to the back corner of the lot where a coin-operated generator sold compressed air. After a beat, he got out and pretended to be checking his tire pressure.
I gunned it—as much as a hearse can be gunned—and pulled alongside the Murano, blocking him in. Unless he wanted to plow down the air compressor or back over thick shrubbery, he was going to have to talk to me. Tire gauge in hand, he stood, acted surprised. Produced a friendly smile. A charming smile, really, that filled an attractive face subtly covered with a four-or five-day beard growth.
After instructing Morgan to remain in the corpse caddy, I went to check out the driver. His hair and beard was a beachy blond, the natural kind of color caused by either genetics or lots of sunshine. Hazel green eyes that reflected the sunlight as though they held a bunch of tiny mirrors. Tall, lanky frame, wide shoulders. Strong hands and neatly trimmed, clean nails. Dressed in jeans, a good-quality T-shirt covered by a lightweight sports coat, and cowboy boots. The type of guy who’d help an elderly lady with her groceries or offer to carry her luggage in an airport.
I showed him my basic smile, the noncommittal, hard-to-read one. “Having a problem with your tires, are you?”
“Not at all,” he said. “Out for a drive and noticed a little vibration in the steering, so I decided to check my tire pressure. Did you need some air?”
“I just got some air, thanks. A lot of hot air, that is.”
“Excuse me?” He dropped the pressure gauge into a pocket and ran a hand across his chest. He was carrying concealed in a shoulder holster and subconsciously wanted to make sure it was there. I knew the move well because I’d caught myself doing the same thing in the past.
“Why are you following the owner of Argo’s restaurant?” I asked.
The smile returned, and it was as charming as the first time he showed it. “Who are you?”
“You go first,” I said.
“None of that ladies first stuff with you, huh? Must be one of those feminist types.”
“Give me a break.” You jerk, I almost added.
“And easily riled up, too.”
I wanted to say something witty that would erase his grin, but nothing came to mind. Something about his attitude had riled me up. And that pissed me off. I just looked at him and hoped my face was more impassive than I felt.
“Okay, you win,” he said. “My name is Brad.”
“And your boss is …”
“Whoa, wait a minute there, babe. I went first, remember? It’s your turn.”
“Did you just call me ‘babe’?”
“Give me a name, then.” His stance and body language slid into smart-ass mode, just like mine can do when I want to get under someone’s skin. “You don’t,” he continued, “I’ve got a lot more than babe in my politically incorrect vocabulary arsenal. Muffin. Sweet cakes. Honey. Cook—”
“Jersey,” I cut him off, wondering if a left hook to his jaw would bring other names to mind.
He nodded. “You’re the owner of the hearse, then. Unusual choice for an everyday car, Jersey Barnes. A bit grim reaperish, if you ask me.”
So he’d already run my tag, probably when he first saw me and Morgan get into the wagon at Argo’s. Which meant that he was either a cop or somebody else who had quick access to the DMV’s database.
“I didn’t ask you,” I said. “And at least I don’t drive around with bogus tags. How often do you change the fake plates on the Murano, anyway?”
“Wait a minute. You’ve been following me?” He pointed to the hearse. “In that thing?”
He didn’t need to know that it was Trish who’d picked him up on the radar. I’d take the credit. I showed him my cocky smile. “There was even a funeral procession behind me. Police escort with the flashing lights and everything. Amazing you never picked up on the fact.”
The grin left his face.
Finally. At least I had that. It was some satisfaction.
“Now that we’ve officially introduced ourselves to each other, I really need to get going,” he said, real businesslike. “Would you mind moving your hearse out of my way?”
I took off my sunglasses and looked up at him, doing my best not to squint in the bright sun. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I would mind. The corpse caddy is staying right where it is until you tell me why you are following my client.”
“I’m trying to be civilized here.” Brad ran a hand over his almost-beard. “This encounter can get unpleasant if you’d prefer.”
I dropped my shades back into place and let loose with a wave of laughter as though he’d just delivered the funniest joke I’d ever heard. At the gas pumps, a man filling up his tank looked our way. From the passenger seat, his buddy stared openly through a rolled-down window. Good. Brad needed to know that I wasn’t afraid of attracting a bit of attention.
Once I managed to stop pretend laughing, I gave him a flirtatious touch on the arm. “Unpleasant? Now why on earth would you want to go and ruin a perfectly nice afternoon with unpleasantness? Especially in front of all these nice witnesses?”
Shaking my head, I laughed again just for show and ended the display by smoothing my low-cut cotton top, tugging it back into place. B
rad’s eyes stopped on my boobs for a split second before they caught a glimpse of the holster near the small of my back, beneath a linen jacket. It’s my standard everyday attire: shorts, slacks, or a skirt paired with a scoop-neck top and some sort of lightweight jacket to cover a paddle holster at the waist. My collection of designer jackets is almost as impressive as my drawers full of racy lingerie. A girl’s got to have some vices. Besides beer.
“Personally,” I continued, “I’m not in the mood to shoot somebody today, Brad. It would be good if we could both keep our weapons holstered and avoid any unpleasant encounters.”
The smile lit up his face again. He was great at playing it cool. “May I see your ID?”
“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
He unfolded a leather wallet, produced a card. Brad Logan worked for the Drug Enforcement Agency.
I went to the hearse, found my wallet, and handed him a piece of plastic.
“Your identification is a driver’s license?”
“I work for myself,” I said. “Oh, wait a minute. I’m actually retired. So I don’t even work for myself any longer.” I pointed to my passenger, still sitting in the hearse. “Just helping out the brother of a friend.”
Brad excused himself and walked out of hearing distance to make a phone call. Three calls, actually, if I counted correctly. He came back to stare at me, arms folded across his chest.
I gave him the once-over, blatantly, like men had done to me a thousand times. “Let me guess. You’ve just learned that I own the Barnes Agency in Wilmington.”
“Already knew that. But now I know that you were a marine MP and you did a stint with the government. Pay grade, duties, and name of agency are, unfortunately, unavailable. I can probably find out, but it would be easier if you tell me.”
“Basically, I did the same thing you do. The only difference was that I dealt with terrorists while you deal with drug suppliers.”
“Hmmm,” he said. “They’re often one and the same.”
T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril Page 7
