“Cop shows are fiction, John.” Leo popped the cap on a bottle of tea and drank. “And yeah, this whole thing with Castello probably is your fault. But it’s Michael’s fault and my fault, too. Hell, maybe it’s nobody’s fault. Maybe it just is what it is. So we deal with it. We stick to the game plan. Are we all on the same page?”
Leo took the silence to mean agreement. He stood, checked his watch. “I’ve got a two o’clock consult and a three o’clock surgery, so I’m out of here. And John? Either you clean up your act or you’re out of here, too, permanently. We still have a practice to run.”
Jonathan nodded without bothering to look up. Leo stalked through the door. Michael gave John a squeeze on the shoulder and followed Leo out of the conference room.
After watching his partners head back to work, Jonathan cleaned up the mess from lunch. Paced the conference room. Sat down to stare through the windows at passing traffic. Tried to think. Asked God if there was a way to redeem himself. Got no answers, nodded off, and didn’t move until a vivid dream of Rosemary awakened him. She was beautiful, laughing, holding hands with Garland. It was a party. And when Jonathan greeted her with a kiss on the cheek, Rosemary imploded into nothingness, leaving behind a puff of sweetly scented powder.
TWENTY-ONE
The great thing about working from home is that I can do so while wrapped in my lacy, silky jammies. They feel good against my skin. If more people slept nude and wore their pajamas around the house, the world might be a happier place.
I’d spread out my notes on the kitchen table and pored over the few facts I had, to see if any of the pieces would slide magically into place, like one of those giant magnetized picture puzzles for kids. When none of my index cards moved together on their own accord, I took a break from thinking and called Ox. His voice—both the deep tone and the unique Lumbee dialect he’d retained despite all the military moves—comforted and energized me. Lindsey was in heaven, he said, and convinced now more than ever that she wanted to work as a television sports personality. I already knew that the teen was dancing on top of the clouds. I wanted to know about Ox.
“So how are you?” I asked.
“Busy. Having a ball spending time with my daughter. Missing you.”
He asked about the Block and the employees and Spud and Fran, and then I filled him in on the small favor for the judge that had taken on a life of its own. He listened without interrupting.
“Any thoughts on what might be going on?” I said.
“Other than the obvious conclusions, no.”
“What about your guiding spirits? Do they have any input for me?” Ever since I’d first met him in high school, Ox has had a knack for sensing things that other people miss. I don’t understand it, but I fully believe in the gift his Lumbee heritage has given him. I’ve also witnessed the man experience tokens—or, as his people call them, toat’ns—which are signs that a spirit is present.
He chuckled. “Let me check and get back to you.”
“I miss them. Your helpful spirits. And you. I miss you.” There was a lot more to talk about, but not now and not over the phone. We said good-bye.
The bad thing about working from home is that Spud has a habit of turning to me for his fill of daily entertainment when there’s nothing more interesting going on.
“Hey, kid,” he said, coming into the kitchen. “Frannie and I have decided to help you out on this thing you’re working on, since Ox ain’t here.”
“Yeah, sweetie,” Fran said. “We know you really miss him.”
Of course she knew I missed the man. Obviously, she’d been eavesdropping. “Thanks for the offer, but there’s not really much you can do.”
“Well, what are you doing today?” my father asked. Standing at his feet, Cracker cocked his head as though he wanted to know, too.
Good question. “I’m not getting anywhere sitting around staring at my notes. Maybe I’ll hit the gym before I take a shower Check on things downstairs.” I studied my nails. The chipped polish had not miraculously repaired itself since the last time I’d noticed it. “And I really need a manicure.” Jersey Barnes, supersleuth in action.
“Why don’t we go to that fancy eatin’ house and have dinner?” Spud suggested.
“That’s a great idea!” Fran cooed. “Maybe we’ll pick up clues.” Jersey Barnes and crew, supersleuths in action.
I needed to hit Argo’s anyway, to determine if the dining room had been bugged. It was the only theory that made sense, if it was true that Morgan had simply heard the Divine Image Group doctors talking. I phoned to make a reservation and left a message requesting the GT The answering service assured me that someone would return my call by two o’clock.
I did my own nails—a quick fix by removing the polish and filing them short—before tackling the gym. Afterward, I let Cracker take me for a walk. Spud and Fran tooled off on her scooter to hear a lecture at the Cameron Art Museum on South 17th Street. We planned to meet back at the Block at five-thirty
Our reservation was confirmed for seven-thirty. It was a perfect evening to be on the water, so we piled into the corpse caddy and drove to the Cape Fear Marina, where I keep Incognito docked. My one extravagance, she’s a forty-eight-foot oceangoing sportfishing yacht. She was a gift from an appreciative past client, and I didn’t think it would be affable to tell him that I don’t fish. Although her outriggers have never been used, she does make a perfect party boat and is excellent for long weekend trips.
Thanks to a dockhand who works cheap, Incognito was clean and ready to go, cabin air-conditioning on, toilet paper in the head, and refrigerator stocked with water and beer. We left in plenty of time to make our reservation and cruised south on the Cape Fear River, used Snow’s Cut to reach the waterway, and backtracked north to intersect with Bradley Creek. It took much longer than if we’d driven, but being on the water was rejuvenating. I hadn’t run my boat in a while. It felt good.
Spud and Fran, after making a big production of climbing the ladder, joined me on the covered fly bridge. Like me, Fran seemed to relish the fresh air and passing sights. In contrast, my father wouldn’t stop grumbling. Wearing one of his newly purchased outfits—the clothes for his upcoming cruise with the NAB—he fidgeted with the buttons of a lime green polka-dot shirt. The dots were the size of drink coasters. And pink. Lime green and pink top, navy-and-white-striped slacks, all accented by a yellow-enameled walking cane.
“This shirt has a flaw in it,” he said.
“If the flaw is in it, then take it off,” I told him. “Problem solved.”
“What?”
“Never mind, it was a joke.” I decided against trying to explain my attempt at humor. “What’s the problem with your new shirt? Besides the fact that people need sunglasses to look at you.”
He said something about it buttoning in the wrong direction.
“Oh, my.” Squinting, Fran studied the shirt. “I think you bought a woman’s shirt.”
“The saleslady told me anybody could wear this. It’s a uniplex shirt.”
“Unisex,” Fran corrected.
“What’s sex got to do with anything, for crying out loud?” The breeze had flattened out his mustache, but it still twitched from side to side, as though annoyed. “I can’t go around in a girly shirt, especially not to Argo’s.”
“I like your shirt,” Fran said, and fluffed her hair. “It’s perfect for our cruise.”
I think my eyebrows went up. “You’re going on the NAB cruise with Spud?”
“Of course I am, sweetie. All those man-hunting women need to know that your daddy is already taken.”
Spud grinned like a cocky teenager. “I still can’t go around in no girly shirt tonight.”
There were men’s shirts hanging in the master stateroom closet, I told him. Last time Soup and his friends had taken a trip on Incognito, somebody had left clothes behind. Making a symphony of old-age noises, Spud and Fran maneuvered down from the fly bridge and disappeared into the cabin. Ten min
utes later, Spud emerged and shouted up to me, “What do you think about this?”
He wore a black Led Zeppelin T-shirt. And the same navy-striped slacks.
“Oh, that’s much better,” I answered.
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. I especially like the lyrics on the back. Not everyone knows all the words for ‘Stairway to Heaven.’”
Fran and Spud enjoyed the remainder of the trip from the open cockpit below, Spud stretched out like a retired rocker on the fighting chair—which on my boat had never been used to reel in a fish—and Fran fussing over him like a groupie. I had to slow down for no-wake zones in the waterway, but our cruise proved enjoyable as we studied the backyards of expansive waterway homes and fantasized about what it would be like to live with the rich set. I found Bradley Creek without having to consult my navigation system and backed into a vacant public slip without hitting anything. So far, so good.
When we’d tied off and were walking up to Argo’s, I noticed the restaurant’s large windows, artistically placed up-lighting, and mature shrubbery. I could actually see the Green Table and its occupants. Theoretically, somebody in one of the nearby houses or boats could use a laser microphone and audio-enhancing equipment to eavesdrop. Since Morgan was an accountant by trade, my bet remained on a much simpler, interior setup.
The hostess didn’t flinch at my father’s odd attire, but several other customers stared openly. Good thing Argo’s didn’t have a dress code.
“Is Morgan here tonight?” I asked.
“He was earlier,” she told me. “But I believe he’s gone for the evening.”
I’m trained to notice details, and without having to go back outside to double-check, I knew that Morgan’s sedan was in the parking lot. On the other hand, maybe the hostess told everybody that the boss was not available.
I inquired again about the Green Table, and as she seated us, the hostess discreetly mentioned that it was occupied by some top dogs from the set of One Tree Hill. I don’t watch much television at all—especially not teen drama series—but I pretended to be suitably impressed. The popular show is produced at EUE/Screen Gems Studios, a full-service motion picture facility in Wilmington. The three of us settled into a booth, and I found myself wishing that Ox were around to make it a foursome. We ordered drinks and a braised rib appetizer and three of the chef’s fish specials.
“Okay,” Fran whispered. “What do we do now? Should we go question people?” She whipped out a small digital camera. “Or take pictures?”
“You can’t go pokin’ around and taking pictures while people are trying to eat, Frannie,” my father reasoned.
“Good point, Spud,” I agreed. “I’m going to do a quick walk-around to see if I find any bugs.”
Fran stopped playing with Spud’s knee. “They’ve got bugs here?”
“She’s not talking about crawly bugs, Frannie. Listening bugs, for crying out loud. You know, like tiny microphones.”
“Oh.” She shivered. “How can I help?”
I realized that it might be less conspicuous for her and Spud to wander around the restaurant than it would be for me to do so. And I knew for a fact that my father could play a role. I’d seen him in action several times before. We came up with a game plan while we ate our hickory-and-ginger-spiced ribs.
Before the entrées were served, I turned on the pen, passed it to Spud, and sat back to watch him and Fran in action. Their first stop was the GT. I couldn’t quite make out her words, but Fran chatted away while Spud hung behind her, pen in hand. The head server, Deanna, appeared instantly and gave an “I’m sorry” gesture to the Green Table’s occupants. When Deanna noticed that Spud and Fran were wandering rather than returning to their own table, she offered to escort them.
Spud declined.
I heard Deanna ask if they were looking for the restrooms.
“Oh, we don’t need a bathroom, sweetie,” Fran near shouted. “His prostate is just fine. I can vouch for that.”
Deanna’s face remained impressively blank.
“We want to walk a bit before we eat,” Spud said. “My legs cramp up if I sit too long.”
Deanna moved off but continued to keep an eye on them.
They ambled through the restaurant, stopping periodically so Spud could “rest” on his cane.
It wasn’t long before Deanna found me. “Hey, you’re Jersey, right?”
I confirmed that it was indeed me, Jersey Barnes, asker of questions and buyer of drinks at Level 5.
She pointed at my father. “Is that couple dining with you?”
I confirmed that they were.
“They’re sort of making people uncomfortable. You know, walking around like that and stopping next to tables.”
“I imagine they’ll sit back down as soon as our food shows up,” I told her.
Deanna disappeared. Three chef’s specials were delivered approximately four minutes later. The kitchen must’ve moved our order to the top of the list. Seeing the food, my father and his girlfriend meandered back to our booth, his yellow walking cane leading the way.
“Looks like a piece of fish served at any other restaurant,” Spud said, bouncing up and down a few times to settle in on the booth seat. “Only they’ve squirted a sauce over it and the vegetables are stacked into a little pyramid.”
“Fine dining is always a bonny experience,” Fran said.
Spud and I looked at her. “What?” we said in stereo.
“That’s a calendar word today. Bonny. It means pleasing to look at.”
“Well, for crying out loud. That word doesn’t even sound pleasant.”
Digging in to my pyramid of vegetables, I asked what they’d learned during their tryst through Argo’s.
Spud proffered my RF signal-detecting fountain pen. “It only vibrated when we first stopped at that big corner table, where the TV people are sitting.”
“Nowhere else?”
“Nope,” Spud said, and dug in to his plate of fish. “This plate has a boner, too.”
“The word is ‘bonny’” Fran corrected. “The presentation of the food is bonny, as in artistic.”
“It’s still a stupid word, for crying out loud.”
While they ate, I headed for the bathrooms, special fountain pen in hand. I pretended to walk into the men’s room by accident. No bugs. I checked the women’s room. No vibration. The pen detected nothing until I moved past the hostess stand. It vibrated, much like a silenced cell phone. That meant two bugs so far: the GT and the hostess stand. I walked through the kitchen, pretending to look for Morgan. Nobody paid me much attention. And the fountain pen remained still. Morgan’s office door was shut, but I sensed him inside. I knocked. He didn’t answer. I found a server and asked for a piece of aluminum foil. She pointed to a shelf that held stacks of dispensing boxes. One of them held foil. I tore off a tiny strip, returned to Morgan’s office, and slid the foil a few inches beneath the door, shiny side up. It served as a crude mirror, and I detected movement—just barely—on the other side of the door. Probably the desk chair rolling on the hard floor. Who else would be sitting in the chair if not Morgan? Of course he was in there. Why he refused to answer the door was puzzling, though. Unless my budding theory about the big corner table surrounded by Jonathan Green’s artwork was correct.
Back at the booth, I ate my fish. It was tender and flaky and topped with an exotic fruit sauce and toasted pine nuts. The GT’s occupants appeared to be getting ready to leave. On a hunch, I slid out of my seat and went to the Green Table.
“Hi,” I said. “And so sorry to interrupt. Just want to apologize if my father disrupted your dinner. You know, the elderly couple who came over earlier?”
A group of four—two men and two women—eyed me. There were cocktail glasses on the table, as well as a bottle of red wine. Not to mention two empty dessert plates and two coffees. I imagined their tab to be at least three hundred dollars, if not more.
One of them waved a hand as if to say, No big
deal. “Don’t worry about it. They wanted to know how they could get into the business as on-camera extras. Cute couple. Not rude at all.”
“Good,” I said. “That’s good. By the way, the new owner of this restaurant, Morgan, is a dear friend of mine. And his daughter is a huge fan of One Tree Hill. He just told Deanna, your server, to completely comp your tab. Food and bar.”
“Wow, that’s fantastic,” said one of the women. “We’ll have to be sure to send a thank-you note.”
“You folks dine at Argo’s anytime, and keep in mind that Morgan simply won’t take your money,” I said. “Oh, he might like a logo T-shirt or a day pass for his daughter to get on the set during filming. But in all honesty, he’s just thrilled to have you in his restaurant.” They stood and gathered belongings. I reminded them to leave a tip before returning to my booth. The group exited happily without paying for their meal.
Morgan appeared instantly. “What the hell do you think you’re do—” He stopped in midsentence when he realized what he’d done.
“Let’s take a walk,” I suggested. “I’ll show you my boat.”
Spud and Fran were content to stay inside Argo’s and share a dessert special: bananas Foster served with a spiced rum raisin sauce. Morgan caught Deanna’s attention, and after inquiring about the GT’s tab amount, he told her not to worry about the dine and dash—that he’d comped them.
“Thanks so much for giving away three hundred and eighty-four dollars,” Morgan said once we were outside.
“It worked, didn’t it? I got you out of that office of yours.”
T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril Page 16
