by West, CJ
Henri had never seen her looking this good. She felt his disappointed stare. If she’d worked this hard on the farm and kept this figure, she might have kept his interest. She looked up toward Henri. He knew his disenchantment left her unfulfilled in the bedroom. By now he understood the rendezvous was born of loneliness. But following Charlie to America was difficult for his ego, if there was such a thing in the afterlife.
Her eyes returned to the mirror then shied from her reflection.
If she’d been honest from the beginning, Henri would still be alive.
Such a good man; he never asked about her past. Instead, he made excited plans for their family, never knowing how slim their chances were. As his spirits sank into a drone-like melancholy, Deirdre’s secret became increasingly harder to bear and impossible for her to reveal. Led into a marriage of half truths, pure-hearted Henri followed blindly toward his demise, never questioning his bride.
Deirdre stared into the rusty sink drain. She was doing what she could to honor his memory. When she finished he’d see she truly loved him.
Deirdre dried her hair, wrapped a towel around herself and stepped out of the bathroom with a handful of dirty clothes.
Charlie fixed his gaze on her the moment she stepped through the door. “Any idea what you want for dinner?” he asked.
“Why? Does this outfit make you hungry?”
“I wouldn’t call that an outfit, but feel free to wear it anytime.”
“Behave and I might.” Deirdre swished closer, staying just out of reach.
“You’re chipper today. Have a good day with Sebastian?”
She pressed the towel to her stomach and turned sideways. “He’s working me like a dog. Look how skinny I’m getting.”
Charlie surveyed the margins of the towel. “So this is a diet plan?”
“Call it personal fulfillment.” She twirled and sat backwards on the arm of Charlie’s chair, teetering as if she could fall into his lap at any moment. Her coy smile had his full attention now that her legs were out of view. His hands lay on his lap ready to catch her and pull her close if she fell.
“That friend of yours isn’t going to come barging in again, is he?”
“After last night, I doubt it,” Charlie said.
“Does he live near here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, what’s his number? Maybe we should call and see if he’s home.”
Charlie looked confused. “I don’t have it. He usually just shows up.”
“You’re kidding. I thought you were friends.” Deirdre got up, walked to the kitchen and returned with the phone book open somewhere in the middle. “Randy right? What’s his last name?”
Charlie watched, anxious for her to return to the chair. “It’s Black, but I don’t think you want to call him. What could you possibly say when he answers?”
Deirdre ran her finger down a long column of Black’s in the phone book without answering. She had no plans to call him, but having the number and address would make her task easier. Unfortunately, there was no Randy among the list. She closed the book and returned to the arm of the chair.
Trust me on this, she thought to herself so only Henri could hear, I know what I’m doing.
She loosened the knot holding her towel and slid backward into Charlie’s lap. His arms engulfed her as she touched down. His lips met hers hungrily.
…
A blaring sound pierced the darkness.
Charlie groped for the wooden bat leaning against the night stand, raised it in the air, and faced the direction of the door ready to do battle. Wobbling on the cold floor, his room had been swallowed by a palpable pre-dawn murk. Nothing moved in the clutter. A sliver of pale light brightened the crack in the door as his foggy eyes came into focus. A dim glow at the window hinted of an approaching sunrise. Deirdre breathed peacefully on the pillow.
The phone rang again.
He lowered the bat, closed his sore eyes, and picked up. “Hello.”
“Good morning, Charlie. Did I wake you?”
He cracked an eye to check the clock. “Mom, it’s not even five.”
“Sorry dear, this couldn’t wait.”
“What’s wrong?”
“There was a man looking for you here today. He wants to see you right away.”
Charlie jolted awake. Had they found the plastic bags or a fracture on Henri’s skull? Had they traced the sawdust back to the chateau? Could they have followed Deirdre here to him?
“Who was it, Mom?”
“His name is Lieutenant Laroche.”
Charlie slapped the mattress and whispered away from the phone, “Shit!” Deirdre stirred next to him as he cursed Randy and his macho conversation with the lieutenant.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Can I call him?”
“He says you need to come back immediately.”
Charlie couldn’t tell his mother why, but returning to Piolenc was not in his plans. The request didn’t sound official, anyway. He was safe here, the money was hidden, and the French couldn’t extradite him without credible evidence of his involvement. Charlie had rehashed the events every day since the fire and he was positive he hadn’t left that sort of evidence behind.
“He showed me the picture,” Elizabeth said when her son didn’t respond.
“What picture?”
“The one of your rental car at that farm that burned down. He says the car next to it belonged to Henri Deudon.”
Charlie was stunned.
“Mr. Deudon is dead,” his mother said.
The words hung heavy in the receiver. Charlie remembered parking between Henri’s car and the farmhouse when he returned with the sawdust. The wave of nausea he felt assured him the picture was authentic, but he couldn’t imagine where it had come from.
“What’s going on, Charlie?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Did you know that man?”
Her tone stung. “No, Mom. I didn’t know him.” It wasn’t a lie; they hadn’t been acquainted while he was alive.
“I don’t understand…” The faith was fading from Elizabeth’s voice. “Randy got you into this, didn’t he? How many times did we tell you he was trouble?”
Charlie looked down at Deirdre lying next to him and wondered where the picture had come from. The two cars were only parked together a short time. Randy and Deirdre were both outside while Charlie finished spreading the sawdust. No one else knew they were there, so one of them must have taken it, but why?
The money was good reason, but how would either of them have known to have a camera ready? Not a chance. When Henri fell to the ground, they were all surprised to see the money. Surely neither of them knew the money was in that wall. And neither of them could have known Henri was about to die. For a second, Charlie wondered if someone else had been lurking outside, but if they had been, they would’ve contacted the police long before now.
The picture and the money were related, but Charlie couldn’t understand how.
He looked down again at Deirdre. She’d never been to the house before, so she couldn’t have known about the money. She’d never met Charlie, so it wasn’t something personal. Randy had chosen her randomly from her ad. What happened afterward was just the intersection of alcohol, adultery, and horrific timing.
Charlie ignored his mother’s pleas for information and assured her he’d come. He walked to the shower knowing he’d have to leave the money behind with the two people capable of taking that photo. Either of them could have the money by noon and there was nothing Charlie could do to stop them. He still hadn’t thought of a better hiding place and there wasn’t time to move it if he had. He dressed and climbed to the attic where he filled his inside pockets with sixty thousand dollars.
He left a note for Deirdre, one for Sebastian, and walked to the door doubting he’d ever see the money again. He held the doorknob for a long moment and then turned back to the bedroom.
Deirdre rolled over
sleepily and mumbled. “What’re you doing?”
“I need to know something.”
Her eyes opened for a second and then closed. She clutched the pillow with one hand and pulled the quilt over her shoulder with the other.
Charlie folded it back down.
The sleeves of his white T-shirt reached her elbows, but the thin material was no substitute for the warm quilt. She pulled it back with a shiver and blinked a few times before she could focus on him.
“Why are you here?”
“You know why.”
“Tell me again.”
“My inlaws took the farm. I needed a place to go.”
“Why me? Why here?”
Deirdre rubbed his thigh. “I like you. I needed a job and this works out nice. Doesn’t it?” She flashed a seductive smile. “You weren’t complaining last night.”
No woman had come on to him this strong, this fast. It was too easy.
“When did you meet Randy?”
“A few hours before I met you.”
Charlie remembered her search through the phone book. Her effort seemed genuine, as did her fear when Randy suddenly drove up. Maybe she was just lonely, but he couldn’t convince himself that was her only reason for being there.
Charlie sat down on the bed next to her. “I’m sorry. Go back to sleep.”
Deirdre leaned over and rested her head on his knee. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m going back to Piolenc.”
Deirdre pulled back with a start, suddenly alert. “Why?”
Charlie frowned.
“Is this about Henri?”
Charlie gave a grim nod.
Deirdre’s eyes widened with fright.
“I’ll keep your name out of it. Whatever you do, stay away from Randy. I can’t protect you while I’m in France.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Deirdre rolled down Acushnet Avenue checking building numbers for her destination and avoiding eye contact with the greasy-looking men on the sidewalk. Dozens of them leaned against brick storefronts, leering as she passed. The two agencies she visited earlier had refused her assignment, but by the looks of the characters on the street she was in the right place now.
The other investigators warned her that TJ Lynch was a psychopath, quietly thrown out of the Marine Corps for abusing prisoners in Iraq. He wasn’t duped by military intelligence into taking embarrassing photos. Lynch walked into detention cells empty-handed and beat prisoners man to man. Unfortunately for Lynch, when the investigations of prisoner abuse commenced, several badly bruised prisoners identified his bald head and scarred face. The other private investigators said Lynch was honorably discharged in spite of his conduct because his superiors were afraid to prosecute. Deirdre couldn’t believe the Marines were afraid of any one man, but it was an engaging story.
She pulled to a stop in front of a nondescript brick building with large gold numbers that matched her handwritten directions. A blue sign in a first floor window advertised “Fasio Insurance,” but nothing indicated the Lynch Agency was housed inside. Deirdre stepped out of her rented Camry clutching her purse, ready to ignore an onslaught of crude come-ons. But to her delight, the sidewalk was clear for an entire block. It seemed the loiterers were familiar with Lynch’s military credentials. She hoped his reputation would keep them away from her rental while she was inside.
On the second floor landing, a brass plate identified the office of TJ Lynch with bold capital letters, but gave no indication of the sort of work Mr. Lynch did behind his wooden door. Her tentative knock was met with a grumbled welcome from the other side. Through the door, his small office was dominated by a scuffed oak desk, the desktop buried beneath a layer of loose papers that looked like a layer of white ash from a client-file eruption. TJ reclined, his toothy black boots facing her from on top of the crinkled papers, his attention focused on a notebook computer balanced on his thighs. His shiny shaved head immediately caught her attention with its abnormally round shape and fleshy pink coloring, except above his ears where hair still grew. He wore a brown mustache, thick and vigorous in contrast to his bald head. His eyes were sunken deep in their sockets, retreating away from the horrific things they’d seen. The left side of his face was covered with small jagged scars like a jar lid after a child finished poking air holes in it. He stopped typing when Deirdre closed the door.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Deudon.” TJ looked her over and gestured to a chair before returning to work. “Most women never make it out of the car.”
Deirdre sat defiantly, forgetting her fear of the street-side characters.
“I assume your business is urgent,” TJ said, typing intermittently as he talked.
“It is.”
“How’d you find me?”
“I spoke to Hank Petersen and Guy...” Deirdre blanked on the last name.
“Ferris,” TJ finished.
“That’s it.”
TJ nodded solemnly. “What’s wrong with them?”
“They recommended you.”
“Turned you down, huh?” TJ dropped his feet to the floor, plunked the laptop on the mass of papers and fixed his eyes so intently on Deirdre, she blinked and looked away. “Does this problem of yours have anything to do with a gang or the mafia?”
“No. I want you to find someone.”
“Your husband cheating?”
“My husband’s dead.”
“And you want me to find his killer.” TJ’s eyes drifted off to Deirdre’s left as if Henri were standing in the corner. “Lady,” he said, his eyes snapping back, “solving a murder is messy and expensive. You should leave it to the cops.”
“I know who killed him.” TJ’s doubt registered immediately.
“So, you can’t go to the police because you were involved with this guy? Did you pay him to kill your husband or did he get the idea himself?”
Deirdre’s soul lay naked to TJ’s perception. Her lips quivered under the weight of her unspoken answer.
TJ straightened in his chair and tapped something she hoped was the start of her case file. His computer proficiency was surprising, given his reputation and his paper-strewn desk. “What’s this guy’s name?” he asked.
“Randy, Randy Black. I couldn’t find him in the phone book.”
“Do you have a picture?”
“No, but he’ll be easy to spot in a crowd.”
“How so?” TJ locked on, intent for every nuance of her description.
“He’s between six-one and six-four with long scraggly hair.” She gestured to her elbow. “He wears reflective sunglasses, even at night. And he had a week’s worth of stubble both times I saw him.”
TJ returned to clicking and tapping. “A real winner.”
Deirdre slid over a photo. “This is his car.”
TJ pushed the photo aside, not recognizing the significance of the McLaren.
Deirdre patted the desk in the direction of the picture. “This car’s got to be expensive. The doors open like wings. The dealer might remember him.”
TJ typed some more notes.
“The plate is something like AVVR.”
TJ tapped the letters carefully then stopped to lock eyes with Deirdre. “If you know so much about him, why not find him yourself?”
Deirdre gave him the PG-rated highlights of her strange relationship with Charlie and Randy. He listened intently as she chronicled the murder, her trip to America, and her cohabitation with Charlie. He was intrigued that Randy could be so friendly with Charlie and yet reveal so little about himself.
“So you think he’s local?” TJ asked.
“Definitely. I saw him yesterday.”
Annoyed, TJ shoved the computer forward. “Why do you need me?”
“I want to know where he lives, where he works.”
“And then what?”
Deirdre avoided his gaze and reached into her purse. She removed a stack of bills and set them on the desk next to the computer.
TJ cocked his head sideways
assessing the stack without touching it. The other investigators implied TJ would kill Randy for twenty-five or thirty thousand. The ten thousand cash on the desk would cover his services for a month. She guessed he’d find Randy in a week and she hoped he wouldn’t drag out the investigation to pump up his fee.
Yes, Henri, I think he can do it. I’m sure they don’t approve of this sort of thing where you are, but this is what he deserves.
“So you’re serious?” TJ asked.
“Deadly serious.”
TJ surveyed her, flashed to his computer screen, the money, and back to her face as he considered what he was about to do. “How can I reach you?” he finally asked.
Deirdre reached inside an artillery shell larger than her fist and retrieved one of TJ’s business cards. She wrote Charlie’s telephone number on the back and handed it to him. “Here’s where I’m staying. How soon should I expect a call?”
“If I get lucky with the DMV or the Mercedes dealerships, it could be a day or two. If he’s as clever as your friend says, it could take a few weeks.”
“I want to know the minute you locate him. You can keep the ten K.”
TJ nodded as if to say “thank you,” but his hardened eyes suggested he never intended to return change. “I’ll find him.”
“I’d be checking bars and hospitals—he’ll be in one or the other.”
“But you’d prefer the morgue?”
Deirdre didn’t answer, but she knew she’d found the right man.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Charlie watched his father’s eyes widen as he strode into the hall.
“What happened to your face?” Charles asked.
“Randy started a bar brawl and I took a few shots.”
