Mystery Writers of America Presents the Rich and the Dead

by Inc. Mystery Writers of America

  “That’s all well and good,” I said in response to Mo’s rant. “But I’m more interested in where he might’ve gone. Who he might contact? Who might help him now that he’s on the run?”

  “Man, I wish he’d come to me.” He slapped a fist into his palm. “I’d help his ass all right.”

  I was getting nowhere with and a little tired of Mo’s pseudo-gangsta act. I grabbed the crook of his arm, pulling him to a stop. “Look. You want Dolens to get what he deserves. I get that.”

  “You do, do you? Tell me. Whaddya think he deserves, huh? Prison? Jail time? That’s for pussies, girl. Justice ain’t no prison cell. For me, justice is you cap his ass.”

  “Really? For stealing money, he deserves to die?”

  Mo’ took a moment to think on that. Once he did, he shook his head, like something he ate didn’t agree with him. “Grace? It’s Grace, right? You any idea how many cribs I got?”

  I shrugged. “A few.”

  He liked that. “Yeah, a few. I got me seven right here in the U.S. of A. This one and two more here in Ohio. I gots a castle in Scotland. Cost me twenty-seven million bucks to renovate it. I don’t even know how much to buy it. I’ve stayed there twice. You wanna talk about cars?”

  I didn’t.

  He waved a hand in the air. Every finger had a ring on it, all of them sparkling gold and silver and diamonds. “More ’an I can count. Bentleys, Mercedes, Ferraris, Maseratis. Cars I ain’t even driven yet. I even owns an island somewhere down in the Caribbean. A whole island. All mine, you dig?”

  I started to say I didn’t give a—

  But he waggled a finger in front of me.

  “That ain’t all. I gots planes and boats and them Jet Ski things, and I gots me a record collection that’s sick. Old stuff on vinyl, on tape. CDs. Thousands of ’em. Hundreds of thousands of ’em. And you know what?”

  Bored, I was forced to shake my head.

  “Two of my cribs? They in foreclosure. The feds? They say I ain’t paid taxes in over two years. Six million dollars I owe them. Plus interest and penalties. Dolens was supposed to do that for me. I got liens on my properties. I got liens on my assets. I got liens on my motherfucking ass. All ’cause of Jimmy fuckin’ Dolens.”

  “Then tell me where to find him.”

  Mo’ looked around the hallway, frustrated, like I hadn’t been listening to him. He shrugged. “How the hell I know where he’s at? He ain’t talking to me. Ain’t talking to none of my people, you know?” He looked around some more. “Ain’t nobody out there gonna help him. He’s burned all his friends. Ain’t got no family. No brothers, no sistas. His ex-wife, maybe. Mindy. You talk to her yet?”

  “I went to her house before coming here. No answer. Left messages on her cell.”

  “Yeah. Well, anyone knows where Jimmy’s at, maybe it’ll be Mindy.”

  From behind us, Saul Rosenfeld said, “I have an idea that might help.”

  In tandem, Mo’ and I turned. I wondered how long he’d been standing there, listening. “Jimmy kept a small office downtown, leased by Mo’ and Kendra’s corporation. I have the keys. Could something there help you? I can take you if you’d like.”

  “That would be great.”

  Rosenfeld stepped to one side and waved us toward the front foyer. He looked at Mo’. “Kendra’s in the kitchen. You two need to talk.”

  “Right.” Mo’ stuffed his hands in his pants pockets and walked away from us. His head bowed like the weight of a world was on his shoulders. I guessed it was. His financial world. He stopped at the foyer, turned back.

  “Grace, you don’t like me much.” At my protest, he held up a hand. “It’s cool. You don’t get to where I’m at without reading people, and fast. Now I know, you’re looking at me and saying to yourself, I ain’t got no sympathy for ole Mo’ Mac. He ain’t raking in forty million a year like he used to but so what? He’s foreclosed on two cribs, but he’s got five more he can live in. He can maybe sell off a few of them, too, or that castle of his in Scotland or his Caribbean island to settle up with the IRS deal. His shit ain’t so bad. Not like he’ll be on no unemployment line any time soon. You be thinking that, and you’d be right.”

  He swallowed hard. “But it ain’t all about the bling.”

  “What’s it about, Mo’?”

  “It’s about the work. It’s about drive, pouring your heart all in your art. It’s about what I do and how I do it. It’s about delivering product to the people. It’s about me being me. The whole package. It’s about—”

  “Your rep.”

  He smiled. I was getting it. Getting him. “That’s right, girl. It’s about the rep. I ain’t like other people. Never have been, never will. I do what I do ’cause I love it and people respect me ’cause of it. The bling? That’s just icing on the side. But to do what I do? People’s got to respect me. That’s what Jimmy Dolens took from me. That’s what he stole. You dig?”

  I nodded. And maybe I did, a little.

  “Good. So do me a solid.”

  Skeptical, I said, “Ask, but no promises.”

  “Fair enough. What I’m axing is this. When you bag Jimmy D’s, you call me.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanna see him going down. I need that. You feel me?”

  I nodded. “I feel you. But no promises.”

  Jimmy Dolens’s downtown office was on Gay Street, next to the old Modern Finance Building. It had two large windows and an alcove for an administrative assistant. I sat at the big oak desk while Saul Rosenfeld sat in one of two director’s chairs, watching me. He looked grateful to be able to sit and just relax. I let him.

  Several metal filing cabinets lined one wall, there was a small coffee table, and two low overstuffed chairs sat off in the corner. The walls were filled with dozens of pictures of Jimmy with rap stars (Snoop Dogg, Lil Wayne, 8Ball, Eminem); Jimmy with movie people (Denzel Washington, Danny Glover, Spike Lee, Russell Crowe); and Jimmy with rappers-turned-movie-people (Ice Cube, Mark Wahlberg, Ludacris, Will Smith).

  “What are you hoping to find?”

  Tossing the desk drawers, I said, “Hard to say. Client lists. Contact information of people he knows. Places he’s known to frequent.”

  There was no computer in the office. It had probably been seized by the authorities when they arrested Dolens. There was no BlackBerry, no Rolodex. Even his files had been picked through and cleaned out. The trip to the office was beginning to look like a waste of time.

  Because Rosenfeld sat there, staring, I felt obligated to say something, to talk. “Most people are creatures of habit. They have a comfort zone. They do the same things, eat at the same restaurants, go to the same movie theater, buy their cigarettes at the same corner market, their lattes at the same Starbucks. Change makes people jittery. They avoid it, and that makes my job easier.”

  I closed the last drawer in the desk. It, and the office, was a bust.

  “Tell me more about Mo’ and LaKendra.”

  “What’s to tell?” he said. “Mo’ and Kendra are into the IRS for millions in unpaid back taxes. When they started calling, Jimmy’s… shortcomings surfaced. They’ve foreclosed on properties that are underwater, unsellable. They’ve defaulted on dozens of loans. Their credit’s been stretched to the limit with Jimmy taking out loans to cover old loans. It’s a mess.”

  He shook his head like a disappointed father. “They’re blaming it all on Jimmy, of course. Accusing him of stealing millions over the years while keeping them in the dark about risky business investments he’s entered into, using their names to get in, exaggerating the value of their assets to get credit, defaulting on payment due dates even after they’ve been extended. And of course, finally, not paying their taxes.”

  “And did he?” I asked. “Do all those things?”

  Rosenfeld shrugged and looked at the carpet. “It’s like a messy divorce. There’s blame enough to go around. Jimmy took advantage and did things he shouldn’t have, hid things from them he shouldn’t have. When
the gravy train started to sputter, he scrambled to stay ahead. As is inevitable in these cases, he couldn’t.”

  Sensing his reluctance to go on, I prodded, “But there’s more.”

  “Mo’ and Kendra didn’t do anything to help their situation. They kept buying cars and houses and planes and jewelry and clothes. You want to talk about vacations and parties? Would make you sick the money they spend. Mo’ and Kendra kept acting like nothing was wrong. Like Jimmy didn’t tell them a thing.” He sat up and sighed. “That’s a crock, too. He warned them. I warned them. We haven’t had a new record contract in over three years. With nothing new in the pipeline, sales tanked. The tours weren’t selling out. Then they weren’t even getting booked. Anyone could see the income stream was drying up. All they had to do was look.”

  He sat back heavily. “They figured something would come up. It did. The houselights, and the bill was due.” He looked past me out the window to the street below and maybe even farther than that. “You ask me? Sure, Jimmy’s a thief, but Mo’ and Kendra were as complacent as if they were co-conspirators.”

  I got up, stretched, and wandered over to the window to contemplate my next move. I looked to the street below. Middle of the day traffic was light. Across the street, the outdoor tables at Café Brioso were filling up with the early lunchtime crowd. Just another day.

  I watched for a few minutes then turned away. “You just said they hadn’t had a new recording contract in years, but back at the house, you took LaKendra into the kitchen to discuss new contracts the studio sent over. What was that all about?”

  Rosenfeld shifted in his seat, suddenly antsy, his lips pressed into a thin line. Stalling, he got up. He buttoned his jacket, tugging at the cuff-linked, powder blue sleeves underneath. I wondered how hard Mo’ and LaKendra’s recession was hitting him. Then I saw the Rolex watch. Maybe not so hard. He cleared his throat.

  “Arco Records has made an offer. A deal for a new album and tour dates.”

  Good news I would’ve thought, but Rosenfeld looked like he’d just swallowed a guppy. I asked the natural but apparently stupid question. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Normally, sure.” He cleared his throat. “Here’s the thing, and you can’t repeat this to anyone. There is a deal on the table. A lucrative one. But there’s a catch.”

  And I guessed it. “They don’t want Mo’.”

  He nodded. “It’s Kendra and only Kendra. She’s got to cut Mo’ out, or there’s no deal.”

  “She going to do it?”

  He shrugged again. “Has to. No choice.”

  “Mo’ know yet?”

  Rosenfeld consulted his watch. The Rolex. “Probably by now. I went over the financials with Kendra while you were talking with Mo’. The two of them are incorporated. Partners. Fifty-fifty. She’s got to get Mo’ to relinquish any involvement or no deal.”

  I whistled. “That’ll be hard to take.” I thought about street cred and reps. About juice. “How’s he going to react?”

  “In a word? Badly. With all this, I’m afraid it’ll crush him.”

  “You have some nerve!” The voice came from a petite blonde woman who appeared at the office door. “What are you doing here, Saul Rosenfeld?”

  Rosenfeld spun around. “Mindy?”

  Mindy must be Mindy Dolens. Jimmy’s ex. Dressed in a cream-colored trench coat, cinched tight around her impossibly thin, stick-figure waist, she had mousy blonde hair and pinched features. She carried a large black bag wedged between her arm and side, the straps high on her shoulder.

  “You have no right to be here. This is Jimmy’s private office.”

  Rosenfeld took a step toward her. “Mindy…”

  “You have no right, Saul.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. Fighting them back, she pushed an errant lock of hair off her face. “Why? Why are you here?”

  “We’re looking for Jimmy,” I offered. “We could use your help.”

  Her eyes flicked to me, murderous in their anger, wide in their shock at my audacity. “You can’t be serious?” She turned her attention back to Rosenfeld. “I won’t help you hurt Jimmy, Saul. How could you? You were his friend.”

  He seemed to melt a full suit size under her stare. “Mindy, I…”

  “You are unbelievable.” She spun and bolted down the hall.

  I ran to the door, called out, “Mrs. Dolens. Please.”

  She was already at the stairwell and pounding down the steps. To Rosenfeld, I said, “Stay here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get Jimmy Dolens.”

  I raced to the top of the stairs, then paused, waiting, listening to Mindy’s heeled shoes banging down the steps below me. I counted to ten. I didn’t want to stop her anymore. I’d decided instead to follow her.

  The door downstairs opened. I slowed. It swung shut with a click. I picked up my pace, reaching the door—an old glass and wood frame thing—and stood off to one side, glanced out, first to the right, then to the left. I spotted Mindy walking at a brisk pace, crossing the street, already half a block away.

  I stepped outside, keeping to the left side of the sidewalk, staying close to the buildings. If Mindy glanced over, I could turn and pretend to window-shop. Unfortunately the buildings were mostly vacant, only a large auction banner in the window to catch anyone’s attention. It would have to do.

  But my luck held, and Mindy dashed across High Street without a glance back. She continued west, a woman in a hurry. I jogged across the intersection against the light and cursed the horn-blowing idiot who tried to run me down, more worried it would catch Mindy’s attention than for my own safety. My heart thumped as I speculated where she might lead me, hoping it would be to Jimmy Dolens.

  Both pedestrian and vehicular traffic picked up on the other side of High Street. That worked to my advantage. Keeping Mindy in sight, I zigzagged through the crowd, closing in on her but using them to conceal my approach.

  Settling in behind two men in business suits, I shrugged off my Just Cavalli leather jacket. When I emerged from behind them, I had my jacket draped over my arm; my thick, black hair wound in a tight ponytail; and my cell phone trapped between my ear and shoulder, carrying on a one-sided conversation.

  Mindy had come to Jimmy’s office for a reason. What it was, I had no idea. I thought about calling Rosenfeld and asking him to look around to see what I’d missed, but I nixed that idea. If she led me to Jimmy, it wouldn’t matter.

  Tired of talking to myself, I snapped the phone shut in time to see Mindy making her way to the next intersection. Wall Street. Unlike the one in New York, this Wall Street was an alley at best, and the only transactions taking place here happened after dark and involved drugs or sex.

  At the corner, she glanced back.

  I turned my back to her, dropping two quarters into the nearest parking meter for cover. I waited a heartbeat, then glanced over my shoulder. She was gone. I jogged the half block to Wall Street, stopped at the corner of the Diamond Exchange Building, and peeked down the alley.

  Mindy was the only person in sight. A block down, heading away from me.

  I waited until she reached the end of the block, a three-story red brick building. Across the street, there was a single-story building with a large, open bay door. Cars were parked inside. I could hear tools clanging and the loud blast of an impact drill. Beyond it was Elm Street, then the parking lot Mindy appeared headed for.

  I ran, threading my arms back into my jacket. There were probably a hundred cars parked in that lot. If she climbed into one of them before I got there, I’d lose her. I reached the end of the building and the parking lot beyond it. I stopped, poked my head around the corner, hoping to see her threading her way between cars, maybe getting into one. I didn’t.

  Damn it.

  A sea of cars, gleaming hot in the noontime sun. Out of options, I entered the lot, feeling exposed, walking along the first row, stooping so I could look through rear windows, listening for the telltale sound of a car d
oor opening or closing, an engine starting up.

  I reached the end of the row, nothing. Fearing I’d lost my best lead, anxiety soured my stomach. I told myself patience was the key and started down the next row. A dark blue SUV, a red Miata, a banged-up late-model Civic. My heart tripping. If a car suddenly started up and shot out of the lot, I was powerless to stop it. With my car three blocks away, still parked at the curb on Gay Street, she’d be gone.

  Walking. I stooped, looked. Walked on.

  A gray Lexus. An old Mercury Sable station wagon. A red Volkswagen Beetle. There. In a late-model green Corolla, pulled in grille forward, sat two figures. I bent low using the VW Bug for cover. Even with my dark sunglasses, I had to raise a hand to further block the intense sun. The passenger in the Corolla had straight, mousy blonde hair.

  Had to be Mindy.

  And in the driver’s seat: Jimmy Dolens!

  I drew my weapon, a Kimber .45, and my badge case. With the .45 in my left hand, I held my shield visible in my right, my wrists locked, one over the other. I duckwalked behind the Corolla, low, came up along the driver’s side, and tapped the glass with the heavy barrel of the .45. Dolens jumped like I’d zapped him with a Taser.

  “Bail enforcement!” I yelled through the glass. “Step out of the car! Keep your hands where I can see them!”

  He twisted some more, then reached for the door handle. The lock disengaged with a click; the door opened.

  I tensed. “Slowly!”

  From inside the car Dolens was yelling, “—led her right to me. Jesus Christ!”

  Mindy protested weakly, “I didn’t.”

  He banged the door into the car beside it. Jimmy Dolens rolled out through the narrow opening. Tall and lanky, he came up all arms and legs. His skin was dark as crude, a string bean of a guy in an oversized gray sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers.

  I took a step back. “Get your hands where I can see them. Raise ’em!”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Jimmy Dolens stood up to his full six-foot-four-inch frame, his hands raised in the air, his eyes darting around, running through his options. He had none.