by Robert Greer
“What do you think Epps was up to?”
“Beats me, sugar. But we're gonna find out. Just like we're gonna find out if there's things he didn't tell me the other day.”
“Where do you think we can find him?”
Flora Jean checked her watch. “At work,” she said with a smile. “Where you find most God-fearin’ folks this time of day.”
Mario Satoni's tone was insistent. “You stay with that boy, Pinkie. You hear me? Asalon'll kill him. We both know that. And Hawkins may decide to come back.” Increasingly hard of hearing, the eighty-four-year-old former mafia don pressed the receiver to his ear.
“I've got his back,” Pinkie Niedemeyer said, sounding perturbed. “Stop worrying, will ya?”
“I hope you've got his back, and a lot sooner than you did last night.”
“I told you, Mario, nobody got hurt up there in Nederland but Hawkins.”
“Let's keep it that way. And you keep me posted, you hear?” Mario cradled the phone, leaving Pinkie shaking his head and listening to a dial tone. Tossing aside the Rocky Mountain News sports section he'd been reading, Pinkie rose from the 150-year-old rocking chair Mario had given him thirty years earlier on the day after Pinkie and Janet Stevens had announced their engagement, retrieved his shoulder holster and 9-mm from one of the chair's uprights, and thought about the fact that he was probably going to have to have a chat with Leotis Hawkins and Garrett Asalon one more time.
Chapter 24
Damion shook his head in mock disbelief. “You've gotta be kidding. I thought Pulitzer Prize–winning journalists spent their time hobnobbing with the rich and famous, or at least snuggled up to their sources.”
“Guess you pegged things wrong,” said Flora Jean. Her eyes were glued to the front door of the LaMar's Donuts shop that she and Damion had watched Wordell Epps enter fifteen minutes earlier. Stretching her legs out in the front seat of the ageless Suburban that CJ had used for surveillance work for the past twenty years—a vehicle she'd inherited half ownership in when they'd become business partners five years earlier—she glanced down at the oversized purse between her feet and the barely visible butt of the Browning 9-mm she'd carried since her return from the first Persian Gulf War.
“Think he'd be crazy enough to put up a fuss?” Damion asked, noting Flora Jean's quick glance toward the purse.
“Who knows? I'm hopin’ the kinda fusses he likes to make are the ones he makes with words.”
“Funny the way his supervisor at the Rocky Mountain News didn't hesitate one bit in telling us where Epps would be having lunch. I got the feeling when you told him who you were and why you wanted to talk to Epps that the man enjoyed hearing someone was out there looking to beat Epps at his own game.”
“I don't think his newspaper cronies like Epps very much, and I can't say I blame …wait a second. Here he comes. Stay put, Damion.” Flora Jean watched Epps walk out of the donut shop and head for a battered, mud-brown Honda, the same car she'd seen him slouched down in at Shandell's interment. In one fluid movement, she grabbed her purse, opened the door, and stepped out onto the crumbling pavement. “Mr. Epps, wanta hold up for a sec?”
Clutching a bag of donuts in his right hand and looking startled, Epps continued toward his car. “What the hell do you want, Benson?”
“Need to talk to you about somethin’, sugar.”
“I talked to you as much as I intend to the other day.”
“Why the brush-off, sugar? I used my roll-on this morning.”
“You can dispense with the one-liners, Ms. Benson.” Epps stopped next to his car and slipped his keys out of his pocket. “Since we last talked, there's been another murder. Shandell Bird's father, in case you missed it. Besides that, I had a very long and unpleasant visit from a homicide cop who didn't like the idea that I was rooting around in his murder investigation. Now, I don't suppose you're the one who sicced gap-toothed Sergeant Townsend on me, are you?”
“Sure didn't.”
“Well, he got wind of what I was up to somehow.” Epps extended his right arm as if to drive his index finger into Flora Jean's chest. Flora Jean grabbed the pesky investigative reporter by his hand, bending it backward until Epps screamed in pain.
“No touching, sugar. Cardinal rule of mine.”
“Aaaahhhh! Let go!”
“I will. As soon as we come to an understandin’.” She adjusted her purse strap on her shoulder.
“Okay, okay.”
Strengthening her grip, Flora Jean said, “You mentioned to me the other day that your buddy Paul Grimes was workin’ on a book.”
“Yeah, he was.” Epps let out a grunt.
“Well, since we talked, I've had the strangest feelin’ that you know a lot more about that book than you told me. And, book lover that I am, I'm dyin’ to have you tell me about it, especially since, unlike the cops, I don't give a rat's ass whether you're withholdin’ evidence in a murder case.”
“Let go of my hand, would you?”
“Glad to if we're gonna talk.”
“Okay. Okay, we'll talk.”
“I like your decision-makin’, Epps.” Flora Jean eased up on her grip and smiled. “Hate to have someone walk by here, see us in this love embrace, and call the cops. So now that you've agreed to talk, let's decide where. My place or yours?”
“Yours.”
“Figured you'd say that. Nope, sugar. It's yours.”
“Why?”
“’Cause at my place I've got nothin’ to hide. Can't be so sure about that at yours. Who knows, you could have a houseful of murder evidence chucked away in your bureau drawers.” Renewing the tension on Epps's hand, she turned to face the Suburban. “See that beast of a four-by-four over there?”
“Yeah.” Epps winced in pain.
“We're gonna head straight for it, hand in hand, just like young lovers. The young man with me is gonna slip out of the front seat and let you get in while he slips in the back. You with me?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” She lowered Epps's arm and, arms swinging, they headed for the Suburban. “Real good. ’Cause I got a 9-millimeter in my purse that says you better be.”
Wordell Epps's apartment seemed smaller and darker than Flora Jean remembered. But small and dark or big and bright, the place had the putrid lingering smell of marijuana. On the ride from the donut shop, Epps had barely said a word except to say to Damion after Flora Jean's hasty introduction, “So I finally get to meet a man who turned down a sure million bucks. Funny, you don't look that stupid.”
They'd just entered the apartment when Epps, wide-eyed, twitching, and acting like a hardcore junkie, rushed to his kitchen, extracted a bag of joints from a drawer, teased one out, and lit up. Offering the bag to Flora Jean and Damion, he said, “Happy to share.” Looking disappointed and shaking his head when they both declined, he tucked the bag back into the drawer. “Feel a little better now.” Continuing to inhale like a dying patient on a respirator, he took a donut out of the now grease-stained bag he'd set on a kitchen countertop. “These things are as sweet as sunshine; have one.” He aimed the bag at Damion.
“No, thanks.”
“Ms. Benson?”
“Nope.”
“So what the hell is it the two of you do for fun, kick sick little puppies?”
“We track down murderers,” came Damion's quick reply.
“Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. Just like Batman and Robin, except one of you's a woman.”
Flora Jean stepped up to Epps, whisked the bag of donuts off the countertop, and handed the bag to Damion. “How many donuts are in there, Damion?”
Opening the bag and peering inside, Damion said, “I count eight.”
“Eight. Now, that's a good, round, easy-to-remember number.” She patted Epps softly on the cheek. “That was a love tap, friend.” Smiling, she slapped him on the other cheek with enough force to snap his head back and send his joint flying. “You've got a perfectly round eight minutes to give us some answers, Ep
ps. I don't intend to do-si-do with you this time around.”
“I don't have any answers,” Epps said, retrieving his joint and looking petrified.
“Then I'll ask you a question. Why were you lurking around at Shandell Bird's funeral? You aren't family, and you certainly aren't a friend. And for the record, I know you were there. I saw that rattletrap of yours and your pumpkin-sized head poking up from behind the steering wheel as I left.”
When Epps didn't answer, Flora Jean said, “Seven minutes and ticking.”
Uncertain exactly what the woman who, he'd discovered since her first visit, had once been a marine intelligence sergeant would do if he didn't cooperate, Epps said, “Suppose we do this. I give a little, and you give a little.” He looked at Damion for support, only to realize from the look on Damion's face that Flora Jean was the lone decision-maker. “Whatta you say, Ms. Benson?” Epps took a quick toke off his joint. “It might be worth your while.”
“Okay. Let's give it a try.” Flora Jean eyed her watch. “Sing your song, sonny.”
Looking relieved, Epps took a long, satisfying drag off his joint. “Paulie was writing a book about the college sports scene that he claimed was going to be a blockbuster.”
Flora Jean eyed Epps thoughtfully, trying to determine if he was about to offer a piece of worthless information. “If it was a book about athletes using performance-enhancing drugs, that's yesterday's news.”
“Nope. That's not what the book was about.” Epps sounded to Flora Jean as if he was trying to determine how much information he could give out and still save his own skin. “What he was writing was a psychological-profile kind of book, a sort of case study. One of those Dr. Phil kind of books the public seems to lap up.” He glanced at Damion and smiled. “Matter of fact, you're in the book, Madrid. And quite prominently, I might add,” he said, noting the quizzical look on Damion's face. “Don't look so shocked, my man. You spent your college years pretty much playing the part of a public figure. No reason to be surprised that someone decided to write about you.”
“So how is it you know so much about the book?” Flora Jean's voice was filled with skepticism. She took a step closer to Epps. “Better still, why didn't you tell me the whole story the other day?” Resting a hand on Epps's shoulder, she pressed her thumb against his collarbone until he winced in pain and jerked away.
“Who knows? Maybe it had something to do with feeling left out of the book thing. Although Paulie had one hell of a nose for news, and most of the time he could write rings around other people, he couldn't spell, punctuate, or use a computer worth a damn. When it came to writing, the man was old-school to a fault. Always wrote longhand on a yellow tablet—that is, when he wasn't at work.”
“No computer at all?” Damion asked, looking surprised.
“Computers were heresy to Paulie, although he was forced to use them at work. I think in some ways he was actually afraid of the damn things. Because of his lack of punctuation, spelling, and computer skills, I generally copyedited anything he wrote outside the office. The newsroom secretary covered his ass at work.” He eyed Flora Jean and smiled. “That's why I know so much about the book.”
“I see. Mind telling me when I can run down and pick up my copy at the book store?” said Flora Jean.
“That I don't know. What I do know is that Paulie was almost done with the book when he was killed. And I know each profiled what Paulie and the professor who was writing the book with him defined as a psychological archetype. He and that professor used personal case histories to drive home their points. They weren't quite done with every case history, including yours, Madrid.”
Trying her best to understand Epps's story, Flora Jean asked, “That professor you keep talking about wouldn't happen to be Dr. Alicia Phillips, would it?”
“How'd you know that?” Epps asked, looking surprisingly self-satisfied.
“Turns out that just like you, I investigate things for a living. So now that we're down to the nitty-gritty, tell me, that manuscript you so lovingly copyedited for your friend Grimes—is it handy?”
“Yes, but I'm thinking the person I should be showing it to is that homicide detective working the case, Sergeant Townsend.”
“Funny, the first time we talked, I got the impression you didn't particularly like cops. ‘Assholes’ is the word that comes to mind.”
“I don't. But I got myself a little religion when Shandell's father turned up dead. Started to wonder if maybe I'd be next.”
“Why would that be?” asked Damion.
“That book we've been talking about. Could be the killer knows I'm the one who pretty much transcribed it for Paulie. Could be the murderer's in the damn thing and doesn't really want to be. Like you, for instance, Madrid.”
“Awfully convenient way for you to get us thinkin’ you aren't the killer, don't you think?” asked Flora Jean.
“I'm not! If you want to talk to somebody who might've had a reason to kill Bird, talk to his girlfriend. A woman named Connie Eastland. Now, there's a double-dipping murderous shrew for you, at least according to Paulie.”
“We've got someone working on that,” said Damion, wondering how far Niki was into her luncheon assignment.
“Then it sounds as if you and Ms. Benson have your finger on the pulse of just about everything. The cops, Dr. Phillips, the Eastland woman. Anything the two of you think you missed?”
“We haven't found the murderer yet, but we will. In the meantime, why don't you fill us in on what you know about Connie East-land.” said Flora Jean.
“Sure,” Epps said with a shrug. “And I got this straight from Paulie. He said she was milking the shit out of your boy Shandell, or at least she was planning to. And all the time she was doing it, she was also busy jacking off a mobster named Garrett Asalon. Bottom line is Mr. Macho Future NBA Superstar was getting himself used.”
“And I'm pretty sure that's part of the reason he was killed,” said Damion.
“Real likely. I talked to Eastland recently. Suggested that I knew about Paulie and the Phillips woman's book. Let her know I even had inside dope on her boyfriend Shandell's involvement with drugs.” Epps broke into a self-satisfied grin. “For the record, Ms. Benson, I'm capable of doing your kind of investigating too.”
“How'd she respond?” Damion asked.
“She got up her hackles. Told me to drop dead.”
“We've got ourselves some sideshow goin’ here.” Flora Jean shook her head. “Tell-all books, gold-diggin’ women, game-fixin’ mobsters. A real three-ring circus. Might as well toss one more item in the ring.” She flashed Epps a look that as much said, Time to give it up. “The manuscript, Mr. Epps. Wanta get it?”
“Sure. It's here. I wouldn't think of keeping something that valuable anywhere near the vultures I work with. They told you where to find me today, didn't they? No question the SOBs would steal.”
Epps reached for his stash to get another joint, but Flora Jean grabbed the bag out of his hand. “You'll have time for that after we're gone. Right now we're interested in somethin’ a little more mind-blowin’.”
The 228 pages of Paul Grimes and Alicia Phillips's manuscript were formatted much like the scores of college term papers Damion had written. The text featured separate subject headings, each followed by a detailed discussion. What differed was the fact that the discussions featured profiles of so-called athlete prototypes, and that each discussion was followed by a lengthy case history.
Seated on a lumpy couch in Wordell Epps's living room a few feet from where Flora Jean and Epps stood talking, Damion let out a sigh. He'd just finished reading a rambling eight-page discussion of what Phillips and Grimes defined in broad psychological terms as their profile for the “Self-Reliant Paranoid Introvert.” Gritting his teeth, he flipped back to the first paragraph of the discussion and reread it:
Hardworking, efficient, standoffish, officious, often sycophantic, and flattering to the extreme, the paranoid introvert is the perfect example of someone w
ho lives in mortal fear that their day of disaster will surely come and that when it does, they will be required to either escape from the imagined or real gulag they've created for themselves or suffocate. They are fearful that in the end their manufactured identity will be stripped from them and their deepest secrets revealed. One would think that someone as athletically gifted and potentially powerful by virtue of wealth, strength of personality, and charisma as the Self-Reliant Paranoid Introvert would be immune to such fear. But they are not. Although one might expect that the archetypes described in this book, men and women whose words and TV images are so profound as to influence millions, have few detectable flaws, that is not actually the case. CASE HISTORY TO FOLLOW. EXAMPLE: SHANDELL BIRD. TEXTUAL PSEUDONYM: DARRYL HOWARD.
A handwritten note had been jotted near the bottom of the page: Consult Connie E. for details and determine if we can use Leon Bird in Shandell's case history. She'll know, $$ could be pricey.
Shaking his head, Damion slowly flipped through several more pages. He recognized the names of several people he'd known either personally or through the news. There were profiles of NBA players, coaches, and former rivals of his from other schools. Some of the discussions and case histories were complete. Others, like Shandell's, appeared to be works in progress. In every instance the real individual's name had an accompanying pseudonym.
When he reached his own name on page 48, he realized that his hands were sweating. He eyed the subject heading: “Decisive, Self-Assured Perfectionist (Also see ‘Self-Assured Perfectionist, Indecisive,’ page 83)” and read on:
