Instead, she lifted her hand and took a pull from a bent cigarette. The smoke drifted through the screen. Even six feet away, my olfactory sense was more than saturated. I wanted to swat the smoke away, but I didn’t want to offend her.
“Franklin hired you, huh?” She gave me the once-over.
I’d assumed she knew about his murder charge. But maybe Noah hadn’t told her yet. This could get uncomfortable very quickly.
“Yeah, um…” I ran my fingers through my hair and glanced at the house next door. A cat litter box was sitting in the yard, and it was full to the brim with shit.
“Noah called me. Told me all about it,” she said, taking another drag of her cigarette.
There wasn’t a hint of empathy in her voice.
“Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”
She paused, looked me over again. The color of her eyes was difficult to make out. All I saw was red.
“Did Franklin send you over here?”
I pondered the question, wondering if her resentment against Franklin might cause her to close the door right in my face.
“Your son hired me to do anything possible to help him stay out of jail.” She pushed open the screen. “Come on in.” Her eyes angled to the right of me, as if there were someone else standing there. There wasn’t. She probably just didn’t want to look me in the eye.
“Thank you.” I padded inside and prayed she would leave the door open to allow in a little fresh air.
She shut it and locked it. Maybe my prayer hadn’t been specific enough.
She shuffled by me, with the cigarette dangling from her lips. It was one of those homemade cigarettes. Unfiltered. More tar. More unhealthiness. I took in a shallow breath, thinking that my lungs might reject the polluted air if I inhaled too deeply.
She walked over to a makeshift bar and made herself a gin and tonic. She didn’t ask if I wanted a drink, which was fine by me. She walked a few steps and fell into a black leather chair. Compared to everything else I’d seen, it looked relatively new. She picked up a remote control and pressed a button.
The sound system blared so loudly I almost hit the ceiling.
She started talking, but I couldn’t hear a word she was saying. I shook my head and pointed at my ear.
She hit mute. “Huh?”
“I don’t have the best hearing, could we…?” I then noticed the size of the flat screen. It had to be seventy-two inches. It took up almost an entire wall.
“It’s on mute. What else do you want?”
Miss Congeniality.
“Just a few questions so I can get a better sense of your son, Franklin.”
She propped her hand under her chin, and it disappeared in the folds. “So, he sent you over here to ask questions about himself? Makes no sense.”
She was sharper than she appeared. “Whenever I take on a new client, I create a complete profile on that client. I’m asked to do a lot of things for my client, so I need to know everything I can about them—how they think, how they respond in certain situations.”
There were two dim lights illuminating the living room; a haze lingered in the air. I spotted a few pictures on the mantel and next to her chair. She eyed me for a few seconds, pulled the cigarette to her mouth, and sucked until the end turned orange.
“Go ahead,” she said.
I nodded. “Franklin is quite educated. I believe he went to an Ivy League school.”
“Cornell. What of it?”
“Nothing. That’s a great school. Were you proud when he got his college degree?”
“Who wouldn’t be? Double major in political science and macroeconomics. Graduated with a 3.8 GPA. Smart kid.”
I was waiting for the “but.” The one that would be followed by her saying he’d been a disgrace for turning his back on her and Noah after their father had died. It never came.
“So, Franklin has done quite well for himself.”
She picked up her drink and took in a mouthful, expanding her voluminous cheeks for a moment. “Worked his tail off. If you do that and you’re smart, then you’ve got a good chance.”
That sounded like praise. I let the words hang for a moment just to make sure I had processed them correctly. Then I continued. Enough of the softball questions. It was time to throw a curve.
“Do you think your son is capable of killing a person?”
“Franklin? Nah. No way.”
She didn’t hesitate. I guess it was good to see that she held no grudges, or at least she hid them really well. Of course, she hadn’t seen the video of Franklin in the hallway minutes before Pamela Connor had been murdered.
“Do you consider Franklin to be an honest person?”
“Ha!” She smacked her leg and cackled, which morphed into a deep, wet cough. She reached on the other side of her chair, grabbed an oxygen mask attached to a tube, rested it over her face, and began to breathe deeply.
About a minute later, she tossed the mask aside and took another drag of her cigarette.
“You know, I love my rollies.” She looked at her cigarette like someone might lovingly look at her dog.
I nodded and forced a grin. Waited.
“Right. Ethics. Franklin. Look, I know he’s tried a few times to be honest, but it’s just not in his nature. But trying is worth something, I suppose.”
I lifted from my seat and wandered over to the mantel. I saw what looked like teenage pictures of Franklin and Noah. Both had their arms around dates.
“Good-looking boys.”
“You going to be much longer? I’m missing my program on UFOs.”
Holding one of the framed pictures, which was coated with a sticky dust, I turned back around to Rhonda. “Are you bitter about Franklin not helping out when your husband died?”
She looked off for a second, as if she had to ponder what it meant to her. Or maybe pondering her options on how to respond. She was hard to read.
“It’s been a long time,” she said, blowing smoke out the side of her mouth. It coiled upward and settled into the thick haze clinging to the ceiling. “I might have been upset years ago, but he was really just a kid still, doing what he thought was right. I figured I couldn’t hold a grudge forever. Not if you ever want to see your kids again.”
“Oh, have you seen Franklin recently?”
A pause. Her eyes narrowed. “Why does it matter? And how is this going to help Franklin get out of the murder charge?”
She was sharp. I couldn’t let my surroundings and her condition fool me. “They hired me to try to uncover every possible angle on why Franklin could not have killed this woman, Pamela Connor.”
“That’s her name, huh?” Her eyes found the floor for a second.
“So, Franklin…you last saw him when?”
She tried to chuckle; her chest lifted, but not much came out. “It’s been a while. We’ve talked on the phone a few times.”
I nodded. “And what about his wife and your two grandkids?”
She huffed out a breath, grabbed her glass of booze, and drank from it. “Never expected you to grill me like this, but if it helps Franklin in the long run…” She set the glass down and wiped her mouth with her robe. “She’s all right.”
“Elaine?”
“Who else you think I’m talking about? Jesus Christ, guy. Are you even listening to your own questions?”
In court, I would have considered her a hostile witness. But in the real world, those labels didn’t help. “Do you see your grandkids much?”
She brought her cigarette hand to her mouth. It was quivering. She became more subdued. “I wish it was more. But if you were a teenager, would you want to come around this dump? I’m just living my life until I take my last breath. Not sure when that will be.” Her eyes went to the picture I was holding.
“Noah seems to have a big smile on his face here. Was this his girlfriend?”
Another straight-faced pause. She seemed to be full of secrets, or at least hesitant to share much of anything. �
�Paranoid” might be another term.
“Yep. For a while. But he moved on. They all do after high school.”
I nodded. “Have you had a chance to meet Brook?”
“Who?”
I set the picture back on the mantel. “Brook Pressler. She’s a friend of mine. That’s how I came to know Noah.”
“Never heard of her.” She took a drag on her cigarette.
Considering what I was experiencing, it wasn’t surprising to hear that Noah would keep Brook away from his mother. And I thought my mom could be difficult. “Noah isn’t real good with the girls. Not like his brother.”
I was taken aback with that comment. Was she proud of Franklin for cheating on his wife?
Something told me that Pamela Connor wasn’t the only girl in Franklin’s harem. Maybe his ethical makeup wasn’t an anomaly. DNA could have been a major factor as well. But, more importantly, had Franklin been physically abusive with other women?
“Do you know if Franklin has other girlfriends outside of his marriage?”
She shook her head. “You don’t need to go there. It’s his personal life. We all make decisions, and then we got to live with them. Who he screws…it makes no difference in my life.”
She looked at me, waiting for a response. I didn’t have any. I couldn’t think of words to describe my feelings or what it might have been like to be raised by Rhonda. Then again, some people turn into real curmudgeons after the age of fifty or sixty. Maybe she was just a product of how her life had played out.
Based upon the video, my mind had swung toward Franklin being the actual killer. But it wasn’t cut-and-dry. Her son’s moral compass notwithstanding, Rhonda’s impression of him had created a perspective that I had not prepared myself for. It was almost as if someone knew that I would see the video, causing me to form the opinion that Franklin might indeed be guilty. Therefore, a different viewpoint would be needed to sway my opinion in the opposite direction. Rhonda’s accounting might simply be some sort of prearranged deal and not true at all. Or it might not.
She pushed herself out of the chair. “Are you done now?”
I nodded. “Thank you for taking the time to talk with me. It definitely helps.” We slowly padded out of the living room. I tried to think of something positive to say in case I had additional questions in the future.
“Nice setup you have here,” I said, pointing at the massive TV screen.
“Won’t be any Christmas presents like that in the future,” she grumbled, but it was loud enough that I could hear her.
I’d figured it was a gift. She probably lived off of Social Security and maybe a small pension. “You never know. Santa might show up with something special.”
“I’m not stupid, you know. Franklin was my Santa. And he’s got no money. So, the free ride is over for me.”
I stood there in stunned silence. That lasted only a few seconds. She practically pushed me out the door, but her last comment had just added a whole new perspective that I had to chew on.
10
I backed out of the driveway and headed north, away from Rhonda’s neighborhood. Questions and data points peppered my mind, and they hit me in no particular order.
Why had Noah given me the impression that his mother had some vendetta against Franklin when she appeared to take him for who he was—flawed, but still her son? I guess Noah never actually told me his mother held a grudge, but I assumed he and his pleasant mother were on the same page, considering the life they’d been forced to live.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think her affection for her boys was equal. Heck, maybe it was. It certainly didn’t fit with the perspective I’d been given by Brook.
Still, bitterness was Rhonda’s closest friend, it appeared. It was hard to imagine her being kind or compassionate to anyone.
A horn honked from behind me, and I pulled away from a stop sign, but not fast enough for the jerk driving a Mercedes sports car. He zoomed past me like he was on the Autobahn. I checked my rearview and saw traffic had stacked up a bit. Maybe I’d zoned out for a minute.
I kept my eyes on the road, but my mind was on the case. I thought about Franklin and his women. Sounded like he was quite the player. Maybe Elaine, his wife, couldn’t take any more once Franklin had been charged with killing one of his girlfriends. That part I could believe.
I had to figure out a way to find Elaine and speak with her. The video snippet of Franklin on the fourteenth-floor hallway and the feedback from everyone else I’d spoken with didn’t mesh. I had to remind myself that opinions were no more than interesting anecdotes. Only tangible evidence could make or break a case. The rest was lawyer spin.
And I bet Winston could spin with the best. Opportunities for reasonable doubt—that was why he’d hired me. Or so he’d said. I came into this feeling not exactly trusting of all parties, and, right now, that feeling was amplified. A truck swerved to the right, blaring its horn. I stomped my foot on the brake to avoid hitting it.
“Fuck!” I’d just run a red light.
A quick glance in my rearview. Cars bounced to a stop, some turning left or right to avoid a collision. They’d apparently followed me into the intersection. I held up my hand. “Sorry!” I said out loud, knowing, of course, that no one could hear me. I pressed the gas and drove out of harm’s way; at the same time, I had to swallow back the contents of my breakfast.
A deep breath as I glanced in my rearview. A black Camaro was about fifty feet behind me. Every few seconds, I’d shift my eyes from looking out the front windshield—didn’t want to cause another pileup—to looking in the rearview mirror. The Camaro was still there.
Is that the same one I saw on Rhonda’s street?
I flipped the blinker and turned right at the next intersection. A few seconds later, the Camaro followed me—I could see a gold pinstripe down the side of the muscle car. Three other cars followed the same path, but I hadn’t seen those other cars on Rhonda’s street. I wasn’t paranoid, but, then again, my trust bucket was less than half full.
I spotted a Whole Foods up ahead. We could use some extra fruit at home. Two birds, one stone. I pulled into the lot, parked, and casually walked into the store. Once inside, I swung around and scanned the lot for the Camaro. Nothing.
Wait…at the far end of the strip center, near a subway shop, I saw a bearded man wearing a black leather coat get out of a black Camaro. I could feel an icy patch form on the back of my neck. He began walking toward the Whole Foods.
With his physical identity etched in my mind, I scooted into the store and looked through the assortment of fresh fruits in the produce section. A minute passed, but every time I looked up and saw someone enter, it wasn’t Beard Man. Maybe he’d stopped outside. Or maybe he had business in one of the other shops in the strip center, and all of this was just a coincidence.
I found some fresh peaches and blueberries; then I meandered into the meat section. I could grill some steaks tonight for Mackenzie and Nicole. I couldn’t wait to meet our new dog, Rainbow. She and Baxter might enjoy our leftovers. I found three large sirloin cuts and put them into my basket. I turned around and stopped in my tracks. Beard Man was surveying an end cap that was full of cereal boxes.
Coincidence, my ass.
I had no idea who he was or why he was following me, but I wasn’t about to let this guy follow me home, put my daughter in harm’s way. I walked right past him—I picked up an invisible wall of pungent cologne—and turned left down the next aisle. The land of chips.
I pretended to sift through a few different brands. A second later, he walked past me. He carried no cereal boxes, but he did carry a serious swagger. The kind you might see at a club or bar. Not a grocery.
Thankfully, the store was practically empty. I set my basket on the floor and moved swiftly. I walked up behind him, grabbed his arm, and swung him around until he face-planted into a shelving unit. His sunglasses fell off and a bag of chips exploded, sending shards of sour cream and onion into the air.
/> “What the fuck, dude?” he grunted.
I put my arm into his back. “Who are you, and why are you following me?”
“I’m just shopping, like you. Let me go.”
“You’re lying.” I looked down the aisle. A woman and a toddler had stopped at the end. She grabbed the hand of her child and rushed off.
“Dude, I’m just getting a few things for my wife.”
“When were you married?”
“None of your fucking business.”
I pressed his face into a wire-mesh stand that was attached to the shelf.
“You’re hurting me, dammit.”
“It’s going to get a lot worse unless you start talking.”
“Fuck you, prick!”
I looked both ways. No eyes on me. I threw a punch into his right kidney. He buckled, almost dropped to the floor.
“I’m just getting warmed up. Talk, asswipe.”
“You’re going to regret doing this,” he said, putting a hand to his side.
We’d finally gotten past the noble-husband act.
I had a hand on his head and the other holding the collar of his jacket. I was prepared to kick out his legs and bury him into the hard floor. “Why would I regret kicking the ass of someone who’s harassing me?”
“I’m not harassing you. I’m just following you. You’re a PI. Don’t you know the fucking difference?”
That made me pause.
“How do you know I’m a PI?”
He didn’t respond.
“You want another bruised kidney?”
“All right, all right. Don’t have to be so violent.”
I waited for all of one second. “Speak!”
“I was hired to follow you—okay?”
“By who?”
He muttered something I couldn’t understand.
“I can’t hear you. Speak up.”
“A law firm.”
My pulse had already been working double-time, but now it was a solid drum roll.
“The name of the firm.”
“I don’t know the name. It’s got like four or five names.”
The game-playing was something I had little patience with. Or had I already shown too much patience? I kicked out his legs and rammed my knee into his back when he hit the floor.
ON Fire (An Ozzie Novak Thriller, Book 5) (Redemption Thriller Series 17) Page 5
