A Done Deal

by Jenna Bennett

  “I don’t remember him from our wedding,” Bradley said.

  There was a good reason for that. Mother would never have invited Rafe to my first wedding. If she could, she’d do her best to keep him out of my second, too.

  “He wasn’t there. He was in jail by then. Or in Memphis.” It was probably Memphis. I was pretty sure he was out of jail by the time I was out of high school. Several years before I married Bradley.

  “Jail?” Bradley echoed.

  “For assault and battery. It’s a long time ago.” And none of his business. “He only served two years of a five years sentence. Time off for good behavior.” Ostensibly. In reality, it was because the TBI recruited him and sprung him from Riverbend Prison so he could go undercover for them. I didn’t tell Bradley any of that. “I’m fine. I’m always fine when he’s around.”

  “I see,” Bradley said, sounding a little like he was choking. “Um... he wasn’t upset, was he? He looked upset.”

  “He was, a little.” But that was before everything else happened, while he was warning me away from Carmen.

  And then I realized what Bradley was afraid of. “Oh, don’t worry. He wasn’t upset with you. Or about you. It had nothing to do with us having dinner together.”

  “Oh,” Bradley said, his relief palpable. “Good.”

  I grinned. No, Rafe knew Bradley’s inadequacies much too well to be worried about us carrying on a torrid affair. “Speaking of significant others, I hope Shelby didn’t give you a hard time last night?”

  “Not at all,” Bradley said complacently. “She got home a little after I did. Nothing to worry about, Savannah. She doesn’t suspect a thing.”

  As if I cared what Shelby thought or suspected. “What kind of car is she driving these days?”

  “Excuse me?” Bradley said.

  “Her vehicle? What is it?” It was time to merge with traffic on I-40, and I looked around, head swiveling, to make sure I didn’t get myself into trouble.

  “Oh,” Bradley said. “Um... I’m buying her a new car for Christmas. A minivan. For the kids, you know.”

  “Of course.” And wouldn’t she be thrilled? I mean, that’s what we all want, isn’t it? Minivans under the Christmas tree? “What does she drive right now?”

  “An Audi,” Bradley said. “Sports car.”

  That made the minivan sound even better. Part of me wished I could be there to see Shelby’s face when she saw it. “What color is it?”

  “Red,” Bradley said, sounding like he was humoring the crazy lady.

  “Neither one of you has a white economy compact, do you? A Toyota or Honda?”

  “No,” Bradley said, and I could imagine the curl of his lip. “Why?”

  The sleet was getting heavier and the road more slippery. The ramp to merge with I-24 was coming up. It’s a tough place to navigate, because the next exit comes up really quickly. I’d have to merge while simultaneously cutting across three lanes of traffic to get into the exit lane, and the other drivers aren’t always observant or willing to let me over. I slowed down. “Someone was following me yesterday. I thought maybe it was Shelby. That she’d figured out you were having dinner with someone else and was having you followed.”

  Maybe that was the explanation: Shelby had hired a two-bit PI to follow Bradley around, and when he’d dropped me off, the PI had decided to follow me instead.

  “I can’t imagine why she would,” Bradley said, sounding worried.

  “You cheated on me with her. Maybe she’s afraid you’re cheating on her with me. Or someone else.”

  “I would never,” Bradley said, offended. “I love Shelby. And I can’t think of anyone we know who drives a white Toyota.”

  Naturally not. He was a lawyer, and Shelby was a lawyer’s wife: I’m sure all their friends drove Audis and Mercedes.

  “Thanks anyway.” I took my hand off the steering wheel to flip on the turn signal. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a blurred shape to my left, a touch too close: a car in the next lane, trying to merge into mine. There was a blinking yellow light in my peripheral vision. At the same time, an eighteen wheeler was coming up from behind in the right lane, the one I was trying to get into. It was going a little too fast for comfort, considering the conditions and the poor visibility. I wasn’t sure I’d have time to get in front of it. A quick glance in the rearview mirror showed that I had a car behind me, too: some sort of work-van. All I could see was the color—pale blue—and the bumper and headlights; that’s how close it was.

  The car to my left nudged me. I don’t know what the problem was, whether the driver just didn’t notice me or perhaps thought I had moved over already. In either case, the Volvo slid sideways in a maneuver I hadn’t planned, straight into the path of the tractor trailer.

  Chapter 16

  The driver of the truck laid on the horn, a deep bass rumble that rattled through my bones. I had no time to respond, or glare at the careless driver to my left: all my efforts went into keeping the Volvo out of the path of the tractor trailer bearing down on it. The phone went flying, with Bradley’s voice still quacking out of it, and I clamped both hands around the steering wheel as sweat broke out on my forehead in spite of the chilly weather.

  A few other horns joined in the chorus as I slammed on the brakes and slid on the slick roadbed. The tractor trailer skimmed by, continuing its bone-shaking bass honk, the back tire scraping along the side of the Volvo. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I hoped there wouldn’t be scratches in the paint, but it was the least of my concerns. Behind me, the van was trying desperately to avoid rear-ending me, fishtailing on the slick road. It managed to squeak by with just a gentle nudge of my bumper and a scream of the horn. I saw the driver’s face, eyes wide and mouth open, going by in a flash. He looked as terrified as I felt. In front of me, the driver of the car that had caused the whole thing put on a burst of speed and hustled out of the way of the van. All I noticed was a flash of taillights disappearing through the sleet.

  There was space behind the tractor trailer, and—heart pounding and hands shaking—I stepped on the gas again, and managed to get myself and the Volvo across three lanes of traffic and into the exit lane on the far right. Nothing seemed to be wrong; the car was handling just fine. A minute later I was off the interstate, pulling to a stop on the shoulder of the exit ramp. And there I sat, shivering, until I became aware of a strange quacking sound. I had just isolated it as coming from the cell phone on the floor when the blue van bumped to a stop behind me and the driver jumped out and came running. I rolled down the window, in time to hear, “Holy hell, are you all right, lady?”

  He was young, probably even younger than Truman, with brown, shaggy hair and acne, dressed in some sort of navy blue coverall. A fuzzy strip of hair on his upper lip was an attempt to grow a mustache, and I could see moisture on his skin through the hairs. He must have been as scared as me.

  “I seem to be,” I said as I bent to retrieve the cell phone from the floor of the car. “Excuse me a second, would you? I’d better take care of this first. Bradley?”

  “What happened?” my ex-husband’s voice yelped. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, my refrain over the past twenty four hours. “I just had an almost-accident on the interstate. The weather is bad and the roads are slick.”

  “Did you hit someone?” Bradley asked, his tone vaguely disapproving.

  “We’re not married anymore,” I reminded him, since I recognized the attitude from when we had been. Hopefully he had the good grace to blush, although of course I had no way of knowing. “No, I didn’t hit anyone. And no one hit me. But it was a close call. And on that note I should go. There’s someone who’s waiting to talk to me. Thanks for the information.”

  “Call me if you need anything else,” Bradley said. I promised him I would, and he hung up. I did the same and turned to the young man outside the window.

  “Sorry about that. Are you all right?”

  “I ain’t worrie
d about me,” the young man said. “I’m fine. A little shook up. But nothing happened to me. You’re the one I’m worried about.”

  “Nothing happened to me either.”

  “No thanks to that idiot in the other car!” the young man said. “Fool didn’t even have the sense to stop and check that everything turned out all right.”

  “Not everyone is as civic-minded as you are. I appreciate you coming back to check on me.”

  “Holy crap,” the young man said, “it’s the least I can do, innit? I damn near knocked you into the river!”

  “I think I was probably in more danger of being mowed under by the eighteen wheeler, to be honest.”

  The young man nodded. “Saw him bumping along the side of you. Car all right?”

  “I haven’t checked,” I said, reaching for the door handle.

  “Stay there. I’ll do it.”

  He jogged around the car and inspected the damage before coming back. “Don’t look too bad. Rubber residue from the tires, mostly. You should probably go through a car wash and see what comes loose before you start worrying about taking her to a body shop.”

  ‘Her’ being the Volvo, I assumed. Men call their cars, their horses, and their guns ‘she,’ don’t they?

  “I’ll do that,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Name’s Eddie.” He handed me a business card with that name and a phone number, plus the information that he was an electrician. “Don’t know if it’ll do any good to file a report, but if you do, you can give the cops my number. I’ll tell’em what happened.”

  “I’m not really sure what happened,” I admitted. “It went so fast. I was getting ready to merge, and the car in the lane next to me was too close...”

  Eddie spat. “Women drivers!” And then he seemed to think better of it. “No offense, lady. You did good. But the driver of that Toyota—”

  “It was a Toyota?”

  He nodded. “Lady was probably talking on her cell phone.” His glance fell on mine, and he added, “No offense.”

  “None taken. I shouldn’t have been on the phone. But that wasn’t the problem.”

  “No,” Eddie agreed, “problem was the lady in the Toyota not paying attention. Looked like she didn’t realize you were there.”

  “Maybe I was driving in her blind spot.”

  Eddie shook his head, tossing droplets of water. He was getting soaked standing out there. “You were right next to each other. She’da seen you if she looked out the window. Guess she didn’t bother.”

  Guess not.

  “You should get back in your car. You’re getting wet. But before you go... I don’t suppose you caught the license plate?”

  “Sorry,” Eddie said. “It all went too fast. All I saw was it was a white Toyota. Or maybe off-white, or something.”

  “How do you know it was a woman driving?” If he’d been behind me, and she’d been ahead and to the left, how would he have seen her? Especially with the weather so bad and the visibility so poor, and everything happening so quickly.

  “She passed me,” Eddie said. “Just before it happened. I looked over. Couldn’t see her face—my van is higher than her car—but I saw her legs. Hose and high heels.”

  But no actual description. Oh, well.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate you stopping to check on me. I’m glad we’re both OK.”

  “Me too.” Eddie nodded to the business card still in my hand. “You got my number. Take care of yourself.”

  I said I would, and he jogged back to his van and started up. I watched him pull out and go past me and up the incline to Shelby Avenue, where he waited for the light to change before cutting across the street and getting back on the interstate.

  I stayed where I was. My hands were still a little unsteady, and I had a lot to think about.

  I know that accidents happen. The weather was certainly yucky enough to be a contributing factor. Visibility was poor and the blacktop was slick. Traffic was snarly, as it always is at that particular juncture of interstates. I’d had trouble there before. And I had been on the phone. It might have contributed to my being unobservant. The truth was that I’d escaped with my life and health, along with most of my sanity, so I had no real cause for complaint. It was just interesting how, so soon after Kylie and Aislynn’s accident, I’d almost had one myself. Especially considering Lyle Spicer’s suggestion, that the earlier accident could have been meant for me instead of Aislynn and Kylie.

  And now there was Eddie’s mention of a white or off-white Toyota. There’d been a white car following us home from the nightclub last night too. As well as...

  I thought back. Yes, a white car had narrowly escaped hitting me on South 5th Street a few nights ago. I’d been on my way home from the coffee shop when I’d gotten Aislynn’s call about the accident, and I’d done a U-turn across a bunch of lanes. There’d been a white car right there, that had almost hit me. I’d chalked it up to crazy driving on my part and lack of attention on theirs, but what if it had been deliberate? What if the driver of the white car had been following me then, too?

  That knocked Shelby Ferguson out of the running, anyway, along with any second rate PI she might have hired. Kylie and Aislynn’s accident had happened Sunday night, long before Joshua Rowland’s name had come up in connection with anything. I hadn’t heard from Dix until Monday morning, and had put off calling Bradley until after noon, since I didn’t fancy talking to him. So anyone or anything to do with the Fergusons was out.

  Carmen Arroyo drove a red Mercedes, and she had definitely not been following Rafe and me the night of the raid. The police might have let him—and me—slip through their fingers, but that was only because they knew we weren’t who they were after. They wouldn’t have let Carmen get away. And anyway, if they had, Tamara Grimaldi would have told me. So it couldn’t have been Carmen.

  Heather Price, then? She might have been hanging around La Havana the night of the raid, and when we fishtailed out of there, she might have followed. I’d called her that afternoon: she was the one who had told me about Hector Gonzales. It was possible she resented me—and even more so, resented Rafe—for her boyfriend ending up in prison. She might have wanted to hurt me because of it, both for my own part in Julio’s arrest and to upset Rafe. Most people had probably figured out by now that going after me would bother him. And she might have been hanging around before the night of the raid. She’d probably seen Rafe during the open house robberies a couple of months ago. He’d been working with, or for, her boyfriend. Maybe she’d seen him again recently, in his Jorge Pena guise, and had recognized him. She could have started following him around. And of course she knew that the two of us had a thing going. She and I and the late Connie Fortunato had discussed it back in September.

  I had talked to Spicer and Truman about Heather. They were looking into her. But maybe I should pay her a visit anyway. If nothing else, I could at least scope out what kind of car she drove. And it would give me something to do, apart from spending the day fretting about Rafe and Megan Slater and Hector Gonzales.

  Ten minutes later I was on my way, after calling Brittany at the office and begging her to look up Heather Price’s home address for me. And I was driving slowly, staying off the interstates and using the back roads instead, keeping an eye out for white Toyotas as I went.

  I didn’t have far to go. Heather lived just a few short miles north of downtown in Germantown, an old industrial and warehouse area that had been converted to a hip urban neighborhood over the past ten years.

  When I pulled up to the address on Monroe, I saw that Heather lived in an old Folk Victorian cottage, brick construction and stained glass windows with a wrap-around front porch, a hundred and some years old. She shared it with the business she ran: a sign in the miniscule front yard said The Right Price Interior Design and Real Estate Staging Company. There was no parking save for on the street, and not much there. With just a bit of difficulty—I don’t like double-parking—I slotted the Volvo into
a barely-sufficient space on the other side of the street, behind an SUV with Georgia plates. There were cars parked all up and down the street, as well as cruising by, but I looked around carefully, and there was no sign of a white Toyota. Which might mean A) that it didn’t belong to Heather, or B) that it did, but she wasn’t home. In either case, it seemed safe to cross: the Toyota wouldn’t appear out of nowhere and try to mow me down.

  At first I didn’t think she’d answer. I knocked on the old carved-wood door, and heard nothing. Next I spied an old-fashioned doorbell, the kind you twist, and twisted it. It rang through the house, but didn’t bring anyone to the front. Gaining a little courage from that, I pressed my nose to the hand-blown glass panel in the door and squinted inside.

  The interior was dark, but I saw enough to distinguish dark wood floors, high ceilings, and plaster walls in traditional Victorian jewel colors. Heather’s place reminded me of Mrs. Jenkins’s house in East Nashville, if on a much smaller scale. They were both brick Victorians, probably built within a few years of each other, and both had the traditional features of the era: Heather because she’d painstakingly restored them and Mrs. J because she hadn’t messed with them in the first place.

  A movement in the recesses of the house caused me to jump, and a good thing too, because a second later, the movement turned into a shadow, and then into the outline of a woman coming toward the front door. I stepped back, feeling a little guilty about my unbridled curiosity. If I’d realized she was here, I wouldn’t have been so bold.

  By the time she reached the door, I’d recognized Heather, and by the time she’d twisted the locks and pulled the door open, I’d managed to affix a friendly smile to my face.

  “Hi. Sorry about that. I thought the place was empty.”

  “No problem,” Heather said with a glance over her shoulder. She stepped through the door onto the porch and pulled it shut behind her. “What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing, really. I was just in the neighborhood and... um...” Wanted to see what kind of car you drive and whether you tried to kill me earlier.