by A. J. Lape
Tito laughed in a southern drawl. “Rookie called me, darlin’. Sorry it took so long to get back to you, but this was the first chance I’ve had.”
I drew a blank and bit my bottom lip hard enough to taste blood. I decided to throw out every bit of crime lingo I could think of. I coughed out, “What are we looking at? Drugs, gangs, ragers, the latest knife attacks, or shootings?”
He immediately answered, “No, darlin’. Let’s focus on me only. I feel so violated it’s indescribable.”
“I can understand that,” I said, still not tracking the conversation.
“Tabitha, I wrote that story on what happened to me, and now this guy apparently wants to take me down.”
“Explain,” I pushed.
There was a short pause where he took a breath. “It’s like my story said. My rent check bounced.”
“You still use paper?” I asked shocked.
“Okay, darlin’, I’m showing my age here, but I do. So when I went to the bank to see what’d happened, the branch manager printed out a list of transactions. We found a bunch of activity that happened here locally. Activity made with my bank account number, but not by me. We immediately closed the account, but the damage had already been done.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning this person is still trying to bleed me dry. I know I’m operating in paranoia mode, but from best we can tell, this person is taking this to an even bigger level. After a fraud investigation, we discovered more activity under my name.”
“How?” I asked.
“He didn’t only steal my bank account number. This person somehow gleaned personal information about me and tried to buy a house in Brunswick, Maine. He produced two other forms of identification, down payment using one of my personal checks, had credit references, all to bring to a closing on a new home. Even though the bank froze my account, it wasn’t before the impostor had all of this other stuff rolling. Anyway, he got spooked and stood everyone up in Maine. Heaven knows when he’ll surface again. I mean, he has my social security number, darlin’. I’m standing in the crosshairs of a rifle.”
Sure enough, on Rookie’s desk was a newspaper clipping with Tito Westbrook as the byline. I scanned the first paragraph that summarized everything he’d just said. But why did he think Rookie and Red could help?
“Did you get the picture I faxed over?” Tito asked. “Are you going to share it with Cookie? My source says this guy is from the north side of town, perhaps in Valley, right in Cookie’s backyard. The source also claims he’s a teenager. I’ve contacted Cookie, but she’s not big on returning calls to the press.”
Question answered.
Cookie, or rather Charlotte Veronica Harper-Stark, is Rookie’s counterpart in Mack County—the county in which my township, Valley, is located. She took Reese Sanders’s job when Reese abruptly quit right before election time and moved to New York. From what I hear, Reese passed on her unrequited love torch to Cookie because Cookie now drooled after my uncle like a dog in heat.
Procedurally, Rookie occasionally shared information with other county prosecutors when they felt their crimes overlapped. So it sounds like he thought he could aid Tito, by asking Cookie if she’d provide a name of the person. I pivoted around, riffling through paper in the fax machine, until I reached a picture of someone who looked like an extra in a mob movie. His hair was greased back with what resembled real motor oil. His eyes were deep-set and brown, one slightly lower than the other. His thin, pursed lips made him appear permanently ticked off. The fax coversheet said The Cincinnati Enquirer, Tito Westbrook.
Booyah! It didn’t get any clearer than that.
I swallowed down another drink. “Yup, got it right here. Unfortunately, no name is listed.”
“Darlin’, if I had a name, then there would be no issue. Does he look familiar to you? As far as I can tell there’s no known association to anyone.”
“Never seen him before.”
Insert nervous laughter.
Tito didn’t say anything for a while. I panicked and immediately started negotiating with my intestines. “Tabitha, perhaps we should talk tomorrow,” he finally added strangely. “You sound tired. Either that, or you’re stalling.”
No! I shouted in my brain. I really needed to learn to control my energy bursts because the chair tipped back, and I splatted onto the hardwood floor. I lay there like a fat tick on a dog, waiting to hear Rookie barrel through the house with a gun. His house was armed with a state-of-the-art security system. When nothing happened, I righted the chair and sat back down, propping my mismatched blue and white knee socks on top of the desk, trying my best to act like a know-it-all redhead. I calmly declared, “Let me see what I can find out from Rookie, Tito. I know this is your personal business, but you’re going to have to be patient and allow us to color within the lines.”
Major Pinocchio moment (I think), but the words sounded logical once they left my lips.
My brain and gut started arguing as usual. My brain said to keep up with the charade; my gut said he was on to me.
There was a collective sigh where we both considered our next move. Tito buckled first. “Now why don’t you give me your real name, darlin’? Tabitha’s always on, no matter what the time. And she never,” he emphasized with half a laugh, “waits to clear anything with Rookie. Exactly who are you, and why are you answering Shepard Johnson’s cell phone?”
I croaked. I’d died on the spot and was pushing up daisies. He’d caught me red-handed answering Rookie’s cell phone. Why he called him Shepard, though, I have no idea. My uncle had been addressed as “Rookie” since he put a serial killer behind bars at the tender age of twenty-six.
Right then, something unexpected happened. Bells and whistles went off, sirens rang, and a choir of heavenly angels sang a chorus. I practically belted out, “Jester.”
Yup, I’d gone total moron.
“Jester,” he repeated. “And who is Jester to Shepard Johnson?”
I looked to the heavens, hoping it would supernaturally meet the need. I got nothing. From my perspective, I was screwed six ways from Sunday. But if I had anything to do with it, this would not blow up in my face.
Hopefully, Tito wasn’t the type to nurse a grudge. “Let me put it this way, Tito. People like me are journeymen. We get around. I work the north side of town and heard what happened to you.”
I abso-FREAKIN’-lutely had lost my mind.
Tito stepped up the questioning. “So you didn’t even see a faxed photograph, huh?”
Oh. Shoot. I had to say no; otherwise I’d be admitting I was in Rookie’s home. “No, I just wanted to talk to you.”
“How did you get his phone then? Did you do something to him? Where is he?”
I opted for the truth. “He left it someplace where I now am.”
“That doesn’t sound like something he’d do.”
“Check with him tomorrow. He was unbelievably distracted.” Okay, that was a little bit of the truth interspersed in the lies, and even the densest of criminals knew it wasn’t enough to press charges. Besides, what was the crime? Impersonating my aunt?
Big sigh on Tito’s part. “Okay, Jester. Let’s play. How old are you?”
“Old enough.”
His voice lowered an octave and lost all of the southern charm. “Am I to believe you truly want to take down an identity thief, Jester? What exactly do you want? The reward?” Well, I didn’t know a reward was posted, but since he’d dangled the carrot, I’d take it plus some recreational activity, I suppose.
“I didn’t know about a reward, Tito. How much green are we talking?”
“Ten grand.”
I nearly peed my pants.
Nervousness took over. In ten seconds flat, I managed to organize Rookie’s desk, files in straight alignment, unopene
d letters in a neat pile by his laptop. “I’d be a fool to say ten grand wasn’t appealing,” I finally admitted, “but I’ll only work with you. I need protection. If you bring either Prosecutor’s office into our arrangement, you’ll never get what I know.”
Tito was quiet. I heard a breath deep enough to leave him underwater for days. “Here are the rules,” he dispensed. “I hate email and texting. I’ll never risk blowing your identity because it’s just too risky. I’ll check in with you every couple of days, and you let me know immediately if things get dicey. Where can I contact you safely?”
Nowhere actually. “Okiedokie, no email or texting,” I reiterated, “but it’s better if I contact you. And no one can know of Jester’s existence…ever.”
More of the silent routine. My guess was he didn’t like me writing the parameters of our agreement. Heck, I wasn’t even sure I understood our agreement yet. I didn’t know a lot about reporters, but I knew enough that sources were usually in the driver’s seat. You wanted them happy or as happy as possible.
“Okay,” he eventually grunted, “we’ll go with your plan.”
I didn’t have a plan; I just hoped I fell into a whole lot of luck.
I felt his balk and laughed, “Do you want me to prove how good I am beforehand?”
Tito didn’t respond; I took that as a yes.
After he gave me a number, I heard a click-click-click and then a dial tone. Seconds later, Rookie’s house phone rang. I jumped out of my skin, flying to bed faster than a Peregrine Falcon. Tito was checking up on me—and this gig might be over before it even started.
I needed to prove I could hang; the depths I’d have to navigate to do that would be pretty darn tough. Tito was no blockhead, so it wasn’t like I could schmooze him into liking me. But guess who found two credit cards and a social security card of three different people before a car hit her?
How fortuitous for me.
“Finn,” I whispered when he picked up. Finn was my go-to guy. He could find dirt on just about anybody.
“Chica,” he groaned sleepily. “Do you know what time it is?”
Finn Lively’s accent of the day was South of the Border. Very rarely did he operate as just Finn: hot white boy, resident geek-slash-genius, from Valley High. Whatever his persona, he wore the look well. He burned hotter than fricking Mercury.
My iPhone said three twenty when I pulled the three cards out of my coat. Two were the Visa check cards of Lindsee Maroni and Kelley Lowder. The social security card was of a male named Lucas Aaron Carlton. “I need to know what you can find on these three people,” I told him after I gave him the names. “Anything would be good. In fact, make it oh-mazing. It has to be quick, though. I’ve got to find these owners before what little conscience I have starts eating away at me. Do you need to write this down?”
“No,” he muttered and killed the call.
3. Donkey Kong
I felt like I’d spent the weekend in a Mexican jail.
On Monday morning, I was still stiff and limping with a faint aroma of gutter. As far as I could tell, my brain operated on an all-systems go, but you had to wonder after the stunt I’d just pulled. Uh, Tito Westbrook? Why did I think a seasoned investigative journalist needed someone as unseasoned as me? The way I saw it, I might as well shoot for the stars even if it meant they might fall on top of me.
Best I could tell, Tito hadn’t mentioned Jester when he phoned Rookie. Once Rookie assured Tito he breathed on this side of the dirt, Tito gave him an “abridged” version of what went down. How did I know this? I stumbled into Rookie’s bedroom, acting as if the house phone had wakened me—seriously, it was Oscar material—and listened to Rookie say he must’ve left his phone at McDonald’s since we’d eaten there that night as a midnight snack. Normally, Rookie would be all twenty questions, but he must’ve been off kilter when he heard someone had used his phone and posed as his ex. Instead, he politely thanked Tito for the concern, claimed a psycho stalker (didn’t know he had any) could be playing pranks, and ended the convo.
May I just say I couldn’t have orchestrated a better ending? Tito seemed satisfied with the explanation and set up a time where they’d discuss his specific case later. Plus, when we began the “search and recovery” for Rookie’s phone, all I had to do was beat him inside the golden arches and drop his cell in the booth we’d sat in.
Case closed…I hoped.
And to help it “close,” I erased the history of Tito’s and my call altogether.
I was riding cloud nine, feeling like I’d duped the “undupable”…until Dylan strode through the door. Then I was stunned into submission by pheromones that had me as the target.
I got my license on my birthday…aced that sucker. Since I had no wheels, he’d been my ride to school all year…we were alone.
Biiiiiiiig problem.
Murphy and my little sister got back into town last night, and he drove her to school bright and early this morning. Apparently, she was on the naughty list for talking too much in class. He wanted to get to the bottom of who she’d been talking to, what they’d been talking about, why she wasn’t being challenged, and so on. In other words, why it wasn’t her fault. If anything, my father was loyal. But Murphy’s emotions rolled like a nuclear reactor, and he was due a Chernobyl moment.
Dylan stopped dead in his tracks, massaging his heart. Like he’d seen the most beautiful thing ever created and had to convince his heart to keep pumping.
Moron…
I had dishwater-blonde hair and almost green eyes. At five foot nine, I was definitely model tall, but since I packed around one hundred and thirty pounds, I didn’t try to stand next to skinny people. Maybe I was skinny for my height, but my size twenty-seven jeans next to a high school of zeros made me the longest-living Neanderthal on record. Plus my curves were few and far between, and what curves I did have…well, let’s just say my lady parts weren’t symmetrical.
A tough pill to swallow.
Standing beside him didn’t help my self-esteem either. Dylan looked pretty dang amazing with his clothes on; underneath, I’m guessing was that much better. He had the body of the finest athlete and the kick-butt and take-names attitude of the strongest of warriors. I started calling him Big Man last summer when he went off and left me heightwise in the course of two months. He now towered at six two with two hundred and twenty pounds of Greek real estate.
As usual, he looked impeccably irresistible. Dark-washed jeans, expensive sneakers with an unzipped black leather jacket overtop a slate-gray sweater. His eyes boiled like melted butter that had an affair with toffee, and his thick-cropped hair was pitch-black.
Three words? Mah. Ve. Lous.
While he lazily leaned against the kitchen counter, I swallowed my last bite of SpaghettiOs, ran the bowl under the faucet, and stacked it in the dishwasher. Brushing my teeth in the kitchen sink, I next poured a second cup of coffee in an insulated travel mug. I made out with number one fifteen minutes ago. I was sixteen years old and had kissed a guy one time. One time, and it was the passionate type where you got sweaty and felt guilty later. But I was off men. Off Dylan, specifically. My coffee cup, I guess, was my unofficial boyfriend.
While I balanced the mug in my teeth, I slid my arms through my coat. Slinging my Jansport copper-brown backpack over my shoulder, I made my way to the door. Our home was your standard single-family abode. The study and dining room were in the front, with a kitchen and den in the rear.
When I stood within inches of Dylan, his testosterone worked like a tractor beam. We had to touch. The moment our hands collided, it felt like I’d been tasered with 50,000 volts.
Siiiiiigh.
The chemistry was un-freaking-deniable.
He pulled my hand to his lips, and the warmth rushed up my arm and straight to my hiccupping heart. “You look beautiful. How’s m
y girl?”
I gave him half a shrug.
I sported my I-don’t-care-look. Black Burberry glasses and ponytail with only lip gloss and mascara. Sometimes I added the triplet of blush, but the routine always consisted of those first two to give the assumption I cared a little. As for threads, it was my favorite pair of Seven jeans tucked into tan UGG boots with a skin-tight black turtleneck. “I don’t care,” I shrugged in explanation.
He came at me in a PDA mood, hugging me to his side. “Darc,” he whistled. “I love your ‘I don’t care’ look.”
“Boys are supposed to be repulsed by ‘I don’t care’ looks.”
“I don’t think it’s possible for you to repel men,” he grinned.
Dylan was smooth…soooo smooooooth. A fact that made me feel like a million bucks but also question his sanity. Thing was, I felt out of my league. If his face wasn’t perfect enough, the hot boy gods gave him two dimples that imploded when he was happy.
“I love it when you’re stupid,” I laughed.
Stupid’s my favorite word, and in my opinion should get top billing in the dictionary. It could be a noun, an adjective, or an adverb dependent upon the way you phrased it in a sentence. At one time or another, I’d embraced all those parts of speech; right now, Dylan embraced them all.
He glanced around the house, his chest heaving with something probably best we didn’t put a name to. “Are we alone?” he asked suspiciously.
Oh, boy, I knew what was coming next. “Uh-huh.”
He held his arms wide, like you’d do when you were being arrested. “Come on, sweetheart, frisk me. Make sure you don’t miss anything either.”
Dylan always had flirty banter—banter that made it increasingly difficult to keep my hands to myself. Oh, the conundrum. A) I could learn to be a ’ho and have my wicked way with him; B) I could eat a box of cookies and die of a sugar coma; or C) I could shoot him. Shooting might be the best option, but then I’d wind up in prison orange outrunning Big Bertha.
