Hell on Wheels

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  Dev laughed, his gravelly voice rolling over the chuckle like rocks in a tumbler. “No, Perris, California. It’s a small town off the 215 Freeway.”

  “I know where it is. I just didn’t think Steele did.” I paused, then said, “So Steele called you when he couldn’t get us?”

  “Yeah, and good thing. I have a buddy who works with the sheriff’s department out that way. With his help, I was able to convince the owner of the bar not to press charges in return for full restitution.”

  “Charges? What in the hell happened?” asked Greg.

  “I’ll let Mike fill you in on the details, but here’s the overview: it seems our fine Mr. Steele got intoxicated at a bar in Perris frequented by unsavory characters. He somehow managed to start a brawl, get his tailored ass kicked, and was almost thrown in jail.”

  Greg and I stared at each other, speechless as mimes.

  “Odelia, you still there?”

  “Yes, Dev,” I said after a long moment, “we’re here. I’m not surprised Steele started a fight. All he has to do is open his snobbish mouth to do that. I’m in shock that he was even there in the first place. Do you know why?”

  “No clue, but from what I’ve pieced together, he called you before the fight and me after he was detained.”

  “And where is the illustrious Michael Steele, Esquire, now?” asked Greg.

  “At his place in Laguna Beach, probably passed out from the pain pills the doc gave him.”

  “Pain pills?” I barely got the words out.

  “He was worked over good by the boys at the bar. I took him to urgent care, and they said he should be fine with several days of rest. But his pretty face isn’t so pretty right now.”

  My mind was spinning like a top. “This isn’t like Steele, Dev. No matter how obnoxious he can be, it’s not like him to get drunk and start a fight. And why Perris?”

  “Again, no clue. He couldn’t talk much through his swollen mouth. I’m guessing he’s going to need some dental work.”

  “Jesus,” said Greg, running a hand through his hair. “When it rains, it pours.”

  Dev cleared his throat. “I heard there was a homicide at the rugby tournament in Balboa Park today. You two aren’t involved in that, are you?”

  I twitched my nose in annoyance, not at the question but because I really didn’t want to answer. “If you’re asking if we found the body, the answer is no, nor did we cause the death. But it’s why we haven’t called Steele back yet.”

  “So what happened?” asked Dev with interest.

  Greg filled Dev in on everything that had happened at the gym.

  “I know Bill Martinez,” Dev said when Greg was finished. “Let me give him a call and see what gives. Your friend probably won’t be arraigned until tomorrow or even Tuesday. Meanwhile, you two stay out of it.”

  “No guarantees there, Dev,” Greg said, getting closer to the phone. “Rocky Henderson is a good friend, and I can’t imagine the blows he landed were enough to kill Tanaka.”

  “The right blow in the right place can take down a man easily, Greg. You know that.”

  “Rocky is a good guy,” I added, “and Tanaka clearly provoked him. Everyone watching saw that.”

  “Still no reason to kill a man, Odelia.” Dev paused. “But like I said, I’ll give Bill a call, and you two finish up your trip and head home. Got that?”

  “But,” I said, “we promised Rocky we’d find his wife. No harm in that, is there?”

  “There’s always potential harm when you get involved, Odelia,” Dev replied, his voice devoid of humor. “Mostly to yourself. I do know, however, that the San Diego police put out a BOLO on the wife’s vehicle; that’s how I know about the murder. Stay out of it, both of you. Let the cops do their job.” A dry chuckle came from the phone. “Then again, look who I’m talking to.”

  “Well,” I said reluctantly, “we do need to get home tomorrow. My mother is watching the house, and we both need to be at work on Tuesday.”

  “Maybe, Odelia,” Greg said, “we should stop off at Mike’s place on the way home and see how he’s doing.”

  “Now that,” Dev said, “sounds like a dandy idea.”

  “Unless,” I added, “Steele pulls himself together and goes into the office tomorrow.”

  Another rocky chuckle came from Dev’s side of the call. “Trust me, Odelia. Mike Steele isn’t going anywhere tomorrow or for a few days. And when you do see him, tell him he owes me. Big time.”

  When the call ended, Greg and I stared at each other in a stupor. “What in the world is going on?” I finally said. “You, Rocky, and now Steele all brawling on the same day. Is there some kind of special full moon going on? Something only guys can feel?”

  “I was not brawling,” Greg corrected.

  “But you would have if I hadn’t stopped you. You know you were about to throw a punch at Tanaka yourself today.”

  “But I didn’t, did I?”

  “Only because I stopped you,” I repeated. I stared at Greg, latching my eyes onto his. He was the first to look away because he knew I was right. Sometimes—not often—I am right in this relationship.

  Picking up my phone, I started texting.

  “What are you doing?” Greg asked, kicking back the last of a beer he’d snagged from the mini bar.

  “Texting Steele that we heard from Dev and didn’t want to bother him with a call tonight. I’m telling him to call us tomorrow when he gets up.” I sent the message.

  “Should you tell him we might stop by or should we surprise him?”

  “Steele isn’t big on surprises.”

  “True,” Greg agreed. “And he might be embarrassed by what happened.”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. “Steele is embarrassed about nothing, especially in front of me. Haven’t you learned that by now? Still, I should give him a chance say yes or no to our visit.” I started texting again, this time letting Steele know we’d like to stop by on our way home.

  “Mike Steele embarrassed by his actions,” I said, more to myself than to Greg as my fingers punched out the message. “What a joke. But at least he didn’t kill anyone or get killed himself.”

  Five

  Instead of spending a leisurely Monday as we had originally planned, we checked out of the hotel right after a quick breakfast. Okay, I’ll admit, it was a late breakfast. Greg had heard from Lance late the night before, but I still hadn’t heard from Miranda. We’d both heard, however, from Steele. He had sent both Greg and me texts saying it was okay for us to stop by and could we bring him a few things. The list included orange juice, ice cream, bananas, and milk, all with specific organic high-end brand names.

  “Notice anything about that list?” Greg asked as we headed north on the 5 Freeway.

  “That it’s missing booze?” I suggested.

  Greg laughed. “I’m sure Steele has plenty of that at his place. Doesn’t he even have a small wine cellar?”

  “Yeah, he does.” I thought about the list. “Do you mean that we’re going to have to go to Whole Foods to get this stuff instead of a regular grocery store?”

  “No, but that’s a good observation.” Greg looked out the windshield, then at me. “All the foods on that list are soft. Not a piece of meat or crunchy vegetable anywhere on it.”

  I looked over at Greg, my eyes wide with understanding. “So you think Dev wasn’t kidding when he said Steele might need some dental work?”

  “I don’t think Dev was kidding about anything. Not even about Steele owing him big time.”

  I thought again about the list. “Frankly, honey, if we have to drive to Beverly Hills to get this stuff, we’ll do it. I feel so darn guilty right now about not answering Steele’s calls.”

  “Me too, sweetheart, but we can’t beat ourselves up over it. In all the years you’ve worked for Mike, I think this is the first time one of his calls to you on a day off wasn’t some kind of BS. It’s the classic boy crying wolf. This time the wolves were real.”

  “
True, but I still feel rotten. He’s not just my boss, he’s our friend, and we might have been able to stop what happened.”

  “Doubtful. From the time of his calls, there wasn’t enough time for us to get to Perris from San Diego to intervene.” Greg reached over and patted my knee. “Really, sweetheart, there wasn’t, and we were in the middle of our own drama.”

  I glanced over at Greg, shooting him a raised brow. “So you don’t feel the least bit guilty about this?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Steele’s large two-bedroom luxury condo was in Laguna Beach in a gated complex right on the beach. After being buzzed through the security gate, we parked and made our way to the elevator. Steele’s place was on the top floor, affording him the best view. When he opened his door, I nearly dropped the bag of groceries I was carrying. By my side, Greg didn’t seem all that surprised. A guy thing, I guess.

  “Not a word, Grey,” were the first words Steele uttered when he noticed my shock. The words were expelled slowly and with obvious pain through swollen lips, like a dying breath.

  With my free hand, I made the gesture of zipping my lips. Only then did he back up and allow me to cross his threshold.

  When Steele helped Greg tip back enough to clear the low step up into the condo, I saw him wince. Frankly, Steele didn’t look strong enough to wipe his own butt, let alone help Greg, but I’d known him long enough to know that if I said something about it, he’d keep Greg and evict me.

  Taking the groceries into the kitchen, I put the cold stuff in his fridge and left the dry goods on the counter, since I wasn’t sure where they should go and they needed to be where Steele could find them. Then I joined the men in Steele’s den.

  The main floor of Steele’s condo was made up of a den, living room, and dining room. Off the dining room was a state-of-the-art kitchen with a small breakfast nook, and off the kitchen was a half bath and utility room. Upstairs was a large guest bedroom and bath, along with a huge master suite and bathroom that could easily rival a very expensive hotel suite. Steele mostly used his guest bedroom for a home office.

  All the downstairs rooms had recently been remodeled and redecorated, an event that drove us all crazy at the office and I’m sure drove the decorator and contractor to drink heavily. Before the remodel, the condo had been beautiful; now it was stunning. The den, living room, and dining room flowed effortlessly from one into another but could be divided into separate rooms with the closure of double doors. One wall in the den was nearly covered by a flat screen TV that with the flick of a remote could be hidden by a panel covered with artwork. Even his leather recliner, in which Steele was now ensconced with his feet up, didn’t look like a recliner when it was upright. He’d successfully created the perfect man cave, one that disappeared when a more formal space was required. Even the den’s built-in wet bar was designed to look like paneling and stately book shelves.

  Greg and Steele were watching a sports show on the TV, happy as clams at high tide, while I fidgeted, biting the inside of my lip to keep from demanding what had happened to Steele’s face and why he had had to call Dev. If Greg was curious, he didn’t show it. Instead, he tipped back a beer in manly camaraderie. If Greg hung out here too long, he’d be demanding his own man cave and billboard-sized TV.

  I plunked myself on the sofa next to Steele’s chair and stared at him. Between the sofa and the chair was a small table. On it were his iPad, cell phone, a couple of remotes, and a box of tissue—his command central. I was determined to make him talk first before I busted a gut along with the invisible zipper on my mouth.

  “You want a beer, Grey?” Steele mumbled. “Help yourself.” He waved a hand toward the paneled wall. I noticed Steele wasn’t drinking beer. He was sipping from a straw stuck in a bottle of what I recognized as one of his favorite protein drinks.

  I got up and headed for the wet bar, pressing on one panel after another until I sprung open the hidden mini fridge. Instead of a beer I grabbed a Diet Coke and returned to my seat and my quiet campaign to get to the bottom of things.

  A commercial came on—an ad for a newscast later that day. A somber, lithe blond holding a microphone was standing in front of the gymnasium at Balboa Park. “What caused one disabled athlete to beat another to death? That’s the question being asked in San Diego today. More on this tragic story on our five o’clock newscast.” Next came a commercial for Oreos—the one where the adorable toddler tries to get his cookie into his sippy cup.

  Aiming the remote at the TV, Steele muted the sound. “So, what can you tell me about that?” he asked, slurring his words. The question was tossed out like a soft volleyball serve with no intended recipient.

  “It’s a chocolate cookie with a cream center,” I told him. “Best dunked in cold milk.”

  “Smart ass,” Steele replied. “The murder. I’d bet my car you two were there.”

  “And what can you tell us about what happened to you?” I asked, breaking my vow to remain quiet on the subject.

  “You first,” Steele said, fixing a blackened eye on me. The other eye was still whole and unharmed, but I know he aimed the ugly one at me on purpose. Between the eye, the wide bandage over his swollen nose, and his fat lip, Steele looked like he’d just had a play date at Fight Club. The old gray sweats he was wearing only added to the ambience. I was tempted to snap a photo with my phone and post it to Facebook. Maybe I could use that as a threat to get him to talk?

  Greg broke the standoff by rolling closer to us. “He was a friend of ours.”

  “I’m sorry,” Steele mumbled.

  “Not the dead guy,” Greg clarified, “although I knew him too. But the guy who gave the beating.”

  At hearing the word beating, Steele flinched.

  “Rocky and his wife are friends of ours,” I chimed in.

  “Tanaka—that’s the dead guy—totally provoked Rocky,” Greg continued.

  Again I saw Steele flinch. I wasn’t sure if it was a stab of pain or the memory of his actions the day before.

  “Now Rocky,” explained Greg, “is in jail, charged with murder.”

  “And his wife is nowhere to be found,” I added.

  Greg took the next few minutes to give Steele an account of what happened, including his close encounter with Peter Tanaka before the game and Rocky’s confrontation of Miranda. Steele listened, his good eye gleaming with concentration in spite of any pain medication he might have taken.

  “Dev Fry is going to call the detective on the case and see if he can learn anything new,” Greg told him, ending the story.

  “Dev’s a good man.” Steele turned to look out the large sliding glass door at the ocean beyond. “I owe him a huge debt.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He wanted us to remind you of that.”

  Steele turned his attention back to us. On his puffy lips was a half smile.

  I reached out and put a hand on my boss’s forearm. “I’m sorry we didn’t answer your calls, Steele. We were just so tied up and had no idea you were in such a jam.”

  He flicked his other hand at me in a gesture that either meant for me to forget about it or he was batting away an invisible gnat. “You couldn’t help. Too far gone,” he slurred. “Needed Dev.”

  Steele straightened up in his chair. When he started to say something, his face broke into a clownish grimace. Picking up his iPad, he typed something with chunky strokes. Usually Steele’s typing was as quick and efficient as any good secretary’s. That’s when I noticed his hands were scraped. Apparently he’d thrown a few punches of his own. When he was done, he handed it to me. I read it silently, then out loud. “ ‘I’ve sent you a detailed email of the work I need done this week. Do it and email it to me. I’ll review it and get it back to you.’ ”

  I looked up from the iPad. “You mean you’re not coming in all week?” I wasn’t surprised, given Steele’s state, but I was surprised at his willingness to stay home.

  He shook his head and gestured for the tablet back. He typed again an
d returned it to me. “ ‘I can’t, not looking like this,’ ” I read out loud. “ ‘Tell people I’ve got the plague or had a family emergency. Anything but this. Don’t even tell Jill. We’ll see how this week goes.’ ”

  “In a couple of days it won’t be that bad,” Greg said to him. “Tell people you were in a car accident. It looks like you went head-to-head with your air bag.”

  I shook my head. “This isn’t about how he looks, Greg. He can’t risk the senior partners of T&T knowing he was arrested.”

  “I wasn’t arrested,” Steele mumbled, leaning forward and nearly spraying me with spit in his indignation.

  “Okay, calm down.” I edited my words. “You don’t want the powers that be at T&T knowing you were in a bar fight and almost arrested.” I paused, then added, “And you can’t let your clients find that out.”

  Steele put an index finger on the end of his broken nose and pointed his other index finger in my direction. “Ding. Ding. Ding.” It came out dig, dig, dig.

  “I still think you should tell them you were in a car accident,” Greg said. “Some of those bruises are going to take time to heal.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “It takes time for bruises to go from black and blue to puke green and baby-poop yellow. And the way you drive, everyone would totally believe a car crash. Maybe you could hire someone to crash your Porsche and make it look like an accident.” I laughed.

  Steele motioned for the tablet. I handed it back to him. He jabbed at the screen keyboard and handed it back to me. “ ‘Laugh all you want, funny girl, but the car is already totaled. Some goons at the bar destroyed it.’ ”

  “No wonder you were so quick to offer it up in a bet,” I fired back.

  “That’s perfect,” declared Greg with enthusiasm, like everything was settled. “Just say you were in a car accident when you finally return to work.”

  “Is that why you got into a fight?” I asked Steele. “Because some rednecks damaged your car?”

  Instead of answering verbally or typing, Steele waved off my question. Whatever was going on, my gut told me it wasn’t about the car, not really. Boy, this was frustrating.