A Box Full of Trouble

by Carolyn Haines

  “The butler?”

  “Butler, assistant, general factotum.”

  “How did he come to work for you?”

  “If you must know,” Chappie turned from the window and sat in the armchair again. “I hired him while I was in Milan. Three years ago.”

  “He’s Italian?”

  “Georgian, actually.”

  “As in Russian Georgia?”

  “As in Russian Georgia.”

  “Is there a last name for this Adoni?”

  “Bunin.” Chappie frowned. “Is this really any of your concern, Deputy? Shouldn’t you be out checking fingerprints or doing bullet tests, checking out the usual suspects?”

  “It’s rarely the usual suspects, Mr. Chapman. What did you do after you left The Club last night?”

  “You know good and well what I did. I went to the hospital. My plastic surgeon came, stitched up my face.” He touched his bandaged cheek gingerly. “And I came home, had a stiff brandy, took a sedative, and went to bed.”

  “What time did you leave the hospital?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It took forever for Stevens to get there. He was at a dinner party and didn’t want to rush off and leave the hostess hanging. Can you believe that? Said the medical staff didn’t think my injury life threatening.”

  “So, what time would that be?”

  “Oh, one o’clock I think. Maybe a few minutes after.” He stood, crossed the room to the door, and pulled a long braided cord, seemed to remember that Adoni wasn’t there to answer his summons and swore. “God, what I’d do for a cup of tea.”

  “Trip Youngblood is dead.”

  Chappie’s jaw dropped. “Trip! Dead!” He returned to his chair, fell into it, and ran the fingers of one hand through his hair. “He was the target? Why would anyone want to kill Trip?”

  “Good question.”

  * * *

  I would not have figured The Grunt for a good shot, especially on the run as he is, but I feel the burn across my left hind quarter. Perhaps his low brow denotes only lack of intelligence for I consider myself quite agile and capable of outmaneuvering the ordinary common criminal.

  The Voice and his compatriot in crime have rounded the last building in the row with Julia firmly in their grasp and are now out of sight. I say, the pain is quite pronounced. I do believe that panting sound is me. This will never do, I must push on. Julia’s life depends on it. But first I must take a little breather, just for a moment, to assess my wound.

  It appears to be nothing more than a flesh wound but my sleek coat is bloody. It can be borne. I must press forward and find Julia.

  The dead end that confronts me as I round the last building is desolate. Nothing stirs. There is no sign of either Julia or her captors. I put my nose to the cracked and pot-holed street and catch her scent. She is here, in one of these large containers.

  “Yeow!”

  “Trouble!” She bangs on the inside wall of the metal sending percussive shock waves through my delicate ears. I hear the sound of receding footsteps from within then running feet and a loud thud against the closed and locked opening. Julia moans.

  I check all around the door and make my way along the exterior of her prison. There are a few rusted spots at ground level but they are too small to allow even a mouse to enter. From what I can determine, there is no escape to be had except through the container door. A long metal rod forms the locking mechanism. This is one of those times when I would give anything for opposable thumbs and height.

  There is nothing I can do to free her except go for help. I can only hope she doesn’t do herself a serious injury by continuing to throw her body against the locked door. I call out to her one last time and head to the water’s edge. From here I get my bearings. The landmark bridge is up river to my left. I know where I am, and I turn right and follow the waterfront.

  * * *

  Mitch found Jones on his cell phone, leaning against the car when he left Chappie’s house. He stood when Mitch approached, placed the phone in his inside jacket pocket, and cleared his throat. “You need to call Gerty.”

  “Gerty?”

  Jones held up his hands in that I’m-just-the-messenger expression and slid into the passenger seat of the car.

  Mitch pressed the speed dial for Gerty. He stood in front of the car and listened. He flipped the phone closed and slammed his fist against the hood. “That damn cat.”

  He put the blue light on the roof for the short sprint from Chappie’s to the vet clinic. Gerty stood by the front door waiting for him. “Three deputies?” He jerked the door to the clinic open sending the bell suspended from it into a spasm of jangles. Gerty followed on his heels, her mouth shut, her expression grim. “One civilian managed to evade all three of you.” He shook his head as a young woman with freckles across her nose scurried from behind a counter and opened the door separating the waiting room from the interior of the clinic. She looked as pale as Gerty and she eyed Mitch with apprehension.

  Half way down the hallway a man in a white lab coat with ginger hair stood in front of an open door. When Mitch was a few steps from him, he gestured into the office. “Deputy Lawson.”

  “What happened?”

  The veterinarian closed the door and turned to face Mitch. “She brought in a cat that she said needed medical attention.”

  “I know that much.” Mitch tried to modulate the hostility in his voice. “How did that become an escape from a security detail?”

  The vet indicated a chair across from his desk but Mitch ignored the offer. The vet remained standing as well. “Perhaps because I didn’t know she had a security detail. My question is why would she have one?”

  Mitch was in no mood to share. “For the reason the word implies.”

  The vet was beginning to get an attitude of his own. His shoulders went back and his brows arched. “Because of her father’s paranoia or something more specific?”

  “Do you really think three deputies of the U.S. Marshals’ Service would be combing the alley behind your office if this was a case of paranoia?”

  The vet frowned. “No, I suppose not.” He sighed. “Look, she called and said her cat had something in its paw. I have office hours on Saturday until one o’clock so I told her to bring him in.” He shrugged. “When she got here she said that it was a false alarm, that the cat was fine.”

  “Did you check the cat?”

  The vet blushed. “Well, no. She didn’t seem to think it necessary.”

  “And that didn’t seem suspect to you?”

  “I’m a veterinarian, Deputy Lawson. Julia is a friend of many years. She isn’t a pet owner, never has been to my knowledge. I just assumed she was overly apprehensive about her friend’s cat and then thought better of her worries.”

  “You didn’t think it was unusual for her to leave through the back door?”

  “Well, yes, a little. But she said she was avoiding someone in the waiting room. I assumed it was just someone she knew, that she had a busy day and didn’t want to get caught up in a long-winded conversation with one of my cat ladies.”

  “Right.” Mitch stared at the stack of files atop a file cabinet to the right of where the vet stood. He never should have left her safety to someone else. “Damn it.” His focus returned to the vet. “Did she say anything else? Anything that might indicate where she was headed?”

  “No.” The vet’s cheeks turned a more rosy pink. “She mentioned the Juan Diego Florez performance next month.”

  Mitch watched the color deepen in the young man’s face and he swore to himself. Our little Julia was a master at distraction. Well, he wouldn’t be so easily manipulated, not again. When he got his hands on her he was going to wring her lovely neck.

  He went out the back door, looked up and down the alley, and scanned the buildings. He spotted three security cameras. Maybe they would get lucky but in the meantime, where to start?

  Mitch turned to Gerty who had been shadowing his every move. “What about her cell phone?”r />
  Gerty shook her head. “She left it at the apartment.”

  “What did she do all morning?”

  “Paperwork. She sat on the sofa with some files and her laptop.” Gerty’s face was red with shame. “She made a couple of calls. I heard her ask for a Horchow. The second call was to someone called Chappie.”

  “Anything unusual happen? Anything that would have set her off on a wild goose chase?”

  “No.” Gerty glanced away then looked him in the eyes. “I took coffee to the deputies on guard.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And her father came by. He was upset about the Youngblood murder.”

  Mitch felt his stomach drop. “Did he know she had been on the scene?”

  “I don’t think so. He was upset but not that upset.” Gerty shifted from foot to foot. “He seemed okay with the trip to the vet. I think he thought it might keep her out of the investigation.”

  Mitch nodded. “You’re probably right. I’m sure he knows all of Ms. Hampton’s little tricks.” He glanced down at Gerty and gave her a pat on the upper arm. “We’ll find her.”

  The gesture didn’t seem to alleviate Gerty’s sense of responsibility. She merely nodded. “I’ll start with the owners of these buildings for their security footage.”

  Mitch walked to the end of the alley. When he got to Bull Street he looked up and down. Which direction would she have taken? There was no way to know. The only clue they had was Julia’s activities of the morning.

  The vet clinic was only ten minutes from Julia’s house. He saw the deputy still at his post when he drew up to the curb. The look on his face was wary as Mitch walked past him and up the steps.

  He strolled through the apartment, taking in everything. The clothing pushed to the floor from the bed the previous evening, the disarray in the closet, a cold cup of coffee on the end table by the sofa. There was a half-eaten Danish on a delicate china plate on the kitchen island. A matching small plate, clean of any evidence of food, sat on the floor by the pantry door. The damn cat, he thought.

  He took out his phone and called Jones. “Bring Chapman to me.” He closed it and sat on the sofa where Julia had spent the morning and opened her laptop. After several attempts, he gave up on the password and turned his attention to the files on the coffee table. Something in these files had convinced her to risk her safety by ditching her security team. He had to find what it was. By all rights, he should call her father and let him know the situation but he couldn’t bring himself to do that just yet. His motives for this delay were a muddle of pride, remorse, and a need he couldn’t identify. All that aside, if Julia didn’t turn up soon, her family would have to be informed.

  * * *

  Julia sat on the floor of the grimy shipping container and rubbed her left shoulder. She now knew two things. Trouble was alive though on his own in an unknown environment, and the door to her prison was solid and locked.

  The container was warm, the sunny fall day having heated the metal. She knew that warmth would fade quickly as the sun began to set. She didn’t relish the thought of spending the night trapped there even if the temperature would only drop to the high fifties.

  She got to her feet. It was useless to worry about Trouble. All she could do was hope he stayed close until she could find a way out of her current predicament.

  Her hair fell to her shoulders as she pulled the long curving clip from the French twist. She tested the strength of it and decided it would do if she were careful not to apply too much pressure.

  Julia assessed the potential weak spots in the construction of the container. The vent, while the most rusted and potentially fragile, was too high overhead and too small. Her only hope was the door.

  All the hinges were rusted to varying degrees. The container was old and probably hadn’t been used in many years, but because of its age it was built of sturdier stuff than newer, lighter containers. She poked and pried at all four hinges of the double doors and settled on the lower left corner. It appeared to be the weakest. If she could pry it away from wall then perhaps she could kick at that corner of the door and create enough space to crawl free.

  Well, that’s the plan, she thought, as she settled on the floor, flexed her fingers, and began picking at the bubbles of rust with her hair clip.

  She kept at it steadily until her fingers cramped so much she had to take a break. The flesh of her fingers was red and there were places where the continued prying motion and rust debris had broken the skin. She shook her hands and took a few laps around the container to stimulate the flow of blood to her lower legs.

  It felt good to move around. She tried to ignore the burning in her hands by letting her thoughts drift to Trouble and how he might be faring. There had been no further indication of his presence since that initial crying out. Tammy Lynn would never ask her to cat sit again, that was certain. Her father would be paralyzed with worry. She stopped in her tracks. Until now she hadn’t given any thought as to how her disappearance would affect her mother and father. Especially her father.

  Mitch would have learned what she had done hours ago. Was it hours? She looked up along the roofline of the container at the pinpoints of light seeping through the rust holes. The light was still bright. She had been at the vet office shortly after nine. Could it be only noon? She didn’t know. It was seldom that she wore a watch anymore and she had purposely left her phone at home for fear Mitch’s team would track her through it. The inability to see outside left her uncertain as to how much time had lapsed. All her conspiring to evade her security detail now came back to haunt her. No one knew where she was and she had no way to monitor the passage of time or to reach out for help. If only she hadn’t been so vain.

  Julia slumped down with her back against the wall of the container. There it was, the truth of the matter. In her vanity, her desire to prove her ability to solve this case, she had managed to get herself into an impossible situation and to cause those who loved her to suffer. Why had she needed to win so badly, to be the one with the answers? Why wasn’t it enough that she knew she was capable, that she could take care of herself? She sighed, flexed her fingers and returned to the door.

  “Okay,” she said. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Slowly she let it out and opened her eyes. She ignored the pain in her hands and took up the hair clip. It was chipped down to less than a third its length. Soon it would be useless.

  * * *

  I keep to the south side of the street as I make my way along the river. It lies in shadow due to the slant of the sun and affords me a modicum of camouflage. Two concerned pedestrians have tried to lure me into their care since I hit the more touristy area of River Street.

  One of the riverboats is docked, tourists are lined up to board for the trip down to the fort and back. A child spies me and makes a bee line in my direction. I take evasive action and reach the tunnel under Factors Walk. It is cool inside the cobbled archway and I slip behind a newspaper dispenser and catch my breath. The pain in my hind quarters is now a constant throb but not unbearable. I don’t understand this sudden need to rest but rest I must. After a few minutes I’m panting less. Time to move on. The sun has passed its crest and I still have many blocks to travel to reach Julia’s house.

  The stone steps up to Bay Street are a struggle but I reach the top and size up the traffic. Normally I would take the nearer route straight across but I know my strength has been sapped by my injury and therefore, my speed. This is not a time to play dodge with tons of motorized metal. I walk to the crossing and sit and wait for the pedestrian light to turn green.

  A car comes to a stop at the traffic light. A woman lowers her window, puts her head out, and calls to me. “Here, kitty, kitty. Are you hurt?”

  I can’t allow myself to be sidetracked by the solicitous concern of strangers. I hurry across Bay Street, past the Holiday Inn and down Bryan Street. If I can only keep up this pace I’ll soon reach Calhoun Square. Surely there will still be law enforcement hanging around
.

  Chapter Ten

  Mitch closed the file and returned it to the coffee table. He was no closer to a clue as to Julia’s whereabouts than he had been at the beginning of his search. They were checking with Uber and city cabs but so far nothing had turned up.

  She had the cat with her and that helped to a degree. He would limit the range of possibilities.

  Her car was in its usual parking space in the garage. A call to the manager of The Cloister had given them nothing. The shipping company that had handled the two Russian losses was located in Miami. The owners of the Fechin were in Cozumel for a family wedding and not due to return for another week. Tallulah Youngblood was supposedly in Milan, Italy. Mitch had agents trying to determine if that was the case or not. It didn’t help when you were dealing with people with the means for flying on private jets.

  Chappie sat on the sofa in Julia’s living room, his legs crossed at the knees, and an ebony cane with a gold knob leaning against it. He looked the picture of health except for the small clear bandage on his left cheek and not at all put out by having been summoned to another interview.

  Mitch remembered Rocco Sullivan’s comments on Chappie’s penchant to gossip. He moved to the windows overlooking the street and said, “Tell me about Rocco Sullivan.”

  “Which version?”

  “How many versions are there?”

  “Well,” Chappie settled more comfortably into the cushions of the sofa, “there’s the factual stuff. You know, his profession, friends, involvement in the community.” He smiled. “Then there’s the innuendo, the half-truths, the back-of-the-hand whispers.” He arched an eyebrow at Mitch. “I imagine you’re interested in the latter.”

  “So tell me.” Mitch settled in a chair across from Chappie. “Let’s start with the back-of-the-hand whispers.”

  From his expression, Mitch knew Chappie found this avenue to his liking. “Well, he came to Savannah some thirty-five to forty years ago. Set up his little antique shop and, I suppose, managed to make a living. Then about thirty years ago he began to deal in art, not just the occasional interesting piece that came his way through an estate or lucky find at a yard sale. He was suddenly dealing in serious art. He caught the fancy of Aloyis Mercer and she pretty much made him. People began to believe his claims that he was an expert.”