Dirty

by Debra Webb

  He didn’t give me time to argue.

  I stole out of the ladies’ room and out the rear exit without encountering anyone. I walked straight up to the driver’s side of Dawson’s truck.

  “I need to borrow your truck,” I deadpanned.

  “Get in,” he said.

  I shook my head. “Not going to happen. I need you keeping an eye on Brooks, to make sure he stays off my tail. I can take care of myself.” I held out the keys to my Jeep. “Now do it.”

  I knew using Brooks as bait was a dicey maneuver but I didn’t want Dawson following me around...I needed some time alone to think. And the early stages of another plan were developing.

  He opened the door and swung out of the truck.

  God help me just watching him move took my breath away.

  He snapped the keys from my hand, his fingers lingering a second or two too long in my palm.

  “Thanks,” I said but he didn’t echo the traditional sentiment.

  Ignoring his slight I started for the open door of his truck but he stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Do me another favor, willya?”

  Like I could have resisted anything he said. Heat was already rushing through me like a freight train from where his skin closed around mine.

  “Yeah, what’s that?” I looked at him then, couldn’t deny myself.

  That alluring gaze nailed me, took my breath all over again.

  “Don’t get yourself killed, Jackie. I don’t want this to be the last time I see you.”

  Bright and early the next morning I decided to go after some answers on a whole different level.

  The idea had occurred to me in the wee hours of the morning as I sat on the deck of Hobbs’ downtown loft. Jerry, after leaving Hobbs at my place as a decoy, had brought a change of clothes and toothbrush over for me.

  I’d thanked him again and then I had spent the rest of the night reviewing what I knew and what I suspected. Shari had called to let me know that Hank had gone to bed and she’d be sleeping in her SUV in front of his house. I really appreciated the girls going above and beyond the call.

  I didn’t want to believe the worst of Hank...or my father. But I had to be objective here.

  I had no evidence to go on, no nothing. Just my gut instinct, which wasn’t entirely clear and probably had to do with too many of the possibilities being exclusively personal.

  The way I saw it, our only hope was to prod someone who had something to hide into action, which was pretty much what Dawson had started out doing. In this instance our only someone was Brooks. Other than what I feared might be true about my uncle, we actually had no other breathing suspects.

  I couldn’t get any straight answers out of anyone. But there was one more prospect I hadn’t researched yet. The instant dawn lit the sky I headed out to do just that.

  Ten years ago a hit had been ordered on me, Rayburn and two suspects charged with drug smuggling and murder. Now, I admit, that in retrospect, considering the hit list my name was associated with, I was low man on the totem pole. Any local thug could have been paid to take me out. But Rayburn had been a federal agent. It took some balls to do that. Couple that with the fact that the hitman had killed the two suspects who were in a kind of protective custody and he’d had to make that hit in broad daylight.

  We’re talking one of two things, major cajones or plain old loco.

  Since I didn’t know anyone with brass ones quite that large, I opted for the loco part.

  Luther Fraley.

  Ex-hitman and reputed psycho. Brother to the esteemed Bob Fraley. Funny how the two had made their careers on opposite sides of the law. Or had they?

  Now, Luther might not have been the hitman contracted for the job, but I would wager my Birkin and any future designer bags I might have the good fortune to own that he knew who was. Like PIs, I assumed that assassins stayed up on the business, especially that which was conducted on his home turf. Think male dog, we not only mark our territory, we monitor it ferociously.

  Few people ventured into Luther Fraley territory. I knew that for a fact because I’d lived in Houston my entire life and I’d heard the stories of unexplained disappearances, all blamed on the reclusive man and his domain. Kind of like the Bermuda triangle tales.

  Luther lived on the outside of the outer suburbs of Houston. His driveway was three miles long and dirt. At least ten old cars sat around the property, each abandoned in various stages of disrepair during the past couple decades or so. The current vehicle of choice, or the one that appeared to still operate, sat in front of the porch, a faded green Chevy truck.

  I parked Dawson’s pick-up and surveyed the yard and porch before getting out. Guys who lived in the boonies like this usually had one or more vicious dogs.

  Yep. One lay sprawled on the porch. I squinted, trying to make out his breed. He was big, but he looked lazy.

  Maybe I’d gotten lucky.

  I opened the driver’s side door and got out. Mega Mutt didn’t seem to notice or didn’t care.

  The sun was hot already. As I walked toward the house dust rose and settled on my bare legs. The yard looked like it had gone bald about the same time Alfred Hitchcock had. I hated like hell I’d worn my Christian Louboutins. The short peach skirt and matching tank Hobbs had sent looked good on me. Couldn’t have chosen better myself. The pale peachy color showed off my tan. I didn’t want my target intimidated, the best way to ensure that didn’t happen was to make certain he saw me as a woman. Helpless, vulnerable, a sex object. The cleavage revealed by the tank and my long, bare legs took care of that aspect.

  I kept one eye on Mega Mutt as I climbed the four creaky wooden steps. Flies swarmed around the huge animal. Maybe he was dead.

  As I topped the final step the good Lord gave me a sign letting me know the dog was very much alive. A low growl rumbled from his throat with enough bass to qualify for membership in the Oakridge Boys.

  Mega Mutt sat up.

  Pitbull. I swallowed back the fear that surged into my throat. Hoped I wouldn’t need Shorty. I’d never had to shoot an animal before...didn’t want to start now.

  And then, as if he wanted it to be clear who was the boss, Mega Mutt leaned down and licked his balls. Just like a guy. Always showing off.

  “Good boy,” I murmured. I felt confident there wasn’t a man on the planet who wouldn’t give his right arm to be able to do that.

  I knocked on the door.

  Silence...well, except for Mega Mutt’s lapping tongue. I shuddered.

  I raised my fist and knocked again. As I waited I called to mind the one time I’d seen a picture of Luther Fraley. He’d been charged with murder and his face had been plastered all over The Chronicle. The case had been dropped on some sort of technicality. I couldn’t remember just what. My father had been the judge. That was one case about which he never mentioned his feelings one way or another.

  When I would have banged on the door a third time it suddenly opened.

  “Whadda you want?”

  The owner of the rusty voice stayed in the shadows so I couldn’t see him very well. Not the details anyway.

  “Luther Fraley?” My own voice was more or less a squeak.

  A hand shot out. In that hand was a black .40 cal Glock. The muzzle of said weapon stopped about two inches from my face. Well, hello to you too.

  “Who the fuck wants to know?”

  Rustiness had given way to ruthless. Between that and the gun I was pretty sure this was Luther.

  “Luther, my name is–”

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  I peered into the dim doorway, tried to make out what he looked like now. Too dark. Didn’t the guy believe in opening a window? It was like a cave in there. “I need to talk to you about an old case.”

  The next thing I knew he’d manacled my right wrist and towed me into the house. I heard the door slam behind me and worked hard at not getting nervous. It was really dark now. No way to know what or who else he had in here with him.


  “Don’t move.” I felt that muzzle bore into my skull. He wasn’t going to have to ask twice.

  He snatched the purse from my shoulder and then shoved me into a chair in the middle of the room. A light came on somewhere behind me.

  I blinked several times to focus. The room was cramped and cluttered. It smelled. Like dirty underwear and greasy food. I shuddered inwardly but quickly grabbed back control. I had to stay calm here. He circled me as if trying to figure out just what he should do next. I tried not to stare.

  “Mr. Fraley, I—”

  “Don’t speak!”

  He paused behind me. I stared at my purse ten or so feet away. He’d dropped it on top of a stack of magazines. PlayBoy. So much for the outfit. This guy had probably worn the skin off his pecker beating off. He likely wouldn’t even get excited about the real thing anymore.

  He moved around in front of me and stood there waiting. I risked my first up close look. He was tall, like Bob. Twelve or fifteen years younger than his well-educated brother. Gray peppered his dark hair. His skin looked pale as if he hadn’t seen the sun in a very long time. But the worst was his eyes. He had that wild-eyed look of true psychosis.

  Definitely not good.

  “Your brother Bob is a friend of mine,” I said hurriedly in spite of his warning and with obvious tremors in my voice.

  “Bullshit,” he growled.

  Great, a cynic.

  “You don’t believe me? Call and ask him yourself.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll know everything I need to in a few minutes.”

  Crouching in front of me, he used his free hand and his mouth to tear off a length of duct tape. He apparently carried the nifty roll in the pocket of his overalls.

  We’d just gone from bad to worse.

  “I just want to talk to you, Luther.” The fight or flight instinct kicked in but I knew better than to move just then. He would kill me and no one would ever find the body. I should have told Hobbs what I was up to. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  He slapped the tape around my right ankle and secured it to the chair. Not once while he did this did his attention deviate from me.

  My heart sped into warp speed...my blood pressure moved into the stroke zone. I couldn’t just sit here.

  He manacled my right hand, tore off another piece of tape with his mouth and this time—thank God—he glanced away for a single moment.

  That’s all the time I needed. I reached under my skirt with my left and grabbed the .32 resting against my thigh. I always carried back-up for times like this.

  When his gaze flew back to mine I had a bead right between his eyes. I tried not to think about the fact that this man was a bona fide assassin and I was, well, just a PI.

  “I only want to talk, Luther.”

  He released my hand and stood. I did the same, though my one ankle was secured to a frigging chair and a loose piece of the silver tape hung like a cheap bracelet from my wrist.

  Luther laughed, his Glock still leveled on me. “You think I’m afraid of you and your puny fucking gun?”

  He reached behind him and pulled out a 357 Magnum.

  Admittedly, my .32 did look a little puny next to the Magnum.

  With both his weapons aimed at me he said, “You’d better shoot, bitch, because otherwise I’m going to send your sweet little ass straight to hell.”

  “Don’t shoot, Luther,” I pleaded. Okay, I wasn’t beyond begging for my life. I didn’t want to die. “I’m Jack Mercer’s daughter. I just need to talk to you.” As soon as I’d uttered the words I wondered if that had been a mistake. My father had been a judge on his case...

  “If you’re fucking lying to me I will kill you,” he warned.

  “I’m telling you the truth,” I said, and to my credit my voice didn’t shake this time.

  He moved backwards to where my purse sat. Slowly, afraid to make any sudden moves, I leaned down and freed my ankle and pulled the tape loose from my wrist. He didn’t seem to care. Now that was confidence. I resisted the impulse to examine my shoe for possible damage. I couldn’t imagine why I’d thought he would be impressed by my designer footwear.

  Luther had my wallet open. He looked from me to what was probably my driver’s license and back.

  “It’s a shitty photo,” I offered with a pathetic attempt at humor.

  He tossed the wallet back into my purse. “What do you want?”

  Relief rushed through me, forcing out the breath I’d been holding. “Can we put down our weapons?”

  He walked over to the nearest table, which was already cluttered with a week’s worth of leftovers, and placed his weapons on the table. He turned to me and I suspected that he wanted me to do the same. I briefly wondered if I should shoot him to save myself or if this reprieve would last long enough for me to state my case.

  Deciding on the latter, I walked over to the table and placed my anorexic .32 next to his big ass 357. I stuck out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Luther.”

  He stared at my hand for about a minute before he finally took it. He shook it once then studied it again as if he’d never seen one quite like it before.

  I let him take his time.

  When he looked up I almost jumped. He no longer had that wild-eyed look about him. Now, other than his bizarre manner of dress, he looked fairly normal.

  He hitched up his ragged overalls, which he wore without a shirt and, if I had my guess judging by the small hole near the crotch, without any underwear. And he was barefoot. Very strange indeed, even for Texas. His fingernails and toenails were in bad need of attention. Long and yellow. Another shudder quaked through me. Before I could stop it the music from the old Burt Reynolds movie Deliverance started playing in my head.

  “What do you want?” he growled.

  “Can we sit down?” I would prefer him not so close to his weapons or the door when I brought up the subject of Disposable. I might need to make a mad dash to escape.

  He sat down on a box next to a beat up old couch. I decided to drag over the chair he’d secured me to. The couch’s upholstery looked suspect at best. At least the chair was vinyl.

  I crossed my legs which, at this point, he appeared to be taken with. “I need to talk to you about an old case called Disposable.”

  Any headway we’d made disappeared faster than a puff of smoke in a tornado.

  Psycho mode took over again, his eyes told the tale.

  “Wait,” I rushed to assure him, “I’m not here to cause trouble I just need some information to stop it from happening again.”

  His gaze narrowed. “You talking about the Sanchez murder?”

  I didn’t know if he had cable or not but I was surprised, if not impressed, that he kept up with current events. He didn’t mention the woman from the cemetery and to be honest I wasn’t even sure she’d made headlines yet.

  “Yes, the Sanchez murder.”

  He shook his head. “Someone’s pulling your leg, lady.” He glanced at my legs again. “It ain’t the same thing.”

  “I agree.” I let my right hand slide down my shin and rub as if I’d just gotten a muscle cramp. He liked that. Summoning another dose of courage, I ventured on, “But I want to stop the man who got away with it ten years ago.”

  His gaze collided with mine once more. “I don’t know nothing.”

  Time to take the kid gloves off. I sat back, letting my skirt slide further up my thighs. His lower jaw just sort of hung slack. I fully expected him to drool any second. “I think you do, Luther. I think you know exactly who killed DEA Agent Warren Rayburn as well as those two big shots, Masters and Reagan.” I braced for most any kind of reaction. “Was it you?”

  Dead silence hung in the air long enough for my heart to reach the point of imminent arrest. I was definitely getting too old for this shit.

  “No.”

  I blinked. No? “Did you know the shooter?”

  He studied my legs for a bit, then looked me dead in the eye. “I don’t know shit.”

  One step
forward, two steps back. Damn, I needed Donna’s psych prowess about now. I considered that avenue and it didn’t take more than a second or two for me to realize the best approach. The only problem was it could get me dead. I thought about what Dawson had said last night, but I had to do what I had to do.

  “You weren’t good enough for the job?” I suggested.

  Fury blasted from his eyes. “Damn straight I was good enough.”

  I felt myself start to shake inside and I clenched my jaw to stop it. Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.

  “Then why didn’t you get the job?” I swallowed, wet my lips. “Were you afraid to take such a high profile job?”

  “Fuck no,” he snarled. “Any pussy could have done it.”

  Confusion momentarily pushed aside the other emotions. “Really? It’s that easy to kill two suspects on the courthouse steps in broad daylight?”

  He snorted. “The job I was offered wasn’t about killing those two.” His strange eyes, a mix of brown and gray, stared deep into mine.

  My instincts set on edge. “Who was it about then?”

  “You. I was supposed to kill you.”

  My pulse tripped. Okay. Hank had told me that a hit had been ordered on me, but somehow it felt colder coming from this guy. Especially since I knew he could have accomplished the mission if he’d chosen to. I wasn’t sure even Warren Rayburn could have stopped Luther Fraley if half the tales about him were so.

  “But you didn’t follow through.” Was Luther why Rayburn was dead? Had he killed Rayburn instead of me? My heart rate leapt into overdrive.

  Luther moved his head side to side. “I would have. A job’s a job. I had a certain reputation to maintain. No offense.”

  I managed a tight smile. “None taken.”

  “But I had to make a call first. To the Judge.”

  “My father?” A new kind of confusion took charge with this turn.

  “I owed the Judge. I would’ve been rotting in prison if it wasn’t for him.”

  The murder charge. My father had dropped the case. “I see,” was all I could think to say. Whatever technicality my father had used would have been on the up and up, but some part of me abruptly wondered. How could the two men I’d looked up to my entire life suddenly seem less than perfect?