by Jon A. Hunt
“Shaky,” I said. “Couldn’t Jetta have pushed grandma down the stairs herself?”
“The question came up. She was always over there. And she couldn’t exactly rely on drug dealing friends for an alibi. But it turned out JD was having her followed by a private investigator—the name’s stricken from the record—”
I hoped Rafferty hadn’t caught any sudden shift in my composure. The impression I’d been given was that DeBreaux’s charge had been JD’s wife, not his daughter.
“—and this guy had pictures of the girl elsewhere at the time. She was breaking the law. But she wasn’t killing anyone. JD convinced the courts not to press charges on the other matter if he sent Jetta off to get cleaned up, which he did.”
That explained the girl’s abrupt departure from Nashville afterward. JD’s negotiation skills weren’t limited to music contracts.
“How’d you get hold of my security camera picture?”
“Feds emailed it to me. Special Agent in Charge Pennington called about you before he got on the plane for Nashville. Same character who shooed Metro off the case back in ‘04, comes with a real loyal top-notch team. He’s a real ass. Metro may be through with the Donovans, but the Bureau isn’t.”
“If Pennington wants me to quit my case he can ask me himself.” The name rolled off my tongue with familiarity, like I’d heard it before when I should’ve been paying better attention.
“He doesn’t want you to stop what you’re doing,” Rafferty said.
“Then why are we talking about this?”
“Because I won’t be able to sleep without having one last beer with a dead friend.” There was a little sadness in the corners of Rafferty’s eyes to reinforce his words.
“The feds are using me as bait.”
“More like chum. They’re not fishing for Rico. They’re after the ones coming to find him. Pennington had me turn Jones and Darrowby loose soon as he knew we had them, and he found out quick. Those two are just the tip of the iceberg. I’m not sure why Rico appeared here and now, but people in D.C. are ecstatic about it. If he sticks around to kill you—and he’s never left a witness breathing—Pennington hopes to follow cigarette ashes from every West Coast hit man Rico attracts all the way back to their bosses. The Mount Olivet business netted arrests in California and Nevada. One Nashville private eye seems a reasonable sacrifice to the him.”
I didn’t reply. Something he’d said rang a bell in my head and I was trying to sort through things I ought to remember to figure out why.
Rafferty misinterpreted my silence. “Sorry, Ty.”
I finished my pint and rose. “Thanks. If I make it through the week, let’s do this again.”
“Absolutely,” replied the Lieutenant with conviction. We both knew the best chance of that happening was if I somehow found Rico before he found me. Rico, who had no face, who left no clues besides numbered bullets and lists, who never missed….
Seven
My perception of things between the Blackstone and home started out pretty damned egocentric. Every vehicle was a tail. Every window had me in its crosshairs. When I stopped for people in the crosswalks, I half expected them to turn and fire numbered bullets through the Viper’s windshield, but no one did. The city went about its business which, for the most part, didn’t involve trying to kill me.
But with each block that passed, I questioned Rafferty’s assessment of my situation more. If Rico wanted to finish me, he could’ve done so. I was still breathing for a reason. Maybe he was using me as a lure. That idea ratcheted my confidence down several notches.
A throaty clatter of exhaust proclaimed my arrival in the garage beneath my condo. Nobody jumped from behind parked cars to attack me. I needed to let go of this paranoia or switch to a quieter car. The guest stalls were unoccupied except one close to the elevator lobby, where a blue Mazda roadster’s grille smiled at me. It looked like the car I’d seen under JD’s office that morning. I put the Viper in my assigned spot, my eyes glued to the mirrors while I crammed cash from the glove box into my jacket. I considered taking the Smith & Wesson out of its holster now, but my neighbors were uncomfortable enough living next to me without my prowling the halls like I was on a commando mission. I locked the Dodge and took the stairs.
The elevator would’ve been faster but nineteen possible stops and nineteen possible tragedies when the doors hissed open were more than I trusted my nerves to handle. I had the .45 in hand under my jacket when I stepped through the fire door onto my floor. The cool checkered grips felt reassuring. To hell with what the neighbors might think.
“Mr. Bedlam?”
The man turned toward me from where he’d been waiting for the elevator. His build was average, his hair was dark and I didn’t know him. The butt of an automatic glinted inside his jacket, but his hands were visible and I could tell from the whites of his eyes that he knew I was closer to pulling a trigger than he’d have a chance to get.
“Name’s Jeffers, sir. Metro Police. I’d show you my badge, but…”
The elevator chimed. The door opened, lost patience, closed again. I faked a smile and kept the Smith & Wesson out of sight. “What happened to Smally?”
“He’s inside. He started his shift late, got delayed at the bookstore.”
“His copy of Twain’s Autobiography must’ve come in.”
“I don’t know about that. Smally only reads crap.”
I eased my gun back into its holster. “As long as it’s his own crap. Have I missed anything?”
Jeffers exhaled tremulously. Bad as the outcome would’ve been for me, he was still the cop I’d almost shot on my front doorstep. “A couple people came by. The man left you a box; Smally’s got it. His name was Ayers.”
“The other was a woman?”
“She didn’t leave a name. When she found out you weren’t here she split. Wasn’t more than five minutes ago. You probably passed each other on your way up.”
I shook my head. “Did you get a good look at her?”
“Yeah. Young, maybe early twenties, five-six, black hair, kind of pale, a looker. Smally saw her, too. We figured she might be a client.”
“What, you don’t think I might have a date once in a while?”
Jeffers put on an awkward grin, wished me a good evening and punched the button for the elevator again. I wondered where Rafferty had gotten Jeffers and Smally keys to my place, how easy it would be for someone else to do the same. I worked my own key and found Smally perched on his usual stool just inside the entry. His service automatic lay ready on the breakfast bar. We nodded greetings and I squeezed past him, through the dining room to the balcony door.
The wind had picked up. While there was currently no rain, the laden air suggested scheduling a picnic tomorrow would be unwise. I clutched the brim of my hat and leaned over the railing to scan the streets nineteen floors down. A small convertible swept onto Second Avenue after the light turned red. A minivan lurched and honked. The convertible never slowed and disappeared behind the Pinnacle Financial high rise. I couldn’t be sure of its color.
“Stow the artillery?” I said when I came back inside. “I run a respectable joint.”
Smally wordlessly scooted his 9mm off the counter and back into his shoulder rig. His close-set eyes remained locked on the pages of his current adventure. I try not to measure books by their covers, but the leggy blonde looking over her shoulder on the front of this one caught me passing judgment. She was naked except for a Stetson and riding chaps.
I deposited the eighty-five grand, my gun and holster on the living room sofa, then returned to the entry closet to put away my jacket and hat. Glancing back at the breakfast bar, I saw only a small cardboard box and Smally’s paperback stash.
“Where’s my other hat?” I asked.
“It stunk. I wrapped it in a trash bag and put it in the freezer.”
“Smally, you’ll make somebody a fine wife someday.”
He grunted appreciatively.
“Want a
sandwich? Something to drink?” I hadn’t eaten since lunch and choices in the fridge were limited. There was plenty of ice in the freezer with the smelly hat I’d worn home from Mount Olivet. I wasn’t in the mood for anything with ice.
“I’ll have a Coke if you’ve got one,” replied Smally.
“Heads up,” I said and flipped him a can from the refrigerator door. He never looked away from his novel and his massive paw snatched the soda can from the air quick as an alligator strike. I made a mental note not to judge Smally by his book covers.
Colby cheese and saltines would have to do. I plunked the cutting board on the counter beside the box of Danny Ayers’ goodies and started slicing. “Aren’t you supposed to be downtown getting debriefed?”
Smally shook a little, as if a laugh couldn’t quite find its way out. “Lieutenant exempted me. He said it’d look like we’re up to something if I stopped coming up. Pennington bought it.”
“You’ve met Pennington?”
He actually made eye contact to see if I was teasing him, then thumbed over a page and refocused. “He’s an ass.”
It was unanimous. I tucked another cola under an arm and carried my pathetic dinner and the box Danny had delivered into the living room. Shoving the magazines and laptop computer aside made room on the coffee table.
Nestled in foam inside the box were four black cylinders, each the size of the first segment of my forefinger. The waterproof, wireless micro-cameras had tiny loops on their sides for fastening them to whatever might be handy. A couple dozen black twist ties and handwritten instructions were included. As long as they were within two and a half miles of any wireless carrier’s antennas, the devices could record fourteen hours of wide-angle, high-resolution, low-light video, uploaded to a server at Cool-Core. After that time, the battery’s final act was to short-circuit the camera and render it inert. I could turn each camera on and off and access footage from my phone. Danny had also included a web address for looking up cell tower locations. I made a quick check to verify Whites Creek wasn’t too far in the middle of nowhere to own at least one tower and briefly tested each of the cameras. Big Brother wouldn’t be the only one watching people tomorrow.
Smally sat engrossed in his paperback, comfortable with being ignored, a big awkward piece of furniture that might move itself if I asked nicely. I sat back in the sofa and stared out at the sparkling city without having to bother with empty chatter.
I still didn’t see my situation in the same grim light as Rafferty. I wasn’t without advantages. Unlike the police or the FBI, I had no one to answer to except my own conscience. My motives were just as unclear as those of Rico or the gangsters who stalked him. I was unpredictable. I didn’t quite know what I would do myself, and had no idea which stones to look under that hadn’t already been turned over by everyone else.
Two stones that came to mind were Clarence DeBreaux and Jetta Donovan. Rafferty’s information on either had been sketchy, and if he did more digging Pennington had assured him his job with Metro was finished. I might ask JD about his daughter when he returned to Nashville. There was just no connection to the reason I’d been hired. Also, he hadn’t mentioned Jetta when he told me about DeBreaux—something at odds with Rafferty’s news—so how could I trust the man? I’d become the only person in Tennessee who questioned JD’s integrity.
Fine. I’d start with DeBreaux. Without Rafferty’s or anybody else’s help. The possibility existed that the investigator was involved in the blackmail threats against Sandra, anyway.
I dialed her number. She needed to be prepared for tomorrow and some coaching was in order. Maybe she’d even say my name again.
Sandra answered on the third ring. I kept strictly to business, verified she’d be ready at six, told her I’d picked up cash for the pay-off.
“Did you ask Jonathon? About the detective he hired?” Her voice trembled slightly.
“I was discrete.” She hesitated. My imagination said she was uncertain, but there was no way to tell over the phone and imagination fools me plenty. I plowed ahead. “When you go out, do you typically drive yourself, or is that Waldron’s job?”
“Waldron drives.”
“Then we’ll need him, too. The rest of the world should see this as just a regular errand.”
“Tyler—”
Yep. I still liked the way she said my name. But if ever there was a time I needed to stay focused… “I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, Sandra.”
“Good night.” The words were mechanical now. I hung up.
I almost fished the cash from my jacket pocket beside me, then remembered Smally. He was a little too easy to ignore. I left the money out of sight and extracted the snipped photograph I’d gotten from Sandra that morning, being careful to keep it turned away from my assigned guard. I couldn’t remember seeing a better looking tattoo, but location had a lot to do with it.
Whose hand was that?
The question had plenty of stable mates. Had Sandra’s blackmailer contacted her lover as well? Had she contacted her lover? Why were both halves of the marriage cooperating with me, when what I was after was proof of infidelity?
What if Rico wasn’t a man? The idea had occurred on my drive home. I’d dismissed it. No one as good as Rico at avoiding the authorities would associate with JD’s overpublicized wife. Especially if Rico was a woman. Rafferty’s assessment of JD’s troubled daughter being the connection made the most sense. Not that it helped much. The lone common denominator in all of this was me. I was the one who’d been hired to find Sandra’s extortionist. I was the one expected to stop the next monogrammed slug. I was a lead actor in a tragedy and all I had for a script was a picture of a naked woman’s tattoo.
I tipped the photo against my forehead the way Johnny Carson used to do during his Carnac the Magnificent skits. I got nothing except a faint scent of honeysuckle.
Eight
Thursday started twice. The first time, I got up before the alarm, showered, heard laughter as I started shaving, saw my reflection had an oozing bullet hole squarely between its eyes. That had me bolting out of bed for real the second time.
The alarm clock was an hour from doing its job. Past the foot of the bed, the glass patio doors vibrated and rain wriggled erratically across them. I’d slept through the ugliest of the weather. While my pulse settled back into double digits, I flipped the pillow over to verify the cash and my gun were where I’d stowed them. I went ahead and showered and set the Smith & Wesson on the bathroom counter. Shaving required looking at a mirror, which I wasn’t ready to do just yet, so I brushed my teeth and got dressed, whiskers and all.
Smally had taken my good wife compliment to heart. The coffee maker was finishing its magic when I got to the kitchen. I poured us both a cup. He slurped his while flipping through the last chapter of his Stetson girl paperback; I had mine while collecting Danny’s micro-cameras and my freshly charged cell phone. Neither of us was chatty.
Smally’s services didn’t include escorting me to the garage. The .45 was in my hand in my jacket pocket all the way down the stairs and it stayed that way till I was inside my car. The Viper roared to life with gusto and I turned out onto the wet street by a quarter after five.
Wind and rain eased, but there was half an inch of standing water on the streets. Franklin Pike was littered with branches and trash. Several traffic lights were out. Spring in Tennessee was staying in character. Hopefully the roads to Whites Creek were passable.
Light traffic meant anyone following me would have a tough time keeping out of sight. Nothing showed in my rearview mirror. I pulled onto the shoulder after the turnoff for Hillbriar, doused the lights and set the parking brake with the engine running. The Viper chortled like a sleeping dragon. After several minutes of nobody coming around the corner in surprise, I abandoned the willies and got on with business.
The road to Hillbriar was in bad shape. The estate’s driveway was impassible. The lanterns on the limestone gate pillars weren’t operating. I parked out
side the gate and verified the intercom was dead with my penlight, then locked the car and took the micro-cameras and cash with me. I hadn’t had the best luck leaving valuables in my vehicle there. I climbed over the gate and trudged uphill toward the mansion.
Houses and stables were mist-shrouded hulks. The paddock, however, twinkled here and there along its edges with flashlight beams. More flashlights glared ahead of me and a two-cycle engine snorted to life. I recognized Waldron’s rigidly upright form. He held a light for two groundskeepers as they attacked a ponderous oak limb with a chainsaw.
“Mr. Bedlam,” he drawled. “Be ready soon’s this tree’s cleared and they’re done with the generator.” He’d been there long enough to have dealt with worse.
I checked my watch. Time remained for the drop in Whites Creek—provided the storm hadn’t created further obstacles—but I might lose my opportunity to position the micro-cameras.
“Mrs. Donovan’s up at the house?”
“No, sir. I ‘spect she’s out with the others checking the fences. Whiskey got out.”
Before I could ask for details, the workers fired up the chainsaw again and conversation became pointless. I tipped my head to indicate gratitude and continued up the drive. I kept an eye out for big angry horses.
Flashlights wavered at the paddock’s fringes like drowsy fireflies. The chainsaw would have masked calls or whistles, though I suspected Hillbriar’s entire staff wandered timorously in the trees without making much noise. No one wanted to startle Mrs. Donovan’s beloved unridable horse in the dark. Our business in Whites Creek wasn’t going to happen without that gelding back safe in his stall.
When I was a kid my grandparents had a plow horse who’d let you ride him bareback if you could catch him. I’d scour the fields for hours without success, only to find the wily old fart munching grass in the shade behind the barn. Maybe Whiskey had a similar sense of humor.
