Deadly Gamble

by Linda Lael Miller

  I nodded.

  Crowley paused on the threshold between the kitchen and living room. “Is there somebody you can stay with? The guys will be downstairs for a while, but it might be safer to spend the night elsewhere.”

  A chill shivered up my spine. With all that had happened, it hadn’t crossed my mind that whoever knifed Bert might come back, when the coast was clear, and do the same thing to me, just in case I’d seen something and remembered it later.

  I could call Greer, I supposed. She’d take me in, but she’d probably make Russell sleep in the garage. Tucker was either waiting in line in the celestial train depot or tunneling through the underworld of users and dealers.

  I needed to get out more. Make friends with people who would let me crash on their couches in an emergency.

  “I’ll be fine here,” I said, hoping it was true.

  I saw Crowley to the door, locked it behind him and turned around to find Russell standing at my heels. His expression was baleful, but then, he always looked that way.

  I fired up the computer, figuring I might as well do some billing and coding, since I probably wouldn’t sleep. While the program was loading, I went back to the kitchen and searched the shelves until I came up with a can of beef stew, stuck behind the roasting pan in the rear of my tiny pantry. Russell might have been traumatized, but there was nothing wrong with his appetite.

  He snarfed up the stew, and I headed for the computer, only to think of Jolie and retrace my steps. My cell needed charging, so I reached for the wall phone, after wiping it off with a paper towel and some antiseptic spray cleaner. I tapped into the voice mail, intending to use the breather to work out what I could say to Jolie beyond “I’m sorry.”

  Only there wasn’t a breather.

  The first message was from Greer, and she sounded as though she’d been crying. “Mojo, I really need to talk to you. Call me.”

  I took a deep breath. Now I had two conversations to rehearse.

  The second caller was Jolie. “You’ve got some fancy explaining to do, girl. Walking out on me like that. I’d better hear from you pronto. Like, I mean, tonight.”

  I let out a long sigh. I was in for it with Jolie, and my account of finding Bert under a pool table, stabbed in the chest, probably wouldn’t prompt any sympathy. At least, none for me. Bert would get all of it.

  The droning voice was distorted, probably by one of those spy devices they sell on the Internet, and it jolted me out of my reflections about talking to Greer and Jolie. “Did you get my text message? I meant what I said. You will die.” Pause. “The question is, when? And how badly will it hurt?”

  I dropped into a chair at the kitchen table, staring at Andy Crowley’s cop card. I was ninety percent certain the call came from Geoff, and I knew I needed to report it, since I had a strong desire to stay alive. That was reason one. Reason two: there might be a connection, however remote the chances seemed, between the phone threat and what had happened to Bert. The information could help the police identify and find his attackers.

  I was so stunned that the fourth message ended without my hearing a word. I had to suffer through the whole sequence again, because I couldn’t take the chance that someone at Sunset Villa had called with urgent news about Lillian.

  It turned out to be from a food-delivery service; a perky unisex voice promised a free Chinese dinner if I called before Monday.

  I was on the national no-call list, supposedly off-limits to telemarketers. Fat lot of good it did me.

  Disgusted, I punched in Greer’s number. Triage, Mojo style. Jolie was pissed, but something big had to be up with Greer. I’d heard tears in her voice, and since I’d seen her cry exactly once since I’d known her—when we met at the hospital after Lillian had her stroke—I switched her to priority one.

  She answered on the second ring, with a breathless, “Hello?”

  “It’s Mojo,” I said.

  Greer sniffled. “About time.”

  I closed my eyes. Waited.

  Russell had finished his stew. He snuggled against the side of my chair, laid his muzzle on my right thigh and passed gas.

  “Are you there?” Greer demanded testily.

  I didn’t want to breathe. I jumped up, found some matches in a drawer, and struck one.

  “I’m here,” I sputtered.

  “I need your help.”

  I leaned down to pat Russell’s head, so he’d know I wasn’t holding the toxic fumes against him. His expression was sadly adoring.

  “No more stew for you,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon?” Greer put in.

  “Talking to the dog,” I explained. “Why do you need my help, Greer?”

  “I can’t talk about it over the telephone!”

  I looked at the clock. After eleven. It was dark outside, I’d just listened to a robotic death threat, and that was the high point of my evening. For all I knew, there was some maniac waiting right outside the door with an ax, cops or no cops.

  “It can’t be that bad, Greer.” She wasn’t sobbing. She wasn’t screaming.

  “That’s what you think!”

  “In the morning,” I said patiently.

  “Mojo, I’m desperate!”

  “Then you’d better tell me what’s going on, because I’m not driving out there unless you’re bleeding.” I grimaced, remembering poor Bert. Let him be alive, I prayed.

  Greer started to cry.

  I almost gave in. As I said, my sister wasn’t a weeper.

  “Listen, Greer, I’ve had a really bad night, and the day wasn’t so great, either. So maybe we could do this tomorrow—”

  “I’ll come over there, then,” Greer broke in, sounding peevish. “This is serious, Mojo.”

  I really wished she’d stop italicizing every third word. “Okay,” I said cautiously, “but there’s a crime scene downstairs, and the cops might not even let you into the parking lot.”

  Now we were talking serious.

  For a moment, the old Greer was back. “No shit? What happened?”

  I explained, taking care to include Bert’s wound, my clothes being taken for evidence, the nude photo shoot and the fact that I had temporary custody of a flatulent basset hound.

  “See you in twenty,” Greer said, when I’d finished.

  All righty, then.

  “Bring kibble,” I put in quickly, before she could hang up.

  “Kibble?”

  “I mean it, Greer. I gave this dog canned stew and, given his digestive system, we could be on the threshold of an environmental disaster.”

  She said a hasty goodbye and rang off.

  With luck, I could get through the long-distance confrontation with Jolie before Greer arrived. The threatened ETA was twenty minutes, but that was without the stop for dog food.

  I steeled myself and dialed Jolie’s number.

  She must have been sitting on the phone, and she definitely had caller ID. She jumped straight onto my back. “Mojo Sheepshanks, you did a rotten, lousy thing, storming out of here like that!”

  “You’re right,” I said. I couldn’t quite get to “meek,” but I did “regretful” credibly.

  The admission stunned her to silence, but I knew it was temporary.

  “I’m sorry,” I added. It was the equivalent of sitting on top of the refrigerator and throwing frozen pot roasts to Sweetie. And I really did feel terrible about bailing on her.

  If I hadn’t, though, Bert would probably be dead by now.

  Assuming he wasn’t.

  “Me, too,” Jolie said.

  I caught my breath. “What did you say?”

  “I said I’m sorry, Mojo. I should have kept my opinions to myself. About your job, I mean.”

  I was beyond relieved.

  “You still there?” Jolie asked. “Or did you sky on me again?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I was thinking I could come up to Cave Creek, bunk at your place. I’d like to see Lillian anyway, and it would be like old times, you
and me and Greer talkin’ trash.”

  “God, Jolie,” I said, almost whispering. “That would be great.” I glanced at Russell. He’d been through enough, without coming face-to-face with Sweetie. “Are you planning to bring the dog?” I put the question carefully, because I didn’t want Jolie to get mad and change her mind about the visit.

  “Sweetie can stay with some friends of mine, out in the country. They’re always inviting him for play dates with their dogs.”

  Play dates? Any breed smaller than a bull mastiff might end up as a snack.

  “The sooner you can get here,” I said, “the better.”

  “I should roll in sometime tomorrow afternoon. I’ll stop at Sunset Villa and then drive up from there.”

  Russell broke wind again.

  I lit another match, half-expecting a methane explosion, and wished I’d asked Greer to pick up industrial-strength air freshener as well as kibble.

  “Sounds good,” I said, waving my free hand.

  “We’re going to have company,” I told Russell, after Jolie and I hung up. I crouched to ruffle his ears gently. “All we gotta do is hold on, buddy. Things are bound to get better.”

  Russell craned his almost nonexistent neck to lap at my cheek. I probably tasted of tears.

  We communed for a while, the basset and me, and then I gave him a bath with paper towels and sink water. That done, I rounded up some extra blankets and made him a bed in the kitchen. Once Russell was settled, I stood on tiptoe to look out the window, peering down at the parking lot. There were still six squad cars, parked at urgent angles, and plenty of uniforms and suits moving in and out of the bar.

  I saw Greer’s car pull in, splashed in the glow of a streetlight, come to a sleek stop next to a policeman.

  I could just imagine how she was charming his regulation socks off. If she was still tearful, he wouldn’t have a chance against her.

  Russell began to snore, and stunk up the place with another poot before I sneaked out and headed for the exit. I waited on the landing as the cop waved Greer in, following the car on foot.

  She popped the trunk from inside, and Officer Friendly leaned into it, came up with a huge bag. She’d remembered the kibble, then.

  Smiling, the cop carried the thing up the stairs, looking very young and very earnest, with Greer mincing along behind him in high heels, murmuring something appreciative and admiring.

  The guy looked as though he’d just rescued a baby from a burning house.

  Sucker, I thought, but kindly.

  I stepped back, so he could get by, and he lugged that bag all the way to the kitchen, after I pointed the way.

  Russell opened his eyes, lying on his bed of blankets, but he didn’t make a sound.

  Greer thanked the policeman sweetly, and he returned to parking lot duty.

  “Thanks,” I said to Greer, with some amazement, taking in the bag. It was gourmet stuff, with a snooty-looking poodle preening on the front—one hundred percent organic and human grade.

  In other words, if money got tight, Russell and I could share rations.

  Greer smiled, pleased by my obvious gratitude, but her eyes were puffy, and her nostrils seemed chapped. She stood there in my kitchen, looking like a butterfly with one bent wing.

  “How much do I owe you?” I asked. My purse was sitting on the counter, and I reached for it.

  “Don’t be silly,” Greer scolded. “You can’t begin to afford it.”

  I grinned. This was the Greer I knew. Plus, she hadn’t italicized anything.

  Russell stretched, yawning, and got off the blanket pile to sniff at the kibble bag, then Greer’s ankles.

  “Sit down,” I told my sister, taking charge. “I’ll make you some tea.”

  Something shifted in Greer. She nodded in acquiescence, looking as delicate and uncertain as she’d sounded on the phone, and plunked herself into the nearest chair.

  I put the kettle on to boil, scrounged up a couple of tea bags and dished up some fancy grub for Russell, setting a bowl of water down alongside it. All that time, Greer said nothing. She merely looked on, as if she’d never seen a dog crunching kibble before.

  “Okay,” I said, when the tea was ready and I’d taken the chair across from Greer’s. “What brings you to Bad-Ass Bert’s in the middle of the night?”

  Greer fidgeted, licked her lips and looked me straight in the eye.

  I waited, uneasy again.

  “I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars,” my sister said, “if you can prove my husband is fooling around.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  I blinked, peering at Greer. “Did you just say you were willing to pay me ten grand to prove the doc is cheating on you?”

  Greer bit her lower lip and nodded.

  “For that much money,” I said, still recovering, “I’d set him up myself.”

  “I’m hoping he’s not being unfaithful to our wedding vows,” Greer said tersely. “And my trust in you had better not be misplaced.”

  There she went, italicizing again. “Right,” I said.

  Russell farted, unabashed.

  “Good God!” Greer bolted from her chair, cheeks bulging with a thwarted exhalation, and hoisted the kitchen window open. Cop voices murmured below, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  “Why me?” I asked, of a largely disinterested universe.

  Greer gave Russell an accusatory look and stayed close to the open window to let out her breath and suck in more air. “Why you?”

  I brought her gently back to the point of her visit. “Yes. Why would you hire me to check up on Alex, instead of some big detective agency?”

  “Don’t you want the money?” Greer challenged.

  Hell, yes, I wanted the money, and she damn well knew it. I just looked at her, hoping she hadn’t changed her mind.

  “You’re a born snoop,” my sister said. “You’ve got a lot of free time, and I trust you would be discreet—and be completely fair to Alex in the process.”

  “Any top-flight agency would be discreet,” I pointed out. “Plus, they would have experience and resources.”

  Damn it. Whose side was I on, anyway? I could do a lot with an influx of cash like that, and since Geoff had put me off the casinos for a while, this was the only chance I was likely to get.

  Greer gave Russell another wary glance, then sat down, all very serious. “Alex belongs to every civic organization in Arizona,” she told me. “I’m afraid any agency I called would tip him off, as a professional courtesy—or just out of spite.”

  “Okay,” I said uncertainly.

  She opened her shoulder bag—one of those rhinestone studded numbers with a real gold buckle—and took out a sheaf of papers and her checkbook.

  “I don’t have a private investigator’s license, you know,” I felt compelled to say. I do have standards. And I wouldn’t really have framed Alex as a cheater just to collect the ten grand.

  Which is not to say I wouldn’t be tempted. I just wouldn’t actually do it.

  Greer ignored my statement and handed me the papers. Turned out they were printouts from a computer-generated address book. “I’ve highlighted the suspicious names and numbers,” she said. While I studied them, she produced a fountain pen and opened her checkbook. “I think the one with the star beside it is with him at the medical conference, even as we speak. You’ll need a good camera, and there are bound to be expenses, so I’m giving you a retainer.”

  It required all the discipline I had not to lean across the table and get a look at the numbers on that check.

  “Right,” I said. That was always safe with Greer. She liked to be right.

  “What makes you so sure Alex is running around?”

  “All the little signs are there.”

  Yeah, I thought, probably the same stuff that made his first wife suspicious when the two of you were scorching the sheets.

  “Like what?” I asked reasonably.

  “The usual. Suspicious phone call
s. Having his mail forwarded to his office. Late hours, even for a doctor.” Something bruised flickered in Greer’s eyes. “I’ll die if she’s pregnant.”

  “Whoa,” I said. “Pregnant?”

  “What better way to snag somebody else’s husband?”

  I didn’t argue with that. If Alex was stepping out, the other woman was probably in her twenties, since Greer herself was only thirty-two. It was a common enough scenario with men in his age and income brackets, meaning fiftyish and rich, to trade in the used model for something sporty, long-legged and preferably blond. I see these victims of midlife crisis in public places all the time, sitting with some sharp number young enough to be their daughter. Kids, too, a lot of the time—and anybody but a skeptic would take them for grandchildren, given the age gap.

  Do these guys actually believe it’s their virility, not their wallets, that puts a sweet young thing on their arm?

  They really should get a clue. It’s the Beamer, stupid, and the bank account and the big house. It’s so not the other thing.

  And you’re not fooling anybody.

  Greer brought me back from my ramblings by ripping out the check, slapping it down on the tabletop and shoving it toward me.

  Five thousand dollars.

  My eyes must have bulged.

  “Greer,” I said, “this is really a lot of money. I could—”

  “I want you to have it,” Greer said.

  I took the check. Logic demanded that I get on a plane, fly to wherever the medical conference was being held and peek at Alex and the chickie from behind a few potted palms, but I wasn’t free to do that. Detective Crowley had told me not to leave town, and Jolie was arriving the next day for a visit.

  I explained.

  Greer was undaunted. “Do what you can,” she said. Then she stood to leave. Business completed. No comment on the events of the evening or Jolie’s impending descent upon Cave Creek.

  I studied her. “I’m grateful for the chance and for the check, Greer,” I said, “and I truly hope whatever I find out is good news to you. But are you really just going to waltz out of here without responding to any of the things I just told you?”

  Greer looked confused for a moment, then horrified. She dropped back into her chair, and her eyes glistened with moisture. “You’re right,” she said miserably. “When did I become so self-absorbed?”