one to know. They didn’t want a DHS record. They were so afraid you
were gonna find out.”
“Was it Zander’s drugs that killed Michael?”
“I don’t know. Ashley won’t say. But that’s what I think. Zander’s
fun to hang out with, don’t get me wrong, but he’s a fucked-up mess.
I’m surprised, what with all the shit he does, that he’s not dead yet.
Ashley’s been tryin’ for months to get him to go someplace for help.
She loves Zander, really. He was good to her, you know? At a time
when she needed it.”
“You think she loves him enough to cover up for him?” Brandi nodded again. Another late customer entered the diner.
The other waitress, getting a signal from Brandi, seated him and took
his order. I thought about what Brandi had said, then asked, “But
what about Jimmy? I thought she and Jimmy —”
“She loves Jimmy. She’s in love with Jimmy. But she and Zander
have, had, a baby together. She’ll always have feelings for him, you
know what I mean? Maybe I’m not making any sense.”
She was making sense. I thought about the guy I’d been with throughout grad school. We’d even lived together for a while before our jobs took us in different directions. He was married now, with a kid, but we still exchanged rare e-mails and Christmas cards. I would
always care for him. But go to prison for him?
And it still didn’t explain why Ashley’s current boyfriend was
trailing me around with a knife. He certainly didn’t owe anything to
Zander. Was Jimmy so much in love with Ashley that he’d actually
help her cover up for her ex-lover?
The little bell rang and Brandi delivered my salad. It didn’t smell
as good as the French fries now cooking in the kitchen, but I dug in
anyway. Brandi wiped the counter. Between bites I asked, “So who’s
this Trey guy?”
She shrugged. “Some friend of Zander’s. I’ve met him twice. His
real name is Something-Something-Something the Third, but they
call him Trey.”
Something-Something-Something the Third. Well, that was helpful. But I bet I knew who could tell me Trey’s identity. I put the picture back in my purse and finished the salad. Brandi refilled my drink,
and at my request poured it into a to-go cup.
Outside the grill, I surveyed the area as I had last time. I needed to go back to work. I had to start a chart on my investigation from this morning, and follow up on that referral. Instead, I took a walk. To clear my head. I walked south for a few blocks, taking note of the larger buildings in the area. Took a right just before the historic Tutweiler Hotel, between it and the old library building, and then into Linn Park. The park was the headquarters for many events in the city, including City Stages, the big music festival held in June, and the local Race for the Cure in October. On race day, the trees in the park were tied with huge pink ribbons in memory of breast cancer victims. My brother Chris and I bought one every year for Mom.
I passed the fountain and reached the north side of the park, facing the Birmingham Museum of Art. A bench sat near the towering glass front doors to the museum, and I was ready for a rest. The temperature was typical for July, in the mid-nineties. I wiped perspiration from my forehead and sipped the rest of my watery drink. The temptation to go into the air-conditioned museum and browse around the collections was almost too strong to ignore. I finished my drink and tossed it into a nearby can. A gaggle of students from ASFA made their way down the sidewalk, on the way to their campus in the next block. They reminded me of Zander’s younger sister, Kaylin. I wondered if she would head down the same dangerous path as her brother.
Okay, enough time wasted. The chart from this morning wasn’t going away, and the sooner I got it done, the sooner I could go home. I strolled up the sidewalk on the east side of the park, in no hurry. I was going over everything about Michael’s case in my mind again when I saw him.
A man, walking toward me, in a burgundy shirt with a blue logo on the pocket. It wasn’t Jimmy, but I was fairly sure it was the same shirt that he wore that day at the jail. The guy in the shirt was younger and trimmer than Jimmy, in his mid-twenties. As we closed in on each other, I saw he was a handsome guy, with thick blond hair and blue eyes that stood out against his tan skin. In his right hand was a bag from Sneaky Pete’s hot dog shop.
I still couldn’t make out the logo. As he passed me on the sidewalk, I said, “Excuse me, sir?”
He stopped, gave me a half-smile that revealed stained teeth. “Yeah?”
“Could I ask where you work?”
He nodded straight ahead of him, behind me. “The convention center.”
I turned around. Beyond the interstate overpass, the sprawling, brown-brick complex took up a solid city block, more if you counted the parking decks that surrounded it and the mammoth hotel next door. A fight had been raging year after year among city leaders about whether to replace it with a domed stadium. I fell in step with Sneaky Pete and asked, “Do you know a guy named Jimmy Shelton?”
“Oh sure, I know Jimmy.” Sneaky Pete had a country accent that I placed from the plains, in the southern part of the state.
“Is he working today, do you know? I’d love to say hi to him.” And stick a knife up his —
“He’s there. C’mon and I’ll find him for you.”
We approached the elevated section of I-59/20, and as we walked underneath it, I had to shout to be heard.
“What do you do?”
“Our department sets up all the stuff for the meetin’s. All the A/V and the chairs and such. We got the full crew on today. Got a huge meetin’ of foot doctors comin’ in. I guess they got a lotta pi’tures of feet to look at.”
I stifled a giggle and asked, “So that’s what Jimmy does, too?”
“Yup.”
I followed him to the main entrance of the center, over the intricate pavers in front, and through a large door. We climbed a flight of stairs. Miles of teal-patterned carpet stretched everywhere. Sneaky Pete led me to the guts of the building, to a small office whose occupant was out. A collection of brown clipboards hung on the wall. He pulled one down and checked the schedule. “Jimmy’s in the East Hall, upstairs.”
“I can find him.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, thanks for your help.”
I went back to the main entrance hall. An upward-bound escalator to the East Hall was on the right, shut off. The downward one, also off, was on the left. If I had any sense at all, I’d turn around and leave. Go back to DHS and do the paperwork that was waiting on my desk.
I started to do just that, but at the last minute turned around and climbed the metal stairs of the escalator. Halfway up, my legs started to shake, and I didn’t think it was because of the lingering soreness from the hike. What could he do to me at his work? Surely he didn’t have another knife on him. And I didn’t think someone would fail to notice if he made some attempt to harm me here. Still, I felt like I was poised to poke a big dog with a stick.
The East Exhibition rooms were at the top of the escalator. Several, identified by letters. I started at D, poking my head through double doors that revealed rows of teal-cushioned chairs and screens for slide projectors. When I got to K, I found him.
He was lining up chairs, taking them four at a time from a large stack. He turned around when the door opened, and what I could see of his face under all that hair registered surprise.
I stepped inside, letting the heavy wood door swing shut behind me with a booming thud. I stood in front of the door, my butt leaning against the metal push-bar that opened it. Jimmy was fifteen feet away, a chair in his hands. I stood ready to run if he came at me.
“What are you doing here?” His deep voice shattered the quiet room.
“I wan
t to know why you followed me around Oak Mountain with a knife.”
“I told you to stay out of it.”
“Why?”
“You can’t do anything to help Ashley. She wants you to leave it alone.”
“I want to know who killed Michael. I want to know who Ashley is protecting. Is it you? Or Zander?”
“It doesn’t matter. Leave it alone. I mean it. I’d hate to see you get hurt. So would Ashley.”
“By you?”
He sneered. “If that’s what it takes. A little visit to that cute little black and white house of yours up in Bluff Park.”
My body went icy, like I’d taken a polar swim. I fought to steady my still-shaking legs and said, “If I see you anywhere near me, I’ll call the cops.” I hoped my voice was more forceful than it sounded to me.
He laughed, a short jeer that echoed in the room. “You do that.”
The door behind me suddenly swung out, throwing me off balance. I stumbled sideways and caught myself before I fell as a woman in a black suit and scarf entered. She carried one of the brown clipboards. “Oh, sorry,” she said, watching me right myself. “Didn’t see you there. Jimmy, I need a word.”
“See you around,” Jimmy said with a glare that bore right into my brain.
I left Jimmy and the woman and made it outside in a flash. By the time I reached my car some six blocks away, I was soaked in sweat and breathing hard. The bastard knew where I lived.
I punched a number into my cell phone. “I need a favor.”
`
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I went back to work and tried to concentrate on putting together the chart regarding the family I’d seen this morning. I had to redo two forms because I wasn’t paying attention. After documenting the interviews, scheduling the intervention meeting for tomorrow, and following up with the therapist, I left the office at six, still uneasy and with only half my mind on anything I was doing. As arranged, I met Grant at High Tech.
I knocked above the logo on the front door. Grant emerged from the back office and unlocked the door with a key to let me in. I followed him back to his desk, where he put his bookkeeping away before tailing me back to my house.
He hadn’t asked any questions on the phone when I told him I needed a place to spend the night. Hadn’t asked any questions when I’d arrived at the store, and without comment entered my house first to make sure it was safe. He waited patiently while I packed an overnight case, threw in the list of suspects I’d made, and locked up.
Grant lived in an apartment complex near the mall, two minutes from his shop. A people stable of a hundred units, high on a hill, shielded from the commercial traffic below by a long drive and lots of trees. He lived on the third floor.
He gave me the fifty-cent tour. The place was definitely function rather than fashion. White walls. Minimal furniture. A big-screen TV in the living room. Two bedrooms, one an office that held trestle tables like the ones he worked on at the shop, full of computers. They hummed quietly. A bookcase, black, with thick tomes on mysterious subjects such as C and Visual Basic and Dot Net. In the next room lay a king-sized mattress set, no frame, unmade navy sheets and a brown bedspread. A clock radio was plugged in next to it. A dresser spilled clothes from every drawer.
After the tour we sank down on the leather couch. Grant picked up a fancy remote control that looked like a handheld PC and used it to turn on the lamps. “You okay?”
I wasn’t. I wanted desperately to be home and for all this to be over. I wanted Michael alive, happy, and playing, and Ashley working and doing well. I didn’t want awful men threatening me and I didn’t want to have to look over my shoulder twenty-four-seven. I didn’t want to feel like I had failed. And I hated burdening Grant with an uninvited house guest. I teared up before I could stop myself.
He scooted over and wrapped both arms around me. My cheek rested on his shoulder and my face pressed against his neck. He patted my back and shoulders and said, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” until my fit subsided.
When it was over I sat back, wiped away tears, and apologized. “What happened?” he asked.
I told him about Jimmy and our conversation earlier. Grant said
I was an idiot for seeking him out. I agreed. Grant brought me some toilet tissue from the bathroom. “Here. Why don’t you get cleaned up a bit and get comfortable while I make us something to eat?”
I locked myself in Grant’s bathroom. A plain, clear shower curtain enclosed the tub. His hairbrush and shaving kit lay on the counter, and that was it. I washed my face with cold water and studied my reflection in the mirror. My blue eyes were pink and puffy, my nose red, and my skin splotchy. Nice. Claire, I said to myself, you really owe this guy. As soon as this is over, go out and buy yourself a hot new dress, get your hair and makeup done, and take him out for a steak.
I stripped off the clothes I’d worn to work and stood in a hot shower for twenty minutes, lingering with Grant’s shampoo and soap. I brushed my hair and put on the shorts and T-shirt I’d brought with me.
Grant was frying bacon and eggs when I joined him in the kitchen. Two TV trays were set up in front of the couch, with paper napkins and forks. “Hungry?” he asked.
The smell of the bacon was getting to me. “Yeah.”
I poured us each a glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge and we dug in. After supper, Grant put in a movie. By nine thirty I was sinking ever lower into the sofa. Grant went into his bedroom. He returned carrying a striped comforter and a pillow, wearing cotton shorts and a navy T-shirt that fit tight across his shoulders. The sleeves hugged his arms halfway down his biceps. He shut off the television, put the pillow gently under my head, and tucked me in.
“Need anything?” he asked.
Boy, did I. I leaned toward him and said, “How about a kiss good night?”
I slid his glasses off and put them on the floor next the sofa. Several minutes later, I began to ease his T-shirt up and over his head. He stopped me, catching my hands in his. “Not tonight.”
“Why?”
He found his glasses and slid them on again, then brushed my cheek with his hand. “Good night.”
I heard the click of his bedroom door shutting as I closed my eyes.
The next morning I awoke to the whine of an electric razor. The hollow, ashamed feeling was still with me. I drifted back to sleep and woke a few minutes later to the aroma of brewing coffee. I threw off thecomforter and padded my way to the kitchen. Grant was dressed for work, in khakis and a polo with his store logo on it.
“Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
He handed me a full mug. “Cream and sugar?”
“No thanks.” I sipped the hot, rich liquid as Grant stirred his.
“Thanks for letting me stay last night.”
“No problem.”
“I’m sorry about —”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Before he left for work, Grant made me promise to meet him that
evening. I got ready and faced a challenging day head-on. First on the agenda was the intervention meeting regarding the case from yesterday. I refereed a room full of people including parents, kids, grandparents, a teacher, and the therapist I’d contacted. Everything was going fine until one of the grandparents commented that the bruises never would have happened if her daughter hadn’t married the stupid sumbitch in the first place. Then the yelling started. I sent the kids out of the room and got everyone calm by announcing that I was about three seconds away from putting the kids in foster care. That shut them up.
The meeting lasted four hours. After it was over, I ate lunch and hid in my office all afternoon, documenting the family’s intervention plan, nursing a headache, and only coming out of my tiny space to meet with Mac for an hour. There was no word from the A.G.’s office yet. It was still too early.
At five I took the Red Mountain Expressway to Highway 280, jammed with commuters bound for home. I turned into Mountain Brook. The parking pad
at the top of Karen and Alexander Madison’s drive was full of cars, so I parked in the street. I rang the doorbell and Karen answered, dressed in a Roberto Cavalli print dress. She looked gorgeous.
“Hello. What are you doing here?” I could hear the buzz of conversation behind her as a uniformed caterer passed by with a silver tray of canapés. “I want a word.”
“We’re having a party. I’m afraid I can’t right now.”
“I’ll only take a second.” I nodded toward the garage. “We can go in there.”
I leaned against the bumper of a Cadillac Escalade, flanked on one side by a Porsche. The other space was empty. I took out the somewhat sticky photo I’d filched from Ashley’s apartment and pointed to it. “That’s Trey, correct?”
“That’s right. I don’t know who the other young man is.” “What’s Trey’s last name?”
“Baxter. He’s a friend of Zander’s. You can’t possibly think he has anything to do with Michael’s death?”
“Why not?”
“Oh, that’s ridiculous. We’ve been friends with his parents forever.”
“When you say he’s a friend of Zander’s, does he —” I trailed off, searching for the right way to phrase my question.
She picked up on what I was fishing for. “No. He doesn’t have the same — problems — as Zander has.”
It irked me that she couldn’t bring herself to say “addiction.” No wonder it was called the elephant in the living room. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Trey is doing very well, actually. He graduated early with his undergraduate degree, and has already completed his Ph.D. He’s only twenty-six. His father was a doctor, you see.”
There was a stiffness to Karen’s expression as she spoke and a strained quality to her voice. Pain. And envy. Lots of envy.
“I see. What’s Trey do? For a living?”
“He and his father, Walt, started a business together. Some kind of medical research facility. Walt was a GP here for years and always wanted to go into the research end of medicine. He sold his practice and founded BaxMed with his son. I don’t know why you are so curious about Trey. He couldn’t have had anything to do with Michael. I doubt he even knew about him.”
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