'You're really starting to try my patience,' Guillory said when he finally answered his cell phone. Evan could hear a woman’s voice complaining in the background.
‘I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.’
Guillory snorted in an I should be so lucky way. Evan heard him cover the phone with his hand and a muffled conversation. ‘This better be good,’ Guillory said coming back on the line.
'It's better than good,' Evan said.
'I doubt that very much. You're sounding very strange. What do you want?'
'Guess where I am.'
Evan heard a weary sigh. Four in the morning was no time for games. 'I have absolutely no idea, and if I sound like someone who actually gives a shit...' There was a pause as the penny dropped. 'No. I don't believe it. You better not be...'
Evan stifled a yawn. It had been a long night. 'I am. I suggest you get your sorry ass over here.'
'Watch your language, Peeper.'
'You can forget the Peeper; it’s local hero all the way from here. You just wait until you see what's hidden in the basement downstairs. Better tell your wife you won’t be back tonight. See you in five, and don't bother bringing Detective Donut.’ He cut the call before Guillory had a chance to reply and went to see if he could find a cold beer.
CHAPTER 45
Trussed up in his best suit and a black tie, Evan almost looked presentable when he knocked on Linda Clayton's door a week later to accompany her to the funeral. His face looked a bit more human, and now had more, what you'd call, character. His nose had been set again - it would never be quite the same as before - and his chewed ear was on the mend. Jacobson had done some excellent work on the front teeth that Hendricks' head butt had loosened. He was going to have a mean-looking scar on his forearm, which would impress the ladies, and he was still walking with a limp. However, it was a small price to pay for what he had achieved and he was more than happy to pay it.
Linda Clayton had finally got the answers and closure she craved and, after the initial shock had worn off, the improvement in her was a joy to see. He couldn't believe how good he felt about himself for being the cause of the transformation. The gossip mongers had got their comeuppance when the awful truth about Robbie Clayton's fate had come to light. The gruesome aspects of the case had guaranteed it attracted national media coverage. As a result, the previously recalcitrant life insurance company had paid out with heart-warming alacrity. Linda had insisted on pressing a generous chunk of it onto him, despite his protestations. On top of that, the media interest had generated more enquiries than Evan could handle.
Hendricks had been patched up and was in a secure hospital wing contemplating the rest of his life behind bars. His buddy, Adamson, was still in his Hendricks-induced coma. It was fair to say that it was of no concern to anybody whether he pulled through or not, although plenty of people thought it would be best to pull the plug and save the tax dollars.
Guillory came out of it looking good and Evan had been happy to let him take most of the credit. They'd become almost friends and he'd been the one to get him started after all. The kudos he enjoyed was matched in equal measure by the decline in Faulkner's reputation. Scandal-hungry journalists quickly unearthed the Faulkner-Hendricks connection and he had a rough time of it, even though there was never any suggestion that he had been involved in any way.
The same couldn't be said about the unexplained fire that broke out and burned the two barns to the ground, destroying the secret chambers forever. Whoever did it probably experienced something similar to what the allied troops must have felt blowing up the Nazi gas chambers—a sense of putting the lid on one more example of man's limitless capacity for cruelty towards his fellow man. It seemed the emergency services encountered some unusually heavy traffic on the way over—apparently they also had a problem with their siren—and by the time they got there, there was nothing left.
Then a neighbor said they saw a car that looked a lot like Faulkner's in the vicinity at about the time the fire must have started, and the police department went through the motions of sending somebody over to talk to him. A lot of tongues wagged but in the end no one really gave a damn. It cut down on the number of enquiries from people looking to buy the place, now that the crazies would have to start afresh and build their own torture chamber from scratch, but most people just thought good riddance.
There'd been no sign of McIntyre and Evan liked to think he'd had second thoughts about taking him on without blindsiding him first —especially if he'd read the exaggerated accounts of Evan's bloody, hand-to-hand struggle with Hendricks.
He couldn't remember feeling as good for years. Life felt like there was something worth living for again. He hadn't realized quite how much the sleazy work that he'd fallen into had been dragging him down. Still, he wasn't completely out of the woods.
After the service a few people went back to Linda's house. Guillory was one of them. Evan was relieved that the odious Detective Donut didn't feel the need to pay his respects. Nobody stayed very long and soon it was just the two of them.
'You seem very thoughtful,' Linda said, laying a hand on his arm. She looked at him with her clear blue eyes, so different from when he first met her.
'I suppose so. I've got a lot to think about.' He dropped his eyes. He didn't want to get into a conversation about himself. Not now, on an emotionally charged day like today. But it wasn't his call.
She looked at him for a while longer but he wouldn't meet her gaze. 'You also look like a load's been lifted,' she said. 'It's hope, isn't it?'
He looked up sharply. She was smiling triumphantly at his reaction. 'Ha! Not as green as I'm cabbage-looking, eh?'
'Is it really that obvious?'
'No, of course not. You're a man, you're tough. You don't wear your heart on your sleeve. You're a closed book. Shall I go on?'
He shook his head. 'No need. You're right.'
'Of course I'm right. What you've done for me makes you wonder if the same thing will ever happen for you.' She paused and took his silence as tacit agreement. 'It's more than that, it gives you hope that you will find out what happened...'
'To Sarah, yes.' She had no idea just how right she was. He didn't know how long it would take, but he knew he would eventually find the answer. 'But that's not all.'
'I know it isn't. It's given you confidence too.' She was almost bouncing in her chair with enthusiasm. 'It makes you feel that you can deal with it, whatever you find out. Sure, you know how you want it to turn out, but you're not afraid of the other possibilities.'
It made him feel good just to hear her put it all into words. That was exactly how he was feeling. It wasn't just what he'd achieved for Linda; coming through the ordeal with Hendricks made him feel that he could now deal with whatever life threw at him. He grinned, 'You're amazing.'
'Not really. I've just been there.' She smiled at him again, but it was more mischievous this time. For an uncomfortable second he had a flashback to his afternoon with Barbara Schneider, but then it was gone. 'I've just had a great idea,' she said.
'Let's get drunk.'
'So who's the mind reader now?'
'Not me. It's just that I can see a hell of a lot of booze sitting over there and we're the only ones left to drink it.' He tapped the side of his nose with his finger. 'I'm a detective, remember.'
So that's what they did.
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Carry on reading for an excerpt from the latest Evan Buckley thriller, Strip Squeeze.
Chapter 1
Jesse stared in dismay at the photograph in his hand and felt sick to his stomach. There was no doubt about it—that was his johnson in her mouth. It wasn't too hard to work out really, seeing as it was his stupidly grinning face right there above it, nestled snugly between the o
ther girl's firm breasts. He could clearly see the scar on his lower abdomen, so it wasn't even his head photoshopped onto someone else's body.
Trouble was, he had no recollection of feeling as good as that looked any time recently.
He flicked quickly through the other photos that had arrived in a hand delivered envelope earlier that morning. It looked like he'd had a really good time. But he had absolutely no recollection of any of it. It just wasn't fair. He looked at the envelope again. Jesse Springer was handwritten across it in a rounded, obviously female, script and that was it.
'Where are you, Jesse?' his wife called out from upstairs. An icy hand poked its fingers into his intestines. 'I've got your anniversary present here.'
He heard her start down the stairs at a fast clip.
'I'm...' His throat had closed for the season; his voice packed up and gone away. She was almost at the bottom of the stairs already. Why the hell did she always have to run like an excited kid? He swallowed and tried to clear his throat. 'I'm in the kitchen,' he managed to croak.
What the hell was he going to do with these photos? He heard her land in the hallway with a heavy thump as usual. Jesus Christ, you’d think she was six years old. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely get the photos back into the envelope. One of them fell out onto the floor.
Shit.
There was no time to pick it up again. He kicked it under the kitchen dresser, then lifted up his shirt tail and shoved the envelope down the back of his pants, just as she bounded into the room, wearing just her bra and panties.
‘Ta-da,’ She exclaimed, throwing her arms wide.
His eyes bulged. Goddammit, don't get horny now.
'What are you up to?' she said, craning her head towards him. 'You look guilty as hell.‘ She wagged a finger at him. ‘You haven't been playing with yourself have you?' She grinned slyly and licked her lips.
'Of course not.' He swallowed again.
'Are you sure? Your voice sounds all croaky too.' She started advancing towards him slowly, the grin widening, her eyes full of mischief.
He moved sideways so the kitchen table was between them. Bad mistake. She thought he wanted to play.
'What do you think of your anniversary present?' she said, doing a little twirl and then darting to the side of the table. He jumped the other way.
'Pack it in, Diane. I've got to go to work.'
Talk about a turd in the punchbowl.
She stood up straight and put her small fists on her hips which only made her pert breasts thrust further towards him. He could see her nipples through the sheer fabric. He swallowed thickly and thought about his tax return.
'You said you've got the day off. It's our anniversary. You promised.' The playful voice had been replaced by something a little more whiney. Nothing good ever came after the you promised accusation either.
'I just got a text from Adams. I've got to go in.'
'Show me.'
He frowned. 'Show you what?'
'The text, dummy, what do you think?' Whiney was morphing into semi-aggressive.
'Don't be ridiculous.'
His phone was sitting on the kitchen dresser. She saw him look at it. He didn’t stand a chance. She danced across the room and snatched it up before he could move.
But he wasn't paying any attention to the phone by then. A feeling of panic overwhelmed him as he stared in horror at the corner of the photo he'd dropped, poking out from under the dresser. He was sure it was inching its way out as he watched. Maybe there was a draft coming from somewhere. He couldn't get to it without her grabbing hold of him. She'd probably grab his ass and feel the envelope. She hadn't seen it yet; she was too busy scrolling through his messages.
'There's nothing here from Adams.' She threw the phone onto the table.
'I deleted it.'
'Yeah right. You'd cut off your right hand before you deleted anything, Mr. Jesse-OCD-Springer.' Semi-aggressive was turning into sullen. He could see it was about to turn into a full scale argument. Sometimes following her mood changes was like trying to keep your eye on the ball in a tennis match.
'Look Diane, it won't take very long, I promise.' All I need is a little time to scream and bang my head against a wall. 'We can still go for lunch at that ludicrously expensive place you like.'
The sullen look on her face gave way to the mischievous grin. She moved round the table towards him again. He moved away, keeping the table between them. It was back to being a game again.
'Are you sure you haven't got time before you go,' she said, leaning over the table and pushing her breasts out towards him. 'Just a quickie on the table?'
He looked down at the display being offered to him. At any other time he'd have jumped at the chance. But all he could think of was the photograph stuffed down the back of his pants with his head resting between some other woman's equally inviting breasts. And his johnson in her friend's mouth.
'The quicker I go, the quicker I'll be back,' he said, grabbing his phone from where she'd dropped it and making a dash for the door. 'I won't be long—I promise.'
She didn't bother trying to stop him; just pulled out a chair and sat down at the table and rested her chin on her hands. He hated deflating her like that, spoiling their anniversary, but what choice did he have? She stared straight ahead and didn't say anything else as he opened the front door and let himself out. He could only pray she'd go straight back to bed in a huff. He just hoped she wasn't pissed enough to start drinking without him. They kept the booze in the kitchen dresser.
***
Jesse rested his head on the leather steering wheel of his new BMW M3 for a few moments before driving off. He loved this car, but today it might as well have been a twenty year old wreck for all he cared. He only drove a couple of blocks and parked up again. He pulled the envelope out from the back of his pants and shook the photos out. He flicked through them a couple of times but he couldn't tell which one he'd dropped. At least it wasn't the first one—the one with him enjoying (but not remembering) a nice BJ. He stared at it for a few minutes hoping that something would come back to him, but his mind refused to play ball.
His phone beeped in the silence of the car, making him jump, as a message came through. He hoped it wasn't Diane. He wouldn't need to read it to know what it said. He picked the phone up but it wasn't from anyone in his contacts. He opened the message and read it anyway.
'We hope you enjoyed looking at the photos. Please confirm you have received them. Do not ignore this message or we might have to send copies to Diane.'
He groaned inwardly. He couldn't believe it. He was being blackmailed. What on earth was going on?
'I've got them,' he texted back.
He leant back in the seat with his head on the headrest and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and then another. Unfortunately it didn't all go away. So much for that shit. His phone beeped again.
'Good. It looks like you had a nice time. You should have done because you spent enough money. You were very generous. Don't complain when you see your credit card statement or we will be in touch with Diane. xxx'
He let out a strangled laugh. If it had been anyone else on the receiving end he'd have loved the kisses—a blackmailing bastard with a sense of humor. This was getting stranger by the minute. He didn't remember being with the girls and he definitely wouldn't spend money to get them. Even if he said so himself, he was a good looking guy and he'd never needed to pay for it and he wasn't about to start now. Despite that, he had a nagging feeling of unease that wouldn't go away. What was the You were very generous bit all about? He decided to log in to his online banking just to put his mind at rest.
He wished he hadn't. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He felt sick. He threw open the car door and got out, smashing the door into the trunk of the tree he'd parked next to. He didn't even notice. He leaned his head against the tree, feeling the roughness of the bark where it dug into his skin, and tried to take a few deep breaths of the fresh air. It was
hard to get down; it felt like a horse was sitting on his chest. He wished he could simply crawl away somewhere quiet like a sick dog dragging itself under a porch to die.
He banged his head against the tree trunk—to knock some sense into it maybe—and looked back down at the stupid little phone sitting in his sweaty hand. Nothing had changed. The nasty, lying-bastard entry was still there, sticking out in the middle of all the other amounts he'd spent as if it was ringed with yellow highlighter. Apparently he'd paid over thirty thousand dollars for his evening's enjoyment with the unknown ladies. Unknown and un-remembered.
He sat down on the edge of the curb and rested his head on his knees and tried to think what to do.
***
Gina Morgan lay in bed, still half asleep despite the bright, early morning sun that slanted through the window, and listened to Marianne Faithfull on the radio singing The Ballad Of Lucy Jordan. The way she felt at the moment, she'd give anything for a boring life, going quietly crazy as a suburban housewife.
She loved that song; nearly as much as she loved the movie Thelma and Louise where she'd first heard it. As far as she was concerned though, it was just a great movie, even if she did end up chewing the edge of her thumb with her eyes moist every time she watched it. It was different for her mother. It was an obsession. She'd named Gina after Geena Davis even though she'd got the spelling wrong. Gina was just thankful she hadn't ended up being called Thelma, although she quite liked Louise. Her mother had really taken the movie to heart. She'd gone on her very own road trip, not with a girlfriend, but with a mechanic at the local body shop, mainly because he had a green 1966 Ford Thunderbird convertible just like the one in the movie. But also because he had a big johnson.
But, as they say, be careful what you wish for and, ironically, the guy she ran off with started beating her up, unlike Gina's father who she left behind and who never laid a finger on her. That sort of took the shine off the trip. Her father—a gentle soul who couldn’t lead a dog to a hydrant—took her back, but even the eight year old Gina could have told him that things would never be quite the same again. Her old man had run off himself a couple of years later and who could blame him? From then on her mother's closest friends, the ones she spent the most time with, tended to come with a screw cap.
Cruel Comfort (Evan Buckley Thrillers Book 1) Page 23
