The police captain came to the docks and personally escorted Detective Wilson away. I sat in the back of an ambulance swabbing Galston’s brains and blood from my face with alcohol wipes. His funeral would not be open casket. A paramedic cleaned my wounds and removed the splinters in my hands and knees.
An Infiniti pulled in close and Darcy’s mouth dropped when she saw me. “Yikes. You all right?”
“Better than Galston.”
She scratched the bandage over her wound. “I guess he got what he deserved.”
I said, “I would have preferred to watch him and his empire go down, but I guess it will go down without him. How’d you find out about this so fast?”
Darcy winked. “I told you I was good. Mind if we get shots for the paper?”
“Do I have to smile?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” she said. “In fact, I’d prefer if you stretched out on the gurney and let them stick IVs in. You know, play to the dramatic.”
“Fat chance of that,” I said.
“Where’s Detective Wilson?” Darcy asked.
I threw blood-soaked wipes into a biohazard bin. “His boss took him away. I get the feeling he might not be a detective much longer.”
With Galston out of the picture, I thought it might be safe to find a more permanent residence. Since mine no longer existed, Shelby and I were moving into Uncle Reggie’s old house. Thursday morning, when I called about picking my dog up, Chauncey’s wife asked if I could wait until the afternoon. Apparently she was giving him a special grooming treatment. It sounded like a stall tactic but I relented. She also informed me he was letting her feed him.
Just great.
I decided to spend the time at the Pirate’s Cove before I went to get him.
About two o’clock Darcy strolled onto the back deck. I was making drinks for a couple on holiday from Australia.
She took a seat in front of me at the bar. Her arm was still in a sling. “I got an interesting call from a friend of yours.”
“I don’t have any friends so that kind of narrows it down, don’t you think?”
She ignored what I said. “Be a good sport and fix me a bloody; extra Tabasco. You might want to pour yourself one as well before I tell you what I found out.”
I mixed two Bloody Marys, one with a shot of Ketel One, the other a virgin, and both with a lot of hot sauce. In honor of ex-detective Wilson, I put miniature plastic umbrellas in them along with celery sticks and straws and handed the one with vodka to Darcy.
“On the wagon again, I see.” She took a long drag on the straw. “Not bad. You might have found your calling.”
“Mixing drinks for pretty celebrities in paradise is easy. Throwing those same celebrities out when they get too drunk is icing on the cake.” I took a drink from my glass and added pepper from a shaker. “So who called?”
“A guy named Chad. Said you and he are old acquaintances. I think he’s one of the guys with the car you blew up. Am I right?”
Bonny flew from her perch and landed on my shoulder. I propped a foot on the shelf underneath the bar and leaned forward. “Yep. What does he want with you?”
She took another drink. “Says he’s got evidence showing he and his coworker, Freddy, were in Daytona with their boss when Fisher was killed.”
“He just wants a get-out-of-jail card. Like I can give him one.”
Bonny gave me a kiss and flew back inside.
“Either way,” Darcy said, “I’m going to see what he’s got.”
I lit a cigar. “You’re not going alone.”
She stirred her drink. “Why do you think I’m sitting here in front of you making nice in the thong, Einstein?”
After another pull from my drink, I said, “I thought you didn’t wear thongs.”
Darcy gave me her trademark grin, the one she reserved for TV audiences and me when she felt like it.
I told Paige I was leaving and walked Darcy to the Audi. I’d had to pay serious money to a detailer to get the garbage smell out if it.
As I held the door open for her, she said, “This car is not you.”
“I know.”
We shot up the Isle of Palms Connector to the city of Mount Pleasant and onto I-526 to Daniel Island. I parked in the empty back lot of a marina where Shorty—aka Chad—had told Darcy he’d meet her. While we waited, she called Patricia. I checked my twenty-two, the one I’d bought from Big Al. From a distance, it looked like a bigger caliber semiautomatic. The cops had taken my other guns and it was all I had left.
Within five minutes of our arrival, a jacked-up Nissan Titan pickup with oversized off-road tires pulled into the lot and parked next to us. Chad climbed from the truck. He wore wraparound sunglasses, a pink muscle shirt hanging loosely, showing off his arms and pectorals, and white gym shorts.
Darcy and I got out of the Audi.
Chad pointed to me. “What’s he doing here?”
I said, “I came to see what I can blow up next. This is a nice truck you got here, Shorty.”
Chad said, “Whatever. Thanks to you, I can’t go home. The police are looking for me.”
I said, “Gee, that sounds familiar.”
Darcy had her purse looped around her good shoulder. She opened it and took out a miniature recorder. “You mind if I record this, Chad?”
Chad wiped sweat from his forehead and shrugged. “Naw. It’s probably better if you did.”
She said, “You called me. What have you got?”
Chad reached into his pocket. I pulled the gun and pointed it at him, hoping he didn’t know what caliber it really was. “You better just be scratching your jock.”
He held up crumpled paper. “Easy, man. I got receipts that show we wasn’t even here when that accountant was killed.”
“Where were you?” I asked.
“Daytona. Mr. Galston took us down there for a long weekend.”
Darcy walked to him. “Can I see those?”
He handed them to her slowly.
She unfolded the papers and read.
Still holding the gun on him, I said, “Where’s your buddy? Freddy, right?”
Chad didn’t move. “He left when Galston went down and the cops connected us to them people dying.”
Darcy waved the papers. “How do I know these are real?”
“Call the rental agency and the boat charter. They got records.”
“If they don’t,” I said, “I’m coming after you.”
Chad swung himself into the cab of his truck. “You’re gonna have to get in line.”
I watched him drive away and wondered if he was thinking about all the wrong turns he made to end up here.
Darcy and I headed to the bar. On the way, she called the places the receipts were from and found them legit. The boat charter had a picture of Galston and his boys with their catch.
Reluctantly, I called Trish and asked her to hold onto Shelby a little while longer. She could not mask the joy in her voice over the phone. I wondered if I shouldn’t pull him out of there and put him in a kennel before she filled out adoption papers.
Bonny kept me company as I went through my uncle’s emails when someone rapped on the door. We turned to see who it was. Detective Wilson waved his right hand in greeting. In his left hand was a large envelope.
Bonny said, “Hey kid, know who signs your paycheck. Squawk!”
Wilson came in and sat on the couch. “You got that right, little lady.”
I said, “How you holding up?”
“They’re trying to decide what to do with me so I’m still on unpaid holiday.”
I said, “I’ve got not-so-good news.”
He stuck a toothpick in his mouth. “Well, boy, spit it out.”
“When Fisher was killed,” I said, “Galston and his crew were deep sea fishing down in Daytona.”
He plopped on the couch and propped a foot up. “We got the wrong guy?”
“I don’t think so. He wouldn’t have pulled the gun if he was innocent.”
“Figures. Dumb bastard. Wanna hear something funny?”
“What’s that?”
He clapped his hands together, obviously not concerned about Galston’s demise. “His girlfriend, what’s her name . . . Alexus? She split. The executors of Galston’s will think she walked away with several million in cash because it’s gone, too. Guess she finally got her payday.”
“That is pretty funny. So how about dinner on the house?”
“Now you’re talking. But that’s not why I came.”
I dropped a paper I was holding on the desk. “Well, boy, spit it out.”
“Remember the parking garage ticket you gave me?”
“Yes.”
“I know the owner of the garage and asked him if he’d get me a list of the credit card numbers used after eight PM the night your uncle was killed. It’s what we call a long shot because the guy could have paid in cash or used another parking garage or parked in one of the lots.”
“And?” I said.
Wilson leaned forward on the couch. “My buddy did me one better. He had his secretary take the list of numbers and get names. Thanks to all this identity theft going around, businesses can call and run a check on a number. She typed out a list of forty names for me.”
“For you? I thought you said he had her do it.”
His face reddened. “You’re missing the point, here.” He handed me the list. “Recognize any names on it?”
The secretary had added the time of entry and exit to each line. Eleven names down, between a Mr. Carl Long and Ms. Jacqueline Carman, was the name of a company. Ashley River Recovery clocked in at six forty-five and out at eight fifteen.
He said, “You find something?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Supremes were playing on the juke when I walked into Mutt’s. With no customers to serve, Mutt sat at the bar. Reading glasses perched on his nose, an open newspaper in front of him. Smoke trailed toward the ceiling from a burning cigarette in an ashtray to his right.
I laid the T-shirt he loaned me on the bar, pulled out a bar-stool, and sat. “Thanks for letting me borrow this.”
“No problem, Opie,” he said. “What’s up?”
Resting my elbows on the bar, I looked straight ahead and laced my fingers together. “You got an extra pistol? Something bigger than a twenty-two?”
In my periphery, I saw him straighten slowly and remove his glasses. “What you want with a gat? Opie didn’t carry no gat.”
“The police took all the big ones I had. I need another.”
“What for?”
I told him about Galston and his crew being on a fishing trip when Fisher was killed and about Ashley River Recovery.
The gates to McAllister’s house were open when I eased to a stop.
“Nice house,” Mutt said.
From where we parked in the drive, through the windshield of my secondhand Audi I could see the front door ajar and two of the three garage doors raised. I pulled out the thirty-eight police special Mutt lent me. “Ready?”
Mutt carried an identical gun. “You sure this the cracker killed Reggie?”
“We’re going to find out. You know, we could go to jail for this.”
“If he killed Reggie, he gonna get what he deserve. Outside of that, I don’t care.”
As Mutt and I started to get out of the Audi, we heard the sound of a powerful engine fire up. McAllister’s red ZR1 shot out of the garage, down the drive past us, and onto the road. I slammed my door shut and put the Audi in gear. Mutt barely closed his door when I accelerated and went after the sports car.
“I guess he the one,” Mutt said. “Let’s get him!”
I pushed the accelerator to the floor. The Audi was fast, but I knew it was no match for the supercharged Corvette.
Mutt said, “What are we gonna do when we catch him?”
“If we catch him.” I shifted gears. “I haven’t planned it out that far.”
Two sets of stoplights ahead turned yellow at the same time. The rear end of the ZR1 squatted as the car catapulted forward. The Audi was already giving us all she had. We were at the mercy of the timing of the lights. Both of us made the first set. McAllister clipped the second. Mutt and I barreled through a very red light a few car lengths behind. The cars waiting on the cross-street light had moved forward. I laid on the horn and shot through a gap with nothing to spare.
Mutt looked back. “You crazy!”
McAllister turned right at the next intersection.
“He’s going for the highway,” I said. “If there’s no traffic, he’ll lose us.”
Mutt yelled, “Get me close enough to take out a tire!”
McAllister’s car bucked over a dip in the road and he caught it before it spun on him. I hit the same dip a second later. The Audi bottomed out hard but kept going. When the tachometer hit the red zone, I shifted into the next gear. McAllister turned onto the entrance ramp and blasted up to the interstate. I wrenched the Audi’s steering wheel. With the traction control off, all four wheels slid through the ninety-degree transition. The curb came up fast. Less than a foot away, the tires bit and we made the rest of the turn. At the same time, the ZR1, still pulling ahead of us, merged with the other cars. I glanced at the dash and saw we were past eighty MPH and heading toward ninety in a hurry. The bright red sports car ahead zigzagged between the other vehicles like a possessed dog. I did my best to keep up. As if in answer to a prayer, two eighteen-wheelers running side by side loomed in the distance, backing up a line of cars ahead of us. A perfect rolling roadblock.
“We might be in luck,” Mutt said.
Brake lights on the ZR1 lit up. McAllister must have seen the trucks too. Mutt hit the button to lower the window and stuck his head and arm out, aiming his gun. I trained the front bumper of the Audi on the rear end of the sports car and plotted a collision course. If Mutt’s bullets missed, I wouldn’t.
McAllister swerved into the emergency lane and gunned it, passing the line of cars. I did the same. The powerful ZR1 pulled away from us again. The road narrowed ahead and the emergency lane disappeared at a bridge crossing. Stiff guard rails prohibited further progress. I watched in disbelief as the ZR1 ignored the yellow warning signs and cut in front of the trucks with what must have been the slimmest of margins. We were still on a collision course, but with the guard rail, not McAllister. Mutt saw it at the same time and pulled his arm back inside. I slammed on the brakes as hard as I could.
When the tire smoke and dust cleared, we sat in our seats staring at a guard rail inches from the front bumper. The yellow warning signs with black slashes laughed at us.
Mutt slapped the dash hard and took a deep breath. After a moment, he turned and watched the passing cars. “There’s a break in the traffic coming up.”
My knuckles had turned white on the steering wheel and I tried to relax my grip. When my hands loosened, I put the car in reverse and eased us back a few car lengths from the barrier. I turned my indicator on and, when the break in traffic appeared, merged onto the highway and accelerated to cruising speed. We passed the trucks and found a clear road ahead. No sign of the ZR1.
Mutt said, “Any idea where he went?”
“Nope. And now he knows we’re on to him.”
Mutt and I walked into the Palmetto Pulse and interrupted a meeting in Patricia’s office.
She looked up from the three eager reporters in front of her. “What’s wrong now?”
“A change of plans,” I said.
She dismissed the twenty-somethings. The pretty brunette and two Biff-type males stared at Mutt and me like we were illegal immigrant busboys taking their dinner plates before they’d finished eating. Mutt and I returned their glares and they hurried from the room. When the youngsters were gone, I told Patricia about the garage receipt. “We went to have a little talk with McAllister and he ran.”
Patricia’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God.”
“Sure enough,” Mutt said.
“I
think he left his house open,” I said. “Care for a little breaking and entering without the breaking?”
Patricia said, “The door’s wide open?”
I turned and headed for the exit. “It was when we left. Where’s your star talent? She’d want in on this.”
Grabbing her handbag, Patricia said, “She’s looking into something. Said she’d check in later.”
Mutt pointed at the three rookies who’d vacated the office. “Why don’t you bring them? Especially the fox. Break them in right.”
“They aren’t ready for this,” she said.
“You know it!” Mutt cackled. “How!”
Patricia followed in her Mercedes as I led the way to McAllister’s house. We parked a block away and the three of us crept through the gate on foot. The front door was, in fact, still open. So were the two garage doors. The ZR1 was not there. Everything was quiet. Mutt entered first, pistol drawn, and went to the left. I followed him in, stepping right. Patricia stayed behind.
The military had taught Mutt and me how to clear buildings, so we walked McAllister’s house room by room and floor by floor. My hunger for blood returned but there was no sign of anyone. I found Patricia in the entryway holding a framed photo of McAllister and an old woman.
Patricia held it out so I could see it. “Recognize her?”
I realized I had seen that rich old bat before. Sitting in Patricia’s office just a few days ago, in fact.
“Mrs. Calhoun,” I said.
“Hey!” Mutt yelled from the top of the stairs. “He got a bunch of pictures up here and we in them.”
A stack of photos in a study area off the master bedroom lay on a desk. Each of us had been photographed—Patricia, Darcy, Chauncey, Brother Thomas, David Fisher and his wife, Justine, Galston, Shorty, Goatee, and me. Even Mutt. Distance shots of Uncle Reggie and the Pirate’s Cove. All of them haunting. McAllister had been playing me the whole time.
Patricia flipped through the stack. “You know who’s not in these?”
Southern Heat Page 24
