by Lauren Carr
Chapter Sixteen
“Why can’t I be the bad cop?” Doris asked Elliott after they had parked his SUV in the parking lot of Kyle Billingsley’s night club.
“Because getting arrested for assault is not on my bucket list.” Elliott opened the driver’s door and slid out. He went around to the passenger side to open Doris’s door. “We promised Chris that we were only going to talk to him again to see if he can give us more information. Helen seems to think he knows more than he’s saying. Chris believes he’s a patsy. Our job is to find out which it is.”
“Chris believes in giving everyone the benefit of the doubt,” Doris said with a frown.
“Don’t you?”
“Not when they try to come between me and the love of my life.”
Elliott sighed. “Why do I have the feeling we’re not talking about Kyle Billingsley anymore?”
At lunchtime, it was too early for the night club to open. Finding the front doors locked, Elliott peered through the plate glass windows in search of someone to let them inside while Doris disappeared around the corner.
Upon realizing she was gone, Elliott rushed into the alley just in time to see her slip through the employee entrance. “Doris! You get back here!” he ordered in a stage whisper to catch her attention while not alerting the workers unloading produce from a food delivery truck. As he drew closer to the door, he pressed his body against the wall to stay out of sight until they turned their backs long enough for him dash inside.
“Doris!” He searched the work area littered with sound equipment, furniture, and cases of alcohol. “Where are you?” He finally caught sight of her through an open doorway in which a case of Mexican beer acted as a door stop. “There you are.” He took her arm by the elbow. “What do you think you’re doing?”
She wrested out of his grasp. “I’m looking for Kyle Billingsley. We have to find him before we can talk to him.”
A muscle-bound man in a tank top stood up from where he had been working in a cupboard behind the bar. When Bart saw the couple standing before him, he almost jumped out of his boots. “How did you get in here?”
“Through the side door,” Doris said. “You really need to hire better help. There’s no telling what kind of riff-raff could walk in off the streets.”
Bart laid his huge hands flat on the bar.
“We’re looking for Kyle Billingsley,” Elliott said.
“Who’s lookin’?”
“Weren’t you listening?” Doris stepped forward. “We’re looking for him.”
“And who the hell are you?” Bart reached into his pocket.
Recognizing the outline of a gun, Elliott reached into his pocket for his concealed weapon.
“Get your hands out of your pockets and stand up straight!” Doris snapped.
His eyes wide, Bart yanked his hands out of his pockets and held them up for her to see.
“Do you seriously think that my asking to see Mr. Billingsley would be grounds enough for you to take out that pathetic little concealed weapon of yours and shoot me? What type of idiot are you? Are you suicidal or just plain stupid?” She jerked her thumb in Elliott’s direction. “Do you really think you could get the both of us before he took you out? And we haven’t even begun to talk about manners. Were you raised by wolves or what? Shooting complete strangers is just plain rude. You didn’t even have the courtesy to ask for our names before you went reaching for that sorry little gun in your pocket. If you’re going to shoot someone, at least get their names first.”
“I’m sorry. I—I was just—I just—I had an itch.”
“An itch my foot!” Doris pointed at the door behind the bar. “Now, go get Mr. Billingsley.”
“But—”
“No buts. Shoo!” She flapped both hands at him.
Like an obedient child, Bart hurried through the door leading to the inner offices.
“I have a feeling if we had more mothers out walking the streets, violent crime would drop significantly,” Elliott said.
“I know if we had more mothers out on the streets that violent crime would drop significantly,” Doris said. “Unfortunately, there would also be a proportionate rise in lawsuits for being rude to felons.”
Kyle Billingsley tottered out from his office. Upon seeing their good friend’s older brother, Doris and Elliott were taken aback. With effort, they concealed their surprise.
Maybe Shannon was adopted, Doris thought as she took in the loose flesh on Kyle’s bony arms and legs and the potbelly. The pink hair fin on top of his head and matching earplugs didn’t help.
The jewels on the rings that adorned his fingers glinted off the bright lights in the lounge when he reached up to take the cigar out of his mouth. “Bart said you wanted to see me. What’s this about?”
Doris regrouped to respond. “I’m here about your sister Shannon. I believe you spoke to my son on Sunday. We have more questions.”
“What gives? I’d answered all of his questions.” Kyle turned in Bart’s direction and shook his cane at him. “Did you water down the scotch I gave him, Bart?”
The bartender vigorously shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Then what’d I do that he felt like he had to send his mother after me?”
“I don’t know, boss, but I wouldn’t mess with her if I was you.”
“If I were you,” Doris said to correct his grammar.
“What if you were me?”
“It’s if—”
Elliott cut Doris off by ushering her across the lounge to a table where Kyle was taking a seat.
Once he was seated, Kyle shoved the cigar into his mouth and looked Doris up and down through his rose-tinted eyeglasses. A salacious grin crossed his face. “You don’t look old enough to be that guy’s mother.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, sir.”
“He’d said you were best friends with Mercedes.” Kyle lifted a shoulder. “I knew her as Mercedes.”
“Shannon and I were close friends for almost forty years.”
“Was she happy?”
“Very,” Doris said with a catch in her throat. “She was extremely blessed. She wanted nothing more than to be with the love of her life. That’s what she got.”
Kyle hung his head. “Mercedes was always the smart one.” His voice was soft.
“She didn’t kill George.”
Kyle looked up at her out of the top of his eyes.
“But then, you know that she was incapable of that.”
“When did you become aware that Gavin Fallon and his ex-wife were the organizers for both conferences that weekend?” Elliott asked.
“Not until I’d flown in after Father called me about the kidnapping. Up until then, I hadn’t seen or heard from Fallon in a couple of years at least—since his last trip to LA.”
Doris pounced on that. “What happened on his last trip to LA?”
“Nothing,” Kyle grumbled.
“If it was nothing, you would have forgotten all about it. Now, all these years later, it’s still significant enough for you to mention it. That tells me that it’s something. What happened?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“No, I’m just asking to shoot the breeze,” she said. “Out with it.”
“He got clean,” Kyle said in a low voice.
Elliott was uncertain if he had heard him correctly. “What?”
“Fallon got clean,” Kyle said. “Sober. We used to go out and have a good time. Smoke a little weed. Drink a bottle. Maybe snort a couple of lines. But then, when he got out here to the East Coast and got a taste of some success, he got a fire in his belly. He liked success and learned that with these East Coast types that you have to be serious—you’ve got to be on the ball to stay on top. He got totally clean.” He muttered. “Bastard even gave up smoking.”
&nbs
p; “As in cigars?” Elliott asked.
“Yeah.”
Elliott and Doris exchanged quick glances.
“Who told you about Gavin dying in that house fire?” Doris asked.
“I don’t remember. Why?”
“Well,” Doris said, “they say Gavin was doing heroin and that the fire had been started by a cigar.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Did you know that his ex-wife went missing just two weeks before that?” Elliott asked.
Kyle’s eyes were huge. His mouth hung open.
“Are you certain that you never said anything to either of them about Mercedes’s plans to run away?” Doris asked. “Maybe they used the opportunity—”
“No,” Kyle said. “Like I told your son, I only knew that Mercedes was planning to run away. She told me that I was going to get a call sometime saying that she was missing. When that call came, she didn’t want me to worry about her because she was okay. She had run away to be with Billy. That’s all she told me. She figured the less I knew the better. I had no idea that kidnapping for ransom was going to be any part of her plan.”
“What about the lead investigator on the case?” Elliott asked. “Kevin Crane.”
“What about him?”
“We understand he went to boarding school with you and Fallon.”
“Yeah, but we were never tight with him. I didn’t even recognize him. It was after he had questioned me that Gavin told me who he was.”
“Think about that weekend, when you flew in after your father had called,” Elliott said. “Did you notice anyone acting suspicious? Maybe someone said something that struck you as strange? Anything at all.”
Doris asked, “Did your friend’s ex-wife, Patricia say anything to you about George suddenly deciding to go out to dinner with Mercedes instead of going to the banquet?”
In deep thought, Kyle squinted his eyes. He took a drag on his cigar.
Elliott prodded him. “What are you remembering?”
“Now that I think about it …” Kyle’s voice trailed off.
Doris and Elliott leaned toward him.
“I don’t remember seeing Patricia at all. I saw Gavin at the hotel in Shepherdstown. That’s where the FBI had set up their base of operations. But Patricia wasn’t there. Gavin told me that she was in Harpers Ferry taking care of the other conference they had organized that weekend.”
“The one that Mercedes had disappeared from,” Doris said.
“She was really upset. Her and George were really close.” Kyle arched an eyebrow and cocked his head. “I think she was always in love with him,” he said in a whisper. “If they had their way, they probably would have gotten married instead of George and Mercedes.”
Doris sighed. “That’s really too bad.”
“One of George’s employees, Lucille—I think that was her name—tried to make something out of George and Patricia’s relationship,” Kyle said thoughtfully.
“Was there something there?” Elliott asked.
“What if there was? Mercedes was running away to marry another man. She didn’t love George—except as a friend. Like he didn’t have a right to fall in love with someone else?” Clutching the thick cigar between his fingers, he jabbed his finger in their direction. “Thing is, this cold-hearted bitch tried to make something out of it to take advantage of the situation. She wasted no time cozying up to whoever she needed to to take George’s job. I wouldn’t have put it past her to be behind his murder.”
“Did you tell Crane that?” Doris asked.
“You betcha. I know she was on his suspect list for a while,” Kyle said. “But he told me that she was in the banquet room when George left the hotel. She couldn’t have snatched him.”
“She could have had someone do it for her,” Doris said.
Kyle nodded his head so quickly that the cigar in his mouth shook. “That’s what I said.”
“Tell us about the ransom drop,” Elliott asked.
“It was a ransom drop.” There was annoyance in Kyle’s tone. He uttered a deep sigh. “The kidnappers told Father that I was to deliver the ransom. I was as surprised as anyone. Seriously? I didn’t know anything about it until I got off the plane in Washington. Two feds met me at the gate and loaded me onto a helicopter to fly me into Shepherdstown to get me there in time for the drop. I mean—How did the kidnappers even know I was coming to the east coast? Everyone knew Father and I were estranged.”
“That’s an interesting observation,” Doris said. “Some could use that to argue that you were in on it.”
“The FBI has been following me for years hoping that I would lead them to the ransom. Hell, they think I was the brains of the operation.” Kyle held up his flabby arms. “Do I look like the brains of any half a million dollar operation?”
“The drop was Sunday,” Elliott said.
“Night,” Kyle said. “Father had gotten the cash from a bank in Washington and had delivered it to Shepherdstown. I was told that the bank had marked the money. The managers of the Bavarian had allowed the feds to set up a command center in one of the suites in the main hotel. Crane and one of his team counted out the money to make sure it was all there. They’d put it in the bag with the tracker. The kidnappers had even given specifics on what type of bag to put the ransom in.”
“Was anyone else besides the agents around between the time the money was delivered to the hotel and the ransom drop?” Doris asked.
“I have no idea,” Kyle said with a shake of his head. “Crane and his partner were just finishing up with getting the ransom together when I’d arrived. I got there with less than a half hour to spare. They escorted me from the room to the parking lot and gave me the keys to a government vehicle. I climbed into the driver’s seat and Crane put the bag in the front passenger seat. I drove to a phone booth at the cemetery in Sharpsburg, where the kidnappers said to wait for more instructions. From there, they sent me to a phone booth in Williamsport. Then, they sent me back to Shepherdstown. It was completely crazy because they wouldn’t give me enough time to make it. I had to do eighty miles an hour to make it from one place to the other. By the time I’d get to the phone, it would be ringing.”
Elliott nodded his head. “A standard ploy with kidnappers. No time to coordinate with authorities. Plus, sending you back and forth at a high rate of speed, they could spot any police following you.”
“It was dark by the time I got to the last stop at Antietam Battlefield. They directed me to what looked like a cave. Turned out to be a root cellar. They told me to leave the bag and go. That’s what I did. Crane swore he and his team managed to keep on me the whole time.”
“But because it was dark and they had no heads up that the drop was going to be in that root cellar, they had no time to find the small tunnel in the back leading to the creek a half-mile away,” Elliott said.
“By morning, the money was gone,” Kyle said. “George was dead. Father assumed Mercedes was dead and blamed me since I was the one who had delivered the ransom. Not only did all this cost me my sister, but I lost my family as well.”
Chapter Seventeen
After what seemed like endless hours on the road, Jacqui finally made her way around Pittsburgh to the Hyatt Regency near the Pittsburgh International Airport, where the writers conference was being held. Anxious to get out of her car and sit someplace that wasn’t moving, she weaved her BMW through the rushing traffic and parked in guest parking.
“I want a drink,” she said.
“I want chocolate,” Francine replied.
“What do you say to a drink and chocolate?” Jacqui asked.
A broad grin crossed Francine’s face. “A chocolate martini?”
Jacqui’s eyes lit up. “We’ll check in, throw our bags in the room, and run to the bar.”
The thought of a delicious chocolate-flavored mart
ini propelled them across the parking lot with their overnight bags, to the registration desk, and up the elevator to their rooms on the seventh floor.
Signs in the lobby directing guests to the conferences’ various activities told them that they were in the right place. A sign erected next to the main conference room’s open doors announced that Mercedes Livingston’s former agent was speaking that evening.
“Sue Richardson represented Robin Spencer for many years—until Robin dumped her after Mercedes ran away,” Jacqui said as they passed the sign on their way to the cocktail lounge. “Bruce told me that with the type of contract Richardson made her authors sign, Robin Spencer’s copyrights could have ended up going to her instead of Mac Faraday.”
“It’s a pity,” Francine said as they walked into the lounge. “Writers who are desperate for a break will sign anything to get that first book out. Some are so naïve that they buy it when agents like Richardson tell them that a lifetime royalty clause is standard.”
The bar was filled with conference attendees. Loud laughter floated from one corner where a white-haired woman in a wheelchair was holding court. She was clad in a brightly colored dress that resembled a tent. Huge sparkly jewelry dripped from her ears, wrists, and fingers. The only thing missing was her tiara.
Jacqui and Francine ordered their martinis at the bar and enjoyed them while keeping an eye on Sue Richardson, who recounted one story after another about her former clients. Her audience consisted of writers hungry for her attention.
“Have you ever been to a writers conference?” Francine asked Jacqui while they both enjoyed their chocolate alcoholic delight.
“Never.”
“It’s this way at every conference,” Francine said. “There’s always a speech by a literary agent about how to get an agent. That draws in unpublished writers who’ll pay simply for a chance to be in the same room in hopes of somehow catching her attention.” With a laugh, she leaned over to whisper. “Some agents will even sell their time—like for fifty dollars the writer gets twenty minutes alone with them to pitch their book.”
