by Tom Turner
Bull laughed. “I tried that approach once and got a knee in the—.”
“See, my theory is that guys up north are just way more aggressive,” Jackie said. “They’re from the school that if you just keep plugging away… well, you get it.”
“I’m just not sure Yankees have a monopoly on that, but I’m not going to discourage you from thinking it,” Bull said. “While we’re theorizing, I’ve got one: for lack of a better phrase, let’s just call it the ‘southern gentleman gambit’.”
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
“So, let’s say that two people go on their second date, have a nice dinner, a few drinks and a bottle of wine—”
“Like we did.”
“Exactly,” Bull said. “Then they go back to the guy’s place, have another glass of wine and a…scotch.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then the woman heads the guy off at the pass,” Bull said. “Says I like you, but not tonight.”
“O-kay.”
“And the guy smiles politely and acts like he never even considered that an option.”
“You mean, sleeping with her?”
“Exactly. So now the woman is thinking, ‘Wow, what a nice guy. He’s nothing at all like all those other aggressive jerks.’”
Jackie looked amused. “So, you mean, like maybe she should… re-consider?”
Harry shrugged.
“The southern gentleman gambit, huh?” Jackie said.
She stood up, walked over to Bull, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Which way to your guest bedroom?”
The next morning, coffee mug in hand, Jackie went down the third-story staircase and wandered around the second floor, where the kitchen and living room were located. It seemed Bull had an eye for art. The walls were covered with oil paintings and watercolors. Some were landscapes, some were portraits, others abstract and contemporary. It all worked nicely together, and Jackie was pleasantly surprised. She wasn’t quite sure what she had expected. Frat house? Minimalist IKEA functional? Mounds of dirty clothes piled in a corner? Playboy pin-ups? Bull’s house was none of the above. Everything on the walls, along with all the furniture, seemed to be carefully thought out by a man who liked to live a certain way: with nice, comfortable things around him. She guessed that he chose items that looked soothing and tranquil and were a far cry from his daily routine of fighting crime and hunting killers.
Bull came downstairs dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt, as she was looking out one of the front windows at Chippewa Square.
“I see you found the Keurig machine,” he said.
“Yes, but my biggest discovery was that you had Barista Prime Coffeehouse Italian Roast,” Jackie said, walking up to him. “My all-time fave.”
He came up to her and she kissed him on the cheek.
“Nobody ever accused me of running a second-rate coffee shop here.”
“I mean, how do you even know about that?”
“Barista Prime Coffeehouse Italian Roast?”
“Yeah,” she laughed. “It’s a mouthful.”
“I got sick of Starbucks and Krispy Creme and did a little experimenting.”
“Do the boys down at the station know about your exotic coffee-drinking habits?”
“No, and if you ever tell them, I’ll have to kill you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Bull walked toward the kitchen, then turned back to her. “You ready for that cheese omelet?”
“Absolutely.”
“Plus, there’s toast and grapefruit and cereal and oranges and—”
“Toast would be great. What kind do you have?”
“The best. It’s called Arnold’s Health Nut. Whole grain… really good. How ‘bout with strawberry jam or marmalade.”
“Perfect. Strawberry jam,” Jackie said. “I might never leave this place. Beautiful art, comfortable furniture, a guy who might just be a gourmet chef—”
Bull held up his hands. “Whoa. Now you’re pushing it. But I do a really good eggplant rollatini and a not-so-bad curried chicken.”
“You’re way ahead of me,” Jackie said. “I do a really good Swanson’s Polynesian TV dinner and I know Papa John’s number by heart.”
31
Jackie got into the office at 8 a.m. She was dying to make two calls. One to Ashley. One to Wendy. To ask each if they were aware of Miranda Cato paying a homicide cop to keep Casa Romantica, in the words of Talmadge Bartow, “off people’s radar screens.”
Her call to Wendy went straight to Wendy’s message machine. Jackie asked her to call back as soon as possible.
Then she dialed Ashley.
“I told you, the fourth time you pay,” Ashley said.
“I know,” Jackie didn’t hesitate. “I’ll pay you three hundred bucks if you can answer this question.”
“What’s the question?”
“Miranda had a cop on the payroll. Not Roscoe Byrd, but a guy whose job it was to make sure people didn’t find —”
“I know what you’re asking and as much as I’d love the money, I don’t know who that was. I kept hearing about a guy, but never got a name. Sorry.”
Damn. “Okay, well thanks anyway,” Jackie said, clicking off.
Jackie heard the key in the front door lock.
Wearing blue jeans with a big rip in the right upper thigh, a tight Nike T-shirt and Skechers slip-ons, Ryder walked into Jackie’s office, sat, and smiled at her sister. “Hey, sis.”
Jackie eyed her. “Hey. We may not have a dress code here at world headquarters, but ripped blue jeans where I can almost see your crotch… I mean, come on, girl.”
Ryder laughed. “Like you should talk. If I’m not mistaken, you’re still wearing last night’s outfit?”
Jackie rolled her eyes. “All right, all right, I shouldn’t have brought it up,” she said. “So, I’m going to need at least an hour to catch you up on everything that’s happened in the past twelve hours.”
Ryder put her legs up on Jackie’s desk. “I’m all ears.”
Jackie first told her about the Kay Lee/Malik/Ralston triangle.
Ryder’s eyes bugged out. “Ho-ly shit! And he’s at the psych hospital now?”
“I assume so; that’s where I left him,” Jackie said. “I’m going to check up on him when I get a chance.”
“I don’t even know how to react,” Ryder said. “I mean, I kind of feel sorry for the guy, but….”
“Yeah, I know,” Jackie said. “So, then I had dinner with Harry. First, here’s what I found out about Suggs Brown: Before he was Harry’s partner, he shot and killed his previous partner. It was an accident, according to the official ruling anyway.”
“Jesus, how’d it happen?”
“Harry said it took place in a liquor store. There was a hostage situation, total chaos, a shoot-out, and Brown shot his partner accidentally.”
“And Harry buys it?”
“Seems to. Doubt he’d be his partner otherwise,” Jackie said. “Another thing. We got talking about John Redmond and Harry mentioned that Redmond and Suggs Brown were buddies when they were kids.”
“No kidding?” Ryder said. “S’pose they still are?”
“I asked, but Harry is under the impression Redmond lives in Atlanta.”
“Sounds like a productive dinner”—she shook her head—“unlike mine with the Italian Stallion.”
Jackie tapped her desktop and shrugged. “Problem is, I don’t really know where all this puts Harry.”
“For what it’s worth, he doesn’t exude the aura of a dirty cop.”
Jackie sighed. “I know, but he’s obviously a smart cop. And smart cops can hide things.”
“My gut says he’s clean,” Ryder said.
“Mine too.”
“Your gut or your heart?”
Jackie wasn’t going there. “I also asked him about the Marty Shepherd thing.”
“And?”
“In so many words, he said Marty just sat on that c
ase and didn’t do anything. Finally, Harry figured, what the hell, if Marty wasn’t going to work it, he might as well.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
Jackie tapped her desk again. “I want to try something out on you.”
“Okay.”
“I find it kind of hard to believe that Harry doesn’t know about Casa Erotica or John Redmond right here under his nose.”
“Keep going.”
“It occurred to me that maybe he knows but isn’t letting on,” Jackie said.
“Why would—”
Jackie put up her hand. “Hear me out. I got a possible scenario.”
“I’m listening.”
“So fast forward, it’s six months from now,” Jackie said. “We worked our asses off, but struck out. Couldn’t solve Cato.”
“Unlikely,” Ryder said, “but I’ll go along with you.”
“So, we call up Sarah Dunn and say, ‘Sorry, we did everything we could, but couldn’t find the killer’”—Jackie shrugged—“I mean, it happens. Can’t solve ‘em all.”
Ryder cocked her head. “Okay, keep going.”
“So, we move on to something else and Harry circles back to Cato. Goes back into the file and re-opens it,” Jackie said. “Takes what he’s gotten from us, plus stuff he never told us about and, lo and behold, he solves it. ‘Cause, when you think about it, Harry really has no real motive to help us clear it. Yes, he likes us—well, me, anyway— and yada-yada-yada, but, bottom line, don’t you think what Harry really wants is to have another notch on his gun?”
Ryder laughed at her choice of words.
“Let me rephrase that,” Jackie said. “This is a big case and it would be a big deal for Harry to solve it.”
Ryder shook her head. “No,” she said emphatically.
“No what?”
“No, I don’t buy that scenario.”
Jackie smiled. “Well, good,” she said. “Neither do I. I just wanted to put it out there.”
“This is weird,” Ryder said.
“What is?”
“Me being Harry’s defender,” Ryder said, “and you coming up with bad scenarios.”
Jackie nodded. “It is kind of weird.”
“See, I think you made a good point about Harry not knowing about John Redmond and Casa Erotica being right under his nose,” Ryder said. “But I think maybe Suggs Brown is just doing a damn good job of hiding things, keeping ‘em off of Harry’s radar screen.”
Jackie nodded and looked out her window.
“And my gut says Harry and Brown are definitely not in it together,” Ryder said.
“I agree, but there’s still a whiff in the air,” Jackie said. “Which leads to Harry’s third revelation: He looked at those pictures you took and ID’d the guy who knocked me out me as Ronnie Wallace. Aka, ‘Teflon Ron.’”
Ryder nodded. “So, the question is, does this Teflon Ron guy work for Johnny Redneck?”
“And at this point, I’d say yes,” Jackie said.
“Me, too, but what proof do we have?”
“Well, for starters we know that Eileen Mudge and Wallace are either an item, working together, or both.”
Ryder was nodding. “So, Eileen tells Wallace we’re working the Cato case and Wallace tells Johnny Redneck.”
Jackie nodded back. “Yeah, and Johnny Redneck goes, ‘Okay, Ron, time to give the girls a message they won’t forget.’”
“And Ron shows up in the parking lot of world headquarters,” Ryder said.
“Exactly.”
“So, what else did Harry have to say about Wallace?”
“Told me he’s a contract killer who’s gone to trial for murder twice,” Jackie said. “Both times he got off because he had a great lawyer. Who happens to be Harry’s brother.”
“What?”
Jackie nodded. “I know. One big, happy family.”
Ryder cocked her head. “So, how’s it work? Harry arrests them, his brother gets ‘em off?”
Jackie nodded. “Something like that.”
Ryder shook her head. “Harry got any more family members who factor into this?”
“I hope not,” Jackie said. “So, Harry busted Wallace once. He thought he had him cold; his brother proved otherwise. By the way, Harry suggested we pack our Glocks at all times.”
Ryder nodded. “I think that’s good advice.”
“He also asked both of us out on a date tomorrow,” Jackie said.
Ryder chuckled. “Ah, I’m not really a ménage a trois kind of gal.”
“Funny.” Jackie said. “The date’s at a shooting range. He thought it was a good idea for me to get a little practice after I told him I had shot my gun a grand total of three times.” Jackie held up a hand. “I didn’t tell him you were a regular at that shooting range on White Bluff Road.”
“Okay,” Ryder said, “so, let’s take him up on it. I bet I could outshoot him.” A smile spread across her face. “Hey, I forgot to ask you the most important question: does he, or doesn’t he?”
Jackie waved her off. “I’m getting a little sick of that abs thing.”
Ryder held up her hands. “Whoa, a little sensitive there.”
“All right, I’m going to accept Harry’s offer, re: the shooting range,” Jackie said. “Oh, also, he volunteered to have a couple of undercovers follow us around.”
“That was nice of him,” Ryder said. “What did you say?”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Jackie said. “That happened to me once before, six months before you started. It was like dragging around an anchor.”
“I hear you,” Ryder said. “So, back to Harry’s brother.... What’s his deal? He just likes putting killers back on the street so Harry can go bust ‘em again?”
“I guess. Sometimes it’s like pulling teeth with Harry,” Jackie said. “He just said his brother likes money.”
“Well, so do I.”
“And he’s ten years older than Harry.”
“So, when Harry and his brother were kids, I’m guessing,” Ryder said, “they didn’t bounce on the trampoline and climb trees together.”
“I got the sense they’re not all that close.”
Ryder smiled. “Unlike you and me.”
“Yeah, we’re way too damned close.”
32
Jackie called Wendy again on the way to Quickshot Shooting Range on White Bluff Road, a main commercial street at the south end of Savannah. But again, the call went straight to voicemail.
Jackie and Ryder arrived together just as Bull pulled into the parking lot. They got out of the cars and said their hellos.
They walked up to a reception desk behind which a smiling man with a ZZ Top beard was standing. To either side of the desk were blue outlines of a man’s body from the waist up. They were actual paper targets, which, it turned out, Quickshot had many. Behind the man was a painting that looked like it had been done by a Savannah College of Art student knocking off Salvador Dali, complete with bent watches and crucifixes. Off to the man’s right were two other men in their twenties, lovingly hefting black, semi-automatic rifles as if they were newborn babies. Arranged in a rectangle around the man at the counter stood display cases of every imaginable brand of pistol, which patrons could buy or rent.
“Welcome to Quickshot,” the man said, then to Ryder. “Hey, Ryder, good to see you again.”
Bull did a double take.
“I’m kind of a regular,” Ryder explained to Bull.
“It’s my first time,” Jackie volunteered.
“I’m Mike the manager,” said the man, then, turning to Bull, “you bring your own piece, or want to rent something?”
“We’re just going to look around a little,” Bull said. “See what you got.”
Mike put out his hand. “Help yourself,” he said. “We have a special today on our Walther PPK 380 Angel Blue 3 and the Steyr AUG A3 M1 semi.”
Jackie caught Bull’s eye. “Talk about long names.”
Bull smiled and the three walked
away, out of earshot of Mike.
“Just what I always wanted to do,” Jackie said, looking through the display cases at five machine guns side by side. “Fire a machine gun at a piece of paper of a blue man.”
“Don’t be a downer,” Ryder said. “It’s fun. Gets out your hostilities.”
“I don’t have any hostilities,” Jackie said.
Ryder shot her a yeah, right look.
Bull, smiling, turned to Jackie. “You just want to shoot your Glock or what?”
“Yes,” Jackie said. “I figure stick with what you know.”
“Barely know,” Ryder said under her breath.
“What about you, Ryder?” Bull asked.
“Hell, no, I’m goin’ with the special.”
“Which one?
“Ah, I’m thinkin’ the Steyr AUG semi.”
“Good choice,” Bull said.
Ryder turned to him. “You ever shot one before?”
“Yeah, a few times,” Bull said. “Not too bad a kick.”
Ryder nodded.
Bull walked back to Mike the manager, at the front desk. “Okay, Mike, the lady here”—he pointed to Jackie—“is gonna use her Glock. Ryder’s gonna do the Steyr, and me, the Angel Blue Walther.”
“Sounds good,” Mike said. “How many rounds?”
“Uh, fifty a piece,” Bull said.
Ryder leaned toward him “Hey, how ‘bout we have a little competition… for drinks?”
Jackie eyed her sister. “Really? Is everything a competition with you?”
“Yup,” Ryder said. “Come on, don’t wuss out.”
Jackie looked at Bull.
He shrugged. “Drinks it is.”
Mike put three boxes of rounds on the countertop. “Here you go,” he said. “Your total’s gonna be $81.90.”
Bull pulled out his wallet as Jackie and Ryder reached into their purses.
Bull held up his hand. “I got it,” he said, then to Ryder. “‘Cause I plan to drink a lot of drinks on you.”
“Dream on, homie,” Ryder said. “Thanks, Mike.”
Mike nodded.
Bull handed Mike a credit card.
“What targets do you want to use?” asked Mike.
