The sound of a second car pulling to a stop on the crushed-shell drive saved him from saying something else that wouldn’t make sense to anyone who wasn’t a father.
Peering around the corner, he saw Detective Roger Powers get out of an unmarked Charger with dark tinted windows. The car had a big motor and Blu thought more than once about picking up one from auction to have for tailing and chasing. He waved at his friend.
Powers wore a loose polo over jeans, the shirt partially hiding a police-issue Glock clipped to his belt. Around Blu’s age with his hair graying at the temples, he walked with a confident gait.
His middle-age paunch still in its infancy, Powers said, “Sorry to interrupt y’all’s lunch.”
“No worries,” Blu said. “Hope brought enough for four. You want a sandwich?”
“Sure,” he said, “as long as you got something other than cold coffee or tap water to wash it down.”
Hope held up a partial six-pack of Blenheim root beer.
Powers actually smiled. “She’s a good planner. You should hire her.”
Of all the damn things he could say.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him,” Hope said.
“I don’t have any open positions.” Blu met her gaze. “Especially for relatives.”
Powers doused himself in bug repellant and pulled out an empty chair. “This place could use a woman’s touch. I think you should reconsider.”
“No.”
But Powers didn’t let up. “Have her work here. Or, better yet, get an actual office. Someplace closer to, say, civilization. She could man the phone, do your invoicing. You know, the administrative stuff.”
“Wait a minute,” Hope said. “I want to be in the field.”
Both men said, “No!”
To Powers, she said, “I thought you were on my side.”
“I am,” he said. “But the crap your old man and his renegade partner pull rides the ragged edge of legality. And sanity.”
“But—”
Another simultaneous, “No!”
Hope backed her chair up from the table, stood, grabbed her purse, and stomped off in her new pair of espadrilles, the sandals she’d wanted for her birthday—the only reason he knew what to call them. Without looking back, she got in her SUV and left.
Blu watched her go.
Powers said, “Sorry about that.”
After the sound of her tires on the crushed-shell drive trailed off, Blu said, “Don’t be.” He thought for a moment and looked at Powers. “And I actually think your suggestion makes sense. At least the part about her helping out around here.”
Powers picked up one of the sub sandwiches, unwrapped an end, and took a bite. With a loaded mouth, he said, “Sub Station II. Good stuff. You should definitely hire her.”
Chapter Five
Blu drove into Charleston and parked at the offices of the Palmetto Pulse, the place where Harmony and Tess used to work. Their former boss, Patricia Voyels, owned one of three remaining local news organizations in the city. The rest had fallen on hard times thanks to the industrial-powered vacuum social media had created. Now, anyone and everyone could report the news.
Patricia’s great niece, Josie, worked part-time while attending the College of Charleston. The woman who’d previously worked the front desk, Ms. Dell, had taken a buyout from Patricia in anticipation of the sale of the business and moved to Orangeburg to care for an elderly family member. Patricia had said Josie was a crackerjack researcher with a knack for getting around password protected sites.
Destined for a life of crime, Blu thought. He’d keep her in mind for future jobs if she was interested in some extra under-the-table money.
Josie said, “Hey, Mr. Carraway. I’ll let her know you’re here.”
As she picked up the phone, Patricia, beautiful and timeless as always, walked into the reception area. She had on her usual attire of a silk blouse of some kind, a skirt that ended an inch above her knees, and expensive-looking heels. Her dark hair had gray in it, but was thick and complimented her brown eyes.
He followed her back to her office and took a seat in a visitor’s chair. She sat at her antique desk facing a pair of computer screens. Word on the street was the bids for her empire had climbed into eight figures. For someone who’d started with nothing and cut her teeth in Southeast Asia covering underground U.S. operatives in Vietnam, she’d come a long way. Hard work and determination had paid off.
She rotated in her seat to face Blu and gave him a smile. “My nephew thinks of you like an older brother. It took a while, but I think he now exercises good judgment most of the time. As long as he stays off my headlines.”
Blu had to smile at that one. It was Brack who’d given her news organization quite a renaissance when Patricia headlined his antics while tracking her ex-husband’s killer.
“He saved my daughter,” Blu said. “That’s good enough for me.”
Patricia’s grin widened. “One of his finer moments.”
The truth was Patricia’s organization did not carry the clout it once had. Her star news correspondent, Darcy Wells, became Darcy Pelton when she married Brack. Harmony’s and Tess’ recent departure left Patricia with a significant void in the headline-reporting arena.
“So what can I do for you?” she asked. “You don’t normally come around just to chat.”
“Someone took Crome’s girlfriend.”
The smile left Patricia’s face. “What?”
“We don’t have much to go on. I think the goal is to mess with him. They sent a picture of her with a gun to her head.”
“My God.”
“Harmony and Tess are on it,” Blu said. “And they’ve already been in contact with Darcy.”
“What can I do to help?”
“I’m not sure, yet,” Blu said. “I have a feeling this isn’t just some vendetta. No one who knows him would arbitrarily pick a fight with Mick Crome. They’d have to want to die a painful death, be crazy, or be something worse.”
Patricia made a few notes on a pad. “I’ll get my staff on it right now.”
Blu stood. “Thanks.”
She looked at him. “How’s Billie?”
Through a tight smile, he said, “She’s good,” and walked out.
Mick Crome sipped coffee from a paper cup outside a Starbucks while leaning against his motorcycle. The triple shot elixir wasn’t Benzedrine, but it did the trick. He’d sworn off the red pills and nothing was going to send him back to them, but he still needed the rush. With his heart rate already jacked from the caffeine, he increased the nicotine level in his vape pen to the point of seeing imaginary pink elephants.
His mind raced through photographs of all the jokers from his past. He narrowed the list of enemies down to around thirty by ranking how bad he’d left them. The only problem with this logic was its reliance on a linear scale of pain and suffering.
He finished the coffee, crushed the cup, and tossed it into a receptacle.
A plan formed in his mind. He’d keep Blu busy. Same with the blonde twins. This was his problem to deal with. He didn’t need or want them getting in the way. Or maybe being charged with murder along with him.
The old building in front of Crome would fail the current fire code. Exit doors were supposed to swing out. This one didn’t, which made it easy for him to raise his foot and use all the strength in his leg to kick the door in.
The look on Phineous’ face when his door got kicked in was, to Crome, one of horror—exactly what the biker was going for.
Crome said, “My partner dropped off a jump drive with a picture on it for you to look at. I want to know right now what you’ve got. And don’t shuck me or so help me God I’ll break your neck.”
Phineous backed away, his hands up in surrender. The poor guy might have even pissed his pants.
; Crome said, “I’m waiting.”
“Wha-wha-what?”
“Don’t give me that.” Crome shoved a chair into the wall as he walked the narrow corridor of the makeshift office. “And don’t even think about angling to get Harmony and Tess over here. For anything.”
Phineous moved his head up and down like a jackhammer. “Okay, okay, okay.”
“Good.” Crome leaned against a table. “Now tell me what you know.”
“Bl-Blu was coming back in a few hours.”
Crome slammed his fist on the table. “Dammit! I’m here now.”
The lanky photo analyst stumbled into a rack, sending various optical instruments crashing to the floor. They’d looked expensive.
“One more time, Phin,” Crome said. “What have you got?”
“I might’ve found something in the pic.”
“No kidding?” Crome gave him a genuine smile. “Knew you could do it, kid.”
Phineous took a deep breath. “It’s over there on the drafting table.”
“Really?” Crome said, all harshness gone. “Right over there? Well, let’s have us a look. Whaddaya say?”
Nodding, Phineous gestured toward the table.
Crome walked over and centered himself over the photograph of Maureen with her scared eyes looking directly at the person who had her.
Tuesday
The man ran his fingers through Maureen’s long, brown hair, twirling the ends before releasing the strands and starting again. Its softness was intoxicating.
Someone as strong-willed as Maureen would not crack easily. Except maybe under the right circumstances. And really, that was all that interested him—the right circumstances. She was just a pawn in the chess match he’d begun with Crome. He’d selected white and made the first move this time.
The move from the hotel room to their current location was necessary. He had better control of her here. The hotel itself had been a needed challenge. He wasn’t sure he could control her and needed a location that couldn’t be linked to him in case things went south at the beginning. Now that he had her under control—drugged—he was able to make the move. Looking back, he realized he had overplanned. But, it was better to over plan than get caught short.
She worked hard for the meager money she made. Maureen stared at herself in the mirror he’d placed in front of her. Her skin, a tan hue that only the sun could create, was beautiful. She’d aged better than most women. In his opinion, it was because of her hard work. Slouching around brought on death and disease. But work was good for one’s soul. He truly believed that, and Maureen proved it.
The only negative was her choice to blemish her flesh with ink. Tattoos betrayed natural beauty. But even with them, Maureen was a stunning woman. And now she was his. He’d taken her but she wasn’t the prize. Crome’s desperation to get her back was. It was the same with his partner, Blu Carraway. Both men deserved what was about to come their way.
Finding those right circumstances to make Maureen crack would be a bonus.
It didn’t help that Paco had failed. He’d hoped to keep Blu away from Charleston and busy or dead in Belize. Now, he’d have to deal with both men together. Doable, but not preferable.
Chapter Six
Blu drove into North Charleston, parked in front of Phineous’ run down shop, and knew that something wasn’t right.
Phineous was a creature of habit. He could always be found either at his apartment getting stoned or at his office working. He had his groceries and food delivered, cut his own hair, and never went on vacation.
The closed sign on the front door said quite a bit. Blu had never seen it there, even after hours. Phineous was always diligent in locking his doors, but any signage was lacking. He didn’t need to advertise.
Blu got out of his SUV and checked the door to the office—locked. He turned around and looked up and down the sidewalk. The area was desolate, a detail someone like Phineous probably enjoyed. Blu peered through the dirty window into the shop. The place was never clean, but Blu saw broken equipment on the floor, as if it had fallen.
He turned around, a nagging feeling that something wasn’t right.
And then it hit him. What bothered him about the situation—Crome.
His partner would have gone in, scared Phineous to death, got whatever the analyst had, and then told him to get out of town or he’d kill him.
In his current frame of mind, Crome wouldn’t care about burning bridges. This trait probably contributed to why Maureen was taken.
Blu walked back to his Nissan, got in and turned the air on. It had been a blessing that some idiots shot up his old truck, forcing him to get a newer one—one with working AC.
With cool air blowing, Blu called Crome. Of course it went to voicemail.
Crome checked his phone and saw it was “BLUE” calling. His partner’s previous client had given him the phone and saddled him with a number that spelled out the color.
He let the call go to voicemail. There was no sense dealing with that reality just yet—the one that would tell him he needed to get himself under control. The one that had good intentions and only wanted to help. Well, by God, he didn’t want any help. Not since Phineous had told him what he needed to know.
In fact, Blu was probably at Phin’s shop right now, looking at the mess and realizing Crome had hijacked the lead. That put Crome thirty minutes ahead of him. Actually, a lot more than that because Blu would have to track down Phineous which would take a few hours, even for somebody as good as his partner. Not that he stashed him someplace inconspicuous. It was more like hiding him in plain sight.
Crome took a hit off his vape pen, exhaled, hot-boxed another drag right on top of the first, and then put it in his pocket. The double shot from the nicotine-laced vape juice coursed through his veins and cleared his head.
His target was directly ahead of him. Phineous had told him what he’d found in the picture, or rather in the reflection from Maureen’s iris. Jesus, the camera imaging was good these days. The photo analyst had been able to zoom in something like five times and print out an image.
The photograph he’d been sent of Maureen with the gun to her head was really a reflection off a mirror. And it was cropped to show only her head and the hand holding the gun. But Phineous got a larger image from the reflection.
The picture showed the torso of the man who stood over Maureen and held the gun to her head with one hand and a smartphone with the other. His face was not in that image either, but more of the room was. Including things like a towel and a box of tissues. They told Crome the room was the bathroom. Another, smaller detail was also in the photo—the complimentary toiletries given at every hotel. Items like shampoo and conditioner and soap. Items that sometimes had the manufacturer’s name printed on the packaging. Or, as in this case, the name of the hotel.
That was all Crome needed. It wasn’t the top hotel in the city, but it was up there. The Palmetto Inn had a Meeting Street address and provided a short walk to the Market, one of Charleston’s famous attractions.
Even in his own head, that sounded like some travel agent BS, but he gave himself a break. Caffeine and nicotine ingested at levels large enough to drop cattle did have a few side effects.
Blu had to track down Phineous, and fast. He had a hunch, a real bad one, that Crome had gotten to the poor guy first and scared him. While Blu agreed with the sense of urgency, he also believed in being pragmatic. He hoped he could smooth things over with Phineous when he found him.
He called Gladys. Gladys was a DMV contact who helped him pro bono after he got her out of an abusive marriage. She verified Phineous’ last known address which was not too far from his shop, and he made his way there.
“There” turned out to be an old but decent apartment complex Blu had visited previously for other photo jobs. The brick buildings were still coated with green mildew, and p
ine trees and worn-out cars were scattered throughout the lot.
Blu parked, got out of his vehicle, and knocked on the second-floor door.
There was no answer.
He called out, “Phineous?”
Again there was no answer.
“Come on Phineous. It’s Blu.”
Still no answer.
The other detail Gladys had confirmed was the type of vehicle Phineous drove—a ten-year-old Prius.
There were no Priuses in the lot.
Aside from the office and here, where else could he look?
Blu pulled his iPhone out and made another call.
Tess Ray answered on the second ring with, “You find Crome?”
“No.” Apparently she had more faith in him than he’d put in himself.
“Okay, what do you need?”
He said, “I think Crome scared Phineous enough that the poor guy left town. We need to track him down.”
“Yessir,” she said, but not convincingly.
“I’m serious,” he said. “I think my partner just burned an important bridge and I need to fix it and find Crome before he does something else this stupid.”
“He’s only trying to find Maureen.”
“I understand that, but he’s trying to do it alone and I’m not going to let him.”
“Seems you don’t have a choice at the moment.”
“Sure I do,” he said. “Find me Phineous.”
After a moment of silence, she said, “I will do what I can, but we need to talk about your bedside manner.”
“This is my friend,” he said, realizing he’d been testy with Tess just now. “I’m sorry. Any help you can give would be appreciated.”
“Was that so difficult?” she asked.
Crome scoped out the hotel lobby trying to get a read on the place: white tile-floors, gray marble wainscoting and reception desk, high ceilings with brass chandeliers, and pretty people behind the counters.
BAD TIME TO BE IN IT Page 3
