Blue Blood: A Debutante Dropout Mystery (21 page)

The next morning—actually this morning—while Malone tracked down Hi-Tech, I’d drive over to the Addison address for Sarah Carter listed in Bud’s computer files.

I had questions for her. Tough questions.

With that settled, I forced myself to get up, switching off the living room lights as I headed off to bed.

T
he phone rang, and I cracked open my eyes, grabbing clumsily at the receiver on my bedside table.

“Yeah?” I croaked.

“Andy, it’s me.”

“Malone?” I dragged myself into an upright position and glanced at my clock. It was already eight, so I could hardly bawl him out for waking me at an unseemly hour.

Dang.

“You still there?” He sounded even more anxious than usual.

I yawned and did a little scratching. “Barely.”

“Turn your television on and flip to Channel 11
now!
”

Whatever had gotten his knickers in a twist must’ve been good, so I snagged the remote from my night-stand, pushed the power button, and pressed in the number eleven.

I winced, unprepared for a close-up of Cinda Lou Mitchell first thing in the morning. And she was wearing her “I’m-a-serious-reporter” face, too. So it had to be bad news.

“What’s up?” I started to ask Malone, but he quickly shushed me.

So I turned the sound up.

“. . . the body of Frederick Hicks, a guard employed by Lone Star Security, was found slumped over the wheel of his car behind a boarded-up building that once housed the Nude ’n Naughty gentleman’s club. Reportedly, Hicks had a suitcase in the trunk and was on his way to Love Field, though no one’s sure why he took this deadly detour.”

There was a noisy rumble, and the camera panned away from Cinda to showcase a blue-bellied Southwest Airlines jet streaking across the sky.

“Hicks was rushed to Parkland Hospital in a coma, and we’re told he’s in critical condition. Authorities can’t tell us any more than that at this juncture. Hicks recently helped police track down the alleged killer of restaurant owner Bud Hartman. We’ll let you know of further developments. Back to you at the news desk, Vivian.”

Shutting off the TV set, I sank back into my pillows, suddenly lightheaded.

“What the hell is going on?” I murmured into the telephone receiver. “How can this be happening?”

“Looks like Hicks was on his way out of town,” Brian said, as if that part needed explaining. “He had a suitcase in his trunk, and he was headed toward the airport. Maybe he pulled over to take a leak and had a heart attack or something.”

“Why would Hicks be skipping town?” I asked, because it didn’t make sense. He’d been conspicuously absent from his guard duties since the night Bud was killed. I figured it was because he needed a few days off after the trauma of finding Bud’s body, but maybe there was another reason. What if he
had
taken the cash from the bank bag, and he worried that the cops would find out? Could be he figured it was time to take a little vacation.

Nope, something just wasn’t kosher about him.

“I’ll see what I can find out from the D.A.’s office, Andy, and from the hospital. When I know something more, I’ll tell you. So far, all I’ve been able to learn is what you saw on the news. The man’s in a coma, and my sources tell me it’s probably irreversible.”

I popped upright, wide-awake suddenly as I wondered what this could mean for Molly. “If Hicks can’t testify . . .”

“There’s still his sworn statement, Andy. She’s in as much trouble as before, more if we can’t tie the missing money to Hicks.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Well, here’s some news guaranteed to improve your mood,” Malone piped up. “I’m heading over to Hi-Tech in an hour. They’re a specialized electronics company. They deal in customized nanny cams and top-of-the-line digital surveillance equipment.”

Customized surveillance equipment.

Who was Bud spying on?

“They weren’t very forthcoming over the phone, so I figure if I show up in person and threaten them with a subpoena, I’ll get the answers I’m looking for.” He sounded as excited as a kid on Christmas morning.

He was right. My mood did improve.

“Good thinking,” I told him.

“Uh, I wondered if you’d like to meet me for lunch,” he suggested. “Say, noon at the Mansion? Then I could fill you in on whatever I turn up.”

Had Malone just asked me out?

I could swear he’d said he wanted to do lunch at the Mansion on Turtle Creek, a spot that had long been one of Cissy’s favorites for Sunday brunch. Even I had to admit that the place had real class. Men were required to wear coats and ties to get service, not just shirts and shoes.

“Andy?”

“Did you say noon?” I repeated, wanting to be sure I hadn’t misinterpreted him in my sleepy state.

“I did.”

I almost said “yes,” until I remembered I was supposed to take the early shift that day at Jugs. I had to be there a half hour before it opened at eleven.

“I can’t, Malone,” I told him, hearing his silence on the other end and wondering if he was as disappointed as I was. “I’m on duty.”

“At the restaurant?”

“Uh-huh.”

Silence.

“How about a rain check?” I quickly filled in the void before he had a chance to launch into another lecture. “Maybe a late dinner after work?”

“I’ll clear my calendar.”

That sounded like a “yes.”

I pushed tangled hair from my eyes and caught my blurry image in the bureau mirror across the room. Sometimes it paid not to have 20/20 vision. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

“I’ll touch base with you after I pay a visit to Hi-Tech.”

“Great.”

“Oh, and Andy.” He paused before turning serious and telling me, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

The line clicked as he hung up.

More slowly, I replaced the receiver, ignoring his parting words and dwelling instead on his invitation.

A date with Malone.

I pushed the covers away and swung my feet over the side of the bed, planting them firmly on the floor.

Maybe things were looking up already, I thought, as I shuffled into the bathroom for a leisurely shower.

T
he address for the apartment complex where Sarah Carter had lived was just off Belt Line, several miles west of the Villa Mesa Shopping Center, behind one of the hundred or so restaurants that lined the busy street.

I parked in front of Building B. Apartment 252 was up a narrow metal staircase that vibrated with each step.

When I got there, I knocked soundly on the door.

No one answered.

“Sarah?” I called, pressing my face near the weather-beaten wood. I pounded that much harder. “Sarah, are you there?”

“She’s gone.”

I turned to find a slender black woman standing outside the apartment two doors down.

“You’re looking for Sarah Carter, right?”

I nodded. “I need to find her.” Almost without thinking, I added, “It’s her paycheck. She never picked it up from the restaurant.” I patted the purse hanging over my shoulder. “It’s her money, after all.”

The woman crossed her arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “Well, you won’t find her at this address. She moved out, I guess a couple weeks ago.”

My heart did a back slide into my stomach. “Do you happen to know where she went?”

She shook her head. “The girl didn’t talk much except to say ‘hi’ now and then. She kept to herself mostly. Didn’t hardly ever see anyone come visit her, although I caught a man leaving her place early one morning when I went out for a paper.” She lifted a hand about six inches above her crown. “Big guy. All muscles and hair gel. He looked like a player, you know, ’cuz he was even checking me out.”

Sounded like Bud Hartman.

“You said she left?”

“A truck came by and loaded up her stuff, though Sarah wasn’t around when they did it. Just some older woman I figured was her mama.”

Damn.

“Sorry you missed her.”

“Me, too,” I said and started down the steps, feeling more dejected with each one I descended.

“Hey!”

I paused halfway down and looked up to see the woman bent over the railing, waving at me.

“Check with the manager in the office. It’s Building A. There’s a sign so you can’t miss it. Maybe he’ll know where Sarah’s gone to.”

“Thanks, I will.”

I got into the Jeep and drove over to Building A, braking in front of a sign marked
BLUEBONNET VILLAS
—
OFFICE
.

An overweight male wearing a
UT
-
DALLAS
T-shirt rose from behind an oak-veneered desk as I entered.

He smiled eagerly, the same way the saleswomen at Saks did when they saw Mother coming.

“Hi, there. Can I help you? Are you interested in leasing a place here at beautiful Bluebonnet Villas?”

I hated to disappoint him, and I knew I would. So I got right to the point. “Actually, I’m trying to locate a change of address for a former tenant of yours named Sarah Carter. I know she lived here until a couple weeks ago, and I’ve got her paycheck from work. She never came back to pick it up, and no one knows where to send it.” The fib had seemed to work with Sarah’s neighbor so I spun it again. “Could you tell me if she left a forwarding address with you?”

The smile disappeared completely. The young man’s cherubic face looked suddenly suspicious. “Are you a relative?”

“Well, no . . .”

“Then I’m not allowed to give out that information. Sorry.” He rounded the desk and plunked his oversized body into a less-than-comfortable-appearing secretary’s chair.

If there’s one thing I’d learned from my mother over the years, it was never to take “no” for an answer. Though, come to think of it, I don’t recall ever hearing anyone refuse Cissy anything to begin with.

How about Julie Costello? She always seemed to get what she wanted with just a sway of her hips. Couldn’t hurt for me to try to use my feminine wiles.

With a sigh and bat of eyes, I approached and leaned on the desk, twirling a stray hair around my finger and going for an expression that was both cute and needy. “C’mon, um”—I desperately sought a name plate on the desk only to come up empty—“uh, sweetie pie.” I tried to mimic Julie’s drawl, as my years in Chicago had practically erased mine. “It’s not like I’m asking for her Social Security number or the PIN for her ATM card. I just need an address so I can hand over her money.”

Maybe it was the term of endearment that did the trick. He blushed and squinted up at me like he was almost ready to give in. “I dunno. My boss would have my job if I gave out personal information. Though for what he pays me . . .”

He let the sentence trail off, and I wondered if something other than my molasses-sweet voice was drawing this fly in.

Dropping the hair I’d been twirling, I hastily reached into my purse and removed my wallet. Thankfully, I had a twenty-dollar bill, which I slipped out and placed in front of him. It always worked in the movies.

“Just write down the address, would ya, sugar?” I tried again, noting that his eyes were glued to the cash. Definitely a good sign, right? “I’m sure Sarah would be very grateful.”

He hesitated, but only for a second. Then he palmed the bill and stuck it into his shirt pocket. “Let me find her file,” he said and began to rummage through the desk, finally emerging with a slim manila folder that he placed in his lap and opened wide.

“Hmmm.” He ran a finger down a page until he stopped midpoint, obviously finding what he was looking for. He grabbed a Post-it from a pad and scribbled something on it before handing it over.

“This is all I’ve got. It’s not an official change of address or anything, like at the post office. It was for in case she left anything. Which she didn’t.”

“I understand.” Hey, something was better than nothing, which is what I’d had when I’d walked in.

“Hey.” He half-rose from the chair, the faux leather making noises like breaking wind—at least I hoped it was the faux leather—and he leaned across the desk, eyeballing me in the same way my second cousin Henry had when we were eight and he’d tried to coax me into the coat closet with bribes of watermelon Jolly Ranchers. “You want to, maybe, hang out with me later? I get off at six. There’s a
Star Trek
marathon on the SciFi channel, and my folks have a big screen”

Was he kidding?

I was at least ten years his senior, and, God help me, but he looked like the Kewpie doll I’d seen appraised on
Antiques Roadshow.
All he was missing were the red-and-white-striped pajamas.

Still, it was flattering, in a rather weird way.

“Oh, geez, love that Captain Kirk, but I’m busy tonight,” I said and backed away from the desk. “Live long and prosper!” I wiggled the slip of paper at him before I high-tailed it out of there.

Well, I
was
busy that night.

I might even have a real date if I didn’t blow it.

I was so relieved to escape the office that I didn’t look at the note until I was settled in the Jeep and had the air conditioner, running. Then I flattened it out on my thigh.

His handwriting was miserable to read, but I looked it over several times and finally figured it out.

Sarah Carter

7000 Walnut Hill

Dallas, Texas

Why did that address seem so familiar?

I chewed on it until something clicked.

Wait a doggoned minute.

I dug inside my bag and found the business card that the ringleader of Mothers Against Pornography had pushed at me the other night.

THE WOMEN
’
S WELLNESS CLINIC

7000
WALNUT HILL LANE

PEGGY MARTIN
,
R
.
N
.

Well, look at that.

Did Sarah work at the Wellness Clinic? Had Peggy Martin’s crusade convinced the former Jugs waitress to leave behind the lavender short-shorts and panting men for a gig in the medical field, filing for seven-fifty an hour as Molly had mentioned?

Or was she a patient?

Had Bud’s “attentions” somehow required her to seek a doctor’s care?

Though it seemed strange for her to leave a medical office as a forwarding address for her apartment manager.