Kill Smartie Breedlove (a mystery) (12 page)

“Either way,” I kneecapped him, “it takes a bigger man than you.”

“Green level you say?” said Shep.

“Green. Yes. B6.”

Smartie self-consciously smoothed her hand over her hair. It always poodled out of control in the humidity. Shep clasped his hands behind him. Rocked a bit. He raised his chin in such a way that Smartie could see a fine feather of pink where he’d nicked himself shaving that morning. Just the sweetest little shaving nick there on his neck.

The doors licked shut, and in less than a watch tick, Nash had me up against the wall.

“Going down, Smack?”

“If you push the right buttons.”

The elevator pinged as they passed the orange level.

“Shep, I need to tell you something.”

“I already know,” said Shep, “You lied in your police statement, and then you lied to me.”

“They would have taken it wrong.”

“Just out of curiosity, what did Charma say to you? Did she tell you she was pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She asked me about DNA testing. If it was possible to fake that.”

Shep chuffed a nonverbal
there it is
.

“Not because she was trying to fake it,” said Smartie. “She was afraid of someone else faking it to frame her. She knew she was being watched.”

“Smartie, if you want to mire yourself in this for another year, go ahead. But the sad fact is, she committed suicide. She was out of the money and too old to get back into it with someone else, so she killed herself. Case closed.”

The doors licked shut, and in less than a watch tick, I had my .38 jammed against his chest.

“Careful, Nash. If I blow a hole in your heart, a little compassion might leak in.”

“How many people are you willing to drag down over this, Smartie? Suri put me on your husband for a few days. As far as I can tell, this is a benign, dickless little man who looks up from his books just long enough to get drunk every day, and that’s exactly what my report will reflect. Go ahead and chum the water all you want, but don’t expect Suri to be easily fooled, and don’t expect me to participate in it. I like my job. I like the people I work for. I’ve already compromised myself with this conversation, and that’s as far as it goes. I’ll see you to your car, and then I’m done here. Done.”

The doors opened on the cavernous parking ramp, and Smartie had to trot to keep pace with Shep’s determined stride.

“Where’s your car?”

“B6.”

Shep stopped short. “What the hell…”

“Oh!” Smartie’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Schatzi. Poor thing.”

The 1968 Coccinelle Cabriolet convertible in space B6 wallowed on four slashed tires. Shep bent to examine the front bumper, which had been deeply keyed with the words “
SMACK THIS, BITCH.
” His mind reluctantly clicked back to what Libby had said about mental instability. Self-harm. Violent acts acted out as self-destruction.

Inappropriate wardrobe choices.

Smartie stood there in her purple suit, white lace gloves and seamed stockings looking like a nutcase.

“Tell me you did not do this,” Shep said quietly.

“Why would I do that to my own car?”

“You know why.” He folded his arms, steeling himself against the quick tears in her eyes.

“You’ve seen me to my car,” said Smartie. “That means you’re done, right?
Done
?”

“Tell me the truth. Or I can easily call Barth to check the surveillance video.”

“I didn’t do it, Shep.”

The steel stairwell door opened and a voice echoed across the tops of the cars.

“Everything okay over there, Hartigate?”

Studying Smartie’s face, Shep said, “That would be Mr. Barth.”

“Mr. Barth?” she called. “We’re going to need the security video for this level. My car has been vandalized.”

Barth came trucking over, favoring a bum knee, sweating in a rumpled brown suit. He puffed his bottom lip when he saw the damage to Smartie’s car.

“Jeezum crow. We better expedite that TRO.”

“Oh, no,” Smartie hastened. “Please, don’t get Herrick in trouble. It’s not him. It’s this fan fiction guy.”

“This has happened before?” said Barth.

Smartie nodded. “This is the third time.”

Barth bent to inspect the key marks on the front quarter panel. Smartie was fascinated by the back of his military buzz cut. The way his thick neck folded slightly over his starched collar. He walked around Smartie’s VW, surveyed the surrounding vehicles, and with some effort, got down on the ground next to Shep, who’d knelt to get a look underneath the vehicle.

“Clean V-shaped cuts,” Shep observed, running his hand over the sidewall.

“That’s the best way,” Barth told Smartie. “Whoever did this has done it before. Lots of times if the perp don’t know what he’s doing, the blade breaks off. Tire’s got more grab as it goes flat. Your average vandal tends to scuff their knuckles, so you look for blood drops.” He shook his head and gestured to the garage floor. “No souvenirs here.”

Barth labored to his feet.

“The police will want to see your license and insurance,” said Shep.

“No.” Smartie cupped her hand over his cell phone. “Don’t call the police. Last time, the police report was right frack spang on the Internet with my address and phone number. I can’t have that. Especially not if you intend to hang it on Herrick.”

Shep didn’t agree or disagree, just studied her for a moment, and Smartie didn’t duck his gaze.

“Hartigate, I don’t see any reason why we can’t handle this,” said Barth. “You drive Ms. Breedlove home. I’ll get someone to come for the car.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barth,” said Smartie and handed him the spare key from a side pocket on her purse.

“Ms. Breedlove,” Barth said, standing as tall as possible, which was still several inches shorter than Shep, “I wonder, could I get your autograph? Not for me, you understand. I’m not the fan. Absolutely not. I wouldn’t trouble you for myself. It’s for my nephew.”

“Well,” Smartie smiled, “as long as you’re not a fan.”

Barth guffawed and grinned while she signed a blank sheet from the back of his log book, and then he stood there, his red face even redder than usual.

“Yeah, that Smack Wilder,” he said. “Yessiree bob, she’s some hot stuff.”

“What’s your favorite?” asked Smartie. “Let me guess. The one about the French race car driver.”

“Yeah, you guessed it,” Barth nodded. “That one’s a firecracker.”

“Barth,” said Shep, “I need a link to that video when you get it uploaded.”

“Sure thing. Don’t worry about the vehicle, Ms. Breedlove. I know a good fella.”

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Barth.”

Barth worked her hand like a pump handle and stumped back toward the stairwell.

“Mind if I check inside the car?” asked Shep.

“For what?”

“I’ll let you know if I see it.”

Smartie handed over her car keys. Shep opened each door in turn, rifled the glove box, popped the boot, searched through the books and maps, felt up a basket of shirts and delicates Smartie kept forgetting to drop off at the dry cleaner.

“Do the knuckle-scuffers commonly leave their V-shaped cutting implements in the outgoing laundry?” she asked.

Shep closed the trunk and returned her keys. “I’m sorry. I needed to make sure.”

“I understand.”

“I’m parked up top,” he said, and Smartie followed him back to the elevator.

“Interesting how Mr. Barth was so Johnny-on-the-spot just now,” she observed as the doors slid shut.

“He’s just doing his job.”

“I think he’s her little do-monkey,” said Smartie. “I think he’s Suri’s henchman.”

“Lawyers don’t have henchman; they have interns.”

“Shep, I never wrote anything about a French race car driver.”

He looked at her in surprise. “What pinged your BS detector?”

“He doesn’t talk like a mullet-head. He talks
like
a mullet-head.”

“Ah,” said Shep. He didn’t want to say it out loud, but personally, he’d never liked the guy. “What’s does ‘fan fiction’ mean?”

“Hobby writers creating stories using characters from a book or TV series or whatever. The witches in
Wicked
used to be popular.
Star Trek
and
Star Wars
spawned tons of stuff. The book
Fifty Shades of Gray
started as erotica based on the
Twilight
series. This guy started out blogging stories based on various computer games, and then he kind of fixated on Smack.”

“What makes you think he’d slash your tires?”

“During my last two book tours, he showed up at several events, being obnoxious during the Q & A, hassling the booksellers. He was frustrated that I hadn’t read his Smack Wilder blog. The first time, I came out after a signing at the Barnes & Noble in Champions Village, and the tires were slashed, but they figured it was just a random thing. The second time was at a comic book convention in Dallas, and he actually flipped off the hotel security camera.”

“He wanted to get caught,” said Shep. “To get your attention.”

“I don’t understand.” She sucked on her vanilla cigarette, brows furrowed. “How could he have known I’d be here?”

“How many people knew about the appointment?” asked Shep.

“Only Suri Fitch. And her henchman.”

“He’s not her henchman.”

“How do you know?”

“Because
I’m
her henchman.” Shep stood and brushed his hands over the crease in his gray pants. “You didn’t tell anyone else where you were going?”

“No one except…” Smartie shook her head. “No one.”

“Who?”

“Herrick,” she said reluctantly. “I know people always think it’s the ex, but—”

“It
is
always the ex,” said Shep. But everything he’d seen in his recent surveillance of Albert Herrick told him that this case could be the exception to that rule.

On the top floor of the parking ramp, only half a dozen vehicles were scattered across the tarmac. Shep’s Range Rover parked with its front bumper nosed to the wall at the farthest point from the elevator, the span of a full city block away. Smartie groaned softly; the Mildred Pierce pumps had begun to bite painfully into the backs of her heels.

“Do you always park so far from the door?”

“Every day,” said Shep.

“For the love of God, why?”

“You’ll see.”

“Is it a spy reason?”

“If it was a spy reason, would I tell you?”

Shep strode up the ramp, and Smartie trekked after him. The sun beat down
muy caliente
from a broad blue sky, but when they reached the edge of the ramp, they caught a cool breeze off the tops of the towering old oaks below. Beyond the trees, spread between the office complex and the streaming freeway, there was a palm-lined greenspace with a white stone water feature, and beyond all that, downtown Houston cut and soared like a blocky modern art installation.

Shep held out his key tag and chirped the unlock, but before he opened Smartie’s door, he stood for a moment by the wall, breathing in the view that lured him daily to the least convenient parking space available.

“Jesus, we live in a beautiful city,” he said.

“We do,” Smartie agreed. “I don’t think I could write a book that isn’t set in Houston.”

“Were you born here?”

“I like to think so. You?”

Shep nodded. “Grew up in Pearland. Moved to Huntsville long enough to get my Criminal Justice degree. Other than that, I’ve lived here my whole life.”

“Shep, I need to go.” Smartie stepped out of her pumps and got in the car. “I promised Casilda I wouldn’t leave Herrick home alone for more than an hour or two.”

“Home,” Shep echoed. “What do you mean?”

“He’s camping at my place during the day while Casilda teaches his classes.”

“Smartie, what the hell kind of sense does that make?” Shep looked at her, nonplussed. “You don’t file a restraining order against a person you’re babysitting.”

“He can’t be left alone all day when he’s taking those don’t kill yourself pills.” She glanced nervously at her watch. “He was out cold when I left. Hopefully, he’s still sleeping.”

\\\ ///

14

S
martie’s hopes sank as Shep pulled into her driveway. The front door stood ajar, and the
allegro maestoso
from Mahler’s “Resurrection” thundered out across the yard.

“Squabs. I hope Twinkie didn’t go out,” said Smartie. “If he sets one paw in my neighbor’s flower bed, she acts like he ate her baby.”

Through the old-fashioned sheers that draped the sunroom windows, Herrick could be seen directing an invisible orchestra with a brass candlestick. He stumbled over a side chair, tipped an end table and upset a tall vase of sunflowers, but managed to right himself in time to muster in the tympani and French horns.

As Shep and Smartie entered the foyer, Herrick weaved, mumbling and murmuring, out to meet them, swinging the candlestick in one hand, a half bottle of cognac in the other.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let me take that, sir.” Shep reached for the candlestick, but it flew from Herrick’s hand and sailed into the dining room, narrowly missing Smartie’s head.

“Whoops,” he giggled. “I appear to have lost my grip.”

Shep stepped in front of Smartie and said, “Mr. Herrick, you’ll have to leave now.”

“Who the hell’r’you?” Herrick slurred, confounded to find himself eye to eye with Shep’s shirt buttons. “I’ll have you know, sir, that harridan on your arm is my wife.”

“Herrick,” Smartie scolded over the symphony, “you know you’re not supposed to mix alcohol with your anti-suicide pills.”

“Wha’d’you care, you succubus?”

“Put your shoes on. Casilda will be here any minute to take you home.” She bypassed Shep to peck Herrick on the cheek, telling him brightly, “Don’t despair. She said she’d bring Starbucks.”

Weaving back to the sunroom where Mahler’s “Resurrection” had settled into the
andante moderato
, Herrick collapsed face down on the sofa, clutching the cognac to his breast, leaking the remainder of the bottle into the pillows.