Legwork (3 page)

Mary Lee fixed him with a steely gaze, her cold eyes defiant.
She was used to being obeyed.
“This is my bodyguard and she is getting in this car.
The rest of you can stay out.”

I climbed inside without hesitation, knowing she’d slam the door on my leg if I was too slow.
I’d barely hit the cushions before she pulled it shut with a bang.

“Men,” she said, kicking her feet against the front seat.
“Too bad we can’t kill them all.”

“I realize I’m only your bodyguard and not your lawyer, but I’d advise you not to say that again.”

Mary Lee kicked the front seat again petulantly.
I’d hate to have been her daddy when she was growing up.
“Why would I kill that old lech?” she asked.
“What I want to know is who did this to me?
You’re promoted.”

“What?” I asked stupidly.
It’s hard enough to keep up with Mary Lee in the daylight.
With no sleep in me, it was impossible.

“Find out who did this to me,” she said, enunciating each word like I was the world’s biggest idiot.
“I’ll pay double your bodyguard rate.”

That part I understood.
I nodded.
“No problem.
It’s what I’m trained to do.
Bodyguarding is just a sideline.”

She knew I was full of shit and didn’t care. Like the Wicked Witch of the West, she just wanted someone to do her bidding.
I realized she was murmuring beneath her breath.
“What did you say?” I asked.

Her indignant expression was visible in the reflected light of the street lamp.
“I said that I can’t believe they think I’d be dumb enough to shotgun a man to death and leave him in my own front yard.”

“He was shotgunned?” I asked.
“What makes you say that?”

She raised her eyebrows in a superior way. “The giant hole in the middle of his chest, Sherlock.”

“Oh,” I said.
“I couldn’t get near.”

“Well, I got a little too near.” She gave a ladylike shudder.
“That shrimp boat out there who works for the SBI thought it might rattle me into talking.
He made me stick my head in the car and take a peek.
I about dropped my panties when I saw it was Thornton.”

“A lot of women have that reaction,” I offered.
Thornton had been a notorious womanizer.

“When he’s dead?” she asked incredulously, getting the joke but not finding it funny.
That was her way.
She was smart enough to figure out when you were kidding, but she didn’t have a sense of humor and she didn’t want one.
When she wanted to be funny, she had thousand-dollar-a-day writers to make her funny.

She was staring at a tiny tear in Shrimpboat’s upholstery.
“I wonder who called it in?” she said.
“I mean, someone had to have reported it.
That would tell us who was behind it.
Who would want to get me like this?”

“Get you?” I asked.
“Isn’t Thornton Mitchell the one lying dead up there?”

“Yes,” she said crossly.
“But aren’t I the one with a crippled campaign and maybe even a murder rap hanging over my head?”

She had a point.
“What have they charged you with?” I asked.

“Nothing.” She looked affronted.
“You think I’ve let them get close enough to charge me with anything?
Where the hell is Hooter anyway?
What do I pay him for?”

Hooter Henderson was Mary Lee’s lawyer.
His real name was Ambrose.
But in the South, the richer you are, the dumber your nickname.
Obviously, Hooter was plenty rich.

“They read you your rights?” I asked.
F.
Lee Bailey had nothing on me.

“Yeah, about a dozen of them.
In chorus. Think they’ll book me?”

A Mercedes pulled up across the street.
“Ask Hooter.
Here he is.”

She grabbed my arm, digging her nails so deep in my flesh I could feel them through my sweater.
“Listen, Casey.
This isn’t about Thornton.
This is about me.
Someone’s trying to ruin my life.
Find out who.” She paused, released her grip, started to gnaw one perfect nail, then discarded the notion and twirled a strand of brown hair around a finger instead.
Her forehead wrinkled.
I’d seen that same look after she’d heard the results of the latest poll.
“Start with Bradley.
He’s been acting funny.
I can’t divorce him but that doesn’t mean I have to trust him.
This feels like him, you know?”

I nodded, resolving once more never to marry again myself.

“But don’t let anyone know what you’re doing, okay?”

“Why do you think they call us private investigators?” I asked, rubbing my arm to regain some feeling in it.
“I know what to do.”

Her smile was thin.
“I like you, Casey,” she said.
“You’re smart.
You know when to keep your mouth shut.
And you don’t get all hung up on rules and regulations.”

“Maybe I should run for office, too?” I suggested.

She fixed me with her cold blue eyes.
“Did I say you were funny?
I don’t think so.
Tell Hooter he can come in.”

Wasn’t that just like her?
Here she was sitting in the back seat of an SBI car suspected of murder and she was acting like she was in the parlor of some ladeedah Atlanta hotel suite, inviting in eager backers.

Hooter was shouting at the SBI man outside. “Next,” I announced.
He didn’t waste any time arguing.
He brushed me aside and disappeared into the vehicle, leaving me to deal with the guard.

“Think it’s gonna rain today?” I asked brightly.
It wasn’t much, but the sun was just beginning to show in a thin yellow strip at the far end of the road and I’ve learned to take my inspiration where I can get it.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the SBI man asked sourly.

“Casey Jones, private investigator,” I said smartly, flipping open my I.D.
It wouldn’t last long in the hands of a professional in daylight but was good enough to pass the inspection of a dumb ass in the dark.

“Thanks for the info,” a familiar deep voice interrupted, setting my little heart a pitter patter again.
I looked up into the deep brown eyes of Bill Butler, most arresting officer.

“You still hanging around?” I asked innocently.

“Still hanging around,” he confirmed.

“You two know each other?” the SBI guy demanded.

“I know everyone,” I explained.
“Did I mention I was also popular?”

“You don’t know me,” the SBI lackey retorted, pleased at his own wit.

I thumped my forehead with the palm of my hand.
“Oh gosh,” I said.
“I can’t understand how you were ever overlooked.”

“Come here, Casey,” Bill Butler ordered, grabbing my elbow and dragging me off toward the bushes. Regrettably, he stopped short.

“This is my card,” he said, producing a small white square from one of those snug jeans pockets.
I would have gotten it myself if only he’d asked.
“Call me,” he ordered.

“Call you?” I repeated, turning the card over to look at the back.
Rats.
No home phone number.
No undying declaration of love.

“If you find out anything,” he explained slowly.
“I’m sure you weren’t in there talking politics,” he added, nodding toward the sedan.

“Actually, we were,” I said truthfully.
“But I certainly will call you.” I was about to elaborate on why when a white van turned the corner and sped our way.
Its huge antenna loomed in the air like the rack of a giant moose.
The local television station had finally caught on.
And just in time, it seemed, to record the body being unloaded from the Jeep.
I know because one of the sound men almost garroted me with a cord as he rushed past.
Only the quick thinking of good ole Bill Butler saved me from strangulation.

“Does stuff like this happen to you a lot?” he asked, unlooping another cord that had wound its way around my ankle, courtesy of the cameraman.

“How did you guess?” I asked, clinging to him for support.

“You seem the type,” he explained.

I wondered what that meant.
“Gotta go,” I said.
I didn’t like the way the conversation was heading.
“Besides, I’m camera shy.” Another car had pulled up to release a trio of eager reporters.
They were all young.
Two of them were bearded.
The third had her hair bobbed for efficiency.
One had a couple of cameras slung over his shoulder.
All had apparently downed jumbo cups of coffee from Hardee’s on the way over and were pumped with too much caffeine, too much adrenaline, and too many viewings of “All The President’s Men.” For once, they had a real story and they were going to milk it for all it was worth.

Bill Butler ignored the reporters and pulled out a small black notebook though, I was sorry to see, not that kind of little black book.
“I need your phone number.”

I scrawled it down.
Be still my beating heart.

There was no sense in going home.
Jack wasn’t half so entertaining when I was sober.
Besides, Bill Butler had raised my standards considerably.
That’s the way it is

with me.
That’s the way it is with all women, I suspect.
Go too long without getting laid and any man without a crust on him starts to look good.
Get laid and you’re in the mood to be picky.
I was feeling extremely picky that morning.

The streets were nearly empty with only a few early commuters dotting the road.
I detoured to Hardee’s for a chicken biscuit, remembering to buy Bobby D.
half a dozen sausage ones while I was at it.
I’d need a bribe to get him to move his fat duff and I wanted my answers quickly.

Raleigh looked tired in the morning light. Maybe it was just my mood but, without people, downtown always seemed a little lost, a little too behind the times, forlorn and anxious in the postmanufacturing world it had been pitched into.
I knew how it felt.

Maybe that was why I had decided that Raleigh was as far north as I wanted to go.
When you’re running away, it’s always good to have a destination in mind.
My goal had been to get far away from trouble yet stay near enough for revenge one day.
I had pulled off 1-95 North in Fayetteville twelve years ago and landed in the middle of what looked like a military invasion.
Leaving the boys in green behind, I had hightailed it to the capitol city as fast as my poor little car could take me.
And here I had stayed.
It wasn’t home, but it felt like home and that was more than I had expected of Raleigh.
The town was big enough to get a little lost in when you had to, but small enough that people still smiled at you when you passed them on the sidewalk.
I was a country girl and Raleigh, in many ways, was just a gussied-up country town.

There was plenty of parking.
There always is.
I pulled into a spot right in front of our plate glass window, maneuvering my little Valiant so that the bright red glare of Bobby’s “Bail Bondsman” sign blinked a happy pink pattern on the hood.
This way I could see my car from the office and run out to put in a quarter if the meter maid wandered by.

I stared through the window and watched Bobby cram Krispy Kreme doughnuts into his craw.
He’s too lazy to get up and adjust the blinds that line the two picture windows out front so we leave them open.
This makes it easy for passersby to get a good look at whatever Bobby is eating at the moment.

He had a six-pack of Bud on ice in the trashcan next to his desk.
Already celebrating the big bucks I would earn him with this case, no doubt.

“Doll!” He held up both hands in a triumphant greeting when I entered.
I noticed that his Arrid had run dry and that his pants zipper had collapsed under the strain of bulging fat.
His white BVDs peeked out of the gap.
At least his underwear was clean.
Thank god for small favors.

“Keep the volume down, huh, Bobby?” I begged.
“I have a headache that could fell King Kong.”

“Har.
Har.” When Bobby is trying to kiss my ass, he laughs at my comments.
Fortunately, not too often in public.
Bobby’s laugh has a tendency to inspire heroic bystanders to try the Heimlich maneuver on him.

“This could be a big one, Casey,” he said. “We’re talking very, very big money.
Mucho dinero.
Mucho publicity. Think of the glory!”

“Think of your bank account.”

“Exactly.” He smiled happily and bit into another doughnut, chomping it down with greedy gusto.
Bobby makes Henry the VIII look like Miss Manners.

“I brought you these for dessert,” I told him, tossing the bag of sausage biscuits on his desk.
A pile of empty fast food containers scattered and fell to the floor, joining the heap on the carpet.