Pocket-47 (A Nicholas Colt Thriller) (13 page)

If Brittney was still in town, and still alive, I figured she was being held against her will. Leitha’s murder was all over the news and, if Brittney was able, I knew she’d come forward. I thought the car theft ring probably had something to do with the recent horrors, and the only person I could think of who might have connections to those characters was Duck the pimp. Was he pissed off enough about me taking Brittney to kill Leitha and kidnap Brittney back? That’s what I needed to find out.

I drove north on Blanding Boulevard, traffic heavy but moving at a steady pace. The brakes on Joe’s pickup were a hair short of tip-top. I thought about how fragile the human spinal cord is for a minute and then pulled into the T-Mobile store where I’d gotten the phone yesterday. The pain in my arm had eased up some, but my legs felt like I was wading in knee-deep water. I stepped to the counter and told the lady my predicament. She gave me a new phone for eighty plus tax.

I called my home phone to see if I had any messages. There were five: three from Juliet telling me she’d heard about Leitha and how sorry she was about everything and could we please try to work it out; one from Dr. Michael Spivey, asking me to call him as soon as possible; one from an old friend, a retired police officer I call Papa. All Papa’s message said was, “Let’s go fishing.” He uses a bamboo fly rod he made himself and at seventy-three can still cast into an area the size of a hubcap.

I called Dr. Spivey first. A woman answered.

“Mrs. Spivey?” I said.

“May I ask who is calling?” She had an eastern European accent, Russian or maybe Romanian.

I told her my name and reason for calling.

“Doctor Spivey is not available at the moment. May I take a message?”

“Can I talk to Mrs. Spivey?” I said.

“Hold please.”

I listened to nothingness for a few seconds. Mrs. Spivey picked up.

“Is this Nicholas Colt?” she said.

“Yes. Your husband left a message for me to call.”

“It’s about Brittney, of course.” From the sound of her voice, I could only imagine the assortment of chemicals coursing through her veins. Xanax, Prozac, possibly a martini or two. “Michael’s making rounds at the nursing home right now. I’ll give you his pager number.”

She told me the number. Her voice was like the Mojave Desert at midnight. Flat and dry, cold and hopelessly distant and dark. I thanked her, hung up, and paged Dr. Spivey. Five minutes later, he called.

“Mister Colt, would it be possible for us to meet somewhere? We’re very upset about everything that’s happened, of course. Poor Leitha. My God. She told me that she’d hired you to find Brittney.”

“That’s right.”

“I know the police and FBI are involved now, but would you be willing to stay on the case as well? My wife and I love Brittney dearly. Now that Leitha’s gone, well, we want to adopt her. Are you available? Leitha said good things about you. I’ll pay you, of course.”

“When did you want to meet?” I said. I had personal reasons for wanting to find Brittney, but I wasn’t above taking a paycheck for my efforts. Especially from someone who could afford a Russian maid.

“Could you come to my house this evening? I’ll be home around six. You can have dinner with us and—”

“Can’t make it tonight. How about tomorrow?” If Papa wanted to go fishing then, by God, that’s what we would do. As determined as I was to find Brittney Ryan, family always came first. Papa and Joe Crawford were all I had.

“Tomorrow’s fine. Around eleven in the morning if you could make it.”

“I’ll be there,” I said. He gave me directions.

I drove to Green Cove Springs. Papa and I have the kind of relationship where you don’t have to call, you just come. He was sitting on the porch reading
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
I’ve known Papa for twenty years, and he always has his ragged old copy of that book nearby. Like it’s his bible or something. He swears it’s the only piece of fiction that ever mattered. He looked up and smiled.

“Nicholas. Have a seat, young man.”

“Thanks, Papa. Not feeling too young these days.”

“It’s all relative,” he said. “When you’re my age, you’ll wish you were forty-five again. Enjoy it while you can. You thirsty? You want a beer?”

“I’ll get it. You ready for another one?” A sweaty can of Pabst was on the table beside his chair, along with a jar of Planters. Huck Finn was Papa’s scripture, Pabst Blue Ribbon and greasy peanuts his communion. He drained the can, crushed it and threw it behind him, answering my question.

I walked inside to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and got the beers. He had at least a case lined up on the bottom shelf. I went back out on the porch.

“What happened to your arm?” An edge of white gauze extended beyond my shirt sleeve.

“Gunshot wound,” I said.

“You been doing some real work?”

“Don’t you ever watch the news?”

Papa opened his beer and took a long pull. “You know I don’t
watch that shit. Too fucking depressing. I already know something terrible happened somewhere today. Why do I need some punk wearing makeup to tell me the details. Same shit, different day. I could plug in a tape from twenty years ago and it would be the same damn—”

“Don’t you care about what’s going on in the world?” I said.

“Fuck the world. I know there’s a war somewhere. I know someone got raped, robbed, stabbed, kidnapped, or murdered. If it didn’t happen on this here porch, I ain’t going to dwell on it. It’s too loud, and I’m too old. Know what I mean?”

“Sure. Anyway, you want to hear about the case I been working on?”

“I was a beat cop most of my life. A grunt. Strong back, weak mind. I damn near—”

“Don’t give me that ‘strong back, weak mind’ shit,” I said. “You could have gone as far as you wanted to in the department.”

“Maybe. Just never wanted to play their fucking games. Once I made sergeant, knew I’d get a good pension, that was enough for me. I’m glad I’m out of it.”

“Is that why you stayed on ten years past your retirement date? Face it, Papa. You loved being on the job.”

He laughed. “You know me too well, Nicholas. Can’t hustle a hustler, I guess. So tell me how you got your arm all shot up.”

I yawned. My arm hurt, but I knew I’d probably fall asleep right there on the porch if I took another pain pill. “You still want to go fishing?” I said.

“Maybe when the sun goes down. Or maybe we could just sit here on our asses and drink beer all night. You going to tell me about the arm, or you want to play twenty questions or what?”

I told Papa everything that had happened.

“Something sure as hell pissed someone off,” Papa said, “for Leitha to be tortured and murdered like that. You don’t see that kind of shit every day.”

“Thank God.”

“And you think that Duck character was involved? You think he was mixed up with the car theft ring?”

“Maybe. He’s definitely a criminal, and I imagine payback was on his mind the minute I left his apartment.”

“Meaning you think he got Brittney back.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. If he does have her, he’s going to be expecting me this time.”

“You’ll have to tail him,” Papa said. “Wait for the right time. If you go in like Rambo again, you’re going to get your ass waxed.”

“Precisely,” I said.

Papa grinned. He looked at me with narrowed eyes. “I know you better than to tell you to just let the cops handle it. Here’s the deal. You’re going to need someone inside, someone close to this Duck character, a confidential informant, a snitch.”

“Maybe I could pay one of his whores to rat him out.”

“That might work. I never had much luck with whores, though. Especially the street bitches. They go one way, then the other. What about that club he works at? What did you say, The Tumble Inn?”

“Yeah, aka The Stumble Out. Think I should try that?”

“Be your best bet.”

“Bartender?”

“Best snitches in the world.”

“Thing is, they’ve seen me at the club.”

“They haven’t seen me,” Papa said.

Papa and I drank all the beer in the refrigerator. I overslept and didn’t make it to the Spiveys’ house in Ponte Vedre until about one fifteen Sunday afternoon. I’d called and left a message on voice mail, hoping my tardiness wouldn’t be an issue. The house was stucco, painted khaki with a red tile roof. From the looks of the exterior, I figured the closets were as big as my Airstream. The driveway circled around a fountain, with half a dozen high-end automobiles parked at various angles. I eased Joe’s old Ford in between a Jaguar and a Porsche. I put the pistol Joe had loaned me in the glove compartment, which was empty except for an old green metal flashlight and a dozen or so vintage moist towelettes from KFC. Joe’s shotgun was behind the seat, along with a small box of tools and my replica Balabushka pool cue. It was an odd assortment of items to carry around in the cab of a pickup truck, but you never know when you might need to make a quick repair, play a game of nine-ball, blast someone to kingdom come, and wipe yourself off in the dark.

The expatriate maid I’d talked to yesterday led me through the house to the back patio. She wore a white cook’s uniform and walked along with purpose, her plump fanny seeming to propel the rest of her. She pointed toward Dr. Spivey and then deserted me.

There was a party going on, which explained all the cars in the driveway. Spivey held a tall frosted glass with a celery stalk growing out of it. He wore white shorts, a sky-blue polo shirt, and New Balance court shoes. He was talking to a short guy with curly hair and glasses. I walked over and stood there stupidly for a minute until they shut up long enough for me to introduce myself.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“Not a problem,” Spivey said. “Excuse us for a minute, John.”

John excused us with a polite smile and nod, and then walked toward the food. It was a big spread: corn on the cob, baked beans, several types of salads, fresh fruit, pies. A guy wearing a chef’s hat and an apron stood beside two half-barrels topped with grating, stoking the coals. If you ever come to my place for a cookout, you’ll get a big steak and a baked potato and a beer from the keg. You’ll eat the steak, drink the beer, and throw the potato away. I’m not that great at cooking potatoes.

“You’ll be able to stay and eat, won’t you?” Spivey said.

“Looks good,” I said. “But I really need to get to work.”

“Let’s walk inside. I want you to meet my wife.”

Mrs. Spivey sat in the living room staring out the front window. The room was furnished with a studded leather sofa and love seat, heavy pine tables, travel posters from several Mexican resorts.

“Sweetheart, this is Nicholas Colt,” Dr. Spivey said.

She rose, took a couple steps toward us, and extended her hand. Her fingernails were glossy, red, and perfect, but the hand I shook felt like something not quite alive. She had what I call “elsewhere” eyes, the type of gaze I’ve seen from rape victims and women who were abused as children. I didn’t know her story, but I got the distinct vibe it was a whopper. Her forty-something chin was heavily dimpled and reminded me of a humongous canned green pea.

“Mister Colt is going to help us find our Brittney,” Dr. Spivey said. “Isn’t that right, Mister Colt?”

“You can call me Nicholas,” I said.

“Oh, right. I’m Michael and this is Corina.”

“What makes you think you can find her?” Corina said, the Xanax coming through again. She was skinny as my Balabushka with approximately half the personality.

“All I can do is try,” I said. “No guarantees. She might have left town, but I doubt it. She would have contacted me or the police when she heard about Leitha’s murder. I think Brittney’s either
dead or being held against her will. The two of you haven’t heard from anybody, have you?”

Corina grabbed a Kleenex from a box on one of the pine tables. Michael put his arm around her. She wiped her eyes and held the tissue in front of her like a tiny bride’s bouquet. Michael said, “You mean, like a ransom note or something?”

“Anything,” I said.

“No. Why would anyone get in touch with us? We’re not her parents. Not yet, anyway.”

“Yeah, but you have money. If someone kidnapped her, she might have told them about you.”

“We haven’t heard from anybody,” Michael said. “We’ll be sure to let you know if we do.”

“All right.”

“Sweetheart, why don’t you go on out and join the party,” Michael said to Corina. “Nicholas and I have some business to discuss. The Schonbergs are here, and the grill should be just about ready for the steaks.”

“I’ll go out in a minute,” Corina said.

Michael led me down a long hallway, leaving Corina to stare out her window.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined two walls of Michael’s library, and the others were paneled with what looked like mahogany. The aroma of pipe tobacco mingled with the subtle and clean scents of leather conditioner and furniture wax. The room had no windows. Michael sat behind a cherry desk you could have parked a jazz trio on and motioned for me to have a seat in one of the adjacent chairs.

A large gray cat jumped onto the desk. Michael petted him for a minute, then picked him up and set him on the floor.

“His name is Twist,” Michael said. “He was a stray we took in. I’m afraid he doesn’t do much but eat and sleep.”

“Strays are the best,” I said. “They always seem to appreciate everything. I have a dog named Bud.”

He opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a large leather-bound checkbook, the kind people use for payrolls.

“I want to make sure every effort is made to find Brittney,” he said. “Name your price, Nicholas.”

“My normal rate is a hundred an hour,” I said. “Plus expenses. I can get started with a five-thousand-dollar retainer. I’ll log all my time and present you with any relevant receipts, of course.”

“What do you consider chargeable expenses?”

“Everything I need to get the job done,” I said. “Gasoline, bar and restaurant tabs, hotel rooms if I have to leave town, informant fees. It usually doesn’t add up to a lot, but it could. I don’t know if you’ve thought about this, but a reward would help. People who normally wouldn’t talk to a cop or a PI will crawl out of the woodwork if enough money’s involved.”