Tough Customer (15 page)

She slid a small white card across the bar. "While you're here, if you need anything--directions, restaurant recommendations, a place to smoke--give me a call."

Before going into the bar, Dodge had parked parallel on Bowie Street, choosing a metered slot that had a shade tree growing beside it. The shade had helped. Nevertheless, the interior of the rental car felt like an oven when he got in. He cranked the motor so he could turn on the air conditioner.

He lit a cigarette, then took from the pocket of his jacket a slender pink cell telephone. Amanda Lofland's cell telephone. The cell phone she'd been careless enough to leave on the table while they were deeply involved in their conversation. The cell phone Dodge had pilfered while she was blotting her tearful eyes with a soggy Kleenex.

Most criminal investigators followed the money first. Dodge Hanley went after the scorned woman.

He tapped the phone's icon that accessed the log of recent calls and scrolled through it. All her calls yesterday and last night had come from one number. He called it. It was answered with a cheerful, "Hi, this is Ben, leave a message."

So, the couple had stayed in close contact yesterday while Ben was with Berry. Which came as somewhat of a disappointment, since it virtually disproved Dodge's theory of looking first at jealous females for possible suspects.

Or maybe not. Maybe Lofland had made all those calls to his wife as overcompensation for cheating on her, in his heart if not with his dick.

In any case, Dodge still considered Amanda Lofland worth looking at.

Next, he scrolled through the cell phone's menu, landing on her directory of contacts.

Sticking with protocol, Dodge entered the house through the back door. Caroline was at the stove stirring the contents of a pot. "Good. You're back," she said. "Dinner's almost ready."

"What are we having?"

"Spaghetti and meat sauce."

"One of your specialities."

She directed a worried glance toward the interior door that led to the rest of the house. "Be careful not to say things like that. How would you know it's one of my specialities?"

"Like how would you know that I drink my tea unsweetened?"

She thought for a moment, then said with chagrin, "This afternoon."

"Hmm."

"Habits die hard."

"And get you into trouble." The white card with Grace's phone number on it suddenly felt like a live coal inside his breast pocket. "Need any help?"

"No, thanks."

"I could set the table. I think I remember which side the fork goes on."

"Already done. Would you like something to drink?"

He shook his head. "I had a beer in town." She was about to ask him about that, but before she could pose a question he might not want to answer, he asked, "Where's Berry?"

"Still sleeping, last I checked."

They still hadn't addressed what he'd learned from his conversation with Amanda Lofland in the hospital cafeteria. After having recounted it to Caroline and Berry, he'd gone out for a cigarette. When he'd come back inside, Caroline had suggested that Berry walk him through the events of last night, showing him where everything had taken place. Actually, he'd been about to suggest that himself.

For the next hour, they'd moved from room to room while Berry related chronologically and in detail exactly what had taken place. In the bathroom, the shower curtain had been reattached to the rod. The blood-soaked rug had been removed from the bedroom and replaced by another to cover the bloodstain that had seeped into the hardwood. Despite these concealing measures, the room retained the feel of a place where something traumatic had occurred.

Dodge had knelt where Berry indicated Ben Lofland had fallen. He'd flipped back the replacement rug to examine the bloodstain. Then he'd gone into the bathroom. When he reached the tub, he'd turned back and estimated the distance to the bloodstain. "Starks was standing here when he fired?"

Berry nodded.

"Five feet, six at most. Lofland's lucky to be alive."

"Oren must be a lousy shot."

"Must be."

Out on the gallery, Dodge had inspected the holes in the wall, left by the bullets that Nyland or someone from the S.O. had removed. Then Dodge had had Berry show him exactly where Starks had landed after his fall down the stairs and the position from which he'd been wildly firing the pistol.

He'd laid down on his back on the floor and acted it out while she'd crouched behind the railing on the gallery above as she'd done the night before. Caroline had stood by, watching all this, hugging her elbows and chafing her upper arms.

"I can't believe how close you came to being killed," she'd said, tears in her voice.

Dodge had been equally shaken by the thought of how narrowly Berry had escaped a bullet. If she hadn't, Caroline's call to him last night would have been altogether different. Or maybe she wouldn't have bothered to notify him. It didn't bear thinking about.

After talking through it, Berry had told them she was exhausted and asked if they could postpone their conversation about her and Lofland until after she'd rested. "It's the elephant in the room. I know it must be explained, but can it keep until I've had a nap?"

He and Caroline had watched as she wearily climbed the stairs. When she reached the gallery, she'd gone into the guest room, Dodge supposed because being in her bedroom made the horrible memories too vivid for comfort.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Caroline had turned to him, her posture defensive. "What Amanda Lofland told you has no bearing on what happened here last night."

"I didn't say it did."

"You implied it."

"I did no such thing."

"I know how your mind works, Dodge. You're skeptical by nature. Why would you tend to believe Amanda Lofland over your own flesh and blood?"

Afraid that his angry voice might carry upstairs and through the guest room door, he'd propelled Caroline across the living area and into the kitchen. As soon as they'd reached it and he'd shut the door, he leaned toward her.

"You march out that flesh-and-blood connection whenever you want to make a point or to remind me that I should have blind loyalty toward Berry now. But you weren't so keen on her being my flesh and blood the day she was born."

"Do you blame me?"

"No, Caroline, and I never did. You were in the right. I was wrong. I admitted I was."

"It wasn't enough."

"How well I know." She'd tried to stare him down but failed, and he'd derived some satisfaction from her being the first to turn away. After a moment, he'd said quietly, "I think you should prepare yourself."

"For what?"

"For just in case Berry hasn't been quite as up-front with you as you think." When she would have spoken, he'd sliced the air with his hand. "That's what scares you, too, isn't it, Caroline? You said as much at the tearoom."

"I said--"

"I asked you what the problem was, and in reply you said that Berry is a lot like me. You knew that would be the one reason I'd stay on. Because we both know that the genes she got from me might not be pretty when they manifest themselves. If she's got herself into a mess, I'll help her get out of it, but the process might be disagreeable, to say the least." With that, he'd headed for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To town."

"What for?"

"I need a place to stay. Once I've got a room and dumped my stuff, I want to nose around, see if I can find a grapevine to tap into."

"How long will you be gone?"

"Can't say."

"Be back in time for dinner."

He'd stopped on his way through the door and looked at her. She'd looked anxious, as though afraid that, despite what he'd said, he might not return. He'd been tempted to ask her if she cared whether or not he came back, and if so, how much.

But all he'd said was "Anything happens, you've got my cell number." Now he was back, and she hadn't called him during his absence, so he assumed that there had been nothing new to report.

While he'd been gone, she'd changed into a pair of white pants cropped at her ankles and a yellow T-shirt, through which he could see the outline of her bra. She'd always thought her breasts were too small. He'd thought they were downright perfect, and perfectly sensitive.

"Did you find a room?"

He dragged his gaze off her chest and onto more neutral territory. "Uh ... yeah. Cypress Lodge."

"There's better available. I know of some houses that owners rent out when not in use. I should have thought of reserving you one before now, although I've been ... My mind's been scattered. But I could call the office and--"

"The lodge is fine. My standards aren't that high. This room has all the comforts of home. In fact, it's several notches above my place in Atlanta."

She dipped a wooden spoon into the spaghetti sauce, blew on it, sipped a sample, then laid the spoon in a ceramic holder near the burner and replaced the lid on the simmering pot. Going to the small breakfast table, she sat down and motioned Dodge into the chair across from her. He sat.

"Mr. Mitchell doesn't pay you well?"

"Very well. A hell of a lot more than I'm worth." He paused, then added, "But not nearly as much as you make selling houses."

"I've been fortunate."

"You work your butt off."

She conceded the point with a small smile. "I've put in some long days. But I love the work."

"It's made you rich. In Houston. Then here."

She folded her arms across her middle and eyed him shrewdly. "Who'd you talk to? No, wait. Where did you go for your beer?"

"A place on Bowie Street."

"Chat and Chill?"

He coughed behind his fist, saying evasively, "I think that was it."

"Grace. You got your information from Grace." She held his gaze and asked softly, "What did it cost you?"

"Two beers and two cigarettes."

She smiled again, but this time it was a sad expression. "Nothing's changed."

"Everything's changed, Caroline. Thirty years ago we were making love while the spaghetti sauce simmered."

He saw from her expression that she remembered it as well as he did. They'd decided to fool around and had forgotten all about what was on the stove until the smell of scorched tomatoes had alerted them to the potential hazard. He'd told her to hold on and somehow had got them off the bed while still joined. Then he'd carried her into the kitchen, and, as soon as he'd turned off the burner beneath the pot, they'd resumed right there.

Her face became flushed, and she couldn't look him in the eye. "We were young."

"And a little crazy. Crazy in love."

"Don't, Dodge." Her whisper had a desperately pleading undertone.

"Don't what? Don't talk about it? Don't remember? I can't help remembering. That day the spaghetti sauce burned was one of our more rollicking fucks." It had been a combination of laughter and lust. He got hard now just thinking about it.

For Caroline's part, she set her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands. He didn't know if she was hiding her shame or her delight. Tears, maybe. But when she finally lowered her hands, there were no tears in her eyes and her expression was impassive, giving him no clue as to her emotions.

She said, "If this lawyer pays you so well, why do you live in a place less appealing than your room at the Cypress Lodge?"

"Because a rathole comes with no responsibilities, and because I've got expenses that keep me on a tight budget despite hefty paychecks and bonuses." She gave him a questioning look, and he felt his shirt pocket for his pack of cigarettes, wishing he dared light up. "Alimony. Times two."

"You were married twice?"

"The first time to prove to myself that I could."

"Could what?"

"Forget you. The second divorce proved I couldn't."

She held his gaze for a long moment, then got up quickly and crossed the room to the sink, where she turned on the faucet, then immediately turned it off. "Stop saying things like that."

"Sue me."

She spun around, anger flashing in her eyes. "Don't be cute, Dodge. You can't flip off this crisis with one of your catchphrases. This situation--"

"Sucks," he said, coming to his feet and advancing on her. "That's what this situation does. Are you ashamed?"

"Ashamed?"

"Why haven't you told Berry who I am?"

"Why haven't
you
?"

That stopped him in his tracks. For the life of him, he couldn't think of a comeback.

A long, taut silence stretched between them. Eventually she said quietly, "I shouldn't have called you. You should never have sent me your phone number."

Several years ago, on a night when he was particularly drunk, lonely, remorseful, and maudlin, he'd written his cell phone number on a postcard along with two words.

Sue me.
His catchphrase, she'd called it. He supposed it was, because he'd known that, when she read those two words, she would know immediately whose phone number it was. The postcard had a picture of Margaret Mitchell's house on it, so she would also know that it had come from Atlanta.

It did his old, thudding heart good to know that she hadn't fed the postcard into the office shredder, or torn it into tiny bits and flung them to the four winds. "Nobody forced you to keep my phone number, Caroline. I didn't even know that you'd received it until you called last night. When I mailed you the card, I didn't know if you still worked at that company. I addressed it to Caroline King, but I didn't know if you went by your name or his."

"I kept mine."

"Why?"

"Professional reasons."

"What did he think about that?"

"He didn't object."