A Cutthroat Business (24 page)

The detective hesitated for a moment. “I can fax you a copy if you’d like.”

“You can?”

“Sure. It was yours to begin with. No reason why you can’t see it again. Maybe you’ll notice something we didn’t.”

“Great,” I said. “I’m at the office.” I gave her the fax number. We hung up, and I went over to the fax machine to wait. It rang less than two minutes later, and the first page of a Walker Lamont Realty Exclusive Right to Sell Listing Contract approved by the Tennessee Association of Realtors started making its slow progress through the machine. I gathered all three pages and took them back to my desk, where I proceeded to look them over.

Five minutes later I was breathing hard and having a problem controlling my emotions. I had hoped that maybe Mrs. Jenkins had had an attorney-in-fact, someone who had been looking out for her interests and advising her on what to do, or even signing for her. If such was the case, there was no mention of it in the contract. Tondalia Jenkins had put her own shaky John Hancock to the fact that she was competent to make decisions and not under coercion when she agreed to let Brenda Puckett market and sell her house under an illegal net-deal which gave Mrs. Jenkins the first $100,000 from the sale, and Brenda everything else.
 

I should probably explain. In a regular right-to-sell or exclusive-agency sale, the listing broker receives a percentage of the sales price as compensation. It can be anywhere from 4% up to 12%, with the average around 6% or 8%. The broker then turns around and shares his or her proceeds with the selling broker, who is the broker representing the buyer. (Confusing, I know.) In a net listing, however, the owner receives a specified — net — amount from the sale, with the excess going to the broker. This is done instead of giving the broker a certain percentage of the sales price. The broker can offer the property for sale at any price he or she wants, and pocket the difference. In this case, Brenda had listed the property for five times what she owed Mrs. Jenkins. She stood to pocket 400 grand, or would have, if she hadn’t been dead.

Net listings are illegal in most states,
Tennessee
among them. The real estate commission might have looked through the fingers with the dementia thing — all Brenda would have had to do, was say that Mrs. Jenkins had acted perfectly lucid and sane at the time of their meeting, and she had had no idea that the woman suffered from Alzheimer’s — but they wouldn’t have let her get away with the net listing. Lucky for her that she was already dead, and beyond the reach of the long arm of the law.

At noon I gave up the vigil and went home. And not because I wanted to have five hours to primp for my date with Rafe. Every time I thought about it, I couldn’t believe I had let him con me into going out with him. I’d never live it down. And with my recent run of luck, we were sure to meet someone I knew, who would tell everyone else where I’d been and with whom, and my family would have a collective heart attack before they had me committed and disowned.

All the same, I did get dressed up for dinner. Not in a sexy little black number, like I did for Todd, but in my most crisply sedate blouse, with French cuffs and a prim collar, and an equally sedate, mid-calf-length skirt. I pulled my hair back in a tight chignon, and even wore glasses instead of contacts. When I stepped back from the mirror, I looked like an old-fashioned school marm. Todd would have approved, but personally, I wasn’t so pleased. It wasn’t that I wanted Rafe to find me attractive — goodness, no! — but no woman likes to go out on the town looking less than her best. So with four minutes to go, I replaced the glasses with contacts and swiped some more color across my mouth. It was a poor effort, but better than nothing, and it took up all the time I had.

The downstairs buzzer sounded at six o’clock on the dot. I didn’t bother answering it — he hadn’t shown me the courtesy of allowing me to cancel, so I didn’t feel I owed him any consideration in return — I just locked the door behind me and headed down the stairs to the first floor. Where I was met, not by Rafe, but by a middle-aged African-American man with a military haircut. “You Miss Martin?” he said. I nodded. “I’m your driver. Get in.”

He opened the door of a Lincoln Town Car double-parked at the curb. I hesitated. In mystery novels, the heroine always gets abducted when she gets into a cab she hasn’t ordered herself. Then again, if Rafe had wanted to abduct me, he could have done it himself yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that. Plus — and the thought only now occurred to me — he might not have any vehicle other than that monstrous Harley-Davidson, and if so, it was really quite considerate of him to send a car instead of expecting me to ride pillion.

So I climbed into the Town Car and sat back against the leather upholstery, enjoying the feeling of being chauffeured and wondering where I’d end up for dinner.

“Where are we going?” I inquired when the car circumvented the downtown restaurant district and headed for the snobbier west side instead. A pair of flat, brown eyes, as expressive as pebbles, met mine in the mirror.

“Can’t say.”

“You mean you don’t know?”

He shook his head. “I mean I can’t say.”

“You know, but you won’t tell me? Why not?” I kept my eyes on him in the rearview mirror.

“Rafe told me, get the lady in the car and drive. No talkin’, no detours, no answerin’ questions. Just drive.”

I arched my brows. “So you can’t talk to me?”

“Nope. Sure don’t wanna upset the man.” He turned his attention back to driving. I leaned back, looking out of the window at the cars moving past and thinking dark thoughts.

When we turned into
Murphy Avenue
and I saw a familiar red, green, and white canopy of Fidelio’s Restaurant up ahead, I knew where we were going, and I admit it: I would almost have preferred McDonald’s. Almost. Still, I made an effort to smile graciously when I approached the maitre d’. “Good evening. I’m meeting someone for dinner.”

That distinguished gent inclined his gray head and murmured, “But of course, signorina. I’m afraid the gentleman signorina was with yesterday has not arrived yet, but...”

“Never mind.” I had spotted Rafe over in the corner, carrying on what looked like a flirtation with all three women at an adjoining table. “I see him.”

I left the maitre d’ in the dust and headed in that direction.

I got a few glances from male patrons as I walked through the restaurant tonight too, but none from Rafe, who was much too busy to notice my approach. The three women were keeping him occupied, and he didn’t seem to mind one bit. Not very flattering, I must say. It wasn’t until I was standing across from him that he looked up and saw me. I could see his eyes light with amusement when he took in my primly buttoned blouse and tight chignon, but he didn’t comment, just grinned as he got up to pull out the chair for me.

He had made an effort to clean up for the occasion himself, which was considerate of him. (Of course, the maitre d’ would have refused him admittance had he been dressed the way he usually was.) Tonight’s dark slacks and plain, button-down shirt wouldn’t win any awards for sartorial elegance, but the women at the next table didn’t seem to find any fault with him. The blue shirt made the most of his dusky complexion and dark eyes, and when he walked back around the table, I couldn’t help but notice that the slacks set off his posterior very nicely.

Naturally I didn’t comment. Instead, I folded my hands demurely in my lap and waited until he was seated again before I smiled sweetly. “It was nice of you to send a car for me. I wasn’t looking forward to riding on the back of the bike.”

“I figured.”

“Although, if you had told me where we were going, I could have met you here.”

“Stood me up, you mean.”

“No, just...”

He didn’t say anything, but a grin was tugging at his mouth.

“Oh, all right,” I said. “I wouldn’t have stood you up — I have better manners than that — but if you had given me the opportunity to cancel, I would have.”

“Why d’you think I didn’t answer the phone all afternoon? Drink?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He nodded toward the waiter, hovering next to the table.

“Oh. Yes. White wine, please.”

“And you, sir?” The waiter turned to Rafe. The ‘sir’ seemed to be an afterthought, but if Rafe noticed, he didn’t let on.

“Just a beer.”

The waiter sniffed. “We carry a large selection of imported beer, sir.”

“I ain’t all that fancy. How about a Bud?”

Fidelio’s could oblige with a selection of domestic beers as well, and in no time at all, Rafe was drinking a Budweiser while I was nursing a glass of chilled white wine. The waiter had brought another glass, so cold frost was forming on it, but Rafe had indicated that he preferred the bottle. The waiter had removed the glass with an eloquent sniff. Now Rafe leaned across the table and knocked his bottle against my glass. “Cheers.” He poured about half the contents down his throat.

“If you keep drinking like that,” I commented, “I’ll know all your secrets before the evening is over.”

He grinned. “Don’t count your chickens, darlin’.”

I shrugged and changed the subject. There is more than one way to skin a cat. “That friend of yours you sent to pick me up seems nice. How long have you known him?”

He looked at me for a moment, dark eyes watchful. Eventually, he seemed to decide that it wouldn’t do any harm to answer. “Going on ten years.”

“Were you in prison together?” Maybe the man’s loyalty dated back to some occasion when Rafe had stood up against the prison bullies for him, or something. Not that he had looked like he would need help taking care of himself. There had been absolutely nothing servile about him, hired hand, or no. In fact, he was the least polite chauffeur I’d ever encountered.

But Rafe shook his head in response to my question.

“So you met him after you got out? Do you work together?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“At the... um... car lot?”

He smiled. “The car lot’s what you might call a sideline.”

“So you’re not a used car salesman?”

“God forbid. No, darlin’. I don’t sell cars. Drive’em sometimes, but I don’t sell’em.”

“So you’re a... chauffeur?”

My questioning seemed to amuse him, because he laughed. “Not the way you mean.”

“Truck-driver?”

“Not really.”

“Mover? Pilot? Maybe you freelance as a NASCAR-driver?”

“Haven’t tackled that one yet, no. Might be fun, though.” He took another swallow of beer before leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. I conceded defeat with a sigh. He wasn’t going to tell me what he did for a living, so I might as well ask him something there was a chance he’d answer.
 
 

“Tell me about Brenda’s storage unit.”

“Ain’t much to tell. I was looking for something specific, so I didn’t take no notice of nothing else. What were you wanting to know?”

“What you were looking for, for a start. And whether you found it.”

He didn’t answer for a few moments, just watched me in silence. I was getting ready to squirm when he finally spoke. “I was looking for the paperwork for that house on
Potsdam
.”

“And did you find it?”

He looked away, over to the next table where the three women were sitting. One of them caught his eye and smiled. He lifted one corner of his mouth in return and turned back to me. “Yeah.”

“So you know that Brenda Puckett offered Mrs. Jenkins a measly fifth of what she hoped to sell the property for.”

He nodded.

“Did you know that that kind of contract stipulation is illegal in
Tennessee
?”

He shook his head. “But I don’t have to know that to know it’s wrong.”

Good point.

“Did
you
know that the hundred grand is already on deposit with the Milton House?”

It was my turn to shake my head. “How did you find that out? It wasn’t in the contract. Not the part I saw, anyway.”

“I asked,” Rafe said.

“And they told you? Oh, wait. That’s right. There’s not a nurse alive who can say no to you.”

He grinned and toasted me with the beer bottle.

While we had been bantering, the waiter had come back to take our dinner order. I ordered without consulting the menu — Chicken Marsala, the same thing I had had the night before — and waited for Rafe.

“I don’t suppose you got cheeseburgers?” The waiter just stared at him, stonily, down the length of his nose. “Guess not. I’ll have what she’s having.” He handed the waiter his menu.

“It won’t go well with the beer,” I warned. The waiter sniffed. Rafe shrugged.

The waiter took the menus and disappeared, his back radiating disapproval. I turned back to Rafe. “They do steaks, I think. You can call him back and...”

“Chicken’s fine.”

“Oh.” I bit my lip. “OK, then. If you’re sure.”

He grinned. “I ate courtesy of Riverbend Penitentiary for two years, darlin’. Chicken
Marsala
and beer ain’t the worst meal I’ve ever had.”