Chill Factor (24 page)

“Jessica? Oh, yes, a regular.”

Interesting that the boutique owner never mentioned seeing Edna here. “Was Edna Pine a regular?”

“Oh …” Nora made a tsk-tsk sound with her tongue. “Edna came here for a while … during the holidays, I believe.”

“Not more recently?” …
only one happy hour a week. Edna
never missed it.
Why would Jackson lie? Or had he simply failed to notice?

“Edna got the gospel, if I remember right. Lots of them do, you know, when they’ve lost someone close.”

“Gospel?”

“You know—this belief or that. Some dial up the television psychics. Others join self-improvement groups. Some turn to God. Edna struck me as needing a force to believe in.”

“Like the Church of The Light?”

“I don’t recall … but then, my brain isn’t what it used to be.”

“Do you know a woman named Opal Shack, or Shattuck, from Victoria, Texas?”

Nora shook her head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Lucy Ames was a member, wasn’t she?”

“My, my, now you
are
taxing my memory. Oh, look. Here’s that nice young man again. Such a fine dancer, Dixie. Why don’t you two take a little spin around the floor?”

“Actually,” Parker said, “I’d like to dance with you, Nora.”

“Oh, well … the spirit is willing, but my poor old feet can’t take any more tonight. You young people go ahead.” She shooed Dixie out of her chair.

Dixie could think of nothing she’d enjoy more than Parker’s arms around her for a while, but first she intended to talk with Vernice Urich. She scanned the bar, where the woman had sat earlier, then the dance floor, where Terrence Jackson and Jessica Love dazzled onlookers with a fancy Latin step, and then the other tables. Maybe Vernice had gone to the ladies’ room.

“I’ll be back,” she told Parker.

But Vernice wasn’t in the ladies’ room. Dixie peeked into the part of City Streets occupied by other organizations. A sign outside one room identified the group as the Senior Singles Network. On the stage, a speaker explained the reasons a national sales tax should replace the federal income tax. Vernice was not among the audience. Nor was she in the nightclub or in the next room, where a mini-trade show was in progress. About the same time Jessica Love arrived, Vernice Urich had disappeared.

As Dixie retraced her steps to the Fortyniners gathering, a light clicked on in her brain and she recalled why the name Fortyniners had sounded familiar the first time Terrence Jackson mentioned it. As a volunteer for Avery Banning’s election campaign, Dixie’d helped arrange speaking engagements at business and professional meetings—including the Senior Singles Network. The chairman had mentioned that members of other organizations often popped in. One of those groups was Fortyniners.

Did this mean something?
Or was it just another indication that it’s a small world?

At The People’s training center, Philip Laskey sat before a personal computer typing letters from Colonel Jay’s notes. From another part of the center came the energetic sounds of men training. When The People inherited this nation, they’d be strong and worthy of it.

Before touching the
PRINT
key, Philip slid his hands into a pair of thin rubber gloves. Then he loaded paper from a fresh package and opened a new box of envelopes. He studied the envelopes in their box, thin white edges, faultlessly aligned. Precision pleased him.

Once the letters and envelopes printed out, he placed them side by side on the desk. Selecting a ballpoint pen from a cluster of writing implements in a drawer, he scribbled on a paper scrap to check the ink flow, then signed each letter in clean, clear script:
The People.

He admired the letterhead’s insignia, blue, red, and gold, no bigger than a nickel.

“How do you respond when asked what that emblem stands for?” the Colonel often inquired.

“Freedom, sir!” thirty voices replied.

Except when the wrong person asked. Then the “P” stood for perseverance, preservation, prism, peace—anything but The People.

Philip noted a message on the printer:
TONER LOW
. He opened the cover, removed the toner cartridge, and shook it a few times before reinserting it. Then he folded the letters—only one of the three was significant—placed each in its matching envelope, sealed, stamped, and slid it into a brown paper bag.

By dropping them at the downtown post office, he could assure they’d arrive tomorrow with The People’s dual message.

No officer-turned-killer would be tolerated.

Any commander who excused murder had ordered his own execution.

Enjoying Parker’s arm around her waist as they left City Streets, Dixie slowed her steps to extend their walk in the parking lot as long as possible. The night was clear and cool and endless with stars. With all the city’s tall buildings behind them, the western skyline seemed to stretch forever.

“Did you pick up any clues tonight?” Parker asked.

“I don’t know yet. No one admitted knowing Lucy Ames, and Edna stopped attending long before the robberies.” Dixie related her conversations with Nora Raye, Terrence Jackson, others she’d questioned, and her notion that Jessica Love might be the third Granny Bandit.

“My eyes must be failing me. Did she look like a granny?”

“Okay, then how about Nora Raye?”

“I didn’t peg her as a mastermind.”

Dixie hadn’t, either.

Parker guided her around an oil slick on the asphalt. “What if Lucy Ames, with her insider knowledge, caught the first Granny Bandit’s act and decided to pull off the same trick. Only she doesn’t know about guns. Talks to her new friend, Edna Pine, who
does
know about buying guns—after all, her husband had a cabinetful. Lucy confides her idea, and together they plan ‘The Great Bank Robbery.’ A lark. A nose-thumb at the world. If they pull it off, fine. Life gets more interesting—
action, money, a moment in the limelight. If not, what a rousing final curtain. They ‘lie here enjoying the timeless fame.’”

“Shakespeare again?”

“Simonides. Think about it, what did they have to lose?”

Dixie’d forgotten how much she enjoyed tossing around ideas with Parker. His scenario sounded much like the one she’d heard from Rashly, and it still didn’t account for the missing cash.

“You sound as if you knew Lucy and Edna,” she remarked.

“Loneliness isn’t limited to middle-aged females.”

She glanced up at him, wondering if the comment was more personal than general. In the near darkness, she couldn’t read his hooded eyes and vague smile.

“What did you learn about the psychotherapist, Vernice Urich, who left before I could talk to her? Her name was penciled on Edna’s calendar, and Terrence Jackson said she introduced him to Edna.”

They’d reached the Mustang. Dixie unlocked it, then turned, leaned against the door. Parker looked down at her, and Dixie sensed his desire to close the short distance between them was as strong as her own.

“Vernice specializes in weight loss and marriage counseling,” he said. “Having been wed six times, she considers herself an expert—”

“Six men proposed to her? With that face?” Dixie slapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. Cat jumped out.”

Parker grinned. “I’m sure she wasn’t born with wrinkles as thick as broom straws.”

“Bet she’s tagged Terrence Jackson for number seven.” Even while enjoying Judge Garston’s impromptu massage, Vernice had seemed entranced by the Millennium Midas.

Parker kicked at a soda can someone had left on the pavement. “You obviously enjoyed the company of your super-salesman tonight. Didn’t know you were such a fancy stepper.”

“Neither did I.” She couldn’t deny the dance with Jackson had been fun, even though he’d struck her as a controlling SOB. “Parker, the Fortyniners trust Terrence Jackson. Is he conning them?”

“Sure, he is—to some extent. Remember, the only difference between a con and a sale—”

“Yeah, yeah—is the value of the product.” The
Financial Times
article had given Jackson high points for delivering value to his clients.

“Dixie, if I couldn’t convince buyers to trust me, I’d never make a sale. Jackson’s no different in that respect.”

“He tried to recruit me to Fortyniners.”
Then denied it.

“Can’t blame him.” Parker ran a finger across her bare shoulder. He slipped his other hand around her waist and whirled her in a tricky dance step.

Dixie moved close, savoring the moment. “Think I should ask for a follow-up lesson?”

“The ‘devil’ must be special, the way women’s eyes light up when he’s around.”

“Personally, I wouldn’t trade one Parker Dann for ten Terrence Jacksons,” Dixie murmured. “Want to see
my
eyes light up?” She tugged his head down and whispered in his ear.

“Woman, you make me blush.” Parker gently disengaged from her, then kissed her cheek and winked. “Call you tomorrow.”

When he opened the car door, Dixie slowly slid behind the wheel, a rush of embarrassment heating her face. Feeling a complete fool, she watched him stroll across the parking lot.

The brief firmness against her leg attested that Parker Dann had not become sexually immune to her. Didn’t he feel the miserable ache—as she did—of these three celibate months? Did he have more willpower? Or was he gratifying his desires elsewhere?

With every man in her life, Dixie had been the one to break off the relationship. Maybe her own ego kept her from seeing that Parker had
already
broken it off—and moved on.

Blinking fast to keep the dampness in her eyes from smearing the goddamn layers of mascara, she couldn’t decide whether she felt anger, sadness, humiliation—or a frustrating, gut-wrenching mixture of all three.

Her pager chirped. She’d left it in the car on purpose, and now it showed five messages from Amy. Thrusting the key
into the ignition, she watched Parker’s Cadillac turn toward Galveston, putting miles between them.

She started the Mustang’s engine, then glanced back at her pager.
Jeez, Amy, what is it now?
Reluctantly, wanting nothing more to think about, preferring to wallow in the misery of rejection, she punched the quick-dial button on her cell phone as she eased out of the parking space.

“Where have you been?” her sister demanded.

“Amy, just tell me what’s wrong.”

“They arrested Marty! The cops came and made him go down to the police station. I told them he’d already answered all their questions—he wasn’t even here when Edna … well, he wasn’t! But they wouldn’t listen, Dixie. They took him.”

“I’m sure it’s only to clarify a few things. I’ll call—”

“These were
not
the nice cops. I know all about how they gang up, one all buddy-buddy, the other angry and cruel—like on
NYPD Blue.
How could they think Marty helped Edna?”

“I’m sure they simply need some answers, Amy. Did they take him in the police car or let him drive his rental?”

“He drove, but with two cop cars in front and two behind.”

Heavy police escort—an intimidation technique Dixie knew well. It meant they planned to sweat Marty once they got him downtown.

“Stop worrying, Amy. If they let him take his car, he wasn’t arrested. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

Allowing Marty to drive his own vehicle would bolster his confidence, lead him to believe he had nothing to worry about, while the conspicuous show of power kept him nervous. Then they’d put him in a depressing little room—no arrest, so no lawyer—and intimidate him into giving up everything he knew.

What the hell did they think he knew?

Dixie phoned Ben Rashly—a long shot, since he rarely worked so late. Amazingly, he answered, but cut her off when she tried to explain the problem.

“Stay out of this, Flannigan. I don’t care how well you think you know this guy. When cops get killed—”

“Cops? As in plural?”

“What’d you do, take a shuttle to Mars for the afternoon? Another sniper shooting—Officer Ted Tally. Exactly like Harris.
And the Pine robbery was the only squeal those two men ever caught together.”

“But, Rash, Marty Pine wasn’t in Houston when Harris was shot. He flew back to Dallas the night before.” Right after they’d finished looking through Edna’s house.

“Shows how much you know about your buddy.”

As the line went dead, Dixie reflected on the four messages Marty had left when he asked her to meet him at Edna’s. Marty was supposed to be in Dallas that night, too, and he’d given a Dallas number for her to call back, but the number showing in her Caller ID window had a 713 area code. Houston.

Making a U-turn toward downtown, Dixie tuned the radio to a news station, then phoned Belle Richards—only to learn that Marty had already called.

“Charge my client now, Sergeant, or release him,” Belle demanded.

“If he has nothing to hide—”

“Let’s go.” Belle grasped Marty’s arm and ushered him past the scowling officer.

Dixie followed as they moved toward the elevators. Still in her party clothes, she’d watched heads turn earlier as she hurried through Homicide Division, and had recognized some of the smiles. This time, every officer they passed returned an angry stare.

In the elevator, empty except for the three of them, Dixie learned that the interview had scarcely started before Marty asked for his lawyer. The fact that the officers hadn’t charged him meant their evidence was flimsy. For now.

Taking separate cars, they drove to the Richards, Blackmon & Drake offices. Belle stopped Dixie at the door to her conference room, gesturing Marty inside.

“Flannigan, I’m not convinced it’s a good idea for you to be present during this interview, but Marty insisted. Your part is to listen, mouth zipped, unless I specifically ask for your input. Got it?”

Dixie nodded. They both sat down opposite Marty. With a
yellow wooden pencil not yet showing teeth marks, Belle made one small dot on a white legal pad.

“You were smart,” she told him, “to keep quiet. But that stops here. I’m the one you don’t lie to. Ever. The police know you never returned to Dallas Wednesday night. Where did you go?”