Escape Route (Murder Off-Screen Book 1) (2 page)

Oakley Beach, Maryland

Tuesday

The phone on the other end of the line rang half a ring. “Detective Driver. Speak.”

“Hi, guy. It’s Jaqie. Again.”

Esteban Driver’s pauses always held more information than his brief, blunt conversations. This pause said,
I thought you were going away for a while. You’re trying to let go, remember?

“Hi, kiddo. Are you in Maryland?”

“Yes, Stubby, I’m in Oakley Beach, as promised. I know I said I wouldn’t bug you anymore—”

“Call whenever you want, Jaq. I just wish I had something new to tell you when you do. Jeep is still missing. This is the year anniversary, am I right? The Oscars were last Sunday.”

A year. Felt like ten. Felt like no time at all. “I just wanted to check. In case.”

“Your roommate—”

“Best friend.”

Stubby took a patient beat. “Your best friend
and
roommate disappeared a year ago. Been hard on you, kiddo. I get that. But the good news is ...”

He expected me to fill in the blank because he’d said it to me so many times over the past twelve months, so I did. “The good news is, Jeep McBain has never been found.”

“There you have it. No body. Since we don’t have a body, my guess—he’s still using it. Dead men get found. It’s the alive guys who stay out of sight. I’ve been on the LA force thirty-two years, Jaqie. Hollywood changes people. An Oscar win can turn a person inside-out. One day you’ll look up, and ...”

“... there he’ll be.” I fished a tissue out of my pocket. “Can you buy shares of tissue stock?”

Stubby laughed his easy laugh. I had a sneaking suspicion the good detective could be handcuffed to a runaway car with a bomb in the trunk and dynamite under the front seat, plummeting down a cliff and still pull off the easy laugh.

“How’s the weather in Maryland?” he asked, guiding me off-topic.

“I’m actually sitting on a park bench in the sun, wearing shorts. Hotter here than across the Chesapeake in Baltimore.” The park surrounding my park bench was full of people doing what comes naturally on a warm, sunny day. Picnics on blankets, kids texting, Frisbees and dogs. “I’m on my way to have an ice cream cone.”

“That’s great. Get an extra-large. Fatten you up. The grapevine says you and Ms. Keiser are working on a new project.”

“How’d you hear that?”

“Let me introduce myself.
Detective
Esteban Driver. Stubby, to you.”

“Once again, you’re right, Detective Driver. I’ll tell Maddie how great you’ve been. She still loves you, in case you need reminded.”

I could hear the smile three-thousand miles away. “Don’t tell the wife.”

Esteban Driver had tossed Maddie, face down, into a pile of fertilizer at the LA Botanical gardens on a sweltering afternoon two years ago, jumped on top of her, shot a stalker in the knee cap, snagged a gold shield and free movie passes for life.

Another pregnant Driver pause. “You are a good girl, Jaqie Shanahan. My gut says you’ll have your friend back sooner than you think. And we both know my gut is ...”

“Your gut is an all-wise and all-knowing gut.” I blew my nose. “I love you, too, Detective.”

~~^~~

Riley Stevenson squashed a scoop of vanilla on top of the chocolate and handed the cone to me over the counter. “Who was that you were texting? Somebody famous, I’ll bet.”

I slid the phone across so he could read it. “Maddie wants me to meet her in Puerto Rico.”

“Madrille Keiser wrote this?” He touched the edge of the phone like it might explode. “Really? Isn’t that like invasion of privacy or something, if I read it?”

“Nothing is private in Oakley Beach. Go ahead.”

He dried his hands solemnly on his thirty-seven-flavor-stains-of-ice-cream apron, tidied his eyebrows and waved his towel at the swivel stools, an invitation to sit. “You’re sure? I’m not used to you Hollywood types.”

“Hollywood-type. Seriously? Mr. Stevenson, you’ve known me since ...” I traced a line at my knee. I slid onto the middle stool and spun a circle like I used to do when I came up to my knee. “It’ll be our secret. Promise.” Maddie was so down to earth that I forgot—not often—what a mega-star she was to regular folk. Riley Stevenson was regular folk.

“Wow.” After the third read-through, he mopped his face with the towel. “You’re friends with Madrille Keiser. And you’re both sailing to Puerto Rico next month. The whole town thought you were going to be a vet.” He laughed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Do you remember that rabbit? You put it right on that radiator over there. Frozen solid, it was, and you figured all it needed was defrosting.”

I nodded. “Good times.”

“Little Jaqie Shanahan. Not a vet, though, are you? Writing movies, hanging out with big stars. Your folks—rest in peace—would be proud. You put Oakley Beach on the map, I can tell you. What’s it like?” He leaned across the countertop and cupped his ear. “I want the dirt. We saw you on TV at the Oscars. Your Aunt B rented the fellowship hall and made those itty bitty meatballs for everybody. You sat with the young fella who won for something. Had a name like a car.”

“Jeep. McBain. He won for best original screenplay.”

Mr. Stevenson loofahed his forearm with the dish towel then polished the length of the green marble counter. “I watched your movie twice.
Murder at Manderley
. I’ll bet you get nominated, too.” He grinned the grin that got him all the girls back in the day. “Madrille Keiser is pretty easy to watch twice.” His eyes went round again. “And she sails!”

I snorted. Maddie stars in movies. Her “boat” is a 430-foot yacht. I write movies. My boat has two sails and a dinghy. “No, she has people for that.”

“Ah. People.” His eyes glazed over. “I wish I had people.”

“You do. Everybody in the village. You’re the most popular guy in town, like George Bailey.”

He pointed at the thermometer outside the window with its arrow nudging closer to seventy-five. “Especially when it’s warm out, and everyone wants ice cream. You and Ms. Keiser working on another movie?”

“We’re going over a few ideas.”

He snapped the towel and a blizzard of debris and hair follicles shot through the air. His eyes lit up. “You ought to write a movie about the Oakley Beach Butcher.” He squared a camera lens with his index fingers and thumbs and scanned the ceiling like it was the Strand marquee up in Merkleburg. “You could call it
Cold Case, Hot Blood
.”

I toasted him with what was left of my cone. “Come back to Hollywood with me, Mr. Stevenson. I’ll put you to work.”

“When do we leave?”

Since I didn’t want to go back—ever—at least, not yet, I said, “I’ll meet you there.”

“Mrs. Stevenson would have something to say about that, and it wouldn’t be yes.” Still, his eyes shone at the very idea. “Let me give you a gallon of pecan swirl to take home to Aunt B and Frank. It was your mama’s favorite. Rest in peace.”

The wall phone rang, and he held up a finger. “Give me a sec.” He answered but didn’t say much—just a lot of head bobbing while he fiddled with the twisted cord. “Will—will—will do. Um ah. Yup. She’s right here if— Uh huh. Will do.” He hung up and mopped his forehead.

“Aunt B?”

“Woman could talk the nails out of a board. Wants you to swing by Bub’s and send your Uncle Frank home. Y’all are eating at the Cracked Blue tonight ‘cept your uncle doesn’t know it. Bub’s got his phone off the hook, so I’m thinking they’re up to a good game of pinochle.”

“Off the hook? Isn’t that bad for business?”

Mr. Stevenson washed his hands and the scoop. “Not much to hunt this time of year. Geese is about it, for locals. And crow.” He curled balls of pecan swirl out of a five-gallon container and pressed them into a plastic tub. “Don’t know about you, but the missus can vouch, I’ve had my fill of eating crow.”

The fat man rubbed his middle chin. “I’ve never seen anything like that. You?”

“Nope. Me neither. Why would he do that?”

“It’s a Lab. Labs are smart dogs.” The fat man, who went by Timmy, believing the name made him appear slimmer than he actually was, slid four or five inches along the fender closer to Avery, the designated driver. He spat a bit of chewed fingernail to the ground. “Dog don’t have nobody to play fetch, so he plays by himself.”

The dog, who went by King and didn’t grasp the import of such a name, stopped and smiled at the men. They were welcome to join in. When they did not, he continued his game of solitaire and grabbed up the stick, swam out until he was several yards beyond the end of the dock and flung the stick as far as possible. On splashdown, he spun in the water and raced to shore. He shook a fair amount of the Chesapeake Bay onto the councilman’s March grass and gouged the winter dry lawn with his toenails, gaining purchase for the charge to the dock.

His nails clipped against the boards as he ran to the end and—here’s his favorite part—threw himself off the pier as far as he could. The stick bobbed a foot farther away because of the wake and King nailed it every time.

“Seems a shame to kill it,” Avery said.

“I do hate to shoot a dog. I’m a hit
man
, not a hit
dog
. They could just take it to the pound.” He turned and looked the driver square in the eye. “Or set it loose alongside of the road. This is the Eastern Shore of Maryland. Everybody got a Lab in the back of their truck.”

Avery, uncomfortable with the short distance between his narrow face and Timmy’s flushed cheeks, slid backward along the fender and gave himself some speaking room. “Cuthbart says to shoot it. That’s what we’re—
you
—are being paid to do. Half up-front. The other half after the news conference to announce the dog was hit by a car and had to be put down.”

“Dog must be a real problem for these folks.”

“Did you see that smile the dog gave us? That smile and the weird C marking on his ear is what got the councilman elected. Now that he won, no need for the dog.” He dusted his hands as a demonstration. “Won and done.” He smiled at his clever turn of phrase. Avery liked to think of himself as smarter than most. Definitely smarter than Timmy. “Now you know as much as me.”

“So’s if it’s dead—
accidentally
dead, people will feel sorry for the councilman. They’d sure take their votes back if they knew King there was shot on purpose, and not road-kill.”

“Let’s get him in the car before he gets too muddy.” It was a rental but Avery wasn’t paying extra for cleaning when he turned it back in at the Pittsburgh airport. Remember, we have to cover up that mark on his ear, too.” He clapped. “Here, King. C’mere like a good boy.”

King’s second favorite thing was a car ride. He could wedge his whole head out the window and smell everything. He hesitated a moment to see if the kids from the house might be home and want to go along. But they didn’t come out.

He’d see them at dinner.

Timmy slipped a bottle of nail polish out of his front pocket. “Nude on the Beach.” He shook it and untwisted the lid. “Kinda pink, but it’s what they had. You hold him.”

Avery buffed the dog’s ear with the sleeve of his favorite jacket, a green, corduroy number he kept sneaking out of the wife’s Burn This barrel by the garage. “Didn’t know he’d be soaking wet, or I’d have brought a towel.”

A curtain at the main house was drawn aside, then hastily fell back into place. A tall, elegant shadow moved behind it.

Timmy slathered a layer of polish over the C and stepped back. The dog sneezed but the corduroy sopped it right up. “That’ll do it.” He opened the back passenger door so the dog could jump in. “Her idea, prob’ly. The wife’s.” He tipped his head in the direction of the window.

Avery settled behind the wheel. “It’s always the wife’s idea,” he said, mopping at his jacket with a tissue which made things worse. “Dog probably did his business in her flower beds, and she’d had enough.”

“Women.” Timmy’s side of the car groaned, and sank lower to the ground as he shut his door.

“Go figure.” Avery tapped the dashboard GPS panel and programmed in two coordinates. “The boss said this is a good spot. Shoot him. Bury him. Outta here.”

Timmy looked around the estate grounds and down the half-mile drive to the main road, which was nothing more than a two-lane blacktop county job ‘til it reached town.

“Glad Cuthbart knows where we need to go ’cause everything looks the same around here. Not like Pennsylvania, no how. Nothin’ here but flat and woods.”

“And private gates.”

“Money everywhere you look, for sure.”

King shook once in the backseat. Mud and water and bits of grass peppered the interior.

“That comes out of your share. I’m not paying to clean this car.” Avery congratulated himself on not bringing the wife’s Buick. She’d have a flying fit if she so much as found a nose print on one of the windows.

Timmy patted the dog, who’d stuck his head over the front seat and laid his chin flat on the fat man’s cushy shoulder. “He’s a Lab. Labs shake.”

Avery adjusted the rearview. The curtain was drawn back, again. He waggled his fingers as a farewell. “Happy now?” he said to the councilman’s wife. He imagined claw-tipped fingers snagging the fancy drapes.

“Huh?”

“Nothing. You all set?”

Timmy patted himself down. Checked the glove box. Bent over as far as his belly and seat belt would allow, and slid his hand under the seat.

“What?” Avery slowed the car to a stop at the security gate, and waited for someone inside the house to press the Open button. “What are you doing?” He’d only worked two jobs with Timmy and wasn’t that impressed, and the look on his partner’s face now wasn’t instilling confidence that this job was on its way to a satisfactory conclusion.

The security gate swung open. “I can’t find my bullets. Guess I left ‘em back home.”

Avery sat at the gate so long the fair-warning buzzers started keening. He punched the gas pedal and squealed past the brick columns and lurched onto the main road before the gates nicked the paint on the stupid car. “Are you really a hit man? You’re not, are you?”

“Shows what you know. I shot my own cousin. He owed a guy money.”

“You killed your own cousin? You couldn’t lend him a couple of bucks?”

Timmy’s neck flared red, matching his cheeks. “I shot him in the calf. Right here.” He grabbed the back of his leg. “In the meaty part. Bled like a stuck pig.”

“Can you believe this guy? A hit man with no bullets.” Avery backed the car up and turned it around toward Oakley Beach, down the road five miles. In the exact opposite direction of where they needed to go. “Now we have to find a gun shop.”

“I forgot bullets. So shoot me.”

Avery clenched his jaw and swore an oath that this was the last gig he’d ever pull with this clown. “The extra gas comes out of your share.”

Timmy scratched the dog between its brown eyes. “C’mon. Let’s get this mess over with. Put the back window down. Labs like that.”

As the fresh air rolled in, King smiled and stuck his head the whole way out the window.

He really liked these guys.