Hound Dog Blues (23 page)

“Maybe. It wasn’t really a break-in, more like a break-out. I have keys.”

“Jesus, baby. What’s going on now?”

She gave him a quick rundown, including the fact that Yogi and Diva were apparently okay, and ending with her phone stalker. “He’s probably just bluffing anyway.” She crumpled the message slip into a ball and tossed it into the trash.

“So why did you want the stun gun?”

“I’m just borrowing it until he stops calling. And until I check out that warehouse.”

“Yeah, well, I did some more checking for you. It belongs to some guy named Norville Bates. Ever hear of him?” She shook her head. “I didn’t think so. He specializes in cheap knockoffs, Mexican imports, fake Chinese porcelain, statues, rugs, crap like that. I’m not so sure there’s a connection.”

“There has to be. His car was in Mrs. Trumble’s driveway right before she was shot. There are two options I can see, one being that for some reason Bates shot her, and the other being that her nephew did it. Personally, I opt for the nephew. Archie must know Bates somehow. Maybe he’s an employee. Maybe he’s a friend or business partner.”

“And maybe he’s a homicidal maniac, and you should stop messing around with this shit and tell Baroni about it.”

“Bobby and I have communication problems.”

“Then tell Jett. Call Crime Stoppers. Stay out of it, baby. It’s dangerous.”

He was right. Here she was playing detective and getting nasty phone calls, putting herself in danger when she knew better. Cami wasn’t the only one who’d gotten too far into the Charlie’s Angels thing.

“Look,” Tootsie said, leaning toward her and lowering his voice, “my new friend is a cop. Don’t look so surprised. You’re not the only one who appreciates a man in uniform, baby. I had him check out a few things for me. You know that necklace? It never made it to the evidence room. That doesn’t necessarily mean it won’t, you understand.”

She thought about that. “But if it’s not there, where could it be?”

“Who knows. Could be that it’s being appraised or delivered to an insurance company for identification. Or . . . .” He let it drag out suggestively.

“You’re so trusting.”

“According to Steve—my friend—it gets checked in and only authorized police can sign it back out.”

“So, is this how you can find out so much stuff? Steve knows where and how to look?”

“I never share trade secrets, baby. Just enjoy the perks.”

“Right.”

She had an excellent idea where that necklace was—and she bet Morgan did, too. Damn. She really hated what she was thinking.

Of all days, she had a bunch
of rowdy corporate guys away from home and family and set for fun, to take to the barbecue. Fate had a way of tormenting her at times. She fielded propositions and not-so-subtle pickup lines with her usual aplomb. Pointing to the can of Mace on her belt and wagging a stun gun usually worked fairly well. Most guys, no matter how drunk, responded to a sense of self-preservation.

“Whassa’matter, baby?” one of them said, smelling like a brewery already, and it was only eleven in the morning. “Don’ you like me?”

“I don’t know you. Step back, please. Regulations require that all passengers be seated and seat-belted.”

“We haven’ lef’ yet. Still . . .” He hiccupped. “. . . sittin’ in front of the hotel.”

“And we’ll still be sitting here at five this afternoon if you don’t take your seat, sir. I can’t drive with you unseated.”

He belched, not the response she desired. Maybe the walk down Beale Street would sober him up enough that he wouldn’t be arrested before he got back to his hotel, but it was doubtful. If he was this far gone before noon, he was hopeless.

“Hey Bailey,” one of the other guys said, “get in and leave her alone. There’ll be more women than you can shake a stick at down on the river.”

Harley hoped the women down on the river had sticks of their own. Bailey was trouble. He had a belligerent, bulldog kind of expression on his face that didn’t bode well for the future. It was obvious he didn’t like getting turned down, though he must have a lot of experience with it. He had one of those flat, pug noses in his fleshy face, a round head like a cue ball and with just about as much hair, and a single eyebrow that made her think of caterpillars. He probably didn’t get much action. Horny men were such a pain in the ass. Horny drunk men were downright begging for Mace.

The urge to reach for her stun gun only increased when he sagged into the front passenger seat with the obvious intention of remaining. She considered insisting he sit in the back, but since he’d subsided into a sulky heap and all the other seats were taken, it’d be a mistake to make a big deal out of it. Bailey could very well be the guy who signed the checks for these little outings.

She began to think she’d escaped disaster as they got near Beale Street. Bailey had said only a few words on the entire ride from East Memphis. The rest of the group were jovial and ready to party. Typical guys away from home and business.

Traffic was a nightmare, but she’d expected that. It was always like this during Memphis in May, with Riverside Drive closed to traffic and the detours bumper to bumper. She’d get them as close as she could, then park the van in The Peabody lot and agree to a meeting time and place for their return to the Marriott. That left her with a few hours to kill.

“If you want to leave earlier,” she told them when she pulled up in the parking lot of a restaurant on the river bluffs overlooking Tom Lee Park and the barbecue booths, “call Tour Tyme and they’ll contact me.”

Bailey’s head swung around to face her. “Come with us and we won’t have to go to that kinda trouble, sweetheart.”

She smiled brightly to keep from following up on her urge to gas him. “You’re very kind, but that’s against the rules.”

“Rules are made to break.”

“I’m very law-abiding. Watch your hands.” She popped the door locks on the automatic van door, and it slid back with a grating sound that drowned out his reply. “It’s nearly noon now, gentlemen. We can meet back here or wherever you prefer.”

Everyone left the van but Bailey, who obviously intended to be persistent. No point in giving him another chance to get turned down. She opened her door and got out, moving around the end of the van to settle on a time for pickup with the most sober man in the group. This needed to be hurried up. Her stalker would be calling in a few minutes, and she wanted to tell him the police had his necklace. That would end his harassment and any danger to herself. Let the cops handle it from now on.

She made arrangements to meet them in The Peabody Hotel at seven unless they called, and then she reminded them of the company policy that guaranteed extra pay for overtime. Tying up a van and driver all day didn’t come free. Or cheap. For most corporate guys, the cost didn’t matter. Memphis Tour Tyme even had a couple of sleek limos they rented out, but she avoided driving them when she could. Wearing a uniform and driving kids around on Prom Night was on a par with getting a root canal without Novocain.

“Hey, Blondie,” Bailey hollered from the front seat of the van, “your phone’s ringin’.”

The guy was such a jerk. She really had to resist aiming a shot of Mace at him. If ever a man needed Mace . . . .

“Hey,” she said, scowling at him as he held up her cell phone, “that’s personal property.”

All she needed was Bailey scaring off her stalker before she had a chance to get rid of him permanently.

“Don’t get your panties in a wad, Blondie.” He juggled it from one hand to the other as
Dixie
kept playing, his grin making him look like a malevolent full moon.

“My name is Harley. Give me my phone.” She held out her hand, rapidly losing patience. He kept juggling it, even when one of his buddies said to give it to her, for Chrissake.

It was a matter of pride with jerks like this, the need to assert some misbegotten sense of masculine superiority. She’d show him superiority with a full shot of Mace in his eyes if he kept it up, dammit.

Only a yard from him, she unsnapped the Mace canister from her belt loop. Usually the fact she was willing to use it convinced drunks to play nice. Bailey just looked at her as
Dixie
played louder and she got madder.

“Give me my damned phone,” she snarled, and gave the can of Mace a healthy shake, “or I’ll get it from you once you’re lying on the ground bawling like a baby.”

Bailey tossed the phone at her but it went wide, landing on the concrete. Plastic parts went in several different directions and
Dixi
e stopped playing. This did not make her happy. She shared her sentiments with Bailey, his buddies, and anyone within earshot, resulting in the much soberer Bailey shoving some hundred dollar bills into her hand and apologizing profusely.

“Buy a new phone. Buy two of ’em. Just take the money and we’ll pretend this didn’t happen, okay, Blondie?”

There was nothing like Benjamin Franklin to make her forgiving, but she warned him that if he wanted a free tour of the Memphis jail, he was in the right neighborhood.

It was a relief to leave them behind and head for the lobby of The Peabody Hotel where they were to meet later. Why had she ever thought this job would be stress free? It was just another kind of stress. Maybe she should rethink her career choices.

It was cool inside the hotel, and she headed straight for the bank of pay phones just off the main lobby. The marble fountain with its profusion of fresh flowers had the usual ducks swimming around the bottom, drawing a crowd. Twice a day, the music of John Philip Sousa ushered the ducks from the elevator and across a red carpet to their elegant marble pool, always to a big crowd. What a life. She’d seen the duck house on the roof, a twenty-five thousand dollar cage with gilding and artwork. Not bad housing for a duck. Or a tour guide.

Music from a grand piano added to the noise of tourists drinking at the lobby bar, and she had to put one finger in her ear to hear Tootsie. She told him about her broken phone, said she’d call him as soon as she replaced it, and swore she hadn’t zapped Bailey even though he’d deserved it.

“He came really close to tasting Mace, though,” she added, and Tootsie laughed.

Harley hung up and went looking for another cell phone store. There had to be one close by, so she could walk. The trolleys would be crowded, and getting a taxi during Memphis in May nearly impossible. It was almost one o’clock by the time she had a new phone, after shelling out more money than she thought proper. Where did they find such rigid employees? You’d think she was the only person ever to break a phone. And as much as she paid in monthly fees, they ought to furnish new ones for free.

She sat in Starbucks at Peabody Place, drinking an iced mocha latte and programming her new phone. Then she called Tootsie and had him call her back to test it.

“It works,” she said. “Looks like I missed my stalker’s noon call, though.”

“He’ll call back. I think you ought to go ahead and call Bobby anyway.”

“Yeah. Maybe. Here’s the thing. I told Jett everything I knew. Those guys obviously talk to each other a lot. They always seem to know too much.”

Squinting at the Irish pub across the atrium area of glass, greenery, and ceramic tile pool, she saw a familiar face. She sat up straight. Morgan. And he was sitting at a table with the guy she’d seen parking the Lincoln in the lot behind Jernigan’s jewelers.

“Gotta go,” she said to Tootsie, and hung up. This didn’t look good. Morgan sitting with a guy she’d seen going in the back door of a shady jewelers. She’d just told Morgan about him yesterday, so if he was sitting here all chummy with him less than twenty-four hours later, he had to already know him. No one moved that fast. Unless—Morgan was a dirty cop. It happened. Maybe he was in on the jewelry heists. It’d be easy for a cop to look the other way, especially an undercover cop, but she didn’t think it was true. Didn’t want it to be true.