Stunner (10 page)

“I promise,” he says. “No drugs.”

“I’ve had it with you, Bobby Taylor.” So, that definitely is
BT
, the initials scribbled on the pad in her room, and a definite low-life. Juliana practically throws the envelope at him. “And no more phone calls and packages.” OK, she’s got to be talking about the hang-ups at the farm and the dead-bird box. She seems to have been in contact with this guy for a while, and that might explain how he knew she’d be at Meadow Farm before she’d even arrived.

Bobby opens the envelope, and as he partially pulls out a huge wad of money, other stacks of bills fall out. He quickly picks them up, stuffing them back in.

You’ve got to be kidding. Nobody I know carries around that amount of cash. Wonder if she brought it out from California in her carry-on. Or she could have stopped repeatedly at an ATM in town. Or both.

“I mean it,” Juliana practically shouts. “We’ll clear out. And I mean out of the country. You won’t ever find us.” Who is
us
? Bobby mumbles a response, but I can’t really hear him. He flips through the bills, and I snap more photos as he mutters something else. I wish he’d speak more clearly.

Juliana cuts him off. “Stay away from Frankie, or the money stops. That’s always been our deal.” Her tone sounds ferocious. Who is this Frankie? Why is he the make-or-break on the money?

“Forget about us, Bobby.” Does she mean my brother and her, or this Frankie guy and her? Then Juliana’s voice drops to a murmur and she says something I can’t hear. Bobby laughs, and she explodes. “You’re going to spoil everything.” I think back to her words the evening of the cocktail party.
You’ll ruin everything.
Ruin everything, spoil what? Is something else terrible going on here that doesn’t concern my brother? Or does it? She walks around the Toyota and opens the driver’s door.

He follows her. “Oh, come on, sugar,” he whines, and grabs her arm. She shakes him loose, but he moves in to grab her again. She quickly sidesteps out of his way. He stumbles and swears at her. Uh, oh. Should I call the police before this escalates?

Juliana hurriedly gets into the car, slams the door shut, and starts the engine. Bobby uses his fist to bang on her window and resorts to the vilest of language. She pulls away from the curb, and he bangs his fist on the car’s trunk. Watching her drive off, he calms down, seems indifferent at this point, and walks into the Moosic Motel.

I start my car, fasten Warrior’s seat belt on him, and pull out as Juliana maneuvers around two sets of double-parked trucks further down the street. I stay at a safe distance, curious to see if she makes any other stops.

I drive for twenty minutes, and once I’m sure Juliana is heading back to New Jersey, I reverse my course to return to Moosic. Think I’ll check on tattooed-biker-man Bobby and see what’s up with him.

Back in the dicey part of town, Bobby’s motorcycle is still parked out front between the Moosic Motel and the coffee shop. I glide by at fifteen miles an hour and look into the big picture window of the motel. A different person is on duty, not the unshaven skinny guy I talked to during my first visit here.

I park further down the street and consider my next move. My heart is thumping so I reach for
The Art of Peace
, a little book that has some of the teachings of
O’Sensei
, the creator and founder of Aikido. I flip open to a quote of his that Isabella
Sensei
mentioned recently.

Do not stare into the eyes of your opponent: he may mesmerize you. Do not fix your gaze on his sword: he may intimidate you. Do not focus on your opponent at all: he may absorb your energy
…

I take a deep breath. Am I really ready for snooping around among dubious strangers in a shady neighborhood like this? I could take Warrior, but that might arouse too much attention.

Lowering the windows partially for fresh air but not enough for Warrior to wriggle out, I then scratch his head. “You be a good boy. Stay here and guard the van. I’ll be right back.” I don’t bother clicking the lock to the vehicle as I head for the motel. No need, with Warrior sitting inside, and I don’t plan to stay longer than a few minutes, anyway. I glance back at the van, and my loyal companion is watching my every step.

Instead of going into the motel lobby, I make a quick turn down the garbage-strewn alley beside the building. The smell of rotting food in tossed-out containers almost makes me gag as I slowly walk along the narrow passageway. I realize I’m foolishly putting myself in harm’s way and almost turn back to the van, but my curiosity pulls me forward, and I continue.

Every time I come to a window, I stop and peek past an old, humming air conditioning unit, carefully looking for Bobby Taylor. No luck. Maybe he’s on the other side of the building. Of course, I’m not sure exactly what I’d do if I found him in one of these rooms.

I round the corner to the back of the building and unintentionally startle a scruffy, greasy-looking guy, causing him to stagger as he rolls a joint. His expression changes to one of anger when he sees my gawking expression.

“Lady, what are you staring at?” He staggers again and fumbles the half-rolled joint, almost dropping it. Instead, he recovers and quickly stuffs it into his pocket.

“N-nothing,” I stutter, my knees now shaking. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.” I figure he’s probably already high. “Hey, you friends with Bobby Taylor? I think he’s staying here.” I notice my voice is getting higher in pitch from nerves.

“Yeah, well, maybe we’re friends…” he mumbles, and drool runs down his chin over a nasty sore. “What’s it to ya?”

If Bobby Taylor looks like a low-life, then this guy looks like absolute gutter trash. His clothes are filthy and torn, his face is slobbery, and he stinks. He probably hasn’t had a shower in many days. His stench, combined with the sweet smell of whatever he’s smoking, just about overpowers me.

I snap to when he suddenly lunges at me, and I hastily step to the right. He crashes into some garbage cans and grunts as he lands on his side. Now he’s really mad.

“You bitch,” he yells at me, as he pushes himself up. He lunges at me again, and this time I physically freeze. He shoves me up against the building, grabbing me around the neck with a front choke.

All my Aikido techniques fly out the window while I go mentally blank. In my panic, I flail around, trying in vain to break his hold around my neck. I struggle for air and scratch at his face, but he won’t let go. God, he’s got a tight grip for someone who’s stoned. My arms thrash even more at the thought of dying in this alley. I go lightheaded from a lack of oxygen, and that’s when I hear a voice from inside the motel yell, “Hey, Jimmy, you outside?”

The man’s hands immediately drop from my throat, and he looks in the direction of the voice. “Hey, Bob-beeee,” he slurs. “Wan’ some good weed?” That’s all I need to break away.

I haul out of there as fast as I can to the front of the motel. Then, just as I come to the street, I hear a noise behind me. I turn to see the pot-smoking creep running after me and yelling, “You bitch. I’ll kill ya.”

I head for my vehicle where I see Warrior still on the alert, waiting for me. I jump into the van and jam the keys into the ignition. My dog’s agitation is growing, and he growls continuously while he watches the bum—I guess Jimmy—run toward the passenger door. I hit the button to raise my dog’s window and click the lock just in time, thank god. As the engine turns over, Warrior’s growl evolves into ferocious barking.

Jimmy’s eyes are filled with rage and he pulls on the door handle then spits on the window of the car. “You don’t know what hurt is until I get done with you.” He leers at me. “Me and Bobby are comin’ for you.” He pounds the window.

Warrior jumps at the glass on the passenger side, fully baring his teeth and snarling at my attacker. The guy totters back, hitting the fire hydrant and toppling over it to the sidewalk. “Holy shit,” he sputters.

“Hey, you OK, Jimmy?” Bobby Taylor runs out just as I pull away leaving Jimmy still sprawled on his back. “What’s goin’ on, man?”

When I glance in my side mirror, driving the van down the street as fast as I can, I see Bobby helping Jimmy up. I also see them both look in the direction of my van. I keep moving and finally slow down a dozen blocks and three turns later. My breathing is still as rapid as if I’d run all the way here. Where I struggled for air moments ago, now I almost hyperventilate. My hands on the steering wheel shake.

What the hell did I think I was doing back there, going into that alley without Warrior? I’m not a professional private eye like Will Benson, just an idiotic, nosy amateur trying to look out for her brother. And an amateur who turned useless when the time came to defend herself. A coward. What happened to all my Aikido? Where was it when I actually needed it?

Once I enter a better part of Moosic, I pull over and look at my dog. “Thanks, Warrior.” I kiss the top of his head and then fasten his seat belt as well as mine. Taking slow, deep breaths, I consider how I risked my personal safety going into that motel alley. “Really stupid move, Ronnie,” I mutter.

I also think about Jimmy’s threats.
You don’t know what hurt is until I get done with you. Me and Bobby are comin’ for you
. I’m aware that I don’t have much experience with people like Bobby Taylor and that stoned, smelly wacko, Jimmy. I’m certainly naive, having always assumed these dark, harsh worlds would never touch me.

But all it takes is one person to crack through your false sense of safety or to connect with someone you care about. No matter how lovely that person appears to be, because of her past she may be the conduit into an ugly slice of humanity that spills dangerously into your own life and that of your family.

Didn’t Will warn me that starting this investigation might take me places I wouldn’t want to go? If it only concerned me, I’d slam the door shut on all of this right now. But what about Frank? He probably knows nothing about Juliana’s questionable activities and wouldn’t believe any of this. I’m also sure he’d be totally pissed at me for butting in.

I need to be rock solid about what’s going on with Juliana before I talk to Frank. I can’t risk endangering my relationship with my brother—my one remaining brother. I just can’t handle any more loss right now.

I turn on my music, crank up the volume on Dire Straits, and head for home. Mark Knopfler’s amazing guitar solo on “Sultans of Swing” helps wash all the pain and tension from my shoulders and neck.

~~~~~

“Are you crazy?” Isabella says to me at the dojo after I meekly tell her and Will about my encounter with the creep in the alley. Class finished twenty minutes earlier, and I was relieved to find the two of them still there working through some techniques. Guess I was more shaken up than I had realized.

“But Isabella—”

“Ronnie,” Will interrupts, looking closely at my neck. “What are those marks? Is that where he choked you?”

“Wh-what?” I stammer and rush to the mirror. Sure enough, I see red hand imprints where Jimmy grabbed me around my neck.

“Are you OK?” he asks. “Does it hurt there?”

I touch the red marks carefully. “Well, it’s a little bit sore, but I think I’m fine. My breathing’s OK.”

“Look, Ronnie,” Isabella says. “If you didn’t have your black belt in Aikido, would you have gone into that alley?”

“Definitely, not—”

“From now on when facing a decision like that, pretend you don’t know
any
Aikido.” She’s emphatic. “Do
not
invite trouble.”

“I was doing some investigating,” I say. “And thought I could handle things.” My tone is humble and my posture slumped.

“Ronnie, don’t think that just because you now have a black belt you can go out into the world and channel Steven Seagal,” Will scolds. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“Like I said, I thought I could handle it myself,” I answer.

“You should have Will help you when you go into the field to investigate.” Isabella
Sensei
shakes her head in disbelief. “I would never have walked down that alley alone. Or at least take Warrior with you instead of leaving him in the car. No one would mess with that dog.”

“I hear you, but why did my Aikido completely fall apart? It was as if I’d never, ever taken a class. I froze.” This is the part that bothers me the most.

“That’s because it was real this time,” Isabella answers. “And Aikido class isn’t about training to fight in the street.”

Isabella and Will exchange glances and give me some lame excuses about having other things they need to do. Then they walk away. Ask me if I feel as though I’m ten years old and just got a scolding.

It’s early evening, and Juliana and I sit on the small terrace off the kitchen’s breakfast nook at Meadow Farm making polite chit-chat, drinking our iced tea. I wouldn’t say we’ve connected, but we’re being kind of friendly in a superficial way. I glance down at her feet expecting to see those apple-green suede loafers I found in her closet, but she’s still wearing flip-flops, plus the faded jeans. She’s changed the tee-shirt, though, to a loose oxford-blue “dress” shirt. Is it one of Frank’s? Whatever. She looks great, of course.

Laura joins us and plops down on a chaise, feigning drama-queen exhaustion. She’s just home from nanny-duty with the entitled, bratty McCann sisters, who aren’t quite old enough for sleep-away camp.

“Juliana, Laura should be getting combat pay for this job,” I say, chuckling. Every day my niece shares new stories of Lifestyles of the Hyper-Rich and Over-the-Top. “How’d it go today, kiddo?”

“Aunt Ronnie, they’re worse than
The Real Housewives of New Jersey
!” she exclaims.

“Laura.” Juliana leans forward. “I have to hear all about how your charges behave worse than
Real Housewives
.” I observe warmth in her eyes as she looks at Laura. Am I witnessing a thaw in this goddess-beauty?

“Okay. Listen to this,” Laura says. “Mrs. McCann found the girls some really cute fake Louis Vuitton bags from a street vendor when she was in the city today.”

“How adorable,” I answer.