The Evidence Room: A Mystery (4 page)

Josh reached the front of the line.

“Shit,” the barista, a long-haired kid with sleepy green eyes, said, staring at the remains of a frozen cappuccino, upended on the counter, that had begun to rush in an icy waterfall over the edge towards Josh’s feet. “I mean, welcome to Java Jive. Can I help you?”

Josh smiled and picked up the overturned cup. “I’ll keep it simple. Cuban coffee to go.” The brunette standing next in line smiled, and Josh smiled back. The feeling was already beginning to loosen its grip.

Outside, his cell phone began to chirp. Josh glanced at the caller ID. Boone.

He fished the phone out of his pocket. “Don’t tell me Niney woke up and wandered off.”

On the other end of the line, Boone let out a breath. “Not yet,” he said. “But the guys from Hambone showed up a while ago looking for you. Said you’re supposed to meet them over there—they need you.”

The drug squad. What the hell time was it? He was late for the operation. He began to jog towards the car, the details of it clicking through his mind, the thought of the Shadow Man already retreating from his consciousness like an unpleasant dream.

“Tell them I’m on my way,” he said.

CHAPTER FIVE

“It’s Hudson. I’m at the—um, the beauty parlor.”

On the other end of the phone, Officer Clifford Fizzard, Josh’s partner on the tri-county narcotics interdiction force, clucked with laughter. Police chief of Hambone, five counties over to the east, Fizz also worked part-time as the owner of the Pig Squealer BBQ, but brought his best work to his full-time job as a Class-A ballbuster.

“You gonna ask her for a perm before you take her down, Princess?”

Josh suppressed a smile. “Now, that’s just the jealousy talkin’, Baldy,” he said. “Tell you what, I’ll see if I can grab ya some cans of spray-on hair on my way out.”

Fizz snorted. “Laugh it up, young buck. It happens overnight. One day you’re running around chasing ass, next day you’re balder than a peeled egg and three days older than dirt.” He cleared his throat, and his voice took on a grave tone. “You ready for this one?”

“Sure am.”

“Atta boy. Just get her talkin’ on that tape. Fix a time for the buy tomorrow, then we’ll let the DEA know, and they can bring in the big dogs.”

“Got it.”

“And, Hudson?”

“Yep?”

“Be careful. None of this bravery garr-bage,” Fizz said, his Cajun accent stretching the word out as far as it would go. “If shit gets bad, just get your ass out of there.”

“I got it, Fizz. Call you later.” Josh ended the call, the adrenaline molten in his veins. The tri-county narcotics force had only been in existence for six months, created at the feds’ direction to help fight rural Florida’s worsening drug problem, and already they’d taken down two prescription drug rings and were close on a third. They’d gather the evidence and then turn things over to the feds. The fact that ten cops from three hillbilly towns with a combined population under twenty thousand had made the busts was beginning to garner attention from larger cities and had even been profiled on a local news station.

Josh didn’t give a shit about that. He liked the job because it was always different; every operation brought something you didn’t expect, so you always had to be ready for anything. The youngest on the force, with a tall, lean frame, stubbled complexion, and no girlfriend to force a haircut on him, Josh was the natural choice to play the role of Matt Saunders, drug seeker. Josh glanced down at his battered jeans and work shirt with the sleeves cut out. The transformation was almost too easy.

Josh parked across the street from the Kut and Kurl, the salon they believed was a cover for a multicounty drug ring. In the backseat, Beau chewed a pulled pork sandwich, the remains of Josh’s lunch.

This whole block on the outskirts of Hambone had once been the slave quarters for a Confederate general’s plantation. Now it was a neglected row of failing businesses. That was how things were down here; they upgraded without getting better. Someone had made an effort with the Kut and Kurl, though; its exterior had been painted an aggressive shade of pink, and the cloudy front windows had been cleaned and fitted with cheap lace trim curtains.

Inside, Josh could see his target, Pernaria Vincent. She was seated at a desk, three chairs and mirrors behind her, illuminated by a square of fluorescent light that made the outside darkness seem threatening, as if at any moment, it might consume the tiny shop.

Josh exited the car and checked around the building. No other cars; was she really alone after hours? People were incredibly stupid, Josh thought. Women disappeared every day, plucked from their lives by men who looked like the boy next door. Bad things happened in ordinary places.

Josh completed his perimeter sweep and peered in the window. Pernaria was concentrating on something, her head bent over the desk like a schoolgirl taking an exam. Josh would chat her up a little bit, work his way up to asking about a buy. He pushed open the door.

“
Je ne vous dois pas un sou
,” the woman said in a mechanical voice. She registered Josh’s arrival with a tired nod, but her heavily-lashed green eyes swept over him from head to toe. Her hair was tucked into a twenties-style bob wig, and her eyeliner was drawn out beyond the curve of her eyes in a dramatic sweep. The effect was a cross between something feline and a bad Cleopatra costume.

“I owe you nothing,” the woman went on in a spiky tone, but winked at him. Josh realized that she was mimicking a voice on the digital recorder that sat in front of her, not unlike the recorder that nestled in his pocket.

“Well, now, that’s not quite true, is it?” Josh said. “You do owe me something.”

The woman giggled, the easy laugh of a woman used to male attention. She was lovely in an unexpected way, with pearl skin and soft features. “Sorry. I’m learning French. Planning on moving to Paris soon. And what is it that I owe you?”

“How about an explanation for why a beautiful woman like you is sitting here alone on Friday night?” Josh infused the cheesy line with Tennessee charm. Women had always loved Josh. Maybe they sensed how much he wanted to protect them.

“I guess I was just waiting for you,” the woman said. “I’m Pernaria, but everyone calls me Pea.” She stood up, revealing a pair of perfect legs set off by sky-high heels. Josh tried to gag the male part of his brain, which was now drowning out the cop part. What was this woman’s role in the drug ring? Fuck your brains out and rob you blind?

Behind her, the woman on the tape prompted in a strident voice
. Pouvez-vous m’aider? Can you help me?

“I’m Matt.” Using the alias was getting easier every time, softening up like an old pair of jeans. Josh averted his eyes and looked at the yellow wall behind Pea, where faded beauty-queen photos, curling at the edges, were displayed in a crooked row. There was a dimpled toddler, then a little girl in a sailor dress, then a teenager in a gypsy costume holding a tambourine aloft, and then the pictures stopped.

“So you’re a beauty queen, huh?” He saw right away that it was the wrong thing to say, that he had crossed some sort of invisible border. Her face darkened, and she crossed her arms.

Je me suis perdu
, the woman on the tape said, this time speaking in a breathy tone.
I am lost.

“That’s my sister,” Pea said. She frowned and perched on the edge of the desk. “I told her to take those down. Bunch of perverts running those pageants.” And then Josh saw it, the damage just underneath the surface. She was like him; someone had stolen something from her, something that could never be replaced.

She had seen something in his expression also, because now she came closer and dug both her hands into his hair, drawing her nails across his scalp. Josh stood perfectly still, the digital recorder beating in his pocket like a second heart.

“You’re not here for a haircut,” she said.

“You’re right.”

“So why are you here, Matt?”

“Turner said you could help me out.”

She nodded, pleased with this answer. “What do you need?”

“He said you could get me started. Just something to tide me over.”

Pea tucked a stray synthetic hair behind her ear, a girlish gesture
. C’etait amusant
, the tape said.
That was fun.

“Well, any friend of Turner’s is a friend of mine,” Pea purred, opening a drawer. “I’m sure he told you, we don’t keep any product here at the salon, but we could get you a sample, just to get you started.” She rummaged around and then pouted. “No more samples.”

“That’s all right. I can come back tomorrow.”

“Guess you’ll just have to see me again, Matt.”

“Sounds good to me,” Josh said. “Same time tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here, all by my little old self.” Pea returned to her seat behind the desk and crossed her legs. “
Je suis d
é
sol
é
e
,” she repeated with the woman on the tape in a singsong voice that was slightly unnerving. “I am sorry.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to your French lesson, then,” Josh told her. “Good night, Pea.”

“Good night, Josh.”

The sound of his real name sent a sizzle of shock down Josh’s spine. He slid his hand into his waistband and fitted it around the gun, his eyes darting to every corner of the room, sure that any second Pea’s associates would be on him from all sides. How the hell had she made him?

Pea approached, a wry smile on her face. “I guess I ruined all the fun, didn’t I?” She held up her hands in mock surrender and fluttered her fingers. “You could still arrest me, but I’m not the one you really want. And I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”

Josh considered this. Pea was a smart woman; she probably knew the bigwigs of the operation. Maybe he could turn her, get her working for the narcotics force. It might be worth a shot.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“I know where Liana is.”

The phrase hit him like a punch to the gut. Liana. He tried to keep the shock from rising to his face.

“Bullshit.”

Pea shrugged. “Believe what you want. I heard you were looking for her, saw that picture you put up at the fair, the ones around town.”

“How do you know her?”

“I met her when I used to live in Sarasota.”

“And how do I know you’re not full of shit?”

Pea rummaged in her bag and handed him a photograph. “She left town about two years ago, right when you came looking for her. I met her a little while after that. Here we are.”

In the picture, Pea and his sister toasted the camera with oversized neon mugs. All these years, and he would still have known his big sister anywhere. Liana had always made goofy faces at the camera, pulling a face in all their family pictures, making their mother crazy. She had a hyena laugh and loved orange Popsicles and Kurt Cobain. She had punched Butch Sheridan in the face at the bus stop in second grade when he’d told Josh and Jesse there was no Santa Claus. A terrible longing flooded Josh, all the memories hurtling to the surface. Where had she been these seventeen years? Why didn’t she want to be found?

“You know where she is?”

Pea nodded. “I do,” she said.

Josh felt the breath leaving his body.

She tugged Josh’s phone free of his front pocket and began tapping the screen. “Take my number.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I’ll tell Turner to set up a buy for tomorrow, and your guys can bust him. That piece of shit broke my heart. I’ve got enough saved up. I can hop on the next flight to Charles de Gaulle.”

“Pea. I can talk to the guys about cutting you a deal if you give us Turner. But I can’t just let you slip through my fingers.”

She waved the Post-it note in his direction. “Would you rather let Liana slip through your fingers?”

It was an impossible choice. You couldn’t trust drug dealers. In his pocket, the recorder ticked the seconds away, preserving his hesitation on tape. Fizz would hear all of it; the mention of his sister and his father, Pea’s offer. He trusted Josh, sure. But how much?

He plucked the Post-it from between her fingers, knowing he was crossing a line, breaking a code. It wasn’t the first time he’d gone out on a limb for Liana, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, either. He’d used the police database to try and find her, stuff that wasn’t exactly legal but didn’t keep you up at night, either. But this was worse. Making deals with bad people; that had his father written all over it. The decision should have been tough; he should have hesitated. But it was his sister. Blood was thicker than water. “We’ll be here tomorrow, opening time. You make sure Turner gets here, and then get the hell out of the country and don’t look back.”

“Fair enough,” Pea said. She reached up as though she was going to embrace him, and instead slid her hand between his top two shirt buttons, freeing the digital recorder from his inside pocket. He could feel her cold fingers through the fabric of the shirt. She pressed it into his hand.

“
Bonne chance,
Josh,” she said. “Good luck.”

CHAPTER SIX

“All that money, and she left it to the cat. Can you believe it? What’s the goddamn cat going to do with two hundred thousand dollars?”

The disgruntled woman sitting next to Aurora in the waiting area of Benedict & Riley aimed this rant at the law office’s receptionist. When no response was forthcoming, she made a huffing sound and returned to fussing with the diamond collar on the hostile-looking Himalayan perched on her lap. Aurora avoided eye contact and slid a Christmas issue of
Southern Living
free from the stack of magazines on the table and waited for her appointment with Luna Riley.

The entire office, the first floor of a Park Avenue brownstone, seemed to have frozen in time somewhere in the seventies. Mossy shag carpeting covered the walls, paisley curtains clung to the windows, and rusting ashtrays were carved into the faux-wood arms of every chair and couch. Shiny pamphlets with ominous titles like—
What a Will Won’t Do
and
Living Trusts—Why You Need a Professional
were stacked in front of the reception area like travel brochures.