The Mortal Groove (11 page)

It was a good question. An answer would go a long way toward helping them establish a time line. “Let's see. Sunday, I think. I was home early that night, so I went jogging around seven.”

“Was the car there that night?”

“No. It was still light, so I would have seen it. If the car was cold last night, it must have happened sometime between late Sunday and early Wednesday morning.”

“Did anything unusual happen around here during that period?”

“No.” Larry had arrived on Tuesday night. He'd been on foot, which gave Randy a moment's pause, but he pushed the thought aside. He understood now why the police were asking him so many questions. It wasn't unusual for the person who reports a crime to be the one who committed it. “I wish I could be more help, but that's all I know.”

Right then, Larry came in the front door. He stopped dead when he saw the two cops sitting in the living room. “Something wrong?” he asked, flashing them an uncertain smile.

“This is an old friend of mine,” said Randy, standing. “Larry Wilton.”

“You live around here, Mr. Wilton?” asked Williams.

“Arizona,” said Larry. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and fired one up. “I'm here on vacation.”

“How long you been in Minnesota?” asked Williams.

“Couple of weeks. I been staying with Randy.”

“Is that correct, Mr. Turk?”

Randy blinked. “Yes. That's right.”

Williams looked Larry up and down. “How'd you get here? Did you fly? Drive?”

“The bus,” said Larry. “Why? What's going on?”

“You know anything about a car in the ditch on Potter Road?”

“Where's Potter Road?”

Williams glanced back at Randy. After a few tense seconds, he said, “Okay, I guess that's it for now. We may have more questions later.”

“Anything I can do, just ask,” said Randy as he walked them back to the door.

The officers nodded to Larry on their way out.

Once they were alone, Randy turned on Larry. “Why the hell'd you do that? You forced me to lie to them.”

Larry shrugged, blew smoke out his nose. “Don't like cops. I lie to them on principle. I mean, what the hell went down?”

“They found a body in the trunk of a burned car. The guy was murdered.”

“Wow. Guess this ain't Shangri-la after all.”

Randy felt the banging in his head dial up to detonate. “Tell me the truth, Larry. No bullshit. Did you do it? Did you kill that guy? Swear—on our friendship.”

“No, man, I swear. But bad shit follows me around like a homeless dog. And that's God's honest truth. I got one of them guilty faces. I'm always gettin' accused of crap I didn't do.”

Randy backed up and sat down on the arm of a chair. “You're right about your face.”

“I know. It's just the luck of the draw. Hey, did you get that money yet? I'm meeting with Gunderson tonight, remember? I'm anxious to get this thing settled.”

Randy looked at him hard. “Yeah, I got it.” He held Larry's eyes for another few seconds, then got up and headed into his office.

 

Peter had just entered the grocery store to shop for dinner when his cell phone rang. He hadn't heard back yet from his dad about that potential job offer with the campaign. He was getting a little antsy, wondering if it had fallen through. When he checked his caller ID, he saw the word “Unknown” pop up.

“Hello?” he said, pausing by the shopping carts.

“I'm calling for Peter Johnson.” The voice was thin and high, but definitely a man's voice.

“This is Peter.”

“Vaughn Cabot. Is this a convenient time?”

Peter turned away from the people coming into the store. “Absolutely,” he said, lowering his voice. “You got my message?”

“I'm curious how you found my name.”

It was a question Peter should have anticipated, but hadn't. “Well, actually, the man I talked to asked me to keep his name out of it. It was someone you helped years ago.”

“A private adoption.”

“Yes,” said Peter, forcing the coldness out of his voice. “Private.

“And he explained to you what my services are?”

“Yeah. My question is, do you have anyone right now who might be suitable for us—my wife and me. We're anxious to adopt as soon as possible. We'd be willing to pay whatever it costs.”

“You understand about supporting the birth mother, picking up all the medical fees until she delivers.”

“Yes.”

“And my fee, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Do you have special needs? Race? Sex? Age?”

“White, for sure.”

I assumed.

“Sex doesn't matter. So, do we have a deal?”

“Mr. Johnson, we need to take this one step at a time. I can cut through a lot of red tape for you—that's a big part of the service I provide—but this is still a delicate kind of negotiation. I work with a number of clients who pass on needy young women to me when they . . . well, require a special kind of help. You understand.”

“I do.”

“I would need to meet with you and your wife—”

“That's a deal breaker, Mr. Cabot. I'd be happy to meet with you, but my wife, for personal reasons, has to remain out of it.”

“That's unusual, Mr. Johnson, but I realize people have different needs, different personal . . . situations. I do bend my rules—I'm not heartless. But I don't place babies with just anybody. No ethical lawyer would. I will need to talk to you personally, have you fill out a financial statement.”

It was crystal clear that all the guy really cared about was money. Peter could be buying a kid for sex for all Cabot cared. “When we meet, is there anything I need to bring other than my financial records?”

“No,” said Cabot. “Finances are primary, in my opinion. If you can't care for the child comfortably, I couldn't possibly consider you for a placement. I'll have some other questions for you, and some forms to fill out, but nothing that should present a significant hurdle. It's my job to make sure the process is as easy as possible for you.”

“I think we understand each other.”

“Yes, Mr. Johnson. I think we do. Now, when could we meet?”

Another thing Peter hadn't considered. “I live in the Midwest. It will take me a day or two to tie up some business here. Why don't I give you a call when I can free up some time?”

“May I ask what you do for a living?”

“I work in investments.”

“Have you worked in the field long?”

“Fourteen years.”

“Well, then, I'll wait for your call. If you have a pen handy, I'll give you a different number where it will be easier for you to reach me.”

Peter pulled a pen out of the pocket of his bomber jacket and wrote the number on the edge of a flyer tacked up on the grocery store's bulletin board. No wonder Shifflet hadn't been able to get Cabot on the line. He wasn't asking the right questions. Cabot had a public number he used to screen calls and a public office he used as a front, but his real dealings were performed off the radar.

Peter wasn't sure what he'd expected to come out of their conversation, but he'd never anticipated that he would need to fly to New Jersey. He'd stumbled into it, but he knew instantly that this was his best chance to get the information he needed. He'd have to figure out some excuse so that Sigrid wouldn't ask too many questions, but that wouldn't be difficult. He was, after all, in the middle of a job search. He was glad now that his father hadn't called him back about that job offer. Peter wanted to work for the campaign, but the meeting with Cabot came first. One way or another, he intended to find out what had happened to Margaret and bring her home where she belonged.

 

 

C
ordelia scanned the dim bar looking for Melanie. It was going on 1:30 in the morning, but for Cordelia, whose life in the theater had made her a creature of the night, her evening was just getting started. The Unicorn bar was a mixed scene; gay, bi, lots of straight bikers, the usual after-theater suspects, and a few brave suburbanites out for a murky urban experience.

The place was also a dive. In the cold light of day, the dirt, the fungus growing in between the cracks in the wood floor, and the stink of stale beer and even staler sweat would chase anyone with normal sanitary requirements out. But at night, with loud music pumping, the darkness disinfecting the local color, and lots of colored lights reflected in the mirrors behind the bar, it was as good a place as any.

The bar itself was in the shape of a “U,” with tables crammed close together around it, and one long row of booths that spread across the back of the room. There was no pool table or dance
floor. People who came to the Unicorn came to drink, talk, or hustle. As it happened, Cordelia was interested in all three.

Melanie had called her around six and they'd agreed to meet at the Unicorn. It was an odd choice. Melanie's tastes were usually a little more upscale. Standing just inside the door, Cordelia surveyed the room, finally spying her sitting at the bar nursing a beer. She moved up behind her and whispered into her ear, “Turn around slowly.”

As usual, Melanie did the exact opposite. She whipped her head around. “Good God, woman!”

Cordelia touched her newly cut and died hair. “Do you like it?”

“Like it, I love it!”

“Thought you would.”

“You look incredibly hot.”

“I know.”

She nuzzled in close, gave Cordelia a long, lingering kiss. “You want something to drink?”

“Actually, I thought maybe you'd like to go back to my place.”

“Can't,” said Melanie, easing off the stool and moving her drink and briefcase over to an empty table. “Not just yet?”

“Why?” Cordelia pulled out a chair and sat down next to her.

“I promised to meet a guy here. He said his name was Smith, but I doubt that's for real. He's got some information for me about Sue Bouchard.”

Cordelia's eyes flashed.

“Calm down. If some of the feelers I put out there pay off, I'm not going to look the other way. I'm still gathering facts,
okay.
Speaking of which, Del Green called me today. He's another one who wants to talk to me.”

“About Sue?”

“Didn't say that precisely, but that would be my guess.”

“News travels fast.”

“When highly placed interests are at stake, it does. Which isn't always a good thing. I like to work quietly. On the other hand, all this attention makes me think I've hit the mother lode.”

“You think Green will spill something important?”

Melanie shrugged. “No idea. But I can tell you this much. The man is scared. I think he was trying get a feel for how much I've dug up. I'm pretty good at faking people out, making them think I know more than I do. If a person thinks I already know something, that's when you really get an earful.”

“You're good.”

“You're just saying that to get me in bed.”

“Maybe, but it's also true.”

Looking down into her beer, Melanie added, “I might be making a mountain out of a molehill, but I think somebody's been following me. I've seen this truck several times today in my rearview mirror. And it was parked outside my duplex late this afternoon.” She gave an involuntary shiver.

“Move in with me,” said Cordelia. “Linden Lofts is a security building.”

Melanie laughed. “God, that's such a lesbian cliche. One date and the movers arrive.”

“Feels right to me.”

“It's a big step.”

“Okay, don't move in. But come stay with me, just until your life feels safer.”

“But you're living at Jane's house now, right?”

“No, I'm not. Not if you need me.”

Melanie's smile was almost shy. “I'm a coward, Cordelia. When we broke up all those years ago, I really hit bottom.
You're a hard person to forget. I guess . . . what I'm saying is, I don't want to get hurt again.”

“If you're worried about the pain, Mel, you'll never find your soul mate. Life's a party, a banquet. Sure, you get ptomaine every now and then, but I'm asking you to dance with me. I've learned some since the last time we tried it. I suspect you have, too. Here,” she said, taking an extra key off her key ring and pushing it across the table. “Now you can come and go as you please.”

“You're amazing, you know that?”

Cordelia lowered her eyes demurely.

“Okay,” said Melanie, pulling her own key ring out of her jeans. “You should have one of mine, too, just so that we both have something to throw at each other in a few days.”

“We've mellowed,” said Cordelia. “Aged, like fine wines.” Melanie laughed. “Right. Maybe we should buy each other flak jackets instead of rings this time.”

“I really, really want to give this another shot,” said Cordelia, her expression growing serious. “Years ago, when we were first together, I knew we had something special, but then we had that awful knock-down-drag-out fight about God knows what, and we just gave up on each other. I think that was a mistake. Am I alone here? Didn't you feel that way, too?”