The Sweetheart Racket (6 page)

“Still, we can't rule that out,” she said.

“They haven't been seen together, before or after the wedding, by any neighbors and I didn't find obituaries under his aliases.” He paused and a dark thought emerged. “Worst case, he might have killed her.”

“He hasn't been violent in the past, that we know of, so let's think positively. I'm hoping Mrs. Clark can give us more insight into your Casanova.”

Rick hoped so, too. The longer Brinkman was on the run, the better his chances of spending all the stolen money. “Where does she live?”

“About three miles outside of Toledo.”

Forty-five minutes and a fast food breakfast drive-through stop for Rick later, they drove into a quiet neighborhood of large houses, landscaped yards, and a narrow meandering road gilded in gold. Okay, not really gold, but he was convinced they were in a sparkling Oz for wealthy people, with not one house on the street coming in at less than a million dollars.

A woman pushing a stroller stared, suspiciously, as if they were burglars looking for a house to rob. The car certainly fit that bill. His tattooed arm perched in the open window further confirmed that they didn't belong.

Rick gave her a little wave and wondered if she'd be calling 911 before they even rounded the first bend.

Taryn slowed to check the address on a mailbox and pulled up the driveway to a house with a front lawn that rivaled the land mass of Central Park. The cost of yearly landscape maintenance alone must have supported several businesses.

“We're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy,” he quipped.

The house itself was huge. Reddish brick, white columns, and black window trim. Set back and to the right was a four-car garage in the same red brick. Rick half expected to see fields of beautiful thoroughbreds chewing on bluegrass, flicking off flies with their cropped tails, and waiting for their turn on the track at Churchill Downs.

His mom loved horse racing.

“Is this right?” Taryn's voice broke in, as she double and triple checked the address to confirm they hadn't gotten the wrong place. “I bet she pays her lawn guy more than I make in a year.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said. “Brinkman financially downgraded to Mom after this one. Our entire house would fit on this porch.”

They parked the Olds in front and walked across cobblestone pavers to the porch and the high black door. Huge pots of pink and red flowers sat on either side of the door and matched fancy outdoor furniture was laid out like a magazine spread. The only thing missing was Scarlett and mint juleps.

Taryn paused. “I wonder if I should park out back so as not to bring down the neighborhood real estate values.”

He glanced back at the car.

“Why do you drive that wreck, anyway? Can't the agency afford to get you a better car?”

“I did have a better car. I usually use the Olds only for stakeouts in rough neighborhoods. But I had a little road rage incident a couple of weeks ago with an irate husband. He ran over my Edge with his monster truck and totaled it. Irving has a new vehicle on order.” She bit her lip, then added, “He's putting in bulletproof glass and reinforced everything, to keep me safe. I refused to drive a used military Humvee.” At his look, she shrugged. “Too hard to park.”

Rick took in this new information and rubbed his hands over his face. He was starting to see a pattern here. There was something seriously wrong with Taryn. The woman was trouble in tight t-shirts.

“No wonder you need good insurance.”

“Hey, it wasn't my fault the jerk had a temper,” Taryn protested. “I was hired to find the monster truck and I did. It's Gibby Parnell's only asset worth anything and his estranged wife deserves half of its value. She put the down payment on the truck and bought its first set of monster tires. He wouldn't be on the show circuit without her.”

“Hmmm.” What do you say to that?

Taryn rang the doorbell. A stout woman with gray hair and a stern expression answered. She wore a pale gray uniform, white apron, and sensible black shoes.

“May I help you?”

“Were here to see Jane Clark,” Taryn said as she looked past the maid into the foyer. The maid stared at Rick, or rather his snake tattoo, with a strained frown. He grinned. She blanched, recovered, and lifted her nose.

“Mrs. Clark is not taking visitors.” She choked on “Clark” and her thin lips came together into a lemon-sucking pucker. Clearly she wasn't a fan of the missing Joe Clark.

“We have news about her husband,” Rick said.

The maid hesitated for a moment in mid–door close. Taryn pressed forward. “It's very important we speak to her. It's urgent. We think she might be able to help us find him and save other women from a similar fate.”

Rick was impressed with the way Taryn spun their visit with a serious tone. Although it was unlikely this wife had anything useful to add to what they already knew, Taryn made it sound like the ripped-off Mrs. Clark would be the key to solving a mystery, as big as the missing persons cases of Amelia Earhart or Jimmy Hoffa.

No wonder she had an excellent reputation.

Even if she was trouble.

“She's not feeling well today. Let me see if she'll see you. Wait here.” She closed the door to a crack and strolled away, with a
squish-squish
sound of her shoes, on cream-and-gray marble. Without hesitation, Taryn pushed the large panel open and quietly hurried off behind her.

Rick followed them through a large white foyer, where what he thought looked like an original Warhol hung, and down a long hallway to a sunny room at the back of the house. The room was big and open, with floor-to-ceiling windows. Fancy artwork covered the pale yellow walls and added color to the space.

Oddly, there was a darker yellow rectangular spot over the fireplace mantel where he assumed a painting had once hung. On a white couch with her back to them was a woman with dark brown hair, her face turned up toward the fireplace.

Rick shifted and his boot made a scuffing sound.

The maid spun, realizing they were right behind her, and scowled. “I told you to wait outside,” she whispered to Taryn, who shrugged innocently. Since the woman obviously sensed Taryn was staying put, she sighed dramatically and said, “Mrs. Clark, you have visitors.”

A loud sniff followed as Mrs. Clark unfolded from the couch, turned, and faced them.

Rick grimaced.

T
aryn managed not to react, outwardly anyway, though she may have winced inwardly. Mrs. Clark was a mess; a huge understatement, for lack of a better word. Her curly brown hair frizzed out like springs around her head, having escaped the bun someone had carefully constructed at the nape of her neck. Mascara smudged around her watery eyes in spots of black goo with a few streaks of the product making a southern dash down her face.

Her lower lip trembled as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, making the damage worse. A sob caught in her throat, leading to a trio of dainty hiccups.

“Oh, dear,” she said, visibly distressed, and patted the couch springs with her free hand. “I wasn't expecting visitors. I must be a sight.”

The maid scowled at Taryn, as if she'd somehow failed her mistress. Taryn was contrite. They should have waited outside.

“You look fine, Mrs. Clark,” Taryn said, her contrition continuing with the lie. She didn't know Mrs. Clark's full story but understood what it felt like to marry the wrong man. “We should have called first. But this was urgent.”

The woman was in her seventies, widowed after a long marriage, and probably lonely; a common theme among Brinkman's victims. She'd been a perfect mark for a charmer like Joe Clark/Teddy Brinkman/etc. From her expensive white pantsuit to the pearls around her neck, she was a walking invitation for a rip-off by a skilled con man.

“We came to talk to you about Joe Clark,” Rick said gently.

A sob shook Jane Clark. She sat back on the couch. “That bastard.”

“I'll bring tea.” The maid hurried off.

Taryn gave her a minute to collect herself before they joined her, Taryn on the couch and Rick in the nearby chair. He shifted uncomfortably in the spindly, vintage Victorian era piece, looking very out of place. She suspected he was more the ratty-recliner-and-a-beer sort of guy.

Taryn explained who they were. “The reason we're here is that we're looking for the man you know as Joe Clark in connection to another case. You were not his only victim. There were other women he married and conned over many years.”

Mrs. Clark sniffed into her monogramed handkerchief. This woman bore no resemblance to the photo Summer had found and texted to Taryn, off a Who's Who of Toledo online profile. That Mrs. Clark had looked years younger than her birth age, was well dressed, and had ruled as grand dame of her local society and its cultural epicenter. Heck, she even knew the governor.

“I'm not surprised,” Mrs. Clark said, shaking.

Without understanding how the woman could be so devastated over losing that rotten con, and not knowing what to say to stop a possible meltdown, Taryn reached out to touch her arm.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” she said gently. “But he isn't worth your tears.”

Mrs. Clark stiffened, then lifted her head.

“You think I'm this upset about losing Joe?” She snorted and anger flashed. “I've already rounded up several local hunters to execute him by firing squad if my PIs find him.” She blew her nose. “No, I'm grieving the loss of my Edward Cucuel.”

Taryn and Rick shared a look. “Edward who?” Taryn said.

The woman pointed a finger at the empty spot over the fireplace. “My Edward Cucuel. He was a famous portrait painter. I met him when I was sixteen and he was nearing the end of his life. He asked to paint me and I said yes. After those few days of posing, I never heard from him again and never knew what happened to my painting.”

She dabbed her eyes and stared off. “My beautiful husband, William, hunted the painting down and purchased it for my fiftieth birthday. He paid a premium, as the owner did not want to part with it. That beauty had hung up there for decades, until Joe Clark stole it from me.”

Taryn wasn't a sentimental person but she felt for her. The treasured gift was both a memory of a youthful moment and a loving remembrance of how Jane was once a cherished wife.

“We'll do everything we can to get your painting back for you,” Taryn promised. “And see your husband arrested.”

A sad smile tugged at Mrs. Clark's mouth.

“He isn't my husband. I've had the marriage annulled. Well, it was never legal anyway. That much information my lawyers do know. They found a previous wife and her online web page. They never divorced.” She scrubbed her handkerchief under her eyes. “The reason I'm still Mrs. Jane Clark is that I haven't had the energy to go to the court and have my name changed back to Ellington. It's humiliating to get duped.”

“That wasn't your fault,” Rick said. “My mother was another of his victims.”

They shared a glance. “The poor dear,” Mrs. Clark said. “Give me her address and I'll send her one of the voodoo dolls I have of him.”

Rick hiked up a brow. She nodded. “My friend sewed them as a joke, but I do find jabbing him with pins therapeutic.”

Despite her current appearance, the lady had a thread of steel in her, Taryn thought. She had little doubt that the firing squad was happily at the ready to take Teddy Brinkman/Joe Clark out at Jane's call.

“Why did you marry him in the first place?” Rick asked and shifted on the small seat.

“Great sex.”

Taryn glanced to Rick, back, and quipped, “There are worse reasons to marry.”

The comment earned a full smile from Mrs. Clark. She twisted her pearls with one finger. “Yes, there are.”

For the next half hour, they sipped tea and ate little sandwiches and learned nothing more than that the couple had met online, had a rushed courtship, and the marriage ended in Joe stealing numerous treasures. Brinkman did like to keep to familiar patterns.

“Did Teddy-slash-Joe bring anything to the marriage that might tell us more about him?” Taryn asked.

Jane shook her head. “All he had with him were two suitcases full of clothes and a laptop in his Ford Pinto. When he snuck out, he took his clothes and laptop with him, along with my painting and two thousand dollars out of my safe.”

“Two suitcases isn't much,” Rick said. “A week or so worth of clothing, tops.”

“When I asked him about that, he said he'd lost everything else in a fire,” Jane added. “I'm sorry now that I never pressed him on his history or had him checked out. I wanted to believe he was everything he said he was. The scoundrel.”

The comment brought Taryn upright. “No. Don't apologize. I think you just gave us our first solid lead.” She stood and went to the window and looked out over the expansive grounds. Flowers bloomed everywhere. “If he came with almost nothing, then he hid his stolen items, personal papers and such somewhere.”

“In a storage locker,” Rick said, without pause.

She turned and nodded. “Exactly. We just have to find the right one.”

Jane Clark had nothing more to add as they finished their visit. By the time they drove off, the lady seemed in much better spirits. Taryn no longer worried about her.

“I think she's on the mend,” Taryn said, as the car rolled its way down the driveway and into the street.

“A trip to the bathroom repaired her face and her disposition,” Rick agreed. “I think she was happy to have provided us with a clue.”

“She did seem hopeful of getting her painting back.” Taryn shot him a grin. “She even flirted with you near the end. I think she'll be Mrs. Ellington and back to her old life soon. A con like Teddy can't keep a good woman down.”

Satisfied with the morning, and their one new clue for the case, she sped down the road and hit the highway north. Silent in thought, Rick watched the scenery pass as Taryn weaved in and out of traffic going well beyond the speed limit. She liked to drive fast. Jess called her a lead-foot. Summer lectured her on obeying traffic laws. Irving just shook his head.

They had passed back into Washtenaw County when blue and red lights flashed behind them.

Taryn's stomach dropped. “Damn.”

* * *

Rick turned to look out the back window, as Taryn eased the Olds off to the side of the road with the crunch of wheels on the cracked pavement. The state trooper pulled off behind them and parked. Rick shifted his attention to the sideview mirror, as the officer settled his hat on his head and stepped from the vehicle.

Damn
was right.

“How fast were you going?” Rick asked and reached for the glove box. After the morning he'd spent with her at the wheel, he imagined a huge stack of crumpled speeding tickets shoved into the glove box and forgotten. When he popped it open there was nothing but the registration and proof of insurance.

He collected both.

Taryn made a face and pulled her bag off the floor. She scrounged around for her wallet. “I don't know. Eighty, eighty-five maybe?”

Before he could poke at her, again, about her bad driving, she found her wallet, turned, and smiled brightly for the trooper. “Hello, officer. Nice day, huh?”

The trooper scowled and crossed a pair of massive arms over his massive chest. Though not overly tall, he'd certainly scare wayward motorists. “Cut the crap, Taryn. How many times do I need to lecture you about your speed?”

This took Rick aback. They knew each other?

Intimately, it appeared. The trooper was too familiar with Taryn to be a casual acquaintance. Were they a couple?

Up came a flare of male competitiveness that led him to size the guy up further. And he wasn't happy with what he saw.

The trooper looked like he'd walked off a
Twelve Months of Michigan State Trooper Hunks
calendar. He was what women would consider good-looking, clearly having won out in the gene pool. His biceps alone left little doubt that the man could bench-press a Mini Cooper. This left Rick thinking he spent all his free time working out. And Taryn had on a flirty expression so he knew she noticed, too.

“Come on, Hunter,” she said sweetly and fingered her driver's license. “You know I don't speed on purpose. If they didn't make these roads so straight and flat, I wouldn't accidently go so fast.”

Hunter? Seriously? Rick hated him already.

“So your law-breaking is the fault of the road commission for building straight roads?”

“See, you get it,” she gushed.

Rick shook his head. Where had the real Taryn gone and who was this flirt? Whoever she was, he didn't like her. Or maybe he just didn't like the way she looked at Hunter the Trooper and his bulging biceps. The man needed a bigger shirt.

Hunter finally grunted and leaned down, putting his folded arms on the window frame, and grinned. Rick barely warranted a two-second look. He watched the trooper glance down Taryn's V-neck; then he flicked a smug glance at Rick, knowing he'd been caught looking. Ass. The guy was clearly hooked on Taryn and wasn't against staking a claim.

As long as Trooper Hunter didn't piddle on her shoe, Rick could deal with a little competition. If he were in the market for a relationship, that was.

Hell, what unattached male wouldn't be hooked on her? She was sexy as hell.

“I should give you a ticket,” Trooper Hunter said and stared down at her mouth. “Several tickets.”

“You should,” she said, smiling.

“What I'd rather do is take you out to a movie,” Hunter said. He reached out to touch her shoulder with his index finger. “One of those chick flicks you like.”

Here we go, Rick thought. The guy casually flexed his pecs, as if to remind her of what dating him would get her: a testosterone-filled cave man. The feat of flexing was hard to pull off in a too-small polyester shirt under a bulletproof vest. But the trooper managed.

Thankfully, the seams of the shirt held. Just what they needed was a shirtless trooper to further entice Taryn.

Rick bit back a snort. He returned to trying to find faults with the Ken-doll–law-enforcement-professional. And failed. Damn, Hunter
was
perfect, Rick grudgingly conceded.

If you liked that type.

“Hunter, you know we don't mix,” Taryn was saying with a frown and a scold. “Our previous date was a disaster. You tried to pick up our cute waitress during the fried cheese sticks appetizer. Right in front of me. That wasn't cool.”

Hunter's grin widened. “You're right. I was a jerk. That's why I didn't ticket you the last two times I pulled you over. This is your third strike, though. So slow down.”

“I'll try.

“Good. And if you change your mind about that date, you have my number. Call me.” He drew a hand over his wide chest but stopped short of expelling a Tarzan yell.

Rick was grateful for an end to the encounter. And annoyed. At least Taryn hadn't giggled.

“I do have it,” she said and slid her driver's license back into her wallet. “Thanks.”

Hunter gave Rick one last glance, smirked arrogantly like he believed himself the dominant male, then pushed off the car and walked away. Taryn smiled a Cheshire cat smile and dropped her wallet back in her bag.

Rick wanted to beat the hell out of the trooper. Just for fun . . . and for looking down her shirt.

Instead, he focused on her. “You are a confirmed menace on the road,” Rick said and tried to settle his temper. It wasn't working very well. “How many tickets have you racked up anyway?”

She looked at him sidelong. “Zero.”

It figured.

“Life isn't fair, you know that?” he said and expelled a harsh breath. “Hot women get all the breaks.”

“You think I'm hot?”

“Don't go there.” He settled back in his seat, frustrated more at himself for caring who she dated than her driving. After all, he barely knew her and wasn't interested in her outside of work. Why did he care if she went out with Hunter the Trooper god?