Tried & True (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 5) (7 page)

So criminals suffered heartache the same way law-abiding people did. Did Ebersole expect me to whimper in sympathy? I was getting tired of the show. “So we’ve established that Rocky was an upstanding member of his outlaw community. So what?”

“That’s why we picked him, to be part of the—uh, the uh—” Ebersole faltered.

“Consortium,” Butch filled in.

In all the video watching I’d done, I’d never seen Ebersole struggle for words. But then again,
consortium
had multiple syllables and wasn’t a swear word.

“See,” Ebersole leaned forward on his meaty elbows, “we were worried that Skip was gettin’ skanky with our payments. Some of them started comin’ in short. He talked about interest rates and stuff. What do we care about that? It’s not like he was runnin’ a real bank. So we formed this”—he cast a sidelong glance at Butch—“consortium to express our—our, uh, concerns. Yeah.” He nodded his head with satisfaction, another serious word put down in the right spot. “Concerned, that’s all we were. Not makin’ accusations. Yet.”

“You were so
concerned
that you sent an investigative committee to Cozumel?” I snorted.

“The wedding took us a little bit by surprise. Poof.” Ebersole flared his arms above his head to illustrate, releasing a wave of body odor that singed my eyelashes. “Suddenly he was goin’ to Mexico. For a few weeks, everybody said. Well, in our line of business, a few weeks is a long time. Nobody waits that long for answers. So we got our guys on a plane right quick.”

I was still squinting at him, trying not to let on that I’d nearly passed out. “You and who else?” I wheezed. “Rocky was your guy. Who were the others?”

Ebersole puckered his lips and took a long slug from one of the fresh bottles Trina had set on the end of our table.

Apparently, that was the cue for Butch to start talking. “Four of us were in on it. We were probably clued in better than the others. And if we—well, if we found Skip had been shunting off our funds, then we needed to clean up, and there was a chance—” Butch, too, suddenly found his beer bottle very interesting.

“A chance you could fleece Skip’s other clients before they realized and take over the business. I get it,” I said. “So who were your partners?”

“The big guy on high organized it. But he needed muscle, and you know he doesn’t trust his own people with anything.” Butch shrugged.

“You’re talking about Felix Ochoa,” I gritted out.

“And Joe Solano and Fat Al,” Ebersole added. “We all sent somebody. Rocky was our guy.”

“Those other three—they haven’t come back yet, have they?” I asked.

“Not that anyone’s heard,” Butch answered. “Clearly that meeting didn’t go well. No one’s seen any of those guys again.”

I sat back and considered if I should tell them what the FBI had told me that first—and only—night of my honeymoon. Four of the five men at that meeting on the beach in Cozumel
had
walked away—from the meeting, that is, but apparently not back into their normal lives. It seemed a pity that Rocky had been the one sucker-punched and left behind to be apprehended by the police. I didn’t know who I could attribute his jailhouse death to, but I had a feeling some money had changed hands to make that happen.

Josh was tense beside me. His thigh and shoulder were rigid, and his knee was bouncing lightly but fast. One of us would have to bring up the next logical subject, and since I was married to the loose cannon who was causing all the problems, I figured it should be me.

I cleared my throat and followed protocol by hollering at Trina. “Bottled water, please.” I turned back to the men at the table, stared intently at the hardened, lifelong, and terrified criminal across from me. He was doing a good job of masking it, but now I knew why he’d asked for negotiations. “And now the bosses who sent those men are disappearing too.”

Ebersole licked his lips. “We ain’t never done nothin’ to you.”

Trina delivered a bottle of water with a surly thump on the table and stalked off.

I unscrewed the cap and took a much needed drink. “I agree—so far.”

Butch leaned in. “We don’t intend to. Nope. Nada. Never.”

I didn’t count it very valuable, as far as promises went. But I’d also take what I could get from these guys. “I’m sure Skip will be very glad to hear that.”

But I wasn’t going to tell them that I was in no position to inform Skip of anything. All of our sparse communication over the past few months had been one-way only. If he heard about this little parley, it would be through the underworld grapevine, which I was sure was already lighting up.

“We never even considered whackin’ you,” Ebersole blurted, shaking his head agreeably. “Not once.”

He didn’t have to say the rest—that the other crime bosses who had formed plans to whack me were now either in jail or dead. The FBI had taken care of Numero Cinco, Fat Al Canterino, but not until after he’d made a serious attempt on my life—first with a reticent hired assassin and then personally, with a gun in my face. And Numero Tres, Giuseppe “Joe” Solano, had been found scattered by wild animals from his shallow grave in the cemetery at Mayfield. Neither one of those fellows would ever threaten me again.

And here was Ebersole offering me his heartfelt promise to leave me alone. Not that I believed him. But I did believe him—for now. He’d keep the promise as long as it was convenient. As long as he didn’t know where Skip was and thought that my good opinion of him would be a talisman against harm from that quarter.

“There is one thing you could do,” I said, “as a gesture of good faith.” I downed the rest of my water and leaned low over the table. I whispered so the two crooks across from me also had to lean close. For their ears—and Josh’s—only.

By the time I finished, both Ebersole and Butch were grinning widely. Ebersole blessed us with his choking-cat chuckle again. “And here I thought you were all prim and proper, one stuffed-up bi—” The rest of the word came out as an
ooof
, and he winced from the sharp elbow Butch had jabbed in his side. “This calls for more beer.” He glanced over the huge number of empties already gathered on our table and hollered at Trina again.

Josh and I escaped as quickly as we could after that. Josh insisted that I drive. I knew exactly where our next stop was, and he’d had a fair bit to drink even though he’d been trying to take only a sip or two out of each new bottle. The Mongrels were champion beer drinkers, and there was no way he could keep up with them, even as a gesture of goodwill to support negotiations. I was glad that somehow my gender had protected me from that expectation.

I’d just survived Tank Ebersole. Granted, he’d been on his very best behavior. But I couldn’t keep the jubilant grin off my face. “Did you get it?” I asked.

Josh returned my grin and nodded. He lifted his T-shirt and tipped his large brass belt buckle out so I could see the tiny battery pack affixed to the back side. “Wireless mike.” He showed me the small oblong black gadget that was glued to the inside of the designer logo at the temple of his sunglasses. And his sunglasses had been hooked in the neckband of his shirt—front and center—for the whole conversation.

The wire the FBI had provided for my meeting with Angelica Temple was downright clunky compared to Josh’s snazzy technology. I wondered about his equipment sources, but knew better than to ask.

“You should have told me about your plan,” Josh said, but he was still grinning.

I laughed—I was going to become giddy if I wasn’t careful. “I thought we should have some entertainment. Add a little teeth to the mood Robbie’s already set.” I started humming Clarice’s version of the
Gilligan’s Island
theme song again and accelerated onto the freeway. It seemed like such a celebratory song.

CHAPTER 11

I parked on a side street near a neighborhood playground and called Clarice.

“How’s it going?” she grunted.

“Check the first item off our list.” I knew she’d be able to hear the smile in my voice. “And Josh threw in the bonus of a brief meet-up with Robbie. Things are going swimmingly.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Clarice growled.

I took a deep breath. She was right, as usual. Temperance, vigilance, and chaos. My new motto. Plus hope—lots and lots of hope.

“You at stage two?” Clarice continued. “Friends?”

“Yes, and uh”—I nudged Josh and whispered—“tail?”

He shook his head.

“Not yet,” I finished for Clarice.

“This is the tricky part. Give me ten minutes. You know where the rear entrance is?”

“I have your map.” I clicked off.

Josh and I got out of the car. A mother and two preschool-aged children were taking advantage of a brief sun break to use the playground equipment. The younger child was shrieking happily as she pushed him in one of the safe bucket swing seats, accompanied by the squealing of the swing’s rusty chains.

“I’ll make myself useful.” Josh nodded toward a picnic table nearby and waggled his phone. “Don’t get caught.”

I checked my watch. “Dinner is served at five-thirty, so I have forty minutes, tops. If I don’t return by then, send in the cavalry.” I zipped up my light jacket and took off like a power walker out on her late afternoon constitutional.

We both knew there was no cavalry. And this was one place where the FBI
would
expect me to be, once they figured out that I had disembarked from the plane in San Jose. Josh’s phone would be the best tool we’d have for my release should I be detained.

I quickly walked two blocks down and one block right, approaching the Century Hills Memory Care Center from the east, well away from the main entrance. The facility really was built like a jail, prompting memories of my visit to Lutsenko. But these inmates had to be kept inside for their own safety instead of for the safety of others.

The back of the building looked a lot like any light industrial business, with a couple loading docks, a littered parking lot with room for the delivery trucks to turn around, and several dumpsters. I trotted up a set of concrete steps to a door marked “Employees Only” which swung open as I reached it.

Arleta’s smile was wide, revealing gorgeously white, perfect teeth. “Hello, honey. Surprise, surprise,” she said in that luscious, low voice of hers. “Your timing’s perfect.”

I gave her a long, tight hug. She was taking a huge risk, in more ways than one. She’d be fired if the management of Century Hills ever found out that she’d complied with Clarice’s request and let a visitor into the building without going through the required check-in process. And the FBI protective detail on-site wouldn’t be happy with her either, particularly one of the agents—Antonio Hackett—who was now more or less also her boyfriend.

But Arleta was returning my hug enthusiastically—she is quite possibly one of the best huggers in the world. Yet another reason for Antonio to be irrevocably enamored of her. Between her voice, her amazing smile, her kind heart, and her hugs, I’m sure the poor guy never stood a chance. Their only problem would be both of their crazy work schedules.

“We gotta hurry, hon,” Arleta whispered. She turned and pulled me along at a clip—a nurse’s pace—that put my previous power walking to shame, the beads at the ends of her braids clacketing in rhythm with her steps.

We wound our way through a very busy kitchen in the throes of meal preparation. From the scents, I guessed the residents would be having roast beef, mashed potatoes, and gravy for dinner. A phalanx of blenders along one counter were being operated by identically hairnetted and gloved workers—pureeing food for the residents who didn’t want to wear their dentures. Several salad bars were in the process of being assembled, and I nearly collided with a woman who stepped out of a walk-in refrigerator carrying a tray loaded with little glass dishes of chocolate pudding.

My dad’s favorite dessert. I wanted to swipe one for him, to give him an extra treat, but I also didn’t want to be memorable. A civilian in street clothing barging through the kitchen was odd enough. I didn’t need to give the staff any more reasons to recall this unusual event.

Arleta pushed through a double set of swinging doors into a bright corridor, then straight to another door that looked like an outside exit. She swiped a security card and punched in a code on the keypad to unlock the door—the two-factor authentication required for Alzheimer’s units.

She pushed on the crash bar and shoved me through the opening in one swift move. I was suddenly in the enclosed garden courtyard.

“Wait behind the arborvitae,” Arleta whispered. “I’ll get your dad.”

A few minutes later, I heard shuffling footsteps and peeked out to find my dad wandering aimlessly on a pea gravel path, a look of flustered confusion on his face. Behind him, at the door I’d come through, Arleta flashed both hands at me a couple times—her fingers outspread—which I took to mean that I had at most twenty minutes with my dad.

“Pssst.”

Dad’s head whipped around.

I waved at him, and a slow, conspiratorial grin spread across his face. He ambled over.

“Whatchya doing?” he whispered hoarsely, hunkering down beside me in the scratchy bushes.

“I have a secret for you,” I whispered back. So far, nothing in my dad’s expression or body language indicated that he recognized me.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Dad said, as though he was in the habit of rendezvousing with spies in the arborvitae.

I handed him a tightly folded paper. “Put this in your pocket and read it later when no one’s watching. It’s from your beautiful granddaughter. Her name’s Emmie.” Even if he forgot about the card, the caregiver who would help him change into pajamas later would find it and read it to him.

We knelt in silence. I wanted to ask him a million questions, but then he’d have to hunt for the elusive answers, and I knew that would frustrate him.

Instead, I held his hand, and he seemed content with that. I talked, quickly and quietly, about Mayfield, the boys’ camp, Walt, Tarq, Loretta, how Clarice—whom he knew even if he couldn’t conjure up memories of her at the moment—was holding up famously under the strain of FBI surveillance, and the tenuousness of my husband-less state. Just a brief recap, really. I wanted the words locked into his brain so at least they were there, part of the mix that formed his current reality. My descriptions would come tumbling back out of sequence—if he recalled my visit at all—but maybe they would give him some reassurance during the long nights. I wanted him to know his daughter was surviving.

My legs were cramping, so I stood and pulled him up with me. He’d shrunk, so he wasn’t much taller than I was anymore, his white hair thin with vulnerable gaps of his scalp showing through. He’d lost the mischievous glint from a few minutes ago and looked both lost and scared.

“I love you, Daddy.” I wrapped him in a hug.

He immediately grew fidgety under the pressure. I eased back, searching his face, but his eyes were skittish, dodging every which way except at me.

“Don’t ever forget that. Please,” I whispered.

A pleasant but insistent chime sounded from the speakers over the door. The dinner bell.

“Gotta go,” Dad mumbled. He pushed through the hedge and staggered up the path.

Arleta had the door open before he got there, as though she’d been standing guard on the inside. She cast one quick glance over her shoulder and waved me through the door too.

“Quick,” she whispered as I squeezed by. “There’s a shift change in his protective detail right now. Frank’s coming on duty. He’ll want to see your dad all safe and sound in the dining room.” She slipped one hand under Dad’s elbow to escort him down the hallway and flapped her other hand toward the kitchen—my signal to duck out the way I’d entered, past a long queue of serving carts loaded to the gills and waiting like a besieging army just behind the swinging doors.

I ran all the way back to the car and didn’t see a single person on a sidewalk or in a parked car along my whole route. No one drove by slowly or suspiciously, either. I was huffing hard when I drew up next to the picnic table Josh had commandeered. The playground was empty too.

Josh pitched his eyebrows up in a question. I shrugged.

“Then we’re damn lucky,” he murmured. “Let’s not dawdle.”

We climbed back into the car—Josh driving this time—and hit the road.

We had time to burn, but sitting in one place for too long wasn’t an option. We—well, Josh, really—decided to eat again. Seems he had a stomach of steel, completely inured to the effects of stress.

I watched him scarf down a burger, fries, and milkshake in the parking lot of a fast food restaurant. We both had our necks on a swivel, checking all the mirrors and through all the windows as dusk merged into full-blown darkness. But our FBI tails were either nonexistent or very, very good. And I trusted Josh to be able to spot them if they were there.

He punched me lightly on the shoulder. “I’m amazed we got this much of a lead. I should hire you. Apparently you’re invisible in airports.”

I grinned at the compliment, but I really couldn’t take credit for it. “I look like every other middle-aged woman. We’re an invisible class.”

Josh frowned and licked ketchup off his thumb. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“I know it,” I retorted. “We can operate with impunity. We look too much like people’s mothers to be suspect.”

“Not you,” he muttered, shaking his head. “No way. You’ve got something—it’s in your eyes, the way you walk.” He flushed and squinted through the windshield. “Let’s just say Skip is a lucky guy. I’ve always thought so.”

I couldn’t breathe for a second, my stomach fluttering. What was I supposed to say to that? Yet another uncomfortable moment in a vehicle. What was it about being behind a steering wheel that prompted men to loosen their tongues and reveal their emotions?

So I latched on to one of his comments that had piqued my curiosity. “Hire me? What are you thinking? Because my source of ready cash won’t last forever, and I may need to find a job.”

Josh sighed and wadded up the burger wrapper. “This thing with the FBI review. Maybe I really could get my job back, but they don’t know how to do anything except glacially, if you know what I mean. Paperwork, red tape, all requests inching up the chain of command. Lots of guys in suits sitting in air-conditioned offices, somehow making themselves necessary to the process. I’m not sure I actually want the job back now—now that I’ve had a taste of what it’s like to move more freely, be my own boss.”

“So you’re thinking of starting your own business? Wow. For what it’s worth, I’d love to write your first testimonial. You orchestrated that beautiful shakedown of Lutsenko—besides, well, everything else.”

Josh laughed. “I don’t think I’m going to advertise shakedowns in my list of services.”

“Private investigation? Personal security? Blackmail negotiations? Hostage retrieval? You could really offer the spectrum.” I grinned at him.

He nodded. “Something like that.”

I checked my watch and tapped the dashboard. “Let’s add insinuation and motivational speeches to that list.”

“You got it.”