Chasing Luck (14 page)

“Mal—”

“Stop. Don’t say it.” She holds up her hand and continues to look ahead at the road. “I don’t want you to try and make me feel better.”

I ignore her protest and glance at her. “You were a kid.”

“If there were do-overs in life…” She doesn’t finish.

The headlights in the rear-view mirror shine brightly into my eyes.

“Mal. Don’t mean to cut you off, because I want to talk about this, but can we finish later?” The Toombs’ iron gate sits as a closed barricade between two brick columns. “I’m going to pass the house.”

“Why?”

“There’s a car behind us. It’s probably nothing.”

My pulse thrums in my neck. Malerie could be safe inside her house and I’m out taking us on a tour of St. Louis so I can have clean clothes.

Instead of heading up the private drive, I zoom past at a speed higher than legal. If the car speeds up behind me, I’ll gun it.

The sedan follows us for another mile, and then slows and takes a right down an intersecting road.

“It’s nothing. I’ll head back to the house.” I’m getting as paranoid as Malerie.

“
A
ll it takes is
a bad boy with a bottle of booze to bring out the truth. To bring out the need. To bring out the hurt. All it takes is a couple of words. Because he cannot lie when he looks in her eyes.” ~ Jelly Bean Queen

T
he buzzer
for the front gate
zings
five times in quick succession.

“Persistent.” In the kitchen, Ace slides a wooden panel open and studies the hidden monitor. “You know him?”

“Nope.”

He pushes an audio button. “Yes?”

“Detective Steve James to see Malerie Toombs,” the man answers and holds up a badge to the camera.

Ace doesn’t respond, but presses the button to open the iron gate.

Seconds later, the doorbell chimes and I hang back, letting Ace open the door.

“Are you a resident at this home?” A man in a suit stands at the front door asking Ace the question, and Ace’s spine stiffens. In my spot from the kitchen, I can see Ace has the door cracked like he might slam it at any moment.

“Can I help you?” Ace asks instead of answering.

“Detective James,” he says and looks past Ace. “Here to see Malerie Toombs.”

“You have some identification to go with that badge?” Ace never budges.

The man reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a leather wallet. “Need to ask a few questions.” He flips it open and Ace examines it.

“Yeah. She’s here.” Ace steps back and lets the man in.

I back away and take the dogs to the sunroom before the detective can spot me.

When I return to the front of the house, Ace and Detective James stand in silence in the living room. The house smells like lemon polish and freshly baked cookies. Gertrude hasn’t neglected anything. The detective looks up when he sees me enter. I cut him off as he opens his mouth to speak.

“Why are you here, Detective James?” I ask.

“Steve,” he says. “Steve is fine.”

Ace stands to the side of the room, but I motion to the detective to have a seat on the sofa opposite the chair I sink into.

I wait for someone to say something. Anything.

“What’s up?” Ace asks. He doesn’t look nervous with his arms folded across his chest.

“I’d like to go over the shooting in the restaurant again. A few more questions.” The detective—Steve—addresses me even though Ace asked the question.

“I gave my statement. I’ve told the police everything I know,” I answer. “Like for me to make up details that are more interesting?” My snarky comment due to nervousness earns a furrowed brow accompanied by a she’s-flipped-her-shit look from Ace.

“Do you have a specific question for her?” Ace strolls over to stand near my chair. His proximity is almost possessive and calms me.

Detective James eyes both of us and nods. “Yes, I do. Let’s go over the events that occurred before your uncle died.” Then he looks only at me.

The word ‘died’ reverberates in my brain. I focus hard on the detective’s hands and his gold watch and wait to see if he comes up with anything the police haven’t asked me several hundred times already.

He pulls out a small notepad and pen. “You had a reservation at the restaurant for dinner. Just you and John Toombs.”

“Yes,” I answer.

“You didn’t have plans for afterward?”

“Um … no. We didn’t. What does that have to do with it?”

“Making sure we are clear on all the details.” Detective James jots down something and we wait for him to finish writing.
Is he writing paragraphs in that little notebook?

“You said you and your uncle were regulars at the restaurant before he died.” Every time he says ‘died’, I resist the urge to scream at him to be quiet. Am I imagining that he keeps saying it?

“Yes.” I place my hands firmly in my lap and lace my fingers together, pressing them until I hear one knuckle pop.

“And you had a guest for dinner. Ace was your guest.”

I’m confused at his question. “Not really a guest. I told the officers who came to the hospital that I met him that night.”

“He was your uncle’s guest?”

“Yes. Or no. I mean, not for the meal. It was business. Ace brought something to him.”

“How long have you known Ace?” The detective’s tone is casual and friendly but the question isn’t.

“Not very long.”

Detective Steve looks up from the notebook. “You hadn’t met him before the night of the shooting?”

“I just said I met him that night.” I don’t understand why he’s asking this.

Ace wanders to the fireplace mantel and stands away from me. He tucks both hands into his jeans pockets, a casual stance, but I know better.

Detective Steve tilts forward with elbows on his knees like he might whisper a secret. “Phone records indicate that several calls were made between your home and Ace’s cell number.”

“Okay. So?” I’m still not following.

Ace clears his throat. “I discussed a job with Mr. Toombs before he died. Those calls weren’t with Malerie.”

“Sure. Sure. That makes perfect sense.” The detective sits back and rubs his jaw. “What about the calls after John Toombs died?’

I draw my shoulders up to my neckline and bite the flesh inside my mouth. Yes, I know my uncle is dead. He doesn’t have to keep saying it. Ace and I are both silent.

“You talked afterward?” he asks. The detective maintains his conversational tone.

“I think I called him once.”
Did I call him more? I can’t remember.
“Yes, I did call him.”

“Okay. And what was the nature of the call?” Detective Steve crosses one ankle over his knee.

“I don’t know … I think I just wanted to ask him some questions about the shooting,” I say.

“About the shooting,” he repeats. Detective Steve looks to be considering this and nods again.

“Yes, why?” I catch myself chewing my bottom lip. My hands are clammy and I want to rub them on my legs.

“Are you aware that several calls have been made from this residence to Mr. Sloan?”

“I don’t understand why this matters.” I glance at Ace and wish he’d come closer to me.

“I talked with Billy Vandol a couple of times.” Ace’s speech is strained and suspicious. It’s obvious he’s as thrown off by this line of questioning as I am.

“Hmm…” Detective Steve murmurs and writes further in his small, black notebook. “Billy Vandol says he spoke with you but he’s not sure of the number of times.”

“Well, what did you do? Go hit up the old man for questioning while he’s in the hospital?” Ace shakes his head. “How many more questions do you have? We’re both tired.”

The detective is no longer smiling. “It’s odd, don’t you think, that you left the restaurant and returned.”

“No. Not odd at all.” Ace’s words come out stiff. “I told the police I lost my keys.”

“A witness that night said she saw the gunman and you outside the restaurant before the shooting.”

Ace’s face is flushed. I know he’s getting pissed. “I saw the guy.”

“Were there any others in the parking lot when you went back to your vehicle?” Detective Steve isn’t looking at us but writing something in his notebook while he talks. Then he looks up. “And what was the gunman doing when you saw him in the parking lot?”

“He was standing near the front, outside the door.” Ace’s voice and tone hold the dead, monotone quality of someone holding his temper in check.

“And you didn’t think that odd?”

Ace stares at him without answering for what seems like minutes. “Yes, I did.”

“But you didn’t do anything about it,” the detective says.

“No law against standing outside a building,” Ace answers.

Detective Steve rises and tucks the notebook inside his jacket pocket. “I think that’s all I need for now.”

Then he turns and smiles at me. “I’ll show myself out.”

When he’s gone, Ace turns to me and mutters, “He either thinks I’m guilty or we both are. Guilty of … I don’t know what. But I don’t like those questions.”

“
W
hat the hell
? What in the hell?” I fall against the wall of my bedroom and partially shut the door. As if Ace didn’t already want to get as far from me as possible. I’ve demanded he stay in the house. I’ve thrown myself at him and been rejected. Now, the police act like we might be in some conspiracy to what … hook up?

And then the detective’s insinuations become crystal crime-show clear. He thinks it’s too coincidental that Ace was in the restaurant. He thinks we knew each other before.

He thinks Ace—and I—might have something to do with the shooting and JT’s death. My stomach churns and I want to be sick. Instead, I take a couple of deep breaths. We aren’t guilty of anything. The detective has a job to do and that obviously involves harassing anyone at the scene of a crime.

A sharp rap at my door induces another shot of adrenaline, spiking though me lightning-bolt style. I grab my chest.

“Yeah?”

“Can I come in?” Ace asks.

I reach up, open the door, and move back to my position of leaning against the wall. He’s carrying the crate of albums from his apartment. “Oh, thanks for bringing that up.” I study him while he walks to my desk and sets the crate on top. He looks tired.

“They’re all yours for a while.” He glances around my room. “Where do you usually keep the boxes?” Ace asks, picking them up from the top of the dresser.

“I’d hidden them in case Billy came in while we were gone.”

“Oh,” he says. “You still don’t trust him.”

I shrug.

Neither of us says anything while the seconds tick by, and I hold my breath. Will he quit and say no amount of money is worth this trouble?

“This podcast thing,” he says. “You were going to let me listen.”

I can tell he’s avoiding a discussion about Detective James’s visit. I know I should call Teddy and see if he’s found anything new. But all I really want to do is be with this guy who sticks by me in spite of all the craziness. "Sure. Follow me.”

I go downstairs and into JT’s study. JT’s desk, a massive cherry structure, sits in the middle of the room. Thankfully, Billy hasn’t moved anything and I walk straight to a side desk. When I first wanted to record the podcasts a couple of years ago, JT bought a professional grade mic and Apple’s top of the line system. It’s a setup most podcasters would sell their firstborn to have.

I signal at a rolling chair behind JT’s desk. “Pull up a seat. It’ll take me a minute.”

“So this is where the magic happens?” He looks around the room. “Nice computer.”

“The processor’s an animal. I can run graphics and audio that will blow your mind. No crashing for this baby.”

Ace just eyes me with an amused lift of his eyebrow. “Hmm… While you it fire up, I’m going to get something to drink. Be right back. Want anything in particular?”

“Anything’s fine.”

I sit and flip power switches, click to find my recording, and spy a chat window from Collin in the corner of my screen.

Collin_RockMeister: Long time no type.

Malerie: Been busy. SORRY!

Collin_RockMeister: I’ve scheduled next show. Our guests are epically misunderstood. Sometimes ridiculed. It’s a travesty that people don’t appreciate them more. Guesses?

Malerie: Um—no guesses.

Collin_RockMeister: Wait for it… It’s Naked Farmer Tan.

Ace is back and standing behind me. I’m very aware that he’s not saying anything and that he’s more than likely reading my chat window.

Malerie: Got to do something right now. Catch you later.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Ace says.

“We were finished,” I answer.

A glass bottle
thunks
as he places it on the corner of my desk. Ace sets two sodas on the desk beside it.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“JT’s booze cabinet boasts some fairly interesting supplies. He wasn’t a beer drinker, was he? No, he was not. I thought it would be nice to have a beer. No beer is available, so we’ll have this.”

“We can’t drink that liquor.” My hands are frozen on the keyboard.

He drags JT’s leather rolling chair to sit beside me. “As ill-advised as this is for me, I need to relax and this will do it.”

“We’re underage.”

Ace gives me a withering look. “Do you always follow the rules?”

He pulls the tabs on both sodas and hands one to me. “The doors are locked. I don’t have the equipment yet to set up the security system. I’m alone with you. The detective is probably outside in his car with binoculars.”

“That’s not funny.” I adjust the speaker volume with a click. “Are we still doing this?” I wave at the computer monitor.

Ace raises the soda can in a toast. “I’m ready.” He takes a drink, twists the cap from the whiskey bottle and takes a swig, and then brings the soda to his lips again. “Ready. Go.”

I set the soda can down without drinking.

He sighs. “I’ll put the liquor up if you’re upset.”

“No.” I blink. “I’m fine. Go ahead.”

The recording. It’s the
Rock Universe
podcast when we most recently hosted Jelly Bean Queen. Collin’s smooth, deep voice booms across with all his energy on display. I’m the less enthusiastic of the two voices and we’re having fun with the band members, joking around, and doing what I call the honeymoon period of the show. Then we get serious and talk about what’s going on with their music and the industry. I insert a sound clip from a song here and there for variety and it ends an hour later.

Ace has taken more swigs of alcohol and I’ve taken none, but he’s not freaking out about it. He’s not swaying or drunk or stupid.

He’s just quiet.

“And that’s it,” I say as if I have to end the listening session.

“You’re good. Really fantastic. You know that?” He tilts his head to one side and stares at me in silence.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. The show is amazing. You should do this for a living.”

“Do what? Podcasts?”

“I don’t know. Maybe journalism or something in the music industry. You could be on television. I mean, have you looked at yourself lately?”

Heat floods my cheeks. I’m suddenly sad he’s talking about a future I can’t imagine. “That’s nice of you to say, but I could never do that.”