Deadly Gamble (26 page)

“You know damn well who I am.”

“After talking to Greer, I'm not so sure I know who anybody is.”

“I was born Mary Josephine Mayhugh,” I said. “I told you that years ago, Jolie, when I found the accounts of my parents' murders on that computer at the library.”

“There are still a lot of secrets in this family,” Jolie said.

We were on the outskirts of Scottsdale proper by then.

I settled into my seat, thinking. “Maybe
Alex
is the one blackmailing Greer,” I speculated. “If he wants a divorce, he might be trying to scare her into hitting the road. You know, so he could keep the house and all the money and move the next wife in without a hitch.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have issues? All we know for sure is that Alex lied about being out of town and he's got a bent toward road rage.”

“If I'm going to be a detective,” I said, “I need to consider all the angles.”

“Yeah, well, not every man is like Nick DeLuca. And you're
not
a detective, Moje. You're a billing clerk.”

A silence descended. Scottsdale flashed by on either side as we headed north, toward Cave Creek.

“Not that there's anything wrong with being a billing clerk,” Jolie said, after a long time.

I sat with my arms folded. “Well, it's not the same as being, say, a
forensic scientist.”

“I am not going to let you pick a fight with me, Mojo. And this time, you can't just hop in your car and go home, because you
are
home.”

“I didn't start this,” I pointed out, taking the high road. “You did.”

“You're pissed because I called you a billing clerk. Moje, you
are
a billing clerk. If you don't like it, be something else.”

“I'm trying to be a detective, but you won't let me.”

“Oh, frick, Mojo, you're a damn
detective
then!”

I grinned. “Thanks.”

“Bitch,” Jolie said.

“I love you, too,” I replied lightly.

When we got home, Russell did the poop thing in the parking lot, lifted his leg against the corner of the building and trotted hopefully over to the side door, where he and Bert always entered the bar.

My heart ached. According to Tucker, Bert was in Witness Protection, which probably meant the separation between him and Russell was permanent.

“Come on, buddy,” I called to him. “Time to go upstairs.”

Russell whimpered and scratched at the door.

“Damn,” I whispered, and walked toward him.

That was when I noticed that the padlock wasn't fastened.

My heartbeat quickened. I gestured for Jolie.

“Don't you dare,” she whispered, from a few feet away. Evidently, she'd noticed the open padlock, too. I briefly considered taking her on as a partner in Sheepshanks, Sheepshanks and Sheepshanks, then decided the fact that I couldn't pay her a salary would probably get in the way.

Russell let out a yelp and stood on his hind legs, scrabbling at the door with his forepaws.

I put my hand on the knob.

“Mojo!” Jolie rasped.

I turned the knob.

Russell, the canine ramrod, forced the door open with his body weight and galloped in. The whole matter was decided, I figured, since I couldn't let the dog face whoever was inside all by himself.

One green-shaded lamp was lit, over the pool tables.

The bar had been tipped over.

The jukebox was smashed.

Russell darted under the pool table, where I'd found Bert, and sniffed frantically.

“It's okay, boy,” I said nervously, looking from side to side. “Anybody here?” I felt Jolie hovering behind me.

“I'm calling 911,” she said. I heard the corresponding beep-beep-beep as she dialed.

Russell came back to me, wagging his tail, then darted away again, heading for the storage closet.

The pool cues were scattered like pickup-sticks on the sawdust floor. I armed myself with one and followed.

“Who's there?” I asked, sounding a shitload braver than I felt.

I heard a muffled, moaning sound. Russell did his door-scratching number again.

I got him by the collar and gently pulled him back.

“Mojo,” Jolie called, probably from the doorway, “don't open that door. The police are on their way!”

I drew a deep breath, tightened my sweaty grasp on the pool cue, turned the handle on the door and pulled.

Sheila was inside, lying on her side on the floor. There was duct tape around her mouth and also binding her wrists and ankles together. Her eyes were blackened, and the front of her T-shirt was soaked with blood.

Russell went wild.

I dropped the pool cue. “Jolie, hold the dog!” I called.

She used both hands to grip Russell's collar, but it was still all she could do to restrain him.

“It's okay, Sheila,” I said. “It's me, Mojo. Nobody's going to hurt you—”

Sheila tried to wriggle away, disappear into the back wall of the storage closet.

Sirens shrieked in the distance.

I ran behind the bar, found a pair of scissors and rushed back to Sheila. Russell yelped hysterically, still fighting Jolie, who hung on grimly, her eyes huge.

“It's me,” I told Sheila, bending to cut away the tape between her ankles and her hands. “It's Mojo.”

She made a trapped-animal sound behind the tape and kicked at me. She was way past scared, deep into pure terror. Her bruised, swollen eyes glinted when they fixed on the scissors in my hand.

I cut the tape at the back of her head and scrambled backward when she launched herself out of the closet, snarling like something rabid. I tossed the scissors as far as I could, so she wouldn't get hold of them, and braced myself to sustain a few defense wounds.

Sheila landed on me.

We rolled.

Jolie screamed.

I had serious concerns about her future in law enforcement.

Brown uniforms surged around us, hands dragged us apart.

Russell barked his brains out.

Somebody righted an overturned chair and sat me down in it. I realized, with some relief, that it was Jolie.

The room swam.

Jolie forced my head down between my knees.

EMTs arrived, sedated Sheila and took her away.

“Well, Ms. Sheepshanks,” a familiar voice said, “we meet again.”

I blinked.

Andy Crowley came into focus, went out again.

“I think she's hurt,” Jolie fretted, from somewhere off to my left.

“Are you hurt, Ms. Sheepshanks?” Crowley inquired mildly. He was sitting, facing me, our knees almost touching.

“No,” I said. “No, I'm okay.”

“Then maybe you wouldn't mind telling me what the hell happened here.”

I fumbled my way through the events of the evening, starting with Russell heading for the door of the saloon when we got home from Greer's, my noticing the broken padlock when I went to pull him back, right through to finding Sheila hog-tied on the floor of the storage closet.

“And the victim attacked you because—?”

Everything came into clear focus. “I guess she was scared. She thought whoever beat her up had come back.”

Crowley nodded, but his face was impassive, and I wondered if he believed me. In the next moment, he cleared that right up. “Two violent incidents,” he said, “in the same place. And you're there both times. That's quite a coincidence, wouldn't you say?”

“Not really,” I reasoned. “I live upstairs. And I'd say it's a damn good thing I came in to investigate when Russell raised a fuss, because Sheila might have lain in that closet for a long time if I hadn't.”

He looked around at the wreckage. “Quite a toss job,” he said. He ran his eyes over me with dispatch. “As you said, you live upstairs. The
first
time there was a problem in this bar, you heard noises. So I'm wondering why you didn't hear anything this time. That woman has been worked over pretty thoroughly. She must have screamed. And smashing a place up like this is loud business.”

“I wasn't home,” I said, not for the first time. Maybe he was checking to see if my story changed.

“That's right,” Jolie put in bravely. “We were out all evening.”

“And besides,” I told Crowley, “Sheila's mouth was covered with duct tape when I found her. Nobody would have heard her if she screamed.”

The implications of that sent a cold shudder through me.

“She's the owner's girlfriend?” Crowley asked.

I knew he was fishing. “Yes,” I said.

“And you and he weren't involved.” He took in the scene again, slowly. “This looks like the kind of thing a woman might do in a jealous rage.”

“That is so sexist,” Jolie said.

“Shut up,” I told her.

Crowley arched an eyebrow and waited. His attention was all mine, lucky me.

“Bert was—is—my friend. My landlord. There was never anything romantic between us.”

Crowley didn't speak.

“Am I under arrest or what?” I asked.

“No,” Crowley answered, “but you're a person of interest again.”

“Don't leave town?”

“Bingo.”

“Just exactly what constitutes not leaving town?” I was going to have a hell of a time corralling Alex Pennington's harem if I couldn't leave Cave Creek, and then there was Lillian. “My job entails some traveling, and my foster mother is in a nursing home in Phoenix.”

“You're free to visit your mother,” Crowley said. He leaned in a little.

I knew what he was doing—turning up the heat, trying to get me to crack. I'd seen the tactic on TV and read about it in at least one
Damn Fool's Guide
. Actually, I kind of admired his technique, and if I ever had to grill somebody, I'd be ready.

“Since when does your job involve traveling?”

I reddened. Of course he'd know all about my job. He'd probably run a background check when I was a person of interest the first time around. “I have to pick up printouts from the doctor's offices and clinics I bill for,” I said.

I could scratch Alex off the list, after tonight.

“I thought that was all done over the Internet these days,” Crowley remarked easily. “Age of technology, and all that.”

“Can I go now?”

Crowley nodded, pushed back his chair and stood.

“Next time you hear noises, or see a broken lock, Ms. Sheepshanks,” he said, “call us before you barge in, will you?”

“Right,” I said.

“And Ms. Sheepshanks?”

“What?”

“Bad-Ass Bert's is a crime scene. Stay out of it.”

I swallowed. “Okay.”

Jolie took me by the arm and helped me to my feet. She and Russell and I went out, weaving our way between cops. Russell, so fierce before, seemed worn out now. Downright disheartened.

Upstairs, in the apartment, Jolie turned on every light in the place.

“You really need to move,” she said.

I gave Russell some fresh kibble and refilled his water dish. “Where would you suggest I go?” I asked reasonably. “As a person of interest, my options are limited.”

“Maybe you and I could get a place together.”

“I'm not living with Sweetie. Go figure, but I don't like the idea of spending half my life on top of a refrigerator, waiting for you to come home from work. Besides, he'd probably rip Russell limb from limb.”

“Sweetie is a very nice dog,” Jolie said, insulted.

“I think we shouldn't talk for a while,” I replied.

“Fine,” Jolie snapped. She always wanted the last word.

“Fine,” I said.

She swept out of the kitchen.

Russell lumbered over to his food bowl and crunched kibble.

I patted him on the head, full of sympathy. Did Witness Protection allow dogs? For that matter, why was
Bert
a candidate? Sure, he ran a biker bar and had road maps tattooed on both arms and probably the rest of his body, too, but other than that, he was an ordinary guy.

I glanced at the phone.

My cell hadn't rung all evening, but that didn't mean somebody wasn't trying to get in touch with me. Say, to set up another poison delivery, or threaten me with a painful death.