Death Before Decaf (11 page)

I shook my head. “No, this time he came to bother my staff instead. Poor kids. They've been through enough.”

“Have you been able to talk to each one of them individually and find out what their thoughts are?” Seth sure seemed interested in my college kids. Maybe it was just his nature as a teacher.

“I talked to one of them. The rest aren't opening up to me.”

“Want me to try?” he offered.

“Thanks, but I need to do this. I need to find a way to gain their trust.”

“Trust is important.”

I looked at him closely. “Yes, it is.”

“Why are you looking at me funny?”

Busted. “I'm not. I was just agreeing that trust is important between people. And telling the truth. So how was your class this afternoon, Professor?”

He didn't blink. “Fabulous. My lecture went well, and my students and I had a great discussion on film noir afterward.”

“Interesting. Which class?” Seth had never told me specifically which classes he taught. With that info, it would be easy to find out whether or not he was telling the truth.

He moved to take my hand across the table, and in doing so, knocked his coffee over. It hit the floor, and the lid popped off, splashing coffee onto our shoes. “Shit, I'm so sorry,” he said, bending to grab the cup.

I rushed to the counter and plucked the towel off Pete's shoulder. There wasn't much coffee left in the cup, so the cleanup took no time.

Seth apologized again. “Juliet, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to have to clean it up.”

“It's no big deal. Besides, it's my job. Speaking of which, I need to get back to work.”

His face fell. “Sure. Maybe we can get together some other time.”

“Yeah. Some other time.” That certainly got awkward after I asked about his class. Lost in thought, I flipped the sign on the door to read
CLOSED
and purposely went the other way around the room to get back to the counter.

“That's enough cupcaking, Langley. Get back to work.”

“What?” I asked, breaking out of my jumbled thoughts.

Seeming the slightest bit perturbed, Pete nodded toward Seth. “You were drooling all over that guy. The one who always sits with Gertie.”

“Was not.”

“Yes, you were, but you were also giving him the third degree about something. What's up?”

Damn Pete and his ability to read my mind. “Um…”

“You guys dating? You've been in town for, what, four days?” If I didn't know better, I'd think Pete was jealous. I wasn't sure how I felt about that. But it definitely felt weird.

I chose to laugh it off. “Dating? No. We went out last night for a drink…and today for lunch, but it was nothing. Besides, he's Gertie's boyfriend. I would never push up on her man.”

Grabbing a clean towel, Pete began working awfully hard at an invisible spot on the counter. “He looks shifty to me. I don't trust him. Neither of you are allowed to date him. Or be alone with him. Or talk to him.”

Coming from anyone else, an order like that would have pissed me off. “Oh, yeah?” This was getting fun.

“Yeah.”

“I'll tell old Gertie that the next time I see her.”

Pete froze. “You wouldn't dare.”

I laughed. “I'm kidding. Now quit being such a turd.”

He put his hands up in mock defeat. “I'm just protecting my womenfolk, that's all.”

“Well, knock it off,” I said, punching him in the arm. He retaliated by snapping my butt with his towel. “Ouch! Hey, speaking of protecting your womenfolk, what would you think about coming with me to The Dirty Duck later?”

“I'm not going back to that hellhole, and neither are you.”

“Pete, you know we need to talk to someone there about who Dave fought with a few days ago.”

Pete pulled me aside and said quietly, “Look, Jules, I think you should give this a rest. We've hit two dead ends, and the police are working on the case. If they were going to charge you with something, they would have already done it. Besides, I'm sure they have a better suspect than you.”

“Is that why just this evening Cromwell said I'm one of the best leads they have?”

He frowned. “I didn't know that.”

“I'm going with or without you.”

Grumbling, he said, “Fine, I'll go with you. But we're only going to find out the guy's name so we can tell the police. We are not going to stalk him or engage him in any way. Got it?”

The hell I wasn't. I was totally planning on stalking
and
engaging the guy, especially if it meant finding out about him and Dave, or at least where he'd been on Tuesday night. But maybe Pete didn't need to know about that.

“Fine. Whatever,” I said huffily, crossing my arms and avoiding eye contact.

Pete took off his apron. “Let the guys close up. I'll drive.”

“Um, we need to stop at my place first. I'm not going to get any information out of anyone looking like this. I need to change.”

After finding the shortest skirt, the highest heels, and the tiniest tank top I owned, I swiped on some heavy makeup and fluffed out my hair. I surveyed myself in the mirror and decided I looked slutty enough to con information out of any man in a bar. I left my apartment and teetered down the stairs to Pete's waiting car.

When I got in, Pete's jaw dropped, and he drawled, “Dayum, Jules! You're hot!”

“Shut up,” I said through gritted teeth. “And ‘damn' is a one-syllable word. Besides, you were the prostitute last time, so it's my turn.”

“Like I said, we find out his name and that's all. No going after this guy, especially since he could be a murderer.”

“Pete, quit staring at my boobs.”

He acted offended. “What? They were looking at me!”

I shook my head. “Just drive.”

When we got to The Dirty Duck, it was packed. I had told Pete to come in a couple of minutes after me so it looked like I was alone. Stepping in the door, I was greeted by a cloud of smoke and a wall of noise. Some crappy country band was playing way too loudly, and people were shouting to be heard over the awful music.

Nearly forgetting to act the part, I sidled up to an empty stool at the bar. Making sure I had the bartender's attention, I leaned forward, slyly pushing my cleavage up as I did so.

I smiled coyly. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself, darlin'. What can I do you for?”

Yuck. This guy was grody—greasy hair, scraggly beard, dirt under his fingernails. At least he seemed like an easy mark. “I'll have a…” What did bimbos drink? Sex on the Beach? Buttery Nipple? Bingo. “A Redheaded Slut, please.” Duh.

The bartender winked at me. Again, grody.

I looked around the bar and spied Pete, sitting alone at a table by the door. He nodded toward the band and put his fingers in his ears. Stifling a giggle, I turned back around. Poor Pete. This band was assaulting his ears for sure. They were so out of tune, I didn't know how the lead singer was able to stumble through the melody. Their drummer was horrific, so their timing was all off, too. Pete's musical ear had always been amazingly fine-tuned, and because of that, he was a bit of a musical snob. There was no way he was enjoying this.

“Here's your Redheaded Slut, sweetheart,” the bartender said as he slid my drink to me. No way was I drinking anything that guy touched. He leaned in closer. “Now, what else can ol' Ricky help you with tonight?”

Ol' Ricky's breath was less than fresh. I backed away a little and smiled. “Well, Ricky, I'm looking for someone. Two men got in a fight here this past weekend. One of them stole a week's worth of my tip money out of my purse. I need to find him so I can get my brother to go beat it out of him. What do you say? Can you help a girl out?”

“You say Dave stole your tip money? That doesn't sound like something he would do. Anyhow, I can't help you much there, because ol' Dave is dead. I'm sorry, darlin'.”

Mercifully, the band stopped playing and took a break. I lowered my voice. “I knew Dave. It wasn't him. It was the other guy. The one who was hitting on Charlene.”

Ol' Ricky looked at me funny. Well, funnier. He was not the most attractive man in the place. “Sweetheart, Johnny didn't hit on Charlene.”

“That's what she told me.”

“Aw, Charlene. She's crazier than a shithouse rat.” No shit. “What I seen was that the minute Dave came into the bar, Johnny was all up in his business, and damned if it didn't end in a fight.” Wait a minute. Johnny. That name rang a bell. Ol' Ricky continued before I had time to think about it. “Both of them was pretty tore up. Good thing one of Dave's buddies stepped in and broke up the fight. He threatened Johnny and throat-punched him. That pretty much ended it.”

Poor Dave. Now I felt even worse. He was probably sitting down in the kitchen at work because he was injured. “So the other guy, Johnny. What's his last name and where can I find him?”

“Last name's Brewer.” He nodded his head to the stage. “He's the drummer.” He was here? Jackpot! But he was a drummer. That wasn't good. Drummers are always squirrelly. I'd be lucky to get any information out of the guy. “Be careful with him, darlin'. Johnny's not right. He's a mean son of a bitch, and I'd hate to see a pretty little thing like you getting hurt.” Oh! Now I remembered the name Johnny—from Dave's hidden note that read
Franklin Motel, Room 8, Johnny
. Could it be the same Johnny? I was going to find out.

“Thanks, Ricky. I'll remember that. Any idea where he lives?”

He shook his greasy head. “Nope. Can't help you there.”

“No problem. One more thing. Do you know Ron Hatcher? He's a bookie.”

“Yeah, he's the one who broke up the fight you were talking about.”

Interesting. “Do you know where I can find him? I'm looking for a new bookie.”

“If you're looking for a bookie, don't use Ron. He's shifty. Doesn't always pay out when you win. And I ain't seen him in here since the fight.”

“Thanks for everything, Ricky.” I slid a twenty across the bar to him. “You're a peach.”

Ol' Ricky blushed. “Shoot, darlin'. It was my pleasure.”

I smiled at Ricky and hopped off my barstool. The band's lead guitarist was already back onstage, tuning for the upcoming set. I had an idea that I thought Pete might go along with, since it didn't involve “stalking or engaging” this Johnny guy. While the band was busy onstage, Pete and I could go over to the Franklin Motel and see if we could find anything there that would tie Johnny to Dave's murder.

Snagging Pete, I made my way out the door. Once we were in his car, away from that horrendous music, I said, “The guy who beat up Dave last week is the drummer in the band from tonight.”

“He sucks ass.”

“Yes, he does, but there's something more interesting about him. His name is Johnny.” Pete turned in the direction of home, but I stopped him. “Hey, we need to make a stop at the Franklin Motel.”

He snorted and gave me a sideways glance. “I think that hooker outfit is going to your head. I appreciate the offer, Jules—”

I gave him a look, and he promptly shut up and started driving in the general direction of the motel. “You remember the note in Dave's stash that said, ‘Franklin Motel, Room 8, Johnny'?”

“Oh, yeah. You think it's the same Johnny?”

“I think we should check it out.”

Pete slammed on the brakes in the middle of the street. “I think that's a bad idea! That place is a whorehouse, and…and a crack house, and—”

“Oh, sack up, Pete. It can't be worse than The Dirty Duck. It's either go to the motel and poke around or go back there and talk to Johnny face-to-face. Which, according to the slimy bartender, is something we probably don't want to do.”

Grimacing, Pete said, “Okay, but after this, no more sleuthing.” He begrudgingly started driving again.

“Really? You don't think this is the least bit fun and exciting?”

“No! It's dangerous. If you need an adrenaline rush, go skydiving or something.”

I shook my head and didn't reply.

He continued harping on me. “And how do you think you're going to get into his room anyway? Pick the lock? Smash a window? That's illegal!”

Taking out my lipstick, I applied another layer. “Maybe I can talk the manager into giving me a key.”

“What if the manager isn't a dude?”

I turned to him and smiled. “Then
you're
going to do the talking, stud muffin.”

He looked a little green, no doubt thinking back to his last encounter with Charlene.

The Franklin Motel was not in the nicest neighborhood. And Pete was right, it did kind of seem like a crack house. There were several really expensive cars and several complete junkers in the parking lot, plus there were thuggy-looking dudes standing guard outside some of the doors. I counted three prostitutes, one of them being a man (biologically, at least). Poor Pete. He looked more and more nervous as we pulled to a stop outside the office. We could see a middle-aged man at the desk inside.

“I'll go get us the key,” I said, opening the door.

Pete caught my hand. “Be careful, okay?”

I nodded, pulling my hand away. “I will.”

Trying to remember to walk sluttily, I sauntered into the office and up to the desk. Leaning over, I asked sweetly, “Are you in charge around here, honey?”

He didn't take his eyes off the basketball game he was watching on the TV at the end of the counter. “Yep.”

I slid down the counter to be more in his line of sight. “I lost my key to room 8. Think you could let me in?”

Flicking his eyes at me, he said, “Room 8 ain't rented to you,
honey
.”

Ooh. This guy was no pushover. Smiling, I said, “I know. I'm meeting Johnny here, and I wanted to get myself ready for him, that's all.”

His eyes were glued to the TV again. “You'll have to wait till he gets here.”

Leaning even farther over the counter, I asked, “Really? And there's nothing I could do to change your mind?”

“Nope.”

Sighing, I dropped the act and reached into my pocket. “Will you do it for twenty bucks?”

He brightened. “Room 8, you say? Here you go.” He handed me a key. “Bring it back when you're done.”

I was a little miffed that my slut costume didn't get me anywhere this time. At least it was a decent disguise, because I didn't look at all like myself. I walked past Pete's car and wiggled the key at him, gesturing for him to follow me. There couldn't have been more than twenty rooms in the whole place, and they all faced a nasty green bog that I assumed had once been a swimming pool. Pete and I managed to get to room 8 without being accosted by any of the other hotel guests. We slipped inside, closing the door behind us.

“Gross,” I complained, taking in the fraying orange shag carpet, peeling wallpaper, and decades-old paisley bedspreads.

Pete was equally appalled. “I've heard they rent rooms by the hour. Now I know why. No one could stand to be in here for more than an hour. What's that smell?”

I couldn't place it exactly. “Dirty gym socks and moldy Taco Bell, maybe?”

He cringed. “Yeah. That's it, all right. Let's get this over with. What are we even looking for?”

I stopped. I didn't know. I had been so excited about putting a couple of clues together that I hadn't thought it through. “Um…evidence?”

“What kind of evidence?”

Irritated, I snapped, “I don't know. A bloody glove? Just look around.”

Chuckling to himself, Pete gingerly perused Johnny's suitcase. I looked through his drawers and through the mountains of crap he had strewn on top of every flat surface in the room. After finding nothing out of the ordinary—well, if you consider storing visibly soiled boxers in a pizza box “ordinary”—Pete had had enough.

“Jules, we don't know what we're doing, or what we're even looking for. Let's call it a night.”

I sighed. “I guess you're right. There are a couple more places I want to look. Would you go ask the manager if he knows where Johnny might have been on Tuesday night?”

Frowning, he said, “Fine. But when I get back, we're leaving.” He disappeared out the door.

I went to go check in the toilet tank, since in movies it always seemed to be the place to find damning evidence. There was nothing there, so all I got out of it was the overwhelming urge to wash my hands. I quickly did so, and as I was coming out of the bathroom, the front door opened. I guessed that meant my sleuthing was over for the night.

Expecting to see Pete, I sucked in a breath when another man walked through the door. It was Johnny Brewer.

“What are you doing in my room?” he slurred. He was drunk. Thank goodness. Surely I could talk my way past a drunk guy. My heart decided to start beating again.

“Waiting for you, of course.”

Johnny looked at me in confusion. “Do I know you?”

Taking a page out of Charlene's book, I flashed what I hoped was a seductive smile and threw in a wink for good measure. “Biblically, baby.” Sashaying my hips, I moved closer. “You did me against the wall in the bathroom at The Dirty Duck last week. Don't break my little heart and tell me you forgot.” I was taking a shot in the dark here, but any drummer worth his salt has been involved in a bathroom sexploit or two.

“Oh…yeah. You're…um…your name is…ah…”

“Lisa,” I supplied.

He nodded, as if he'd realized exactly who I was. He looked me up and down. What a douche. “Lisa. Right. How you doin'?”

I stuck out my lower lip. “Well, not so great, Johnny. See, you stood me up on Tuesday, remember? You were supposed to be at my place at seven.”

“You shittin' me? Tuesday nights are always band rehearsal. I wouldn't have made a date on a Tuesday.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “You sure I know you?”

Oh, crap. Johnny was either smarter or soberer than he looked. He was on to me. “I see what's going on here. You're trying to get rid of me. You know, if you didn't want to go out with me, you should have just said so. Goodbye, Johnny.” I turned to hightail it the hell out of there, but Johnny caught my arm roughly.

He snarled in my ear, “Come to think of it, I don't remember you at all. But I bet if I did you against this wall now, my memory would come right back.”

Shit, shit, shit! I tried to jerk my arm away, but he held tight. My heart started to pound as I struggled against him, trying desperately to get away. With one swift move, he slammed me backward against the wall. I cried out in pain as my back and head made contact with it. He pressed his body hard against mine, immobilizing me and making it difficult to breathe. With one hand, he gripped both of my wrists above my head like a vise. I winced as his stubble scraped my face and the scent of whiskey overwhelmed me. His putrid breath felt hot on my neck as he said, “Just relax, baby.”