Death Before Decaf (17 page)

“Yes, I heard about that. So sad,” Wayne said, his eyes genuinely sorry.

“Yes, it's been a difficult week for everyone here, and it's going to be a little stressful in the beginning for anyone I hire. I want you to understand that going in.”

“That's not a problem. I'm pretty easygoing.” Another point for Wayne.

“Tell me about your work experience in the restaurant industry.”

“I've worked at several pizza chains, and my last job was at the Peachtree Café. I was one of the cooks there for three years.” The Peachtree Café was closer to downtown and was known for their fabulous food. And three years was an eternity in the food service industry—which showed he wasn't a job hopper.

“Why did you leave?” Every interview I had ever conducted always came down to the same question. If you screwed over your previous employer, you were going to screw me over, and I didn't want you.

Wayne smiled hesitantly. “You see…uh…” Shit. And I thought this guy was going to be good. “I'm a member of a…medieval reenactment society…” This was getting worse, not better. “We generally do our activities on Sundays. They changed my schedule at the Peachtree and had me working Sundays. I asked them to switch me back, but they refused, so I left. It was either that or give up my hobby.” Oh, well, that was a valid reason. A nerdy reason, but a valid one.

“You're in luck, Wayne. We're closed on Sundays.”

“I know. That's one of the reasons why I thought this job would be perfect for me.”

“Other than Sundays off, why do you want to work at Java Jive?” I hoped it wasn't because of a morbid curiosity about the murder.

“I grew up coming here with my dad. That, and it's close to my house.” Good enough for me.

“Well, Wayne, it looks like you'd be a pretty good fit around—”

The phone rang. I smiled apologetically and answered it. “Java Jive, how may I help you?”

“You helped me plenty last night.”

Ryder. I excused myself from the office and took the phone's handset into the hallway. “That was inappropriate!” I hissed. “I'm conducting an interview with a potential new employee. What do you want?”

“You're still grouchy. And cute.”

“And hanging up.”

“Wait, wait. I found Ron Hatcher, and he's at home, alone. It will be a good chance to talk to him. I'll be by to pick you up in five.”

“You found him that quickly?”

“I'm good.”

He was good at lots of things. “I don't know if I can get away right now.”

“Find a way,” he ordered, and hung up.

I went back into the office. Wayne was sitting patiently where I had left him. “Wayne, I'd like to offer you the job. When can you start?”

“That's fantastic! Thanks. I can start anytime.”

“How about now?”

Wayne looked at me like a deer in headlights. I gave him a three-minute tour, introduced him to everyone, got him a shirt and an apron, told Brandon to train him, changed my shirt, and still had a few seconds to spare before I spotted Ryder's car outside.

When I got in, Ryder grabbed the back of my head and pulled me in for a kiss. It was hot but quick, and then he hit the gas and zoomed into the street. After that, he was all business.

He said, “Something's up with Ron Hatcher. According to my source, he's been under the radar lately, not hanging out at his usual haunts. Changes in behavior patterns point to trouble.”

“Good. The sooner we find the bad guy, the better.”

He gave me a condescending look. “The ‘bad guy'? I'm not sure that you're street enough to do all of this sleuthing, Scooby. Maybe I should take you back to work.”

“Are you dissing my game, Magnum?”

“Yes. Frankly, I don't see how you've made it through the week without getting yourself killed.”

“Hey!” I griped indignantly. “I've never done this before. Not everyone comes out of the womb with the skill set of Rambo.”

Ryder tried not to smile, and wisely kept his mouth shut.

Ron Hatcher lived in a run-down neighborhood southeast of downtown. It was one of those neighborhoods where scary people were out during the day. If we didn't get shot at, we'd be lucky. I wasn't too thrilled about being there, but I was thankful that I had Ryder with me. If Pete and I had tried to come here by ourselves to find Ron, we both probably would have peed our panties and run away screaming.

Giving me a sidelong glance, Ryder asked, “You okay? You look pale.”

I cleared my throat. “No, I…I mean, yes. I'm fine.”

“This is the plan: I'm going to do the talking, and you're going to stand there and look pretty. Got it?”

“You're an ass.”

“Now you're just being hurtful.”

Ignoring him, I asked, “Wait, what's going to happen if this actually works and he incriminates himself? What then? If he's under the radar already and thinks we're on to him, he's not going to hang out here and wait for the police to come and haul him in.”

“Then I'll take him in.”

I scoffed, “You're a PI. You can't take people in.”

He reached into his pocket, producing a pair of handcuffs. Dangling them in front of my face, he said, “I have handcuffs.” I rolled my eyes. He continued, “I know what you're thinking—why didn't he mention this last night? Am I right? Keep glaring at me if it's a yes.”

Shaking my head, I said, “Let's just do this.”

Ryder reached under his seat and came up with a large handgun. He shoved it in the back of his pants and covered it with his shirt.

“What are you doing?” I cried, horrified. “Are you going to shoot him?”

He looked at me strangely. “Yeah, if he shoots at me.”

“Maybe I should stay in the car.”

Nodding to a trio of tattooed, pierced hooligans staring at us from a couple of houses down, he said, “You want to take your chances alone with those guys?”

“Never mind.”

We got out of the car and wasted no time getting to Ron's front door. Ryder rapped on it, and after a few moments, Ron Hatcher appeared.

“Can I help you?” he asked, smiling.

That was odd. I didn't expect a Harley-riding, tattooed, ZZ Top–bearded murderer to be polite to two strangers at his door.

“Yeah,” Ryder said. “We're friends of Dave's.”

“You're friends of Dave's? Well, come on in. Sit down.”

All Ron had to sit on was a folding chair and a stained, grungy-looking couch. I did not want to think about what had happened on that couch to make it look the way it did, so I snagged the folding chair before Ryder could get to it. He glared at me as he sat down gingerly next to Ron on the couch.

Ron took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes. “I sure do miss my old buddy Dave.”

Ryder and I shared a look. What was up with this guy? I thought he was supposed to be tough and underhanded. He was coming off the exact opposite.

“We do, too, Ron,” replied Ryder. “We wanted to come over and make sure that Dave had settled all of his accounts with you.”

Seemingly confused, Ron asked, “What accounts?”

Hesitating, Ryder said, “For any numbers he might owe you.”

“Dave don't owe me nothing. He's not gambling anymore.”

“Since when?”

“Since last month.” Ron shook his head. “Dave was such a good friend. He gave up gambling to help me out.”

I was completely baffled. I butted in, “How would it help you, as his bookie, for him to quit gambling?”

Ryder shook his head at me. I knew I wasn't supposed to interrupt while the manly men were talking, but I couldn't help it.

Chuckling, Ron replied, “Sounds strange, don't it, ma'am? Truth is, I have a gambling problem, and I needed help. I got so far in over my head I was using my customers' winnings to pay back my own debts. Dave helped me settle up with everyone and even joined Gamblers Anonymous with me. He was a lifesaver.”

The more I learned about him, the less Dave seemed like the jerk I had assumed he was. He stayed married to Charlene even though she was bat-shit crazy. He got Logan a job and watched out for him. He protected his sister from her stupid boyfriend. He repeatedly refused to get involved with his ex-con friends from prison. And now we found out he helped his bookie beat a gambling addiction. Too bad I didn't get to know him better. He actually seemed pretty cool.

Ryder stood up, crossing his arms. He frowned. Uh-oh. “I see. Then what I don't understand is, if you're such good buddies, why last week you told Dave you were going to kill him.”

Hopping up as well, Ron growled, “Are you a cop or something?”

Ryder didn't flinch. “No, like I said, I'm a friend of Dave's. He was murdered, and I'm going to find the asshole who did it.”

“Well, it wasn't me.”

“Then why the hell did you say you were going to kill him?”

“That's none of your damn business!”

Getting in Ron's face, Ryder shouted, “I just made it my business, pal!”

I froze. Someone was going to get hurt here, or worse. We had to get out of here
now
. Somehow I found my voice. “Boys, can we take it down a notch, please? You two beating each other to a bloody pulp is not going to help us figure out who killed Dave.”

Ron blinked first and backed away. He sighed, finally choking out, “I didn't mean it when I said I'd kill him. It was a figure of speech. Dave found out his old cellmate was in on some scam, and he didn't want the guy to go back to jail. I didn't want Dave to get involved. That's what we was arguing about. He had enough on his plate without messing with that two-time loser. But, you know Dave—he couldn't let it go.”

“Right. Dave did seem to want to help people. What did he do to try to help out his cellmate?” I asked.

Ron replied, “Dave called him up and gave him what for about messing around with a shady deal. The scumbag denied being involved, but Dave didn't believe him. Dave gave the guy a week to clean up his act or else. If he didn't, Dave would turn everything he knew over to the cops.”

“Did Dave ever get the chance to go to the cops?” asked Ryder.

Shaking his head, Ron said, “No. Dave was a man of his word, and the week wasn't up yet before he died. Even after his cellmate sent another one of their ex-con friends to rough him up, Dave stuck to his promise of one week.”

That had to have been Johnny. Ryder flicked his eyes toward me, but didn't say anything. Ryder must have put that together, too.

I asked, “Was it Johnny Brewer who fought with Dave? The drummer from the shitty band that plays at The Dirty Duck?”

Nodding thoughtfully, Ron replied, “Yeah, I've seen him play at The Dirty Duck before, and I think Dave called him ‘Johnny.' ”

“So then what happened?” asked Ryder.

Ron continued, “I was there when the fight went down. The guy, Johnny, came after Dave and told him he had it all wrong about this deal, and said he better not be turning in anyone to the police if he wanted to keep breathing. Johnny punched Dave, and they started brawling. Dave was holding his own, but then he got clocked good, and I stepped in. I told that thug Johnny I knew all about what was going on, and if Dave didn't go to the police, I would. Then I punched that little prick in the throat.”

“Johnny's a prick, all right,” I agreed. “Has he come looking for you?”

“No…but I did get a couple of death threats over the phone.”

“From Johnny?”

“I dunno. Whoever it was used one of them voice changers. He told me to keep my damn mouth shut or else.”

Ryder grimaced. “Do you think Dave's cellmate and Johnny had something to do with Dave's murder?”

“If I was a betting man—”

All of a sudden, we heard a loud, popping noise from outside. Ryder and Ron turned to look out the window. A moment later, there was another popping noise and the window shattered.

Ryder yelled, “Get down!” and jumped on top of me, knocking me out of my chair and onto the floor. He held my head down on Ron's filthy, smelly floor for what seemed like an eternity as bullets pelted the walls and through the busted window of Ron's house.

As soon as the noise stopped, Ryder hoisted himself off me and asked, “Are you hit?”

“No,” I said shakily, not wanting to get up from the safety of the floor. I glanced toward where Ron was lying. Ron wasn't moving. “Ryder!” I screamed, pointing to Ron.

Ryder didn't hear me, because he was already out the door. I heard a car start and zoom away. What the hell? Was he just leaving me here? With Ron?

Ron! I crawled across his icky floor and checked his pulse. He was still alive, but he had two huge bullet holes in his chest. Grabbing a shirt from a nearby pile of clothes on the floor, I kneeled next to Ron, covering and putting pressure on his wounds. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialed 911.

The next few minutes were a blur. The cops must have been in the neighborhood (shocker), because they got here in what seemed like seconds. They took over the first aid on Ron and ordered me to sit by the wall until backup arrived. The EMTs got there soon after that and carted Ron out to a waiting ambulance. One of the cops followed them outside.

The other cop said, “I'm Officer Banks.” He helped me up off the floor. “Ma'am, did you make the 911 call?”

“Yes,” I said, staring dazedly at my bloody hands and shirt.

“Were you here when the shooting occurred?”

“Yes.”

“Was anyone else in the house with you?”

“Yes, Ryder…” Shit. I realized I
still
didn't know his last name. Or was I supposed to call him Seth? I didn't have enough energy to worry about it. It was his problem now. “I'm sorry, I don't know his last name.”

“Did this Ryder do the shooting?”

“No, it came from outside.”

“And where is Ryder now?”

“He took off right after the shooting stopped. I have no idea where he went.” Or why he left me, but I knew I wasn't happy about it.

A familiar voice called from across the room, “Ms. Langley, what have you done now?”

I hung my head. It was Detective Cromwell. That was it. I was going to jail this time. “I didn't do anything. I got shot at.”

Cromwell said to Officer Banks, “I'll take it from here.” He crossed the room to stand in front of me. “Two incidents in one week? I'm taking you to the station this time.”

I really
was
going to jail. Trying my hardest not to tear up, I let Detective Cromwell lead me to his car and stuff me in the backseat. I concentrated on a spot on the back of the headrest on the way to the station and tried not to think about what was going to happen next.

Detective Cromwell took me into a little room and immediately left. I had never been so alone and frightened. I couldn't even look at myself, because I was covered in Ron's blood, and the sight of it made me sick. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was somewhere else. It didn't work.

After a while, another man came in and collected a sample of the blood from my hands. He then examined and photographed my hands, arms, and torso. He didn't say a word to me while he was working.

Once he was finished, he looked at me apologetically and gave me a package of baby wipes. “You can clean yourself off now, if you want.”

“Thanks,” I whispered.

I wiped my hands and arms off as best I could, crying as I did it. Poor Ron. This whole thing seemed like a terrible, twisted dream.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Detective Cromwell came in, uncaring as ever. “Whose blood is that?”

“Thanks for asking if I was okay,” I said angrily through my tears.

“You're still breathing. I figured you weren't too bad off if you weren't in a body bag.” Did he just make a joke? Not funny. “Now answer my question. Whose blood?”

“Ron Hatcher's.”

“Why is it all over you?”

“I was applying pressure to his bullet wounds. Didn't you talk to the cops on the scene?”

“I wanted to hear it straight from the horse's mouth. Who shot him?”

“I don't know. I was facedown on the floor, trying not to get shot myself. Do you know if Ron's going to make it? He didn't look so good the last time I saw him.”

He nodded. “He's in surgery right now, but they think he's going to be okay. The bullets missed his heart. Tell me more about this mysterious Ryder person you mentioned.”