Death Before Decaf (18 page)

“He's not mysterious. I just don't happen to know his last name.” Or anything else about him, other than he's good in bed. Now that I thought about it, that was rather slutty of me. What had my life become?

“Why were you two at Hatcher's house? Seems a little outside your neighborhood.”

“It was a social call.”

Cromwell looked at me sharply. “If you're lying to me again—”

“I didn't lie the first time. I omitted.”

“Well, stop
omitting,
then.”

“Fine. We went to Ron's house to ask him if he knew anything about Dave Hill's murder.”

“Why the hell would you go and do a fool thing like that?”

I bristled. “Well, you don't seem to be doing anything about it, so I thought someone should.”

He glowered at me and asked, “Why do you care?”

Exploding, I cried, “Because you told me I'm the prime suspect! I don't want to go to jail! Especially since I'm
innocent
!”

He sighed and regarded me for a moment. Then he smiled. “You're not our prime suspect, dear.”

“I'm not? Then why did you tell me—”

“We're building a case, and we didn't want to show our hand. If everyone thought you seemed to be our best lead, the real killer would eventually make a mistake. Then we could move in.”

“So I'm not going to get thrown in jail?”

“No. Not unless you've done something I don't know about.” Now Cromwell was acting more like a kindly old grandfather than the hard-boiled detective that he was.

Brightening, I asked, “Can I go, then?”

“After you tell me what you learned from Ron Hatcher.”

“Nothing much, except he's not your guy. We thought he was the murderer, originally.”

“Is that why you decided to go to his house? Brilliant.”

I ignored his little jab. “It turns out Ron and Dave were good friends, and Dave was helping Ron kick his gambling addiction. Ron was worried about some weird deal Dave was mixed up in with a former cellmate of his. Dave was giving his cellmate until the end of the week to stop whatever illegal thing he was doing, or Dave was going to go to the police. Ron thinks the cellmate may have had something to do with Dave's death. Either him or Johnny Brewer.”

“Johnny Brewer? What does that loser have to do with any of this?”

“He was also in prison with Dave. Dave's cellmate evidently had Johnny pay a visit to Dave to politely ask him to keep his mouth shut.” Johnny also had tried to do the same to me and had shanked Ryder, but I didn't know if Ryder wanted that on the record, so I omitted again.

Cromwell wiped a hand down his face and sighed. “Did you get a name on the cellmate?”

“No. The shooting started before Ron could finish the story.”

“And you didn't see the shooter?”

“No. I heard a couple of shots, and then Ryder had me on the floor.”

“I'm going to need to talk to this Ryder.”

“I'll tell him that if I ever see him again.”

Cromwell finally finished with me, so I had him call Pete to come and get me. I didn't want to make the call myself, because I'd have to tell Pete the whole story over the phone and then rehash it once he got here. He was not going to be happy about this. I was waiting on a bench in the entryway when he rushed through the door.

Pete took one look at me and his eyes bulged. Dropping to his knees in front of me, he grabbed my shoulders and asked, “Jules, are you hurt? Is that your blood?”

The anguished look on his face was enough to send me into tears. I shook my head and whispered, “No. I'm fine.”

Hugging me tightly and stroking my hair, he asked, “What the hell happened? You scared the shit out of me. Again. The staff said you took off with Ryder and didn't come back, then I get a call from the police saying you've been taken in.”

“I'm sorry. We were only supposed to go talk to Ron Hatcher and that's it. Then things got out of control.”

He broke our embrace to glare at me. “You went to talk to Ron Hatcher? Are you crazy? You think he's the killer!”

“He's not, so it's not as bad as it sounds.”

“You didn't know that at the time!”

“Can you yell at me about this after I've had a shower?”

“First, tell me whose blood that is. If it's not Ryder's, I'm going to kill him.”

I sighed. “It's Ron Hatcher's. He kind of…got shot when we were at his house.”

“WHAT?”

Tired of being questioned, I spat back, “Hey! I told you whose blood it is, now you take me home for a shower, damn it!”

He ran a hand through his hair. I could tell he was beside himself, and I hated that I was the cause. “Let's go,” he muttered.

As soon as we stepped foot outside, I saw a man start hurrying toward us. Oh, shit. It was Don Wolfe. I did not have the energy to tangle with him today. I contemplated running back inside, but that wouldn't help, because he'd just wait for me. I had to deal with it now.

Wolfe stepped in our way and snapped a picture of me. He drawled, “Hello, Juliet. You're looking a little worse for wear.”

“Hey, man, back off,” Pete warned sharply.

Wolfe didn't even glance his way. He was fixated on me. “What's the matter, sweetcheeks? Your regular bouncer on break?” Pete steered me around Wolfe and down the steps, but Wolfe followed at our heels like a rabid dog. He continued, “A little birdie told me that you were smack in the middle of a gunfight this morning. I take it that blood's not yours.”

“She has no comment,” Pete barked. I held my tongue, but Redheaded She-Devil was begging to come out and play.

Not about to give up, Wolfe sneered, “Well, I guess I'll just have to fill in the story with my own facts. My buddy over at dispatch let me listen to your 911 call, by the way. It was so sad. You sounded like a scared little girl.” He made crying sounds like a baby. Watching him mock me made my blood boil. He laughed. “You gonna cry again for me, baby doll?”

I shrugged Pete off my arm and whirled on Wolfe. “No, but I'm going to use your nuts as a Hacky Sack again.” Before Wolfe knew what was happening, I kneed him in the stones, and he collapsed to the ground. “Oh, clumsy me. I bumped into you
again
.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Pete exclaimed, “Nice!” and high-fived me.

When we got in his car, Pete asked, “Who was that guy? It didn't seem like that was your first run-in with him.”

I rolled my eyes. “Some nasty reporter. First he called me, asking a bunch of questions. I hung up on him, so he followed me and accosted me in a ladies' restroom. That's when I racked him the first time. Then he came into Java Jive and harassed half the staff. Now he's got even more dirt on me. Fifty bucks says my picture is on the front page of the
Nashville Gazette
tomorrow.”

“He's the last thing you should be worrying about. Who cares if some scumbag reporter writes a bunch of lies about you?”

“I'm not worried about me. I'm worried about him dragging Java Jive through the mud with me.”

“It'll be fine.” He put his hand on my knee. “
Everything
is going to be fine.”

I put my hand over his and smiled. It really seemed like that could be true, especially since I was no longer a murder suspect. We rode in silence for a while.

After a few minutes, Pete ventured, “So if Ryder took you to Ron Hatcher's house, why didn't he bring you home? Where is he?”

Looking out the window, I answered, “I don't know. He left.”

“How did you get to the station?”

“Back of a police car.”

“Oh, Jules.”

We arrived at my apartment, and I was, for the first time, happy to see it. I turned to Pete. “Thank you for coming to get me and bringing me home. I really appreciate it.” I started to get out of the car, but he grabbed my arm.

“Not so fast, Langley. You said you'd tell me what happened after you showered. I'm coming up, and I'm not leaving until you've told me the whole sordid story from beginning to end.”

“You can't come in my apartment.”

“That is such bullshit.” He let me go and followed me up the steps.

I made a last-ditch effort to convince him not to come up. “I'm serious. It's freaking horrendous.”

“I promise not to judge.”

“I'm not getting rid of you, am I?”

“Never.”

I sighed and opened the door. He walked in and looked around at the nothingness. I was mortified. “I'm going to take a shower now. The only place to sit is in the bedroom. And there's no TV. And nothing in the fridge except orange juice and beer. Knock yourself out.”

“Orange juice and beer, huh? You know, if you had some amaretto…”

“Hardy har har. You'd just love to see me fall down in my own vomit again, wouldn't you?”

He laughed. “Yours was the most memorable twenty-first birthday party I've ever been to.”

My twenty-first birthday had been a blast, up until the vomiting incident. Pete and I and a bunch of our friends had gone out, hopping from bar to bar until the wee hours of the morning. At last call, Pete insisted that for my last drink of the night I have a Wisconsin Lunchbucket. No one had ever heard of it before, including the bartender. I've always wondered if Pete had made it up.

That night, Pete explained, “You take equal parts orange juice and beer. Drop in a shot of amaretto and chug it.”

“That's
not
a drink,” said my roommate Nicole (who was still my friend at the time, since she kindly waited until a week
after
my birthday to sleep with my boyfriend Danny Wright).

“It is! Gertie made me one on my twenty-first. It's a Bennett family tradition.” He swung his arm around my neck. “You're an honorary Bennett. Gertie would be pissed if I didn't keep the tradition alive.”

“I don't know,” I slurred. “I'm pretty drunk…”

“Aw, you can do it, babe,” drawled Danny, coming over to give me a wet, sloppy kiss. “Then I'll take you to my place and give you your birthday present.”

I always tended to get exceedingly truthful when I had too much to drink. Rolling my eyes, I said, “It's not a present if it's no fun for me.”

The table erupted in laughter, and Danny went over in the corner to sulk. Maybe it shouldn't have been too surprising that he cheated on me soon after that.

Pete brought the drink over and set it in front of me, and my friends started chanting, “Chug! Chug! Chug!” So I chugged it. Well, part of it. It was the most horrendous drink I'd ever had, and my stomach did not appreciate it. This one was coming back out.

I ran for the bathroom, not realizing I was so off balance. Pete was on my heels, catching me as I nearly crashed into a row of barstools. Knowing the vomit was imminent, I shrugged him off and continued to the bathroom. I got to the hallway leading to the restrooms and tossed my cookies. Usually, getting it out makes a person feel better, but I felt another round coming. Trying desperately to make it to a toilet this time, I took off for the ladies' room, forgetting about the mess at my feet. I slipped, and my feet went out from under me. I landed on my ass in a puddle of my own puke.

Alternating between laughing and apologizing for laughing, Pete picked me up and got me a trash can. After I was finished throwing up, he got some paper towels and tried to clean me up. When we got back to the table, our friends had already bailed. I found out later that they had witnessed the puking/falling incident and were grossed out. All of them, including my boyfriend, left Pete alone to deal with me. He was my designated driver, like I had been on his twenty-first, so he drove me to his apartment and cleaned me up, letting me sleep it off on his couch.

Even back then, Pete had always taken good care of me. I caught myself smiling as I relived that incident. It really was a good twenty-first birthday story. It gave me something to take my mind off of my desperate attempt to scrub every last bit of Ron's blood off my body while I was in the shower. When I shut off the water, I could hear Pete playing the guitar he had given me. He was truly a master. I was adequate, but never the genius at it that Pete was. Partly because I didn't sit around playing guitar all the time like he did.

After I had showered twice, I felt sufficiently clean, so I got out and wrapped a towel around myself. Damn it to hell. I had forgotten to bring a change of clothes into the bathroom with me. My clothes were all in my bedroom closet, and Pete stood between them and me. I took a deep breath. We were all adults here, so it shouldn't be a problem to walk past him wearing nothing but a towel. Then why was I freaking out?

I stuck my head out the door and ordered, “Close your eyes. I need to grab some clothes.”

Pete put a hand over his eyes, but there was an obvious gap between his fingers. “Hey, you're not naked.”

Scurrying to the closet, I replied, “And you're obviously peeking. Don't be a perv.”

“Me?” he asked, feigning surprise.

Armed with my clothes, I shot back into the bathroom. I quickly dressed and came back out. “Sorry to make you wait, but I feel much better now.”

“You look much better, too. You don't look like Carrie anymore.”

“Thank you,” I said dryly. “Okay, now I'll tell you anything you want to know about my day. Where do you want me to start?”

“With that prick Ryder taking you to a murderer's house.”

“Ron's not the murderer.”

“Not the point.”

“Okay, here goes. Ryder was able to find Ron Hatcher somehow, with his amazing P.I. skills. We went over, pretending to be Dave's friends, under the guise that we wanted to settle up his gambling debts. It turns out Ron Hatcher is no longer a bookie. He had a gambling problem himself, so he turned to Dave for help. Dave helped him get back on his feet and joined Gamblers Anonymous with him.”

“I told you Dave wasn't that bad of a guy.”

Sighing, I said, “I know. Dave seems to have been pretty great, actually. I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to get to know him.”

Pete smiled, but said nothing. However, the look on his face told me he was dying to say, “I told you so.”

I continued, “Anyway, then Ryder asked Ron why he threatened Dave during the conversation you overheard. Ron said that Dave was mixed up in something with his old cellmate.”

“You know who that is, don't you?”

“No,” I said, surprised. “Do you?”

“Logan's brother, Rob Carmichael. That's why Dave always watched out for Logan. Because Rob is a no-good criminal, and Dave was worried Logan's big brother wasn't setting a good example.”

“That makes sense. Dave was trying to get Rob to stop whatever current scheme he has going, which Rob denied being involved in, like any good criminal would. Anyway, Ron Hatcher thinks Rob had something to do with Dave's murder. He says Rob sicced Johnny Brewer on Dave to scare Dave out of narcing to the police.”

“Was that the fight at The Dirty Duck Charlene told me about?” asked Pete.

“Yes. Ron stopped the fight. He told Johnny that he knew Rob's secret, and if they didn't leave Dave alone, Ron would go to the cops himself and implicate Rob and Johnny both. After Ron got through telling us that, he got shot, so that was the end of the story.”

“How did Ron get shot? Did Ryder do it?” Pete asked suspiciously.

“No…There was a bit of a drive-by…”

“A
drive-by
?” he exploded, jumping up. “Holy shit, Jules! When you told me Ron got shot, I didn't think it would be from a drive-by! Did you got shot at, too?”

I hesitated. “Well, yeah…but Ryder shoved me down onto the floor and made sure I was out of the line of fire.”

“What a gentleman,” Pete grunted.

“There
is
a bright side to this story.”

“And what could that possibly be?”

“When the police hauled me to the station, Detective Cromwell told me that I'm not a suspect, and really never was. He wanted people to think that I was their best lead so that the real killer would relax. I think they're close to putting it all together.” I smiled hopefully.

Pete sat back down next to me and pulled me into a hug. “That is great news. I bet it's a big weight off your shoulders. Now, will you quit your sleuthing once and for all?”

“Absolutely,” I said happily, enjoying his warmth.

“Jules?”

“Yeah?”

“What's that?”

“What's what?”

He broke our embrace and plucked something up off the floor. It was an empty condom wrapper. Shit. This was going to get real ugly, real fast. With exaggerated patience, he asked, “Who?”

I looked away. Pete had made it very clear that he thought Ryder was dangerous and that I should stay away from him. Granted, he was not the boss of me, and I could make my own decisions. But he had never, ever gotten in the way of any of my relationships before. Now, for some reason, it was very important to him that I not get mixed up with Ryder.