Out Of Time (31 page)

She did look a lot like her sister Ruby, my favorite meter maid. I lowered the gun and let out a long breath. “Sorry. You don’t know what I’ve been through this week.”

She peered at my grimy sweat suit and bruised face. “Don’t think I want to know,” she said. She glanced at Bobby’s file cabinets. “Okay if I get to work?”

“Sure,” I told her. “Just make sure the front door is locked.”

She double-checked the door, gave me another sideways glance, then got to work reorganizing files without wasting time on any more talk. I was grateful. Ever since I hit thirty, which was a relatively long time ago, I haven’t had the energy for normal conversation. I don’t mingle and I don’t chitchat.

I checked on the progress of the printing and estimated that it would take another forty-five minutes to complete. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stay awake.

Keisha was on the same wavelength. Five minutes later, she popped her head in the door and unsuccessfully fought off a yawn. “I don’t think I can do this without coffee, after all.” she said. “I’m going to run over to Krispy Kreme for a cup. You want something?”

Ah, salvation. I ordered six doughnuts—a dozen if they were warm—and a large cup of coffee. I also made a mental note to pay Keisha a hundred bucks in addition to buying her son’s special glasses. By golly, the woman had initiative.

I spent the next five minutes entertaining myself with daydreams of Keisha working for me and Bobby D. permanently, running out to keep us fueled with warm doughnuts
on command. This daydream soon gave way to more base instincts—the need to gloat. By now, Bill Butler would have seen the Channel 5 newscast, and other stations might have expanded on the story. He’d know that both George Carter and Pete Bunn were dead, and even he would be having second thoughts about what the hell was going on in connection with Roy Taylor’s death.

I wouldn’t say a word about Steven Hill, I promised myself, but I would casually bring up Carter and Bunn. Just dip Bill’s nose in it, so to speak, instead of rubbing his entire face in the fact that I was right.

I tried him at the office first. The female voice that answered his phone was slightly familiar. And whoever she was, she certainly knew who I was. “Is this Casey?” she asked. “Bill’s not here. He has a date tonight. A hot one.”

I remembered. The woman on the phone was the administrative officer I’d threatened with bodily harm a few days before, when she wouldn’t put me through to Bill fast enough. She remembered the incident, too—and she was out for revenge.

“I see you’re not doing anything tonight,” she continued. “Too bad. Not many single men in this town, huh? Especially when you’re middle-aged like you are, I expect. Do you want me to take a message for Bill? He probably won’t check in until late tomorrow. He’s got the day off and he’s cooking dinner tonight for that new girl from Records. Have you seen her? Everyone thinks she looks like Heather Locklear. She can’t be more than twenty. She’s crazy about Bill, too. He’s cooking her dinner at his house. Isn’t that romantic? He says he’s making his mother’s special spaghetti sauce. I hear it’s pretty good. Have you ever had it?”

“No,” I answered grimly. “I haven’t.” The nerve of some people. She was trying to make me feel lousy and she was doing a good job of it. She must have gone to an all- girls’ school. She had perfected the art of being a total bitch without once stooping to sounding like anything but the nicest, most sincere friend. The hell of it was that I knew what she was up to, but she was succeeding anyway. I couldn’t tell if I felt bad because Bill had a date with some young babe or because I didn’t. Regardless, I felt about as desirable as a pregnant water rat.

The girl sighed dreamily. “Some people have all the luck.”

“I’ll call back later,” I said and hung up. I’d even the score in my own good time. Maybe I’d take an ad out in Prison Penpals using her name and begging hot males to contact her pronto.

The Krispy Kreme doughnuts arrived warm and cheered me up, but a casual comment of Keisha’s did not. I had just finished my fourth doughnut when she popped her head in the door and asked me a peculiar question.

“This business that’s been giving you a hard time this week,” she said. “Does it involve a tall white guy with dark hair?”

“Why are you asking?” I said, the doughnut turning to tasteless muck in my mouth.

“There was a guy standing in the doorway across the street when I left for the coffee and he was still there when I got back. I thought he might be a bum or something but the Rescue Mission sandwich truck just cruised past and he didn’t budge. I just checked and he’s still there, hiding in the doorway.”

“You ought to have my job,” I told her. And, frankly, at the moment I wished she did. We slipped to the front window, and I lifted up a corner of the blinds.

“Across the street,” Keisha told me. “There. See the white doorway?”

I looked just in time to see the back of a man’s figure as he slipped from the shadows and disappeared into the darkness of the five-story parking garage across the street. “Damnit, he’s gone.”

“Do you know him?” Keisha asked.

“Probably,” I answered.

Paranoia returned in a rush. I finished dividing the remainder of the printed transcripts, stuffed them into my knapsack and made a beeline for the front door. “Don’t stay here alone,” I ordered Keisha, mindful of Bobby D.‘s conk on the head. “Don’t worry about the files tonight. They’ll keep. And remind me to give you a raise.”

just cht color=“windowtext”>She was still staring at me when I hopped into Bobby D.‘s Cutlass and took off from the curb, burning rubber like some testosterone-infested redneck. If my mysterious shadow was parked in the garage and I hurried fast enough, I’d be gone by the time he exited and made the series of turns required to pick up my trail on one-way Saunders Street.

I took a deep breath while I waited at a stoplight and tried to get a grip. Just to be safe, I took the .44 from my knapsack and put it in the glove compartment, where I could get at it easily. A few feet away, students and aging rabble-rousers were whooping it up at Sadlack’s on Hillsborough Street, taking advantage of cheap sandwiches and even cheaper beer. Some people had all the fun. When this was over, I’d relax for at least two weeks, I vowed. I’d relax and forget all about being followed by angry bartenders or psychotic cops or… I had to stop right there. My thoughts were getting me nowhere.

The light changed and I eased away from the intersection, peering into the rearview mirror. Traffic was always heavy on this stretch of Hillsborough Street where it bordered the N.C. State University campus. Students in groups laughed as they made their way from pub to pub or popped into one of the restaurants along the crowded blocks. Enlisted men from nearby Fort Bragg joined local high-school kids in cruising the strip, hoping to horn in on the action. The result was total chaos, and it was impossible to tell if I was being followed or not. I spent so much time looking in the rearview mirror, I almost rear-ended a Mazda 626 idling in front of me.

After that, I forced myself to pay attention until I got past the crowds and was nearing the state fairgrounds. I needed to make a fast decision. The trip had already taken longer than expected and I was late to meet Detective Morrow. I didn’t want to chance further delays by taking 1-40. Sometimes accidents took three or more hours to clear when the built-up congestion was particularly heavy. Instead, I turned right on Blue Ridge Road and headed for Alexander Drive. If I drove like a maniac, I could cut a good ten minutes off the trip.

The fact that my route would also take me past Bill Butler’s apartment had nothing whatsoever to do with the decision. At least that’s what I thought. Until I neared the turnoff to his complex and found myself steering the Cutlass into the left-hand lane. Look, it wasn’t love or jealousy that drove me to his front door. It was suspicion and fear. The man across the street from my office had been tall with dark hair. That could have been the pissed-off bartender from my pre-stalked days or it could have been Steven Hill, though he was probably answering questions for some minion of Chef Robinette’s right now. That left someone else who was tall with dark hair, and the only one I could think of was Bill Butler. Contrary to popular belief, tall dark strangers are hard to come by.

I’m not saying I thought Bill was in on the murders with Steven Hill. Bill was a good cop who walked on the right side of the angels. More to the point, he hadn’t even moved to Raleigh until a few years ago, long after Roy Taylor was dead. But Hill sure seem informed about my movements. Maybe Bill had fallen for some line about helping out in Hill’s own corruption investigation. Hill could have told him that he was looking into Pete Bunn himse cte ring thelf, and that what I found out during my investigation might be important. That would be enough to get Bill to agree to follow me around to see what I uncovered. Men can be dumb that way—and Bill was mad enough at me to be real damned dumb.

All I’d do, I promised myself, was drive by Bill’s apartment. If I saw the lights on, I’d know he was home and having his hot date. At least then I’d be able to put the possibility that he was helping Hill out of my mind.

Putting my plan into action was more difficult. Blue Ridge Road was a bitch to navigate at night since residential development had long since outpaced the streetlights. Identical brick and wood apartment complexes lined the road on either side. Their names were so bland that they were impossible to remember: Sherwood Forest, Merrye Hills, Nottingham Commons, Pine Woods. After I waited for several minutes to turn left, as a long string of traffic streamed past, I realized I was headed for the wrong apartment complex. I checked my rearview mirror, then pulled back into the main lane. Almost immediately, a horn honked. I checked the mirror again and saw that the warning had not been for me. I could tell by the brighter headlights that a truck had pulled out of the turn lane a few cars behind me and cut off an oncoming car. I took another look, but could not make out what kind of truck, other than that it was black. It worried me.

I slowed, searching for Bill’s apartment, and the truck slowed with me. I was really spooked. If I didn’t calm down, I’d end up doing something dumb like running off the road from nervousness. On the other hand, the traffic and darkness made it impossible for me to tell whether the truck was really following me or not. This thought gnawed at me until I cracked. I couldn’t take the chance, not when I was so close to convincing Chief Robinette that I might be right. I had to get some help quick to make sure I made it back to Durham in one piece.

Now I had two reasons to go by Bill’s.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. If I wanted his help, I’d just have to look like I was asking for it. I located Bill’s apartment complex and drove rapidly toward a back building near the tennis courts. He lived in a two- bedroom walk-up that, for a guy, was actually pretty nice. Certainly it was cleaner than my own apartment. For one thing, he seldom hung his bras on the doorknobs. I was relieved to see the lights on. If cooking dinner for some sweet thing was his idea of entertainment, I considered it vastly preferable to discovering that he was the one following me around.

Time, age, sleeping on the ground and car wrecks had taken their toll on my weary bones. I was huffing and puffing by the time I reached his third-floor apartment. I also confess that, despite my preoccupation with getting the transcripts safely to Durham, I was acutely aware that I was still wearing the purple sweat suit that made me look like Moby Grape.

Bill’s stare made it obvious that he agreed. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, blocking the entrance with that lean physique I used to admire so much before he launched a second cche hell are career trying to boss me around. He was wearing tight jeans and a black golf shirt. How come he had never looked that good when we were going out?

“I don’t have time to go into it,” I said. “But I need three aspirin and some help getting back to Durham in one piece. It doesn’t have to be you, but maybe you could call someone down at the department and get me an escort?”

“What?” he asked with a quick glance over his shoulder. Something smelled delicious in there and my stomach growled. It had been ages since I’d eaten anything substantial. Woman cannot live on Krispy Kreme alone.

“I’ve got to get back to Durham tonight and I’m being followed,” I explained more slowly. “You have to help me. Don’t you watch the news? George Carter and Pete Bunn are dead.”

“Who?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder again.

I lost my temper at his apparent stupidity, not to mention his preoccupation. “What? Who? What is this?” I asked. “You talking in one syllable words tonight so that she can understand you?” I nodded behind him as he tried to slam the door in my face. I jammed it with my foot and pleaded, “I’m not kidding around. Bill. I really need your help.”

“This is beneath you,” he said, trying to mangle my foot in the doorjamb. “How did you find out I had a date? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“I am not here because you have a date,” I hissed back. “I’m here because some psychotic maniac is trying to kill me with a truck and I need your help to stay alive.”

“Who is it, Billy?” a syrupy voice called out from inside his apartment.

“Billy?” I asked, rolling my eyes. Look, I couldn’t help it. Bill Butler was the last person in the world I would call “Billy.”

“Mind your own business, Casey,” he whispered, throwing his full weight against the door. I pushed back. We were nose to nose, at a stalemate, when his date butted in.