The Brush Off (24 page)

“You didn’t ask.”

“Listen, Smarty Pants, you don’t treat a cop that way and expect to get away with it.”

“How about kissing a cop that way and expect to get away with it?”

“Oh, no, no, no.” He shook his head and pinned me so hard with those blue eyes that I thought I might have to step back. “Don’t even get started. That was a mistake.”

“You can say that again.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I glared right back.

“I don’t have to say it again. Because it won’t be discussed again ever. It didn’t happen.”

“Fine by me.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

We stood there not speaking—I’m not sure I was breathing—for at least a full minute.

Scythe seemed to make some internal decision, because he nodded to himself and then looked over the list again. “I don’t see any of the Villitas’ names on this list.”

“No.”

“Why did you go see them?”

I decided not to lie, because Scythe expected me to.

“She’s an old friend of Ricardo’s. I thought she might be able to shed some light on his past.”

Scythe looked at me like he wasn’t sure I was telling the truth. “And did she?”

“Not exactly. She was threatened by my questions, though, so she’s hiding something. Then I met her son. I think Ricardo is his biological father. Jon doesn’t appear to know that, however.”

“Come on. You think one of them killed Ricardo to keep a twenty-five-year-old secret? This is the family of a U.S. senator. Something like this nowadays wouldn’t prevent him from being reelected.”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“What did the
cunandero
say?”

“She said I have lots of red spikes in my aura that make me really, really scary and dangerous, so you’d better watch out.” I narrowed my eyes and tried to look bad-ass.

Scythe blew out a hard sigh. “Dangerous to yourself,” he muttered. “I need to talk to this
cunandero
myself. How do I get to her house?”

Goody, was I really going to get rid of him? I pulled open a drawer and scribbled the instructions on a piece of notepaper. I held it out to him, careful that we didn’t accidentally touch.

“If we’re exchanging information, what do I get from you?”

“I didn’t know it was an exchange.”

“Well, I have been very cooperative and forthcoming with you, seems you could have something for me.”

His smile developed ever so slowly. I tried not to let it affect my erogenous zones. “What do you want from me?”

Uh-oh, I stepped right into that one, didn’t I?
I cleared my throat to get our exchange back on a business footing. “I want to know what the autopsy said.”

“Dead from a pierced aorta. He bled to death. Of course, the collapsed lung didn’t help anything, but it didn’t kill him, either.”

“Could he have lived if someone would’ve gotten to him sooner?”

Scythe was watching me carefully. “Maybe if that someone was right outside the door and called 911 immediately. It doesn’t take long to die with a hole in the biggest artery in the body.”

I nodded, but I wasn’t buying it. I think he knew I felt guilty and was bending the truth to make me feel better. Probably just because he didn’t want to deal with an emotional female.

“Any mention of pudding in his stomach contents?”

Scythe gave me a funny look. “No, only the remnants of what the coroner surmised was a Cajun blackened tuna, some kind of roasted potatoes, green beans, and coffee. Why?”

“Just wondering. Ricardo mentioned pudding to me on the phone that night.”

“What about pudding?”

“He said, ‘The proof was in the pudding.’ ”

“What is that, some kind of code between the two of you?”

“We had no code. I don’t know what it meant. I thought he was drunk and goofy.” I sucked back a sob that threatened to erupt. I swear, I never knew when I’d go all mushy over Ricardo. I hated it.

Scythe strode to the door, pretending not to see the glimmer of tears in my eyes. He put a hand on the door-knob and turned. “Lock it behind me. I’ll be back later to collect on my deal.”

I still didn’t know what the deal was, but I wasn’t about to beg right then. I jutted my chin out. “Maybe I won’t be here.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll know where you are. We’ve assigned two teams to your tail. One’s parked out front, the other out back.”

I smiled. I knew they wouldn’t keep me from doing what needed to be done next.

I
DON’T LIKE CLIMBING TREES, NEVER DID, EVEN AS
a kid, even as a self-professed tomboy. So scaling a tree to get out of my house showed just how badly I wanted to get to Illusions that night. I could’ve tried to waltz right out of the house and hope the cops stationed outside would let me mosey on over to the transvestite club at midnight. They might have, I don’t know, but I didn’t want to take the chance that they would stop me from finding out what I needed to know.

Scythe hadn’t returned, and was I ever relieved. That kiss was going to complicate an already complicated relationship. I know he thought it was a mistake, and I said it was a mistake, but while I didn’t think at all during the kiss, ever since our lips came unlocked, I couldn’t think about much else. I finally told myself that in a couple of days, when I had the case all solved for them, this badge-slinging cowboy could ride off into the sunset in his black sedan, never to be seen again, and I could go back to fantasizing about the vitamin salesman.

It would be ever so much safer.

Speaking of safe, I was sitting on an oak branch looking at a ten-foot drop and wondering how hard the ground was. It’s really cool to live in a hundred-and-fifty-year-old neighborhood with trees that are taller and older than the two-and three-story houses, until, that is, one is sneaking out of one’s house and needs a low branch to carry one safely to the ground.

I’m not a complete idiot. I had tried to go out the front door; the cop out on the street had waved through his car window. I tried to go out the back door, and the cop who sat with a view of the salon door and the kitchen door waved. I opened the upstairs window, and no one waved, so I turned on my bathroom light, set up my Spurs’ Tim Duncan bobblehead doll behind the frosted glass window, and turned a box fan on high to keep the bobblehead bobbing.

Looking up now, I realized it might not fool Scythe, who expected me to do stuff like this, but it was probably good enough for these guys.

I sucked in a deep breath, wiggled my heinie off the branch, and dropped to the ground, rolling to a stop in an ungraceful heap. I have to admit I worried about my back, but, amazingly, the jolt seemed to pop something back into place, and I walked a little more freely than I had before. Maybe my luck was turning.

I hoped it was dark enough in Illusions so the grass stains on my jeans and T-shirt wouldn’t show. I tiptoed over to my next-door neighbor’s house. Rick Ugarte is a songwriter whose muse is only awake from midnight to five
A
.
M
. and only when nourished by fresh air. I know this because when he and his attorney wife first moved in, I had a little trouble sleeping, what with his office being right below my bedroom window and some of his songs being hard rock boosted by a synthesizer. Rick and I had a little talk, and I told him I’d try to be tolerant if he’d try to write country music to a guitar. The next week, he sold his first song—to an up-and-coming country music star out of Austin. I haven’t heard the synthesizer or hard rock since. If I’d known it was that easy, I might have bought the damned song the week before.

Anyhow, I hunkered down next to Rick’s open window and waited for him to finish his verse. “You lost him today…but girl it’ll be okay…”

“Ricky,” I whispered.

He looked up, completely unfazed by a face in his window. I love creative airheads. “Reyn, what’s up, girl?”

“Can I borrow your van?”

“No
problemo.
” He reached into his pocket and threw me the keys.

“Thanks, I’ll have it back in a little while.”

“Whatever. Just don’t transport any dead bodies in it.” He grinned.

“Ricky, you know—”

He waved off whatever denial I would’ve delivered.

“What I know is, you’re famous. Infamous. Like Jesse James. I think I’ll write a song about you. ‘Reyn on the Run’…”He started to sing in his halfway decent tenor,

“She couldn’t stay, because the cops thought she oughta pay…or take a roll in the hay…”

Uh-oh.
I looked over my shoulder. Rick had a direct view of the kitchen, although it was dark, so he hadn’t seen much. In fact, he might not have seen anything but Scythe accompanying me through the door. He was probably just guessing. “Listen, about that…”

“Hey, girl, I say get yourself some. You’re way overdue.”

He laughed as I shook my head and retreated toward the carport behind their house. Even my neighbors were keeping track of my celibacy. Maybe I was getting ready to set a world record. I pulled a face at my borrowed transportation. It was going to be tough being inconspicuous while driving a big eggplant, but on the bright side, the cops wouldn’t be expecting me to drive a purple minivan, so I’d probably slip by unnoticed.

I tucked my hair under one of their kids’ baseball caps, jammed it down on my head, and put on a too-small orange windbreaker with “Toby” embroidered over my left breast and the name of some Little League team emblazoned on the back. Sure enough, the cop on the street barely looked up as I passed and waved nonchalantly.

As I neared Illusions, I debated how best to slip in unnoticed, get my information, and slip out again. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the advantage of Bettina taking me through the back door. I couldn’t just waltz in the front door, because I wasn’t carrying two grand on me. I could either loiter at the back door, hoping someone came out for a smoke, or I could bum admittance by cozying up to someone entering the club. I almost opted for the latter as I followed a Jaguar into the lot and parked next to it. The silver-haired driver looked like a sharp-dressed businessman until he got out of his car and I saw that the lower third of his pinstriped three-piece suit was a black leather miniskirt complemented by fishnet stockings and patent-leather pumps.

Okay, loitering sounded like a great idea.

I didn’t have to hide behind the Dumpster long before a stagehand with a sweaty forehead and dirty jeans came out the door, propped it open with a chunk of wood, and lit a cigarette. I pressed the alarm button on Rick’s key ring, and the van’s horn started honking. From the front door, the no-neck bouncer went to investigate, but when he saw the stagehand smoking outside, he hollered at him to come check it out. Perfect. The guy ambled over there. I tripped up the stairs and into the dark hallway. “She’s More Than an Angel” poured through the speakers. There was a crowd down near the G dressing room, maybe a passel of VIPs with backstage passes. Sighing, I headed down the hall the opposite way, which would take me past stage right and into the audience. I had no doubt that Short, Hairy, and Menacing wouldn’t appreciate my return, but I was hoping he didn’t spend much time mixing with his customers. And anyway, I was wearing my disguise, which, upon review via the mirror on the wall, made me look like I was trying to be a ten-year-old boy. He’d never recognize me once I got in.

As I slunk my way past stage right, I could see Bettina performing a sultry number. Her alto was good enough to do a musical in a small-town dinner theater, I thought. Once on the floor, I tried to edge up to the stage without attracting any attention. Maybe she could slip me into the dressing room, and I could talk to Redhead and be out of there before Gregor saw me.

I tried not to stare at the patrons. There was a share of glassy-eyed and panting weirdos, but I was more surprised by how many normal-looking men were in there. Scary. A few stray women sat with their dates, trying not to appear uncomfortable. A table full of giggling middleaged women in their cups were whooping it up, and that’s where I caught sight of Gregor. Should’ve figured.

Well, maybe they’d keep him distracted. Bettina finished with a flourish. I had to admit her hair still looked fabulous. I was admiring my handiwork so thoroughly I almost forgot to call her name as she passed. She looked down and dismissed me. “Sorry, I don’t do little boys. Try little girl in a frilly dress next time.”

Gross. That was TMI for me. I struggled to get back with my program. “Bettina. It’s me, Reyn Marten Sawyer.”

She paused. I pulled off the baseball cap, unzipped the jacket, peeled it off, and called her name again. She looked back, recognized me, but then her gaze drifted past me, and she scooted backstage.

Uh-oh.

Before I could turn around, a hairy hand clamped down on my elbow. “This ain’t a strip joint.” Gregor hauled me around in front of him. “You!”

I smiled big. “Nice to see you again, Gregor.”

“I told you to get the hell outta here and stay out.”

“I will, I promise, if I could just show one of your, uh, performers a couple of photos. I’ll never come back again.”

The next performer, who was dressed up in a school-girl’s uniform, peeked around the edge of the stage. Gregor waved her on, and the music started. He looked back at me, squeezing my elbow harder.

“You’re nuts, you know that? I saw you on TV tonight, what you did at that funeral. You better not have dragged that killer here to shoot the place up; not the cops, neither. You’re trouble.”

“Nobody followed me. But the longer I’m here, the more risk you’re in, you’re right. If you let me talk to that, uh, employee of yours with the long red hair, I’ll go. But if you don’t, I’ll hang around outside until closing.”

“No you won’t, ole Tiger out front will bounce your ass down the road.”

“And I’ll call 9-1-1.”

He was caught, then, and not smart enough to figure out that the cops were the last ones—well, maybe second to the last after the murderer—I wanted to see right then. Squeezing my elbow until I knew I’d have bruises and glowering so hard he had one eyebrow, he dragged me through an unmarked door and down the dark hallway to the dressing room.

It went from chatter to dead silence as he opened the door. What the hell did he do to keep them so scared of him? Maybe it was his BO. That was pretty damned intimidating.

He pointed his short, hairy middle finger at the redhead sitting at the mirror. “Phoebe, get your ass out here and talk to this bitch, or I’ll fricking kill you.”

Oh, the charm.

Phoebe looked thrilled to see me, glaring to beat the band. He he was dressed in fifties garb and looked like my niece’s Lucille Ball Barbie doll. I wondered what she was going to sing. Gregor dragged me down the hall and shoved both of us out the back door.

“You have two minutes. Then I’m sending Tiger around. He’ll break your phone first, then your face.”

He slammed the door shut. Phoebe-who-was-probably-Phil pulled out some smokes and lit one quick. His/her hand was shaking, crimson-painted acrylics clicking together.

Out of my pocket, I pulled the picture of Senator Villita I’d printed off the Internet and showed it to Phoebe. “Is this the man who met Ricardo?”

“No way.” He/she started to reach for the handle of the door.

“Wait.” I’d found an old photo of Mike Van Dyke, Sarah Johnstone’s tan, handsome second hubby, in the newspaper archives on the Web. I pulled it out and unfolded it.

Phoebe did a double take. He/she grabbed the paper and looked closer. “Yeah, it could be him if this is an old picture. The dude with Ricardo was like in his fifties. This dude looks like his younger brother, maybe.” He/she turned and opened the door, ready to scurry in.

Before the door shut, I asked, “Why are you so scared?”

“Because there was a note on my car when I left last night that warned me to keep my mouth shut or else. I guess that’s what I get for talking to you. Or else.”

The door banged shut before I could tell Phoebe to call the cops about the nasty note. Shucks, our business was done in well under two minutes, so I wouldn’t get to meet Tiger up close and personal. I returned to the eggplant on wheels and got home less than an hour after I’d left. Rick quizzed me about where I’d been, and when I told him a transvestite club, he decided to change the second verse of the “Reyn on the Run” song. He said he’d have it finished the next time I was in the news, which, I warned him, at the rate I was going, would be the next morning. He was sure it was going to be his big hit, his ticket to Nashville. I just wanted to know if I got any nookie in it. He smiled and said it was a mystery.

Just what I needed, another one of those.

I was too tired to climb the tree back into my house and figured the cops couldn’t do anything about me leaving after I’d already done it except be pissed off, so I went to my back door and reached for the key I kept hidden in the fake rock in the flower bed.

“Hey!” the cop yelled. I glanced over my shoulder and saw him looking from me to the bobblehead’s shadow in the bathroom and back to me again. “How’d you get out?”

“I’m her twin sister. Reyn’s still in there.” The uniform looked simultaneously relieved and confused and was silent long enough for me to slip into the house. The girls mobbed me as I came through the door. Since I had practically no social life, they were not used to me up and leaving at midnight. It had them a little worried.

“Never fear, girls, I’m not turning into a vampire.”

They still looked at me expectantly. I sighed. “And I didn’t get any nookie, okay?”

All three drifted away then. Cab nosed her empty food bowl, Char sniffed my jeans leg, and Beau flopped onto the floor. So even my dogs were disappointed in my love life.