A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries) Page 13

  The second file was for accounting purposes. It denoted Gavin’s mileage and the number of meetings with Doreen. He’d also run a records check on both her and Bart. Doreen came up empty. She had a couple parking tickets, but that was it. Bart, on the other hand, covered all the bases, speeding, assault, assault with a deadly weapon, robbery, domestic violence, and car jacking. He’d been out on bail for the carjacking incident when he ditched Doreen. I didn’t see how Doreen expected to get a dime out of Bart. Maybe it was the principle of the thing.

  “Anything interesting?” said Aaron.

  “Maybe.” I got my own notebook out of my purse and wrote down Doreen’s vitals and Bart’s crimes. Then I slipped Bart’s picture in my purse and put Gavin’s stuff away. Fifteen minutes later the muffler guy came out and said he was finished.

  We returned Gavin’s car to the hospital parking lot with his briefcase in the trunk. I drove Aaron to Kronos and tried to persuade him to get out of my truck.

  “Come on, Aaron. It’s ten to eleven,” I said.

  “I’m off today.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re never off.”

  “I’m off.”

  I said an “Ah crap” under my breath and parked in Aaron’s scooter spot.

  We went in and I asked Rodney for a salad at the bar. Aaron followed me to a table and sat down across from me. He replaced his gum with a fresh wad and sat blinking at me like a toad. He needed to be Fiked. Desperately.

  “I have to go to the ladies,” I said.

  Blink.

  “Order me a slice of key lime pie, okay?”

  Blink.

  I went down the hall to the restrooms, looked over my shoulder at Aaron’s back, and hung a right out the back door. I jogged the three blocks home. I found Dixie sitting in the living room swallowed up in one of The Girls’ afghans. It wasn’t cold in there.

  “Hey, how are you doing?” I asked.

  “Fine. What do you want?”

  “Ah, nothing, um, I had the muffler fixed.”

  “Great.” Dixie’s swollen eyes stared at the used tissues scattered over the coffee table. She sat rigid, as if she were expecting a fight.

  “Do you need anything?”

  “No, I don’t.” She dismissed me without her eyes ever wavering. I left her with the E! network yammering on the TV to keep her company and went up to Dad’s office. His message light was blinking again. There were messages from a couple clients and one for Denny Elliot. I wrote down the particulars for Dad’s records and texted Denny. The second-to-last message was from Mom. She was so pissed at me she could hardly speak. She managed to choke out their flight number and that they expected to arrive in Lambert at five p.m. She didn’t say how Dad was. The last message was from a surly Uncle Morty. He wanted to know if I’d reviewed his information yet. I hadn’t. I’d forgotten all about it.

  I booted Dad’s computer and called him.

  “Hey, it’s me,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Morty.

  “So, I got the Sample info.” I logged into Dad’s email account.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I put a return receipt on it. You haven’t opened it yet,” he said.

  Crap.

  “Now you have,” he said. Of course, Mort was online and got the update the second I opened his email.

  Sample lived a boring life on paper except for frequent moves and telephone number changes. She’d had six addresses and eleven phone numbers during the three years she lived in St. Louis. Her credit card usage was average. She didn’t carry much debt and her charges went down considerably in the six months she’d known her fiancé. He must’ve done most of the paying. I like that in a man. There were no recent links to Nebraska in either her charges or phone records. I felt the familiar itch to know how Morty got his information. But if it was too easy, I’d be paranoid for the rest of my life. Better to think of Morty as a genius than find out he was one of many.

  Uncle Morty made a hacking noise in the phone.

  “Sorry, I was reading,” I said.

  “Not much there,” he said.

  “No, not much at all. You busy?”

  He snorted into the phone. Morty was a bit of a snot when it came to his availability. He liked me and everyone else to think he was up to his eyeballs and would squeeze us in if he could. He was busier than I liked to admit. His alter ego wrote high-fantasy bestsellers, but when he was between books he worked for Dad and bothered me.

  “Well, are you or aren’t you?” I asked.

  “What do you need?”

  “Background on Sample’s fiancé. I’m thinking she was doing a lot through him. A link to Nebraska might show up through his records.”

  “Yeah, I had the same thought. What’s the name?”

  “Lee something. I don’t remember the last name. It was in the Post.”

  Snort.

  “I can’t do everything, you know,” I said.

  “Try doing something,” he said. “Something besides being notorious.”

  “I am. It’s not like I wanted to be on YouTube.”

  “Then why’d you sign that release?”

  I cradled my head in my hand. “I didn’t know what would happen.”

  “Really? You didn’t know signing the rights away to your image and likeness wouldn’t have, say, consequences?”

  “Fine. I’m an idiot,” I said.

  Uncle Morty snorted and said, “Saw you on BBC World today.”

  “Just look into Bart and Doreen Sendack again, will you?”

  “What do you mean again?”

  “You did their backgrounds for Gavin, didn’t you?” I smiled. Morty didn’t know what I was talking about. That meant Gavin used one of his competitors.

  “Son of a bitch.” Morty banged his fist on his desk.

  “Sorry.” I wasn’t sorry, but what the hell.

  “Bastard,” he said.

  “So about Bart and Doreen Sendack?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  He hung up on me. I did a couple mouth movements. My cheeks hurt from my huge smile. I shut off the computer, went downstairs, got a soda, and went out the back. No point in talking to Dixie. She sure didn’t want to talk to me. I trotted out to the garage. Dad’s 300 waited for me in his spot next to Mom’s Z coupe. Time to use up some of Dad’s gas. It was the least he could do since he’d never pay me for doing anything. I slid in, not realizing that it was already unlocked and just about jumped out of my skin when I saw Aaron sitting in the passenger seat.

  “Ah crap!”

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” I said with my head in my hands. “Ah nothing.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To talk to Doreen Sendack,” I said.

  “Got your salad and pie.” He blew a bubble that popped and covered half his face.

  “Swell.”

  It was all I could do not to give him a swift whack to the head. I doubt he would’ve noticed. The man didn’t notice that I’d tried to Fike him.

  Christ, what an idiot.

  Chapter Thirteen

  DOREEN SENDACK LIVED in West County, home of big hair and strip malls. It was a little bit of Jersey in the Midwest. I plugged Doreen’s address into Dad’s GPS and it began talking to me in an Australian accent. Dad does love Australian women, preferably in bikinis. It’s a good thing Mom doesn’t have a jealous streak.

  We made record time and for once I didn’t get lost. Doreen lived in an apartment complex built in the seventies. It had avocado green panels under the windows and a brick façade with a hint of orange. The building was in good condition, but it said low rent all the same. Aaron followed me up to apartment 3F and waited, smacking his gum while I knocked. No answer. I could’ve called and saved myself the trip, but some of Dad’s lessons worked their way into my subconscious. I made choices without knowing I did it. Dad said to do X, so I just did it. Never let them know
you’re coming, and face to face is better were two of his favorites. I wasn’t sure whether they applied to both suspects and witnesses. Dad never spoke of such differences. Everybody was in the gray area. There was no black and white.

  I knocked again and turned to Aaron. “Guess she’s not home. We’ll try her work.”

  Aaron didn’t reply, but followed me down the stairs. What would he do if I took off running? Don’t think I didn’t consider it.

  Back in the car, I plugged in my iPod, but before I could touch play, Aaron started talking. I should’ve expected it. He’d been so quiet on the ride over. Once he got going Aaron covered a dozen subjects including his all-time favorite, “What’s in hot dogs?” He refused to believe that they were all meat and that I didn’t care. The ride to Conrad’s Crab Shack took a half hour physically and a year mentally. He told me about a secret recipe that he and Rodney were working on for Kronos’s own handmade dogs. He’d just gotten my interest piqued when we arrived, and I was about to hear the secret ingredient. It was a sick kind of interest like stopping to get a good look at an accident or having your buddy pull back his Band-Aid so you could see his pus.

  We parked and got out. I had to know. What was it? Dog food? Tuna fish? I looked over the hood at that weird little dude. “So what is it?”

  “Huh?” said Aaron.

  “The secret ingredient. For the dogs?”

  “Oh, yeah. Rodney won’t tell me.”

  “For crying out loud. Are you trying to drive me insane? You just spent ten minutes telling me about this great recipe.”

  “Maybe he’ll tell you.”

  Since Rodney was weirder than Aaron -- I mean, who would choose Aaron to go into business with -- the answer could be anything from one small cockroach to jalapenos, so it was better left alone. I threw my hands in the air and walked toward the restaurant. At least, I hoped it was the right place. The parking lot was half empty and the only sign was a large unlit neon sign on a utility pole saying, “Eat.” No name, no hours, just “Eat” and an arrow pointing roughly to a building.

  “You think this is it?” I asked Aaron.

  “Yeah. I heard about this place.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “They got great crab.” He rubbed his hands together and grinned.

  “If you say so.”

  A sign saying “eat” didn’t exactly inspire confidence. The place did remind me that I needed a tetanus booster.

  Aaron led the way and opened the door for me. There were more customers than the parking lot portrayed. Mostly working-class guys clustered in huddles and a few suits thrown in for good measure. Sawdust and peanut shells covered the floor and the overwhelming smell of crab, never one of my favorites, emanated from the kitchen each time a waitress went through the swinging doors.

  We walked past the sign that told us to seat ourselves and found a table underneath a five foot dartboard. I checked out the waitstaff. They wore plastic name tags with punched-out plastic letters and stained, white butcher’s aprons. I didn’t know what Doreen looked like and all the waitresses looked like they’d be smart enough to marry Bart Sendack. Aaron picked up a menu and started making pleased murmuring sounds. I picked up one, too. I had to see what the fuss was all about. Crab. All crab. Not a single thing on the menu, besides drinks, that did not include crab.

  “What are you having?” asked Aaron.

  “Nothing. I hate crab,” I said.

  “Then why are we here?”

  “Doreen Sendack works here, remember?”

  “Uh-huh. Well, I’m ordering.” Aaron buried his face back in the menu, and I flagged down a waitress. Carla.

  “Hi, is Doreen working today?”

  “Yeah. What’ll you have?” Carla asked.

  “You have iced tea?”

  Carla nodded and scribbled on her pad. She looked back at me.

  “That’s it for me.”

  I kicked Aaron, and he looked up from behind the menu. Carla looked surprised and said, “You?”

  “Super crab platter, double hush puppies, onion rings, and a vanilla shake.”

  “That it?” asked Carla.

  Aaron said yes. Carla looked back and forth between us a couple of times with furrowed brows.

  “He’s rich,” I said.

  Carla made a face that said, “Oh I get it,” and left.

  “I’m not rich,” said Aaron.

  “And it wouldn’t make any difference if you were.”

  Aaron gave me a puzzled look and went back to the menu. A couple minutes later Carla came back with my iced tea and Aaron’s shake.

  “What do you want with Dorie?” she asked.

  “It’s business. I’m an associate of Gavin Flouder’s. Could I speak with her?” I asked.

  Carla shrugged and went to check on a couple of tables. I inspected my tea. No crab, although the glass had a slight odor to it. It might’ve been my imagination. I really hated crab.

  Aaron sucked down half his shake in one breath. “So what do you think, chicken or tofu? I don’t know about those chicken dogs. They don’t say what part of the chicken. They might use the whole thing. I think I got a toenail once.”

  I gagged and tried not to imagine biting into a hot dog and finding a giant toenail in it. Fail.

  “You want to see it?” asked Aaron suddenly looking super happy.

  “You kept the toenail? Why?”

  “It’s kind of cool.”

  “OMG. You are so weird.”

  “So you want to see it?”

  “No!”

  Carla waved at me from the kitchen door, and I left Aaron to ponder chicken toenails alone. She pointed to a woman bending over a skillet, sniffing the contents. Carla picked up a large platter and left. I watched Doreen pour half a can of beer into the skillet. She moved her hips side to side with the rhythm of the bluegrass music playing on a portable CD player above the stove. She moved quickly from skillet to pot to oven to grill and back to skillet again. There were several others in the kitchen, but Doreen was in charge. She yelled orders every few seconds and shuttled plates back and forth from the stove to the prep area.

  I walked up behind her. “Excuse me, Doreen Sendack?”

  Doreen turned around and gave me the old once-over. She yelled for someone named Ken, told him she was taking a break and gave him a set of rigid instructions that a rocket scientist would’ve had a tough time following. Ken looked terrified, and I didn’t blame him.

  Doreen motioned for me to follow her and we went out the exit door to a stoop in the alley. Doreen lit a cigarette and leaned against the rusty metal railing. She looked me over again, her mouth clamped around the cigarette.

  “Who’re you?” she said.

  I released a tense breath. Anonymity, my favorite thing.

  “I’m Mercy Watts. Sorry to bother you at work, but I need to ask you some questions about your case.”

  “You really work for Flouder?” She raised the brows that she’d painted on with a careless hand. The left wasn’t quite even with the right. The rest of her appearance ran in the same vein. She’d colored her hair a medium blond one too many times and it had a greenish tint. I knew that Doreen was thirty-one from her file, but it was hard to get a handle on that number from her face. I would’ve put her in her early forties at least. The orange-tinged base and heavily lined eyes didn’t help.

  “Yeah. Who’d you think I was?” I said.

  “I thought maybe you were one of Bart’s girlfriends. They show up every once in a while.” She paused and took a long drag. “To get a look at the competition, you know.” Her mouth twisted into a smile around the cigarette. She didn’t think she was anybody’s competition anymore.

  “I’ve never met your ex.”

  Doreen relaxed and flicked the ash off her cigarette.

  “Flouder getting closer to finding that shithead yet?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. Mr. Flouder died last Sunday.”

  “No shit? I won
dered why he didn’t call me. He was pretty good about checking in. Nice guy. What happened?”

  “He was murdered.”

  “Holy crap. You don’t think Bart did it, do you?”

  “Not at this point. What do you think?”

  “No way. Bart is a serious asshole, but he’d never kill anybody.”

  “He’s been arrested a lot, including assault with a deadly weapon.”

  “That was his stepmom. She’s a real bitch.”

  Well, that makes all the difference.

  “When was the last time you talked to Gavin?”

  “Huh?”

  “Mr. Flouder.”

  “Who are you exactly?”

  “I’m the daughter of his best friend. My dad’s a detective, but he’s out of town. He wants me to figure out what Gavin, Mr. Flouder, did in Lincoln, Nebraska right before he was murdered.”

  “Sorry. I had to ask. Are the cops going to be coming around on this?”

  “I have no idea, but I wouldn’t count it out. Do you know why he went to Lincoln?”

  “Sure. I told him to.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “My cousin Dave calls and tells me that Bart the shithead asked him for money. What a fucking idiot. Dave don’t have a dime. He pays his support.”

  “And Bart said he was in Lincoln?”

  “Yeah. Staying with some chick, of course.”

  “You remember her name?” I asked.

  “Yeah, Tina Shipley. Didn’t get no address though.”

  “Did Dave give you any other information?”

  “No. Just that Bart was in Lincoln with that chick.”

  “He didn’t call you from Lincoln? You never heard whether he found Bart or not?” I pulled out my notebook and wrote down Tina Shipley.

  “Nope, not a word. What’s gonna happen with my case? I need that child support. You think your dad might take it on?”

  “I’ll mention it to him and see what he says.”