Down and Dirty (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 9) Page 4

  “You okay?” asked Claire.

  Just breathe.

  “Fine. What does Big Steve want?” I asked.

  She wrinkled her little nose and said, “He said he was visiting.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Not really. He usually comes by on the weekends when he has more time.”

  “Right. I forgot about that.”

  Claire’s phone buzzed and she swallowed a groan. “It’s your dad.”

  “I’ll get you a raise,” I said.

  She answered and reassured Dad that Mom had not slipped and hit her head. She didn’t get lost or cut herself. Mom was on blood thinners and she bruised like an overripe peach, but she wasn’t particularly clumsy or altered. She was still her, but Dad didn’t believe that.

  Claire hung up and said, “He’s mad that you didn’t bring her back.”

  “I’ll deal with it. You should go home.”

  “Can I talk to you?” asked Claire.

  I’ll pay you not to.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “I have to go see my mom. I can’t sleep. I can’t…”

  Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall and we both turned to look. It had to be Big Steve. We called him Big Steve for more than his actual girth, which was considerable. Big Steve Warnock was big in every sense of the word. He was not only the biggest baddest lawyer in St. Louis, but also a scratch golfer, a killer poker player, and on the boards of three hospitals, for starters. Big Steve was the only person that worked as much as my dad. I had it on good authority that he slept five hours a night but wanted to cut it down to four. I’d known him all my life and he still overwhelmed me when he stalked into the kitchen, glancing around and filling up all the empty space.

  “That’s not good.” His voice echoed off the cabinetry and made us cringe. Big Steve didn’t have an inside voice.

  “Dad?” I asked even though it was obvious. I was hoping it was our plumbing or a bedbug infestation. Something manageable.

  “Who else? We got to get his mind off Carolina.”

  I liked the sound of we but usually we meant me.

  “I’m open to suggestions,” I said.

  “You know what he was doing up there?” he asked.

  “Do I want to know?”

  Dad had been cross-referencing stroke studies and insurance actuarial tables to try and calculate the possibility of another stroke. He had charts, a whole lot of charts.

  “Yeah,” I said. “He’s been doing that.”

  “You have to stop it. He’s driving himself crazy.”

  I plunked down in a chair and put my forehead on the table. “I think we’re already there.”

  Big Steve started pacing and Claire jumped out of the way to wedge herself in a corner.

  “Did you know that he’s hired another agency to investigate his old collars? Tommy arrested hundreds of douchebags in his career. That’ll bankrupt him.”

  I glanced at Claire. “I was going to tell you,” she said. “I couldn’t talk him out of it.”

  Big Steve pointed at me. “We’re canceling it.”

  “Fine by me.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Best news I’ve had all day.”

  He stalked back and forth. “He needs to get out of this house. Now. Yesterday.”

  “Mom’s not ready to travel,” I said.

  “I thought as much. What does she think?”

  “She thinks he’s crazy.”

  “What does she want to do about it?” The man was serious. He wanted the stroke victim to come up with a plan and fix it. My chest got tight and I stopped breathing.

  “Tommy needs something to distract him. Carolina should—”

  “My mother isn’t doing a damn thing.” I wasn’t yelling, at least not in volume. “My father isn’t the victim here. Mom has a traumatic brain injury and you want her to fix him? Screw that. Screw him.”

  Big Steve stopped pacing, straightened his red tie, and gave me the hardest glare of my life, but I didn’t wilt. I didn’t waver. What I said was harsh, but it was true. Somebody had to say it.

  “You’re right,” he said and I heard Claire exhale. “We’re losing track, no, I’m losing track of who did what to who. What do you need, Mercy? Tell me what would help.”

  That’s when I wilted. I sank down and said, “I don’t know.”

  “I do,” said Claire. “I’m going on vacation and we need a temp.”

  Big Steve scratched his chin. “Let me think about that. When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow. I have to…get away.”

  “Go. We’ll figure it out. I’ve got a good temp agency.”

  Claire bit her lip the adorable way that drove the guys crazy in high school, except this time her eyes were worried, not come hither. “Can the temp stay here?"

  “I don’t know about that,” said Big Steve. “Mercy can move back in.”

  “I just got back in my apartment,” I said.

  It’d been a long two months. First, Dad lived with me because he couldn’t stand being at the house where the attack happened. Then Mom came out of rehab and she didn’t want to go home. Dad was nutty so we all moved in with The Girls so they could help care for Mom and I could handle Dad. I couldn’t face going backward. I just couldn’t. I needed my life back, the good parts anyway.

  “Neither of them are eating and it’s a full-time job keeping him from driving her up a wall,” said Claire. “I spend the night sometimes to make sure they’re okay.”

  Now I have guilt.

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. “I’ll find someone. Home health. Something.”

  “Mercy, they’re your parents.” Big Steve frowned at me and his voice went low and gravelly. I’d heard that voice when I’d seen him in court eviscerating an unreliable witness. One peed himself. Honest to God.

  Lucky for me, I had an out and I hardly ever peed myself. “I’ve got Li Shou.”

  “Who?”

  “Millicent and Myrtle are gone and I’ve got the parrot.”

  “So bring him.”

  “I can’t. He attacks the Siamese. Swish and Swat hate him.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” said Big Steve.

  “Mom thinks so.”

  “You’ll think of something.”

  “Thanks.”

  Claire cocked her head to the side. “I think I just heard something. That old buzzard. I bet he’s throwing away his dinner again.” She dashed out of the kitchen, leaving a wake of white linen perfume.

  “You don’t pay her enough for this,” Big Steve said.

  “I know, believe me.”

  He pulled me out of my chair and steered me toward the butler’s pantry. “Let’s have a talk on the way to my car.”

  Let’s not.

  “I’ve got to go do a thing at a place,” I said, trying to wriggle out of his grasp.

  “The thing you’ve got to do is talk to me.” He got me into and out of the pantry before I could think of a reason not to talk. It probably wouldn’t have worked, but I would’ve liked to have given it a shot.

  We were out on the porch when Big Steve changed. His broad face tensed and his eyes got hawkish.

  This is not going to work out well for me.

  “I came to see how Tommy’s doing for a reason.”

  “Yeah, I figured.”

  “I called earlier and he said he’s all good. Ready to work a little. He’s not.”

  Oh, no. No. No. No.

  “You don’t say.”

  We walked down the stairs to the brick walk past the flower bed where Denny Elliot had died. I tried not to think about him, but I couldn’t help it.

  “Mercy, are you listening to me?” Big Steve asked.

  No.

  “Yeah,” I said, doing everything to banish the image from my mind of that sweet man facedown bleeding to death.

  “I need a favor.”

  That worked. “Do I look like someone in a position to do any favor
s? I’ve got Captain Crazy in there and Claire’s about to hit the bricks. Mom’s still recovering and will be for the foreseeable future. Not to mention Tiny.”

  Tiny was my New Orleans cousin who’d come to work for dad. He’d gotten in the way of Frame’s accomplice and got knifed in the abdomen. If he hadn’t been in the hospital when it happened, he would’ve died. No question.

  “When can he come back to work?” asked Big Steve. I could see calculations going on in that big brain.

  “It’s not even two months.”

  “Not soon then.”

  “No. He just got out of rehab. He can barely walk.”

  “Desk duty?”

  “Oh my god. What is wrong with you? Tiny was this close to death.”

  “I know. I know. But you need help. Tommy is in no fit state to keep the business going and you’ve lost Denny.”

  I glanced over at the garden. “You don’t need to remind me.”

  Big Steve pulled me in for a hug. It was unexpected and I didn’t resist. “I’m sorry.”

  “But you still need a favor, right?”

  “And I’ll do you one in return.”

  “No, thanks. I’m good,” I said into his meaty chest.

  He pushed me back and held me by the shoulders. “You’re not. I saw that clinic of yours on the news and you smell…not good.”

  “Swell and it’s not my clinic.”

  “That woman says she’s going to sue.”

  I very nearly started screaming. “How is Beth Babcock going to sue? She rammed us.”

  “It’s frivolous, but it will take time and money to deal with.”

  “I suppose you’ll do it for free.” I rolled my eyes.

  “I will. In exchange for a little nosing around.”

  “No, thanks.” I walked around the house, intending to go around through the alley, but I saw the spot where I found Mom stroked out, and I couldn’t take another step.

  Big Steve came after me and encircled my chest with his beefy arms. “Don’t go that way. You’re not ready.”

  “I’m not ready for a lot of stuff.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You like being nosy. You like the chase. It will do you good.”

  “Nope. Not interested.”

  “I’ll defend that little clinic of yours and handle any other nutballs they’ve got skulking around.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not my clinic and it’s not my problem.”

  “You should help when you can. That’s what Tommy would do.”

  “That’s what got us in this mess in the first place.”

  “Mercy,” he said with a hint of pleading in his loud voice. That was new.

  “No.”

  “It’s small. I asked Morty, but he won’t do anything without your word on it.”

  “What’s he got to do with it?” I asked.

  “You’ll need his expertise.”

  I groaned. Uncle Morty was a hacker and world-class pain in the butt. He’d backed off on the hacking when Dad flipped. His girlfriend said he was an enabler to Dad and he was concentrating on writing his bestselling fantasy series instead. His fans were delighted. His clients weren’t.

  “I can’t make him do anything.”

  “You can. Let me sweeten the pot. I’ll send Dana Stief from my firm over so Claire can take that vacation. You won’t have to do any interviewing. She’ll walk in and take over. No issues. She works fourteen hours a day on average and she likes it so she’ll be here most of the time. Organizing is her forte.”

  That was interesting. A secretary from the firm. I wouldn’t have to trust Dad’s work to some nitwit temp and more importantly I wouldn’t have to find the nitwit temp.

  “I’m listening.”

  The case was so simple it wasn’t really a case, according to Big Steve. One of his partners had a small issue. Some dirtbag had been sending nasty emails to his daughter’s boss alleging things about her and the partner wanted to know who it was. That was it. Supposedly.

  “That’s not worth a secretary and legal cover,” I said, chewing my lip and watching Big Steve carefully. He was great in a courtroom. People believed him. I wasn’t people.

  “It is, if I say it is.”

  I crossed my arms and tapped my foot.

  “You look just like Carolina.”

  “Spill it.”

  “That’s it.”

  “There’s a catch. I can smell it.”

  He shrugged his big shoulders and looked me right in the eyes. “Are you going to do it? It’s a simple call to get Dana over here. She can start tomorrow.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Mercy, I need this.”

  “And I need to know why. Any loser PI and a middle of the road hacker could find this out for you.”

  “But we want this kept quiet.”

  “Because…”

  “Alright. It’s Thomas Henry Cabot III’s daughter, Catherine.”

  I yawned and accidentally got a snoot full of ditch water stink. I gagged on my own smell and Big Steve laughed.

  “So what if it’s Cabot’s kid?” I asked when I could breathe again.

  “Thomas has decided the appeals court is his next step. He’s squeaky clean and he’d like to keep it that way.”

  “What exactly are they sending her work?”

  That’s when Big Steve got shifty. I’d never seen it before although Mom claimed that he could be nervous. I was never convinced of that until then. “Let’s leave that for now.”

  “Let’s not. What’s Catherine been up to?”

  “Nothing. It’s not true.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “If you knew Catherine, you’d know it couldn’t be. She’s sweet and generous. Hell, she worked on Cops for Kids last time around and the American Stroke Association concert for your mom.”

  “That wasn’t for Mom.” The band, DBD, had done a charity concert after Mom’s stroke. The money was still coming in from the publicity. People got pretty generous when they realized strokes can happen to people under the age of eighty. They can happen in utero. The morning shows were running series on strokes and 60 Minutes had been asking Mom to interview with Mickey Stix. Mom wasn’t ready to be seen in public yet, but Mickey was sniffing around, asking if I might make an appearance in the near future. I was their cover girl, a deal that paid a lot of bills and caused a bunch of ass pain.

  “I think it was. Catherine did all the accounting for free. She’s a whiz with numbers. You might remember her. Blonde about thirty-two. Smiles a lot.”

  I didn’t remember crap about either event. I had to sing at Cops for Kids and at the concert. I still woke up in a cold sweat thinking I was about to go on and couldn’t remember the words.

  “You can pay to keep this quiet,” I said.

  “Cabot trusts Tommy and failing that, he wants you.”

  “But why? Spell it out for me.”

  “You’re practically family.”

  “To you, not him. I couldn’t pick that dude out of a lineup.”

  Big Steve pulled out his wallet and gave me Dana Stief’s card. “You want Dana. She’s great.”

  “Holy crap. She worked for Benedict.”

  I could pick him out of a lineup mostly because he should’ve been in one. He groped me at a Christmas party once when I was sixteen. He apologized when he realized I wasn’t my mother. Like that made it better somehow.

  “Works. Benny’s having a knee replacement tomorrow. One is probably due to you kicking him repeatedly.”

  I glared at him. “Are you saying I shouldn’t have kicked that old codger?”

  “Not at all, but I think the divorce last year was more conducive to change. He’s going to be out for two months. You can have Dana the whole time. We’re paying her anyway and she loves a challenge.”

  “He’s coming back? What is he? 108?”

  “Seventy-three.”

  “Holy cannoli. He looks like crap.”

  “Benny’s steady
diet of cigarettes, booze, and sun caught up with him,” said Big Steve, a man who liked whiskey more than he should, but his wife put a stop to the cigarettes long ago. “So you’ll do it.”

  “No.”

  He was genuinely surprised and I enjoyed that. What can I say? It’d been a long day and I had to go home and see how much a parrot had pooped in my apartment.

  “What do I have to do?” he asked. “I need this done. I can pay you Tommy’s rate.”

  That was tempting what with the clinic situation, but no. I wanted something better. “Tell me your mom’s real name and what happened to Josiah Bled.”

  Big Steve didn’t flinch, but I think he stopped breathing for about forty-five seconds. That’s a long time when you’re standing in a garden smelling like rotten vegetation.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said finally.

  There it was again. Big Steve nervous. Sweet.

  “Yes, you do and while we’re at it, how come there are no pictures of your mom in your house? You’ve got pictures of me, for crying out loud. Where’s your mom?”

  Instead of answering, Big Steve did an about face and marched down the walk toward the garage. I dashed after him, peppering his broad back with questions.

  He went to get in his huge Mercedes when I grabbed his arm. “Tell me and I’ll take care of Catherine.”

  “I really don’t—”

  “Save it. I know you’ve been paying the bills for the Sorkines’ apartment in Paris since 1980. I know your mom came out of Auschwitz and was so special the Bleds rescued her.”

  “What have you been doing?” Big Steve was sweating. Big beads rolled down his cheeks and soaked into his collar.

  “I’ve been trying to find out who’s after The Bled Collection and why.”

  “Son of a bitch. Does Tommy know?”

  “Mom does. I told her a half hour ago.”

  “Why would you do that? Do you want to give her a heart attack on top of her stroke?”

  “Mom’s fine. Plus, she found my evidence.”

  “You have evidence? What?”

  “The book Florence made on Stella during the war, for starters.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Are you going to tell me or what?”

  He turned around and leaned on the car. “I need a cigarette.”

  “You need to tell me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Because Mom and Dad told you to hide it from me?” I asked.