Ride the Lightning Page 11

  "I can honestly say you're probably right. We don't make a ton of money, but we have this place and being happy one-ups billable hours, you know what I mean?"

  I knew exactly what she meant. For a second, I compared this charming cluttered mansion with the sterile stylish loft where I'd spent so little time. Not to mention all the money so casually confiscated by the federal government. I'd done good work, but I'd paid the price.

  Something in my mood must have conveyed. Jo said, "You're welcome here any time for cocktail hour or if you want to chill by the lake. We have plenty of room. And, if for some crazy reason, you decide you want to go back into practice, well, I happen to know a law firm." Her voice trailed off with a smile.

  "You know what? I may take you up on that. Right now, I need to go see Sasha and then get back to the club. Neither Maddie nor I can be gone for too long or the gossip will start. I also have a feeling the pace is about to pick up." I didn't add my nagging worry about Ethan and his safety. As tempting as this oasis was, it was time to be the hot rod that she'd called me.

  It's funny. Before a couple of weeks ago, Ethan had rarely crossed my mind. I'd worked myself into exhaustion to separate myself from the past. His face and the feel of his arms around me would appear unbidden, usually when I was coming out of a dream, but it had been rarer and rarer as his image softened in my memory. Now, he was always at the top of my thoughts. It was time to end this and get him out of harm's way.

  She led me back to the main staircase, and we shook hands. Neither of us are huggers.

  * * *

  I didn't get lost this time. I found the bar and the path through the trees. Even without the well-worn track, the screeching guitars were as easy to follow as neon signs. The law firm's resident hacker geek bent over the engine of a car with a body that was as much Bondo as original. Compared to the sleek seventies flow of the Challenger Ethan and I had left behind when we escaped Preacher Joe's doublecross; this car had the blocky rear end, ugly grille, and awkward lines that screamed eighties. Knowing Sasha, she was probably outfitting it with a nuclear power plant.

  I shifted my route so she'd see me approaching. I don't like surprising people any more than I like being surprised. She put her tools on a towel draped over the fender and said, "Todd, put a sock in it." The music immediately died off to a whisper.

  "Todd? You named your computer Todd?"

  "Last boyfriend I ever had. I like having him around and there's a certain delight in telling him to shut up and knowing he'll listen."

  "Only you. I've got a question. How hard is it to get the ingredients to brew up scopolamine?"

  "You don't have to mickey me. I'm yours for the asking."

  "Sasha, give it a rest, okay?"

  "And miss seeing you turn red? Never. I can already answer your question. It's not hard to get at all. It's extracted from Jimsonweed. That shit grows everywhere. I could walk into the woods here and find it. But that's only the raw material. It takes a fine hand to extract and purify it into pharmaceutical scopolamine. Definitely more finesse than making psychedelic tea."

  "You sound like you're talking from experience."

  "What can I say? It was a cheap high and easy to justify as mind-expanding. You know, like we were in an ancient sweat lodge ritual communing with spirits instead of a bunch of idiots sitting around a crash pad getting wasted. Don't worry, I've slept since then. I'm sure you did something equally daring, like drinking beer by the pool when your parents were at the country club."

  "It was wine and they were at the opera."

  She made a face and said, "Oh, we've got a badass here. Why are you asking?"

  I explained my suspicions about Billy Ray and his confession. I also asked her to watch the video and see if his actions were consistent with scopolamine intoxication.

  "Mad respect. That's a good catch on your part. Yes to the dry mouth. I'll watch the vid this afternoon and give you my take. I don't have the lab results yet. I called them this morning and they said another two days."

  "I'll let you get back to your tinkering. I need to find Maddie and get on home. We've got a couple of edges and corners, but the center of the puzzle is a mess."

  "Tinkering? I'll have you know that despite your car snobbery, this baby will blow the doors off of any precious pampered classic when I'm done. The '87 Laser is vastly underappreciated. Don't try to explain, I saw the look on your face as soon as you walked up."

  The words had a backdrop of humor and contained a poorly-hidden challenge. The chip on her shoulder reminding us both that she was on the street when I was on the ski slopes. It pissed me off, but there was nothing to be gained by indulging her. Everyone's entitled to a sore spot. I certainly have my own.

  "Good. There are a lot of things that need the doors blown off. Call me if you get info, and I want your input on Billy Ray."

  "One stoner memo is on its way. Until then, Todd, crank it up."

  The sudden influx of ear-bleeding sound reminded me of exactly how much I'd drank the night before, and I escaped into the cover of the woods.

  CHAPTER 28

  Remembering what Maddie told me about this being the South; I decided some misdirection was in order. It took me three phone calls to find what I needed. Mississippi is hunting country, and deer season was coming, so I knew I'd be successful. Since I speak gun fluently, I was finally directed to a dealer who caters to serious archery and rifle hunters.

  Wearing a long-sleeve blouse with my hair in a ponytail, I'd haltingly read the name of the chemicals from a handwritten note and passed the Sally Suburban test. The dealer dropped his normal reticence and sold me a high-end professional-grade blood detection kit as a gift for my husband with no more interest than a paternal chuckle. I paid cash and didn't give a name. I'm sure I was forgotten as soon as the door closed. A stop at a big box store on the other side of town for some party black lights and basic gear like gloves and swabs, and I was ready.

  If it was still there, I needed to find Sarah Jean's diary and, for the moment, I didn't want Maddie or Sasha's help with this. This was my business. I needed to find it first. I also believed that I wasn't the first one to search for it and that the forensics would help light the way.

  That was for tomorrow. I'd walked back into the usual chaos at the bar. A mysterious flu bug that seemed to coincide with the opening of a hot new sci-fi movie left me short busboys and prep cooks. I got in an extra bartender to do double duty in the kitchen and resigned myself to hauling tubs to the dishwashers.

  I texted Ethan a simple message: ???

  And received an equally simple response: No

  I responded: Okay?

  And got back: 5X5

  Relieved that he was not in immediate trouble, I also knew I wouldn't be seeing the crew or Ethan tonight. Other than missing him, I was relieved. I didn't need the hassle of the MC, and I could use the time to think.

  * * *

  By ten, I was seriously considering giving my busboys a raise or switching to paper plates. On what felt like the millionth time of backing through the double doors, I lost my grip on the slippery handle of an overflowing tub. Only a quick jerk of my knee and jamming the whole mess into the doorframe stopped a wave of chicken bones and abandoned fries from scattering across the floor.

  Joey rescued me from certain doom. "Let me get that for you. Take the bar. I'll handle clearing the rest of the tables. We're busy tonight."

  "No argument from me. Remind me not to yell quite so loud the next time the boys dawdle."

  My answer was laughter that trailed off when the doors swung closed. We were busy. By the look of things, we had a convention and a bachelorette party going on in opposite corners. Everybody was loud, but minding their manners and the checks were getting impressive. I didn't have any more time to muse about it as I got hit with an order for a tray of drinks appropriately named blow jobs.

  "Please save me from the suburbs," I said as I swirled whipped cream on each of the shot glasses. "At least t
he girls are big spenders."

  "Oh no, this is a wedding gift to them from the office supply conventioneers," said Maddie. She grabbed an extra stack of napkins for the inevitable disaster.

  "Of course, they are. Okay, let's spike the old fun-o-meter to ten and give them a night to remember. That is if they remember anything until they see it on social media. Take Sandra with you for some prenuptial girl-on-girl bump and grind."

  "The night before my wedding was my mom and sister shooting tequila while they tried to talk me out of it. Problem is, I was pregnant."

  "No one was sending you blow jobs?"

  "I should have stuck to that. We'd have both been happier in the long run," and she was gone.

  "Hey there darlin' what's a man got to do to get a beer around here?"

  I whirled around, ready to deliver service with a snarl and choked it back. Deputy Tony Romero wasn't a regular, but I saw him often enough to recognize the voice and smarmy attitude. Even though he made my skin crawl, I played along. There was no reason not to placate Sheldon's crew.

  "Romeo, you know that all you have to do is ask." I put the mug in front of him and let my fingertips brush his knuckles.

  I got a greasy smile in return. It wasn't all that was greasy. As he lifted his beer, a lock of lank black hair from his slicked back style fell across his forehead. He brushed it off his face, and an idea came to me. I grabbed a shot glass and poured a dollop of good whiskey.

  "What's this for?" He didn't wait for my answer. He tossed back the shot and smacked the empty glass on the bar.

  "I run the place. I don't need a reason."

  I was spared any further faked flirtation when another deputy, whose name escaped me, tapped Tony's shoulder and told him they were up next at the pool table. After he was gone, I unfolded a paper napkin, covered my fingers, and carefully picked up the shot glass.

  "Keith, you're up. I'm taking ten. If you get swamped, call Joey."

  I didn't want for an answer. When I was in my office, I put the glass in my wall safe and sent Sasha a text: Overnighting you a package. Check for prints, DNA, and nasty ass hair cream ASAP. My treat.

  CHAPTER 29

  The next morning, I dropped the package at the post office and drove around doing a few small errands. I rarely went to the market because I grazed out of the restaurant kitchen, but even I needed toothpaste occasionally. I'd told the day crew that I'd be back for the evening rush and felt the need to be seen around town before I got to my real mission.

  I approached the Simpson house via a different route, driving through rundown neighborhoods with clusters of tired houses interspersed with the occasional vacant lot paying mute tribute to a structure that hadn't survived the hurricane. I parked two doors down in front of a place that was defiantly tidy on this blighted street. With my head down and dressed for lack of success, I didn't see so much as a curtain twitching on the street as I let myself into the house.

  When I was here with Maddie and Sasha, the cottage seemed tight and crowded. Alone, my footsteps echoed on the linoleum and hardwood floors. Finding the diary had seemed easy when I was mentally searching the dollhouse of my memory. Faced with the reality of the four-room building, I had to admit I had no clue where to begin.

  Think.

  Billy Ray had told us that it was a game between them. She would sit at the kitchen table or bedroom vanity every night and write in her journal. Then she wouldn't let him see her hide it. I decided to start with the bathroom. The tiny tile-lined space was full of fixtures. The door hit the toilet when opened. I gave the cabinets a quick toss, finding nothing except an impressive number of brown recluse spiders nesting in the old towels. A cursory inspection showed no gaps or breaks in the tile grout. No hiding places here.

  The kitchen was much the same. This was an old part of the house and had plastered walls. The drawers were overturned, and dishes broken, but the kitchen had the tools of someone who'd enjoyed cooking. The refrigerator was open and empty, no doubt cleaned out by Sarah's mother, and the pantry shelves were bare except for a few dust-encrusted cans of vegetables. Like the bathroom, it didn't feel right. My watch told me that I needed to get moving or give up. The bedroom was my best bet.

  I sat on the bed and surveyed the room, trying to imagine where a hiding place might be. If the diary had been in one of the dressers, it was likely gone. The drawer contents, old cotton underwear mixed with her sparkly stripper gear, cluttered the corners.

  I checked out the overturned nightstands. On one side I found a watch, scattered newspapers, and a couple of battered pocket notebooks.

  That's his side.

  On the other, there was a novel with a pink martini glass on the cover, lip gloss, and a pen with a puffball on the end.

  Her side.

  I started there, falling to my knees and using my flashlight to search under the tall bed for a place to cache a small book. As I crawled around, the old hardwood floor clicked and popped under my weight. A loose board was a definite possibility, but which one?

  Frustrated, I swept aside the fallen debris until I had a large half-circle around her side of the bed. I didn't have the time or energy to tape bags over the window. The sun was off that side of the house and a large tree blocked most of the light. It was dark enough for a quick survey with my black light.

  And there it was. Among the footprints and swirls of a hurried cleaning job was a bright line between two planks. Sasha must have missed it among the scattered books and papers. Under the high-powered flashlight Max had given me, I didn't even need to use my blood detection kit to see it. The dust had mixed with the blood to create a black crust that I chipped out with a nail file. Once free, the plank lifted slightly when I pressed on one end. My mind flashed back to the gun locker under the floor at Uncle Jimmy's office. I doubted I would find anything quite so sophisticated here.

  I broke two fingernails working the board back and forth. I'm sure Sarah had a trick to get it out, but she wasn't here to help me. Nestled in the shallow gap between the hardwoods and the subfloor was a girlish diary festooned with cartoon ponies. A silver clasp sported a tiny matching key. And there was something else. A line of blood drops traced across the cover. Caution told me to handle it very carefully. This could be the only piece of the crime scene that wasn't spoiled with bleach, dirt, and carelessness.

  I took photos of the book and backed away to show the location of the hiding place. I also took photos of the mess that had been covering the board. Even though she'd bled enough to have it seep through the cracks between the floorboards, there was no blood on any of the papers. It was further proof that the scene had been staged. After I'd documented it to my satisfaction, I pulled on a pair of gloves and lifted the journal out of its nest. I wanted to pop the lock and start reading, but the shade of late afternoon was giving way to the gloom of evening. I had to get back to the club before I was missed.

  The sound froze me in place with the diary in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. It wasn't the normal sighing and ticking of an old house as the sun goes down. It was the creak of a footstep on the sagging front porch. The sound of the doorknob turning removed any doubt.

  My natural caution served me well. A couple of hard pushes by whoever was out there told me that I remembered to flip the sturdy deadbolt. It's the kind of lock a cop would put on the house where his beloved wife spent a lot of nights alone. Unmoving on my knees, I did a mental survey of the rest of the house. The windows all had old-fashioned metal latches, and the back entrance had a locked storm door as well as another deadbolt. Unless the intruder had a key, I was safe.

  Safe from what? In my rational brain, I knew it was likely a neighbor, maybe someone saw my flashlight, or it was kids looking for a place to party. I wasn't thinking with my rational brain. Footsteps scraped on the concrete back step, and the storm door rattled and held. After a full five minutes of hearing nothing except my breathing, it was time to move. I wrapped the book, careful not to disturb any of the blood stains,
and stashed it in my backpack with my lights and gear.

  Now what?

  I was torn between the visitor being an innocent coincidence, and the very real possibility that someone was outside waiting for me to leave. Even though I was armed with Ethan's pistol, the second choice made me shake with fear. I pulled out my phone and thought about it. I could text Maddie, but even though I'd grown to like and respect her, she would be no use in a fight. Joey would create too many suspicions, and I could be stuck here all night waiting for Ethan.

  Then a slow calm spread through me. Even in this stupid situation, I couldn't help smiling. I fished the card out of my wallet and typed:

  Max, I'm in Austin and need you to call me. Please hurry.

  I knew that would get his attention. As soon as my phone started to vibrate, I stepped into the bedroom closet and closed the door.

  "Where the hell are you and what's happening?" The adrenaline in his voice made his words tumble out.

  "I'm safe, but I need help. I'm at the Simpson house, and I need you to come and get me."

  I gave him an annotated version of my trip to Parchman and how I'd solved the mystery of the hidden diary. His intake of breath when I told him about the footsteps said he was taking this seriously.

  "How in the hell could you be stupid enough to go out there without backup and not telling anyone where you were headed?"

  "Can we save the lecture? Are you coming to help me or not?"

  "Of course I am. Don't think you're escaping the ass chewing. I'll text you when I'm in position."

  With that, he hung up. I couldn't be mad at the brusqueness; he was right. I'd done something monumentally stupid, and I needed someone else to risk their safety to bail me out. My traitor brain flashed back to the music room and without warning, my wrists weren't scarred, they were bound, and the air in the closet wasn't thick with dust and old coats, it was clotted with the smell of my own blood. I pushed the door open and ran out, lungs near bursting from my panic.

  * * *