100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (4 page)

I slowly worked my eyes up to his, stuttering out, “I’m s-ssorry.”

I said a few more unintelligible sentences. I was pretty sure of it because they all looked at me like I had two heads. Silver-Eyed Boy smiled and wrapped his arms around me, rubbing my back like you’d comfort a child who had a bad dream. I wanted to tell him he felt like a succulent baby lamb. But my pride leaked like a sieve as it was. I might as well keep my mouth shut and not release it like a broken dam.

He, Claudia, and Mr. Belinski ooh’d and aah’d over red scratches on my right hand. There weren’t many, but they made me flex my fingers countless times to see if they still worked. Then he squatted down to check my legs. My black yoga pants had shredded at the left knee. After I performed a few deep knee-bends, Mr. B palmed his greasy hand over the back of my head. This guy pulled his cell phone from his back pocket, saying something again about 911. I wish I understood what they said, but all I heard was “blah, blah, blah…pain.” When he kept pushing the issue and Mr. B chimed in, it’s like Claudia got hit in the head by a two-by-four. She quickly switched back to English and emphatically stated the cops weren’t necessary. Whenever you mentioned any sort of official vehicle, Claudia, I think, had visions of being deported and singing Viva Puerto Rico. Murphy explained over and over that Puerto Ricans are US citizens, but sometimes her behavior didn’t add up. Inspiration hit me to sing School House Rock’s “The Preamble.” God only knew why because that actually was kind of stupid. When my audience deduced that was only possible with a functioning brain, that in itself kept me from the whole lights and sirens gig.

The evening hadn’t ended as under the radar as I would’ve liked. Wouldn’t you know Levi Schomberg saw the whole deal from his dry-cleaning shop across the street? Right when I made it to Claudia’s GMC conversion van, Valley’s fire truck showed up. Granted, I fell in a stinking manhole, but who in the heck needed a fire truck? The city of Valley must’ve been low on action, so the EMT vehicle accompanying them shoved me on a gurney and took my vital signs: blood pressure, pulse, check for dilated eyes, and more Good Samaritan overkill. Since I’d had a tetanus shot during my car wreck four months ago, thankfully their final assessment was to go to the ER if I developed any unusual drowsiness.

The policemen on the scene—who automatically follow an issued 911—concluded it was my fault. Of course it was. My body was hidden behind a pillar, putting my shoe on, when I stepped out in front of a moving vehicle. Major moron behavior. Rookie didn’t take the accident well via telephone, especially when a partially coherent Claudia attempted to explain the particulars. When I informed the officers who my uncle was, they finally stepped up and got scarily formal, describing the scene down to the diameter of the manhole and shape of the snowflakes.

One found my iPhone.

Complete with a fractured screen.

Cue the tears.

Trouble was, once it was all over, Claudia and Mr. B both had epic meltdowns, talking about the fragility of life and how’d I’d been given a second chance to make a difference in the world. My word, all I had was a few abrasions, and they wanted me to be the next go-to missionary. I’m sure God would veto the nomination. I looked at the brothers who’d hit me (yes, they were related) and mouthed a desperate, “Help me.” They both choked back laughter, but other than that, there was no time for conversation. The only formality was the exchanging of names and telephone numbers. True to my unpredictable self, I gave them fake digits. I didn’t know if that was genius or mistake. I was probably nothing more than an afterthought anyway because chances were I’d never see them again. They introduced themselves as the Ryan brothers…the “out of town” Ryan brothers. Silver-Eyed Boy named, something. Brown-Eyed Boy named, something else. For the life of me, their names lay on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t spit out the sounds.

They never said why they were “in town,” so to say, but I got a feeling their presence was business-related. Cincinnati is the land of the transplant citizen. General Electric, Procter and Gamble, Macy’s, and Kroger are a few companies whose home offices are based here. So if you had a parent trying to move up the corporate ladder, chances are you’d eventually do a stint in the Ohio Valley.

Silver-Eyed Boy inked his number on my palm, but I’d loofah’d it away once I stepped inside the shower. I felt like the little girl at the fair denied the pony ride. You see something that represents fun and excitement, and then someone makes you go home early. I liked him; maybe it was part delusion—or perhaps desperation.

I slipped out of bed in the pitch black, my path illuminated by the moonlight of the home’s many skylights. It glowed with a wonderful spooky factor, and fortunate for me, I didn’t spook easily.

I pulled the lapels together on my white, fluffy robe and walked like I tiptoed over broken glass into Rookie’s office. Rookie trusted too easily, or perhaps he thought things were safe in his own home. Normally they would be, but I was on the premises which threw a whole new variable in the mix he probably wasn’t prepared for.

He had one of those miniature refrigerators built into the bookcases, covered in the same mahogany wood. I flipped open the little door and cracked open a can of Coke, settling down to business. I had insomnia, plus a thunderclap headache with Silver-Eyed Boy’s name all the heck over it. Caffeine was my wonder drug. It could relax my mind or arm me with a power pack. Right now, I needed both.

I took a burning swig and slumped into the burgundy leather chair behind the desk. Rookie lived in Indian Hill which was big bucks in the real estate market. His house—which used to be the one he shared with my mother’s twin—was überluxurious, but Rookie was common. He hailed from South Dakota and practically grew up in a barn. Rookie himself was meticulous, though—well groomed, nothing ever out of place, even the knick-knacks on their shelves. But his desk looked like a twister had touched down. Piles of folders, unopened letters, and a magazine for an upscale New York boutique (my aunt’s mail) littered the top.

His relationship with my aunt was stagnant of late, but they still seemed awful coupley to me. They’d been married and divorced four times—this last time for a year—wherein she briefly worked with a PI firm in the interim. Somehow Rookie wooed her back into his office, and they successfully worked together.

But he pined away…and that killed me.

I tapped the mouse on his laptop, activating the screensaver. When I received a few rays of light, I held up a personalized letter, but the paper was so thick nothing could be deciphered. I flipped through a few files and sifted through photographs of what my gut told me were local riffraff. I knew more than the average teenager about criminals by eavesdropping on conversations. In my limited knowledge, local riffraff never saw much time if the offense was minor. Sometimes the Prosecutor’s office used them to reel in bigger fish.

Rookie’s BlackBerry lay charging by the printer. It rang with an unfamiliar number, and at two something in the morning, no doubt it was important. Number one, I could ignore it; or number two, I could answer and pass myself off as someone Rookie was working with on an all-nighter. Guess which one my nosy little self picked? I wasn’t a freshman at this sort of offense—I’d answered texts on Dylan’s grandfather’s phone last summer, passing myself off as an LA detective. Thing was, I watched a video of a man whose head fell off during the impersonation. I’m not sure I’d ever top that.

“Hello,” I answered quickly.

“It’s about time, darlin’. It’s Tito Westbrook. How’s my favorite redhead?”

Oh. My. Good. God. Tito Westbrook was the go-to crime reporter for
The
Cincinnati Enquirer
. I’d followed his work since I could read
Green Eggs and Ham
. Apparently, he thought I was my aunt, Tabitha Arthur. I didn’t know he and Red (her nickname) were close enough to be in the darlin’ phase, but their paths obviously crossed more often than not. I quickly decided to leave him on speakerphone, hoping the long-distance sound of too much air would throw him off.

I pulled on my sleepy voice. “I’m good. Tired but good. What do you need?”

Tito laughed in a southern drawl. “Rookie called
me
, darlin’. Sorry it took so long to get back to you, but this was the first chance I’ve had.”

I drew a blank and bit my bottom lip hard enough to taste blood. I decided to throw out every bit of crime lingo I could think of. I coughed out, “What are we looking at? Drugs, gangs, ragers, the latest knife attacks, or shootings?”

He immediately answered, “No, darlin’. Let’s focus on me only. I feel so violated it’s indescribable.”

“I can understand that,” I said, still not tracking the conversation.

“Tabitha, I wrote that story on what happened to me, and now this guy apparently wants to take me down.”

“Explain,” I pushed.

There was a short pause where he took a breath. “It’s like my story said. My rent check bounced.”

“You still use paper?” I asked shocked.

“Okay, darlin’, I’m showing my age here, but I do. So when I went to the bank to see what’d happened, the branch manager printed out a list of transactions. We found a bunch of activity that happened here locally. Activity made with my bank account number, but not by me. We immediately closed the account, but the damage had already been done.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning this person is still trying to bleed me dry. I know I’m operating in paranoia mode, but from best we can tell, this person is taking this to an even bigger level. After a fraud investigation, we discovered more activity under my name.”

“How?” I asked.

“He didn’t only steal my bank account number. This person somehow gleaned personal information about me and tried to buy a house in Brunswick, Maine. He produced two other forms of identification, down payment using one of my personal checks, had credit references, all to bring to a closing on a new home. Even though the bank froze my account, it wasn’t before the impostor had all of this other stuff rolling. Anyway, he got spooked and stood everyone up in Maine. Heaven knows when he’ll surface again. I mean, he has my social security number, darlin’. I’m standing in the crosshairs of a rifle.”

Sure enough, on Rookie’s desk was a newspaper clipping with Tito Westbrook as the byline. I scanned the first paragraph that summarized everything he’d just said. But why did he think Rookie and Red could help?

“Did you get the picture I faxed over?” Tito asked. “Are you going to share it with Cookie? My source says this guy is from the north side of town, perhaps in Valley, right in Cookie’s backyard. The source also claims he’s a teenager. I’ve contacted Cookie, but she’s not big on returning calls to the press.”

Question answered.

Cookie, or rather Charlotte Veronica Harper-Stark, is Rookie’s counterpart in Mack County—the county in which my township, Valley, is located. She took Reese Sanders’s job when Reese abruptly quit right before election time and moved to New York. From what I hear, Reese passed on her unrequited love torch to Cookie because Cookie now drooled after my uncle like a dog in heat.

Procedurally, Rookie occasionally shared information with other county prosecutors when they felt their crimes overlapped. So it sounds like he thought he could aid Tito, by asking Cookie if she’d provide a name of the person. I pivoted around, riffling through paper in the fax machine, until I reached a picture of someone who looked like an extra in a mob movie. His hair was greased back with what resembled real motor oil. His eyes were deep-set and brown, one slightly lower than the other. His thin, pursed lips made him appear permanently ticked off. The fax coversheet said
The
Cincinnati Enquirer
,
Tito Westbrook
.

Booyah! It didn’t get any clearer than that.

I swallowed down another drink. “Yup, got it right here. Unfortunately, no name is listed.”

“Darlin’, if I had a name, then there would be no issue. Does he look familiar to you? As far as I can tell there’s no known association to anyone.”

“Never seen him before.”

Insert nervous laughter.

Tito didn’t say anything for a while. I panicked and immediately started negotiating with my intestines. “Tabitha, perhaps we should talk tomorrow,” he finally added strangely. “You sound tired. Either that, or you’re stalling.”

No!
I shouted in my brain. I really needed to learn to control my energy bursts because the chair tipped back, and I splatted onto the hardwood floor. I lay there like a fat tick on a dog, waiting to hear Rookie barrel through the house with a gun. His house was armed with a state-of-the-art security system. When nothing happened, I righted the chair and sat back down, propping my mismatched blue and white knee socks on top of the desk, trying my best to act like a know-it-all redhead. I calmly declared, “Let me see what I can find out from Rookie, Tito. I know this is your personal business, but you’re going to have to be patient and allow us to color within the lines.”

Major Pinocchio moment (I think), but the words sounded logical once they left my lips.

My brain and gut started arguing as usual. My brain said to keep up with the charade; my gut said he was on to me.

There was a collective sigh where we both considered our next move. Tito buckled first. “Now why don’t you give me your real name, darlin’? Tabitha’s always on, no matter what the time. And she
never
,” he emphasized with half a laugh, “waits to clear anything with Rookie. Exactly
who
are you, and
why
are you answering Shepard Johnson’s cell phone?”

I croaked. I’d died on the spot and was pushing up daisies. He’d caught me red-handed answering Rookie’s cell phone. Why he called him Shepard, though, I have no idea. My uncle had been addressed as “Rookie” since he put a serial killer behind bars at the tender age of twenty-six.