Deadly Night (4 page)

But all she offered was a low grunt before coming up the stairs. Enough to make me linger on the deck for a moment, I tried picturing the layout of the brush and shorter trees closer to our home, since I couldn’t make out a damned thing beyond the back security lights’ reach.

I gave the dog her treat once back inside and took one last stroll around the main floor. Still nothing amiss...I wondered if it was just a coincidence I woke up when I did, and that my overactive imagination had gotten the better of me.

Then I heard footsteps on the front driveway, pressing softly against the gravel, and moving away from the house. I thought about running outside and waving the gun...maybe even firing a warning shot. Then I’d demand whoever was out there to reveal themselves before I….

“
Before I
what
?” I wondered aloud.

Before I got myself killed? Lord knows I have a good enough aim to hit something dead on from a hundred feet in daylight. But at night? Hell no. I’d be lucky to hit anything from thirty feet. Damned lucky.

So I peered through the front curtain instead, pulling it back ever so carefully. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a dark silhouette was crouched, backing up slowly toward the street. Of course, now the dog figured out what I was up to and let out a shrill yelp. Loud enough to wake Fiona again.

“
What’s going on, hon?” she asked, groggily, half asleep.

“
Nothing, babe,” I told her, while giving Gypsy a threatening
shush!
to make sure she shut the hell up.

I had to be careful and quick, or else my wife might catch on to what I was doing. Thank God she hadn’t noticed the pistol in my hand.

I peered though the curtain again. I couldn’t be sure if the figure heard my dog, but that’d be my assumption. Whoever it was now stood at the edge of our driveway, in the street, and probably saw me too, despite my efforts to remain concealed. Right before they disappeared for good, the sucker shot me a bird.

Definitely not the Good Humor Man.

A minute or so later I heard an engine start up down the road. I waited nearly half an hour--long after it faded away—before going back to bed, which tonight remained the sofa. Snuggled up against Fiona with Gypsy curled near our feet and the gun tucked safely under a pillow, I kept my ears open for anything else…for our dark-clad visitor to return. It would be the last thing I remembered from that night, other than the dawn’s light creeping in through our living room window, announcing its promise of a long and weary Thursday.

There’s nothing like a call center getting ready for a visit from the Big Bosses. Lots of shiny, circus-like balloons and an abundance of pens, notepads, and silly buttons. All bear the name of our employer and the latest illfated promotion. The carpets finally get cleaned past the imbedded popcorn kernels, and every PC and desktop is completely cleared of post-it notes and dust bunnies.

Such unabashed phoniness.

But everybody does it, whether it’s Wal-Mart, ATT, or even Nordstrom. Fortunately, their valued customers never see the semi-annual parade of happy horseshit. Hell, if I confessed we’re sometimes the brunt of industry jokes for an enhanced pastel shade obsession, it’d be easy to figure out who my employer is.

But that’s not the worst part of this corporate American travesty. The worst? That happens when all of the supervisors and their assistants dressed up in their Sunday best gather at the front entrance to the warehouse-sized building we call home. Think of it as a grand procession headed straight up corporate leadership’s pompous asses. I completely envy any of my peers who manage to get the day off, long in advance.

Back in January, I tried to hide in the back of the crowd, while my peers screamed excitedly when our CEO and CPO stepped out of the long white limousine and headed for the door. Like rock stars they waved to their fans, while our GM and his assistant served as their security escorts. More festivities followed inside, and by the time lunch arrived, the nausea had grown so bad I nearly passed out.

Okay, maybe that’s a little exaggerated. But it really was distasteful. And to think we’d be doing it again Friday. Tomorrow.

I arrived at the center just after 9:00 a.m. this morning. My lead agent and our team of fifteen CSRs (customer service representatives, for those unfamiliar with call center lingo), were busy with the Lysol and Clorox wipes, cleaning every topical surface in our cubical area. Laughing and chasing one another through the aisles, apparently they were excused from taking calls for the next hour or so. Such joyful ecstasy in their faces I’d seldom witnessed—definitely never when tethered to their computers with headsets.

“
Well, hey there, sexy!” cooed Shikira, one of my more precocious and flirtatious young reps. “Dennis says we don’t have to be back on the phones until ten-thirty.”

She nodded toward my assistant, who handed out more Clorox wipes to the rest of the team, with Tammi and Nikki—Shakira’s closest cohorts—in tow behind him. The prettiest threesome in the center, Dennis had become their unwitting pet, completely wrapped around their pinkies for some time now. Yeah, it’s completely inappropriate for a forty-year old man to cavort about like this, and the looks on several of my other reps’ faces confirm the dangerous line he treads. Especially two middle-aged ladies, Suzanne and Marietta, who make me worry every damned day about a possible lawsuit.

Have I talked to him about it? Several times, actually. His stated commitments to act more mature have all evaporated into the massive germ-infested ventilation system coursing through the center. I can hardly wait for the next team realignment and my emancipation from the three little vermin and their pathetic puppy dog.

My head’s throbbing, compounded by lack of sleep from the night before.

Just great. Just frigging
great!

Smiling weakly, I determined to hide my intense irritation as I moved over to my desk, stopping briefly to greet Suzanne and Marietta. I offered much warmer smiles to my older girls. As usually the case, their perturbed expressions melted away, and I tried not to picture the sordid images of me flourishing behind their wanton looks. At least Dennis can keep his job one more day.

“
I need your status reports for last week by noon on my desk,” said a harsh, husky voice from behind me.

Matilda Jones, my direct manager. She slid around to face me before I laid my briefcase on my desktop and sat down. Matilda is a wonderful lady and the only coworker of mine whom my wife admires and respects. The feeling’s mutual between them too. Fiona has performed card readings for her on a couple of occasions. I often kid Matilda as being an Aussie from Queensland, Australia, greeting her with a hearty ‘G’day!” on most mornings, though she’s never even been outside the states, hailing from Flint, Michigan. Barely five feet in height, she’s an attractive fortyish lady of West Indies descent, whose affinity for fine chocolates is the only reason she struggles to keep her generous curves in line.

“
I’ll get em’ turned in on time—Dennis should have most of what you need done already,” I told her, pausing to look at several paper towel bundles from the nearby restrooms stacked on top of my desk.

Two more cans of Lysol and another container of Clorox wipes sat next to my mouse pad. Just enough room to squeeze my laptop into its docking station, while I laid my bike helmet and backpack under my desk. No status reports from Dennis, however.

“
By noon, Fabio, and don’t be late,” Matilda reminded me, after glancing at my desk. She smirked, but the look she gave me as she headed back to her office reinforced her seriousness.

Very funny. I couldn’t help thinking of a stupid “I can’t believe it’s not…” comeback that thankfully remained in my head behind the mouth-gate that sometimes works. Really, she isn’t opposed to having her top supervisor be a long-haired dude—so unlike the other two guys on our team of six, who always came to work in ties and slacks. “Dressed for success” is the way they like to put it. Desperately wanting to move up in this business, they act as if the only thing that matters in life is the proliferation of our company’s success. Even so, Matilda values my presence on her team, and I often catch her smiling when I offer a well-placed sarcastic observation to keep things grounded in our team meetings.

As I said earlier, my work attire is a bit cleaned up from the blue-jeaned rocker I normally roll as. Slacks and a polo shirt are the standard fare for all of leadership in our center, though I’m wearing biker boots instead of loafers since I rode my Harley to work. My hair is pulled back in a pony tail. Maybe the earring bothers some folks, but at least it’s a diamond stud instead of the gold hoop I normally wear. A little less pirate that way and more GQ.

Anyway, not long after my laptop warmed up and I prepared to get started on the reports Matilda needed, my cell phone rang.

It’s Fiona, calling from the bookstore she works at as a day manager.

Bad news.
Very
bad, actually.

The killer has struck again…another music industry personality who happens to know Fiona. Dickey Rollins, Candi Starr’s manager.

My wife is in tears, barely able to tell me the scant details she’s learned about the latest murder. She’s headed downtown to meet Detective Ed Sliver, one of Nashville’s premier homicide specialists, and one whom she’s assisted in the past with her psychic abilities. But she wants me there, too.
Needs
me there, she says.

I needed time, at least an hour to get the reports done for Matilda. So, I pulled Dennis from his tail-chasing activities and sat his ass down next to me. By 11:00 a.m., I was out the door, having just handed my reports to Matilda. Since my partner supervisors, Becky and Kendra, had already agreed to keep an eye on my team, she let me leave work early. Acute interest glowed within her green eyes, accented by her shiny ebony skin as I said goodbye.

She’s just dying to know what this is about.

Fiona would be proud that I haven’t divulged a damned thing…yet.

Division Street near downtown Nashville is home to some of the more famous historic places in the city. At least in terms of the music biz. There are lots of big houses from the early 1900s, with mature magnolias in the manicured front lawns. Over the years, many of these places have since been converted into recording studios and offices for both record labels and management companies alike. All cater to both the up and coming artists as well as the established country stars. The very heart and soul of “Music City” lies here beneath the worn pavement.

Some buildings in this neighborhood are even older, dating from the mid to late 1800s, and NVP has investigated several of these locations. I just passed the old Johnson place on the way to the converted Victorian that serves as home for Dickey Rollins Productions. Kind of creepy in passing…I pictured the hideous half-man, half-something else apparition following us throughout both floors of that house as if it happened this morning. It’s still very fresh, even if almost a year ago. All five members in the group at the time had nightmares after the investigation, and Tony still brings it up every now and then.

Memories of how I almost didn’t make it out alive from Maude Johnson B&B’s attic sent an icy tingle down my spine, despite the ninety degree heat and oppressive humidity engulfing me as I maneuvered my bike around the slower moving traffic. Yeah, I tend to be somewhat reckless when it’s just me on the road, but I’ve yet to spill my Sportster. It’s killer. Such a beautiful machine, crystal blue in color with a fiery Asian demon in flight painted along both sides of the gas tank, courtesy of an aspiring artist buddy, Frank Kitchens.

When I reached Dickey’s office, Fiona had already parked the Camaro in the driveway. Its forest green tint almost blended with the painted gate that led to the building’s side entrance. She opened the driver side door to greet me, after I parked my bike nearby.

The coroner’s people were still on the property, but the forensic crew had left. The news folks from several TV stations and a number of tabloids, including USA Today, were there too. Since obvious we wouldn’t gain access inside the building to have a casual look around, I reminded myself it wasn’t the reason I came out here anyway.

It always gets my heart pumping whenever I see my wife dressed to the nines, which she must do every day for the bookstore she works for. Today that included a form-fitting skirt just above her knees and a blouse that revealed…well it left a little less to the imagination. Not trashy, but definitely something that left no mystery as to how buxom she is. And we’re not talking over-the-top stripper sized…she’s just ‘right’. At least that’s the general consensus among the dudes I roll with.

The males in attendance all took notice when she walked over to where I parked. It made me feel a strange mixture of pride and humility that I’m her guy. But then I saw Ed Silver exit the passenger side of the Camaro. My blood ran cold, despite already noticing his unmarked cruiser parked on the other side of our car. It’s not because of any mistrust of Fiona. Ardently faithful in nature, her fooling around on me ain’t even a consideration. But Mr. Ed? …Now there’s a player for sure, like many a dude wearing the deep blue and a badge for our protection. Only he’s usually dressed in a suit, being a high-ranking detective and all.

I could tell he’s less than thrilled with my presence. The poor bastard is such an easy read, his eyes flashing a peculiar mix of anger, longing, and the irritation that seems to be a hallmark for most veteran cops. He’s probably hoping against hope to bone my woman, judging from the slight bulge in his trousers. What a frigging dreamer.