Last Shot (Dev Haskell - Private Investigator, Book 6) (15 page)

“
The phone calls I got from him came through from some phone number in Florida, Miami or some place. He said a friend owned the company down there and gave him a special rate. I remember it was a cute little red phone. He said it was a personal number just for me so I could reach him anywhere, anytime I wanted. Jesus, and I believed that bastard. I had a geek girlfriend who works for Verizon check it out for me after I’d been fired. As near as she could figure out, it was some pay-as-you-go sort of thing under a false name and no way to track it. She tried to contact the thing a number of times over a period of months and it was dead. He probably just tossed the phone in the river or something and got a new one, so his next sex-toy would be able to call him.”

I was about to say something
, but she shook her head.

“I used to wait for his calls so I could run
right over and prove to him how good I was. If we were traveling for business, we always had separate rooms, never even on the same floor. One time we went to a conference down in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Just for laughs, he made me walk back to my room, two floors down without my clothes. He handed me this little towel, hardly bigger than a wash cloth to wrap around me. It didn’t even come close to covering me. I ran all the way to my room two floors away. I don’t think anyone ever saw me.”

“You
’re kidding?”

She shook her head. “Nope,
and the sad news is, I was thrilled to do it. It was just one more lovers’ adventure the two of us had. We got back to St. Paul and the next morning he walked into my office with one of those checks made out for five hundred dollars, if I remember correctly. Then he showed me about a thirty-second video from his phone of me walking down a hotel hallway at four in the morning with this little towel not covering anything. I remember he laughed and said next time he wasn’t even going to give me a towel.”

“You didn’t…
I mean..,”

“Fact is
, at the time, the brakes were going out on my car and I probably would have done it. No towel, I mean. Besides, I know this sounds insane, but I thought we were crazy in love. Turns out only I was, especially the crazy part,” she scoffed. “And he was just getting his rocks off whenever he wanted. Just another little test to see how low I’d go. I never found out, never reached the bottom. I just became his ‘personal whore on call’.” She looked up at me with watery eyes.

“No, you were, are
, a very lovely woman. You’re a good mom and wife and you were taken advantage of by a real nut case. To tell you the truth, Daphne, based on what I think happened to some of these other women you just may have gotten off easy. You’re here to tell the story.”

“Long as h
e never shows anyone the DVD.”

“I’ll maybe see if we can’t do something about that.”

She looked at me half snorted and shook her head like I wasn’t getting it.

“You mentioned a name a while back
that I hadn’t heard before…Amanda Richards.”

“She was sometime after me, same sort of deal
, though. I guess one day she was just escorted out the door. It’s always sort of hush, hush, you know? Of course, there’s that bunch of old bitties shaking their heads wondering what’s wrong with these girls? I sort of met Amanda at the U, although I never really knew her. I think if I recall, she may have been up here from Chicago. Not sure where she is now. She may have gone back down there, for all I know.

Chapter Twenty-Six

There were sixteen individuals
named Amanda Richards in the online directory for Chicago. That didn’t count the suburban listings that popped up on pages two and three of my search. I started dialing a little after three in the afternoon.

I hit pay dirt on number eleven. Sort of.

“I’m trying to reach Amanda Richards.”

“Then this is your lucky day. What are you thinking about?” she said
, followed by the unmistakable sound of ice cubes rattling in a glass.

“Is this Amanda?”

“It sure is, Sweetheart. What did you have in mind?”

“Actually, I just want to make sure I had the right Amanda.
”

“Oh, I’m the one darling.”

I’m looking for a woman who lived up in Minnesota for a while, attended the University of Minnesota, and worked at Touchier and Touchier architectural firm.”

“You looking for money? Because if you are
, I can’t help you,” she said then followed up with more ice cubes rattling.

“No, actually
, I wanted to chat for a moment. Did you work at Touchier?”

“I don’t know that I should answer that. Hold on here
, Honey, I just need to get another coffee. Back in a minute,” she said and I heard her set the phone down.

I could hear h
er rummaging around in the background. I thought I heard more ice cubes thrown into a glass, maybe the sound of something being poured. She picked up the phone about five minutes later, but who was counting?

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Amanda?”

“Who’s this
? I didn’t even hear the damn thing ring? What are you looking to do, Sweetheart?” she said, then gulped loudly a couple of times.

“Amanda
, were you employed by Touchier and Touchier at one time up in Minnesota?”

“Maybe, maybe not
. I haven’t mentioned them in years and I don’t intend to now.”

I took that as a
‘yes’.

“I’m a private investigator.
My name is Dev Haskell. My client was employed by Touchier and Touchier about ten years ago. Her name…”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that. That was way before my time
, and like I said I have no intention of talking about them now.” More ice cubes clinked and then there was a sort of gasp as if she’d emptied the glass, but she remained on the line.

“Amanda, I understand you not wanting
to chat. Could I explain a little bit about what I’m involved in, and maybe at the end of that you might feel like talking? I’d be very interested in anything you have to say.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Haskell. Dev Haskell. I’m a private investigator.”

“Really? W
ell isn’t that nice? How about this, Mr. Hascar, the private investigator. I’m going to go mix myself another little drink, but before I do that I’m going to hang up so you can call some other fool and stop wasting my time talking to you.”

“If you could just give me a minute to
explain. I’m representing a woman by the name…”

“I’m going to go mix another
drink now. Good-bye. Can’t thank you enough for your time,” she said and hung up.

It was the middle of
the afternoon in the middle of the work week. I didn’t get the sense I’d caught Amanda on her day off, nor on her first drink. I’d have to put her down as just one more inconclusive chapter to the Gaston Driscoll story. I felt like I kept circling, but I wasn’t getting any closer.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

My phone rang a
little before ten that evening. Actually, I couldn’t really tell if it rang because the juke box in The Spot was playing so damn loud I couldn’t hear my phone. I did feel the thing vibrate and I was pulling it out of my pocket as I waded through a crowd of softball players and made my way to the door. I could almost read Marsha’s name on the screen.

“Hi
, Marsha, hang on I’m headed outside so I can hear you.”

“Dev, Dev?”
She sounded impatient, probably off stage between numbers.

“Yeah
, Marsha. Sorry, I had to step outside…”

“Dev
, some asshole is following me.”

“What? Where are you?”

“I’m on I-94 heading back into St. Paul. This guy has been on my ass ever since I pulled out of the restaurant parking lot in Minneapolis.”

“Where were you?” I asked.
Not too far in the back of my mind I had that sense Marsha hadn’t bothered to listen to me earlier and had taken the initiative.

“Oh, I just had some dinner, is all. Hey
, he’s two cars back. I’m putting my blinker on to switch lanes and see if he does the same thing.”

I waited for a couple of mom
ents, expecting her to say something.

“Is he switching lanes?” I finally asked.

“No, he doesn’t seem to be doing a thing. Sorry, looks like it was a false alarm. Just a little paranoid, I guess.”

“Where are you?”

“I told you, I-94.”

“Where
exactly on I-94, Marsha?”

“Will you relax?
I’m just coming up to the Dale Street exit. I’m going to take that and...”

“
Marsha, do not take that exit.”

“Come on, now who’s being paranoid?”

“Stay on 94 and take 35E heading north, see if he follows. How much gas you got?”

“What?”

“Your tank…is it full, empty, what?”

“More than half full.”

“Get on 35E, heading north. You know where it meets Highway 36?”

“Yeah
.”

“Take the exit for Highway 3
6 West, stay on the clover leaf, get back onto 35E going south and head back into town.”

“Dev, I just want to get home. T
onight’s my one night off this week and oh, shit, he’s pulled out. He’s following me again, Dev.”

I started
running to my car, talking to her as I went.

“
Okay, look, he’s just following. We’re going to deal with it. I’m coming to get you. Keep your speed at fifty-five, take that turn onto 36 and then head back into town. Okay?”

“Yeah…” S
he didn’t sound all that sure.

“
I’ll be picking you up along 35E, okay?” I waited a long five seconds. “Marsha, damn it, answer me.”

“This is creepy, Dev, I’m scared.”

“Just stay the speed limit, don’t speed up. Right now there’s a good chance he doesn’t think you picked up on him back there.”

“Maybe I can lose him?”

“Just do what I’m telling you. Okay?”

“God, okay
, but hurry up.”

I headed for the freeway
. Six blocks later I barely slowed at the stop sign, then shot onto the entrance ramp and raced up 35 toward the Maryland Avenue exit, talking to Marsha all the way. Her words sounded like she was in control, but I could sense the fear in her voice.

“God
, he’s right on my ass now. I’m on the cloverleaf, heading back into town,” she said.

“Perfect, I’m just going across the
Maryland Avenue Bridge. I’m going to get back on the freeway and pull onto the shoulder then I’ll back up until I’m under the bridge. I want you to drive past me and just keep going. Give a little honk as you pass me. I’ll pull out and catch up until I’m right behind you. Okay?”

“Yeah
, okay, I’m just passing the sign that says two and a quarter miles to the Maryland exit,” she said a moment later.

“I’m heading down the ramp now.
I’ll be under the bridge in a minute. You just stay in that right lane and keep it at fifty-five.”

“God, how many times are you going to tell me t
hat? I’m doing it, I’m doing it.”

“Good girl,
can you describe the car following you?” I asked.

“No, not really. I
t’s just a pair of headlights, really close headlights.”

Fortunately the traffic was light. I backed up
and stopped under the bridge. I reached under my seat and took out the Ruger I had stashed there, an LC9. I set the pistol on the passenger seat.

“One-and-a-quarter miles,” she said.

“Anyone in front of you, Marsha?”

“No, least not for a good way.”

“Flash your brights,” I said.

I saw them
flash in my rear view mirror she was still a way’s back.

“Hey
, Dev, I’m flashing you. Like it?”

“Yeah
, loving it, Marsha. I got you. I’m going to let you pass, then ease into traffic and come up behind. You just stay on 35 through the interchange. Okay?”

“Maybe I should pull over on the shoulder and he’d stop behind me?”

“Maybe you should just stay on 35. Okay?”

“That’s a drag,”
she said, but didn’t argue. Her horn beeped as she drove past. I waited for three more cars to pass before I pulled into traffic.

“I saw you
back there. Did you hear me honk when I drove past?”

“Yeah
, I’m coming up behind you now. Stay on 35, Marsha.”

“God, Mr. Broken R
ecord, come on, let’s get this guy.”

“We’re going to
. You’ll have the St. Clair exit coming up in about four minutes. If no one else is taking it put your signal on and exit. Okay?”