Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) (38 page)

Her tone chilled me.

“I think he might be involved in something very serious, Ms. Avery.”

“Andrea,” she said, slicing and not skipping a beat. “Someone he hurt?”

“Two someones.”

She nodded and eased one of the slices on a plate. Immediately started with the second.

“I think he cooked up a fake blackmail scheme,” I said.

“Blackmail? That doesn’t sound like typical Moses, but I suppose.”

Siobhan and I said, “Moses?” in unison.

Andrea Avery handed us the plates of apple pie. My slice was the size of a hardcover novel. For a moment I thought she might not have heard our mutual surprise but then she said, “You probably know him by his street name. Huck.”

“I’m confused, Ms. Avery.”

“I can see that.”

“I’m talking about your son, Noah.”

“Noah,” she managed, and touched her chest. Her breathing grew labored. Siobhan moved and set her plate on the counter, then placed an arm around Andrea Avery’s prodigious shoulders. She shot me a look hotter than the temperatures around the equator. This was turning into a Candace Holliday type of situation.

“I didn’t realize you had another son, Andrea,” I said, trying to ignore Siobhan’s glare.

“Noah’s worse than Moses,” she whispered. “In a different way. He got with that preacher and forgot where he came from. He’s much as told me he disowns me and everything I stand for. Whatever that means.”

“Could you imagine Noah getting involved in something…shady?”

“I haven’t talked to Noah in years,” she snapped. “I couldn’t tell you what he would or wouldn’t do.”

“And Moses?”

“He comes around from time to time. Always looking to give me some of his dirty money. I would just as soon starve as take it. One son is dead to me and it would be better for the world if the other actually were. I was a good mother, made all kinds of sacrifices. I never would have believed my boys would turn out as they have. Listen to me…let me stop before this turns into an all out complaint. Bright side, see?”

“Tell me more about Moses.”

“I have nothing more to say,” she said. “But I can show you. A picture is worth a thousand words.”

She waddled off down a hall, disappeared into a bedroom.

Siobhan said, “This never quite goes the way you expect it. Does it?”

“Hold your judgment,” I said. “This is getting interesting.”

Those last words had just left my mouth when Andrea Avery emerged from the bedroom and waddled back down the hall toward us. “A picture is worth a thousand words,” she said again, handing an old Polaroid to me. “Only picture I have of the two of them together. I keep it buried at the bottom of my panty drawer.”

I bit down on my surprise.

Two boys were staring at me. One was an obviously younger Noah, smiling at the camera. The other was his brother. Not smiling. Old even at that young age.

Dead Eyes.

THIRTY-FOUR

I FELT A RUSH of adrenaline as we left Andrea Avery’s apartment, the pulse of a fast and strong heartbeat in my fingertips. For a moment I forgot that Siobhan was with me. Not an easy feat.

“Will you slow down?” she called after me.

I stopped so that she could catch up. “Sorry.”

“What’s going on? Suddenly you’re energized.”

I reached for her chin and thumbed away a speck of pie crust. “It’s been a long time since I had homemade apple pie.”

She frowned. “Do I look like a fool to you?”

I pondered whether to tell her that Moses aka Huck, Andrea Avery’s worrisome son and Noah’s little brother, was the thug I’d christened with the name Dead Eyes. “I’m getting closer,” I offered. “I can feel it.”

“Really? It feels like nothing but another dead end to me,” she said. “After talking with his mother, seems like Noah Avery’s only real offense has been a desire to forget where he came from. I can relate to that myself.”

Tell her or not?

“I need some time to think,” I said. “I’ll figure out a next move.”

She sighed. “Take me home, Shell. I want to make sure the place looks perfect when Abuela returns.”

I WAITED A COMFORTABLE amount of time before abandoning my parking spot on Elm Street. Hopefully Siobhan wouldn’t come calling while I was gone. I had a lot of questions for Noah Avery and he would answer all of them.

MALE. Mid-40s. Cheap corduroy pants but a moderately priced short sleeve dress shirt. The well-worn heels of his shoes bitten into like a hunk of cheese. He was oblivious to all around him, sipping at his coffee every so often, steadily clacking at the keys of his laptop. Unemployed, I decided. Taking a leap of faith to write a novel while he collected unemployment checks.

“Thank God for Wi-Fi,” I said to him.

He looked up at me, adjusted his glasses at the centerpiece with a finger whose nail was nearly bitten to the quick. “What was that?” he asked, befuddled.

“Wi-Fi,” I said. “Thank God for it.”

He smiled. It was a smile no woman would ever learn to love. “Occasionally I tap in,” he said. “Usually I do so when I need little tidbits of research. Mostly I’m in Word.”

No ring on any of his fingers. A loner. Nowhere to be.

“Word?” I said, intentionally frowning.

“Microsoft’s word processing platform,” he explained.

“Oh? Are you a writer?”

He pursed his lips, looked away for a split second, made a decision and looked back. “I’ve gotten some agent interest. Need to finish my manuscript before one will represent me, though.”

“What kind of books do you write?”

“Book,” he corrected. “It’s my first. Crime fiction.”

I smiled. “Crime fiction.”

“It’s all escapism,” he said. “I’m guilty of writing in gratuitous violence. The body count gets out of hand sometimes. Nothing like real life. It allows me to figuratively kill off anyone that has ever wronged me. Old bosses, old girlfriends, they show up in my characters and then I do them in. It’s all made up and quite silly. But it’s fun. You know?”

“Killing people that have wronged you, that does sound like fun,” I said.

“Totally escapism.”

“Totally,” I agreed.

“Do you read the stuff?” he asked.

I wrinkled my nose, shook my head. “I don’t handle violence very well. Are you almost finished with your book?”

“Getting there,” he said, tapping the laptop. “I’ve been putting in ten-hour days. Come here, drink my coffee, work on my book. No one bothers me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll let you get back to your work then. Good luck.”

“I didn’t mean…”

But I was already walking off, the first piece in place.

“MAY I LEAVE A message for Mr. Avery to call you back?”

“Please do. As I said, my company feels as if there are a myriad of opportunities to do business with the Bishop.”

“I’ll let Mr. Avery know. God bless.”

I disconnected the call.

HE CALLED BACK WITHIN five minutes. A very telling development. The prospect of money was foremost on his mind.

“I understand you were in the middle of preparing for a revival,” I said. “I apologize for disturbing you.”

“No problem, Mr. MacDonald. Most of the logistics have already been worked out. I was just doing a few last minute touchups.”

“Good.”

“I understand you were interested in discussing some potential ventures with Bishop as the cornerstone. Can we meet?”

“I’ll be flying out of town today. How about when I get back we—”

“How about today? Before you leave?”

“I have an afternoon full of meetings. Taking a working break now, enjoying my coffee while I type up a proposal. In a while I’ll get up and let someone else have my seat.”

“Have your seat? Where are you?”

I told him.

“That’s not far from the church. How about I meet you there? We can discuss the basics and decide if another more detailed meeting is in order.”

I paused for effect. “Okay…sure. I’m wearing corduroys, a short sleeve dress shirt. I’m the only one here with a laptop at the moment.”

“Ten, fifteen minutes at the outside. I’ll be there, Mr. MacDonald.”

“John,” I said. “Call me John, please.”

“I hope we can do business, John.”

IT TOOK HIM ELEVEN minutes. I was positioned across the street so that I could see his approach. Some might wonder why risk this in broad daylight, but it has been my experience that most people are too involved with their own lives to give any notice to another’s. People have been known to ignore screams, gunshot sounds, even pedestrians who’ve fallen on the sidewalk in front of them.

Noah Avery emerged from his vehicle—some small foreign job—and moved briskly toward the coffee shop. In a moment he’d enter, see the unemployed crime writer and make a practiced approach. Then confusion would cloud his face and he’d walk back outside in a disappointed daze. I would exploit the chaos of his thoughts and add to his disappointment.

As I expected Noah stepped out a beat later, grasping for his cell phone as he looked up the street to his right. I’d closed the distance between us to an arm’s length by the time he turned his attention to the left.

He nearly dropped the cell phone.

“Corduroy is a little underdressed for such an important business meeting, don’t you think, Noah?”

“I’m calling the police.”

“Wonderful. We can all chat about your brother, Huck.” I studied his reaction and added, “Don’t fret, Noah. Come on. Let’s go for a quick ride and talk this through.”

“Hell no.”

I clucked my tongue. “Such language.”

“I’ll yell.”

“Why do you do that?” I asked.

“Do what?” he dumbly asked.

“Announce what you’re planning to do.”

“I…”

“Exactly. It’s silly. Imagine me telling you that I have someone positioned in the building across the street with a rifle fixed on your lying little head.” He looked nervously in that direction. “And if I give my man the signal he’s going to effectively cancel your church’s revival because the Bishop will be busy writing your eulogy.”

Noah’s eyes searched the building. Searched every dark window.

“I’m kidding about the rifle, Noah.”

He looked at me again. “Are you really?”

I smirked and shrugged. “Maybe. How deep is your faith?”