Two for Flinching (4 page)

“Gone.”

“Kind of figured that,” I said, “you being
drunk and all and it’s not even noon. What happened?”

“She left me.”

“Again?”

He shot me a dirty look. “Says I been
cheating on her.”

“You do have a history of it.”

“Not in four years.”

“Well.”

“I think this time it’s for good.”

“You say that every time.”

He rubbed his face with the palms of both
hands. “Yeah. I reckon I do.”

“She’ll be back.”

“Probably.” He picked up the bottle of Evan
Williams. “How you doing?”

“I ain’t bragging.”

“Don’t guess you are,” he said. “You still
practicing?”

“I hit the bag yesterday for a while.”

“The bag?” Disgust spread across his face.
“Your form is what counts.”

Luther and his form. Always the form.

“I know, I know.”

Drunk as a skunk, he stood and executed the
Shim Jun form—all eighty-one moves. Every movement precise, the
steps crisp, the punches and kicks snapping cleanly. Finished, he
fell back into the chair. “That’s what I got from ten years in
Korea,” he said. “That and the clap.”

“Don’t hold anything back.” I went into the
kitchen and returned with two steaming mugs. Luther poured whiskey
into his, offered me the bottle. I shook my head. “Judge, you can’t
keep doing this.”

He sipped from his cup. “Why not?”

“We put a black man in the White House,” I
said. “You keep pulling guns on people and being a minority
politician won’t be enough to keep you out of jail.”

“Who told you that?”

***

Mid-afternoon, I pulled into the garage and
waited for the door to close behind me before getting out of the
Jeep. My home was probably safe, what with the care Dumb and Dumber
had taken around Sarah. Probably being the key word. I was
probably
overreacting. The care I had taken leaving the
office, the erratic driving, trying to make a tail.
Probably.
Something was definitely in the air. Until I found
out what
it
was, I was going to take the proper
precautions.

Blondie and Sarah came running when I pushed
into the kitchen. I kneed the dog away and scooped up my daughter.
She hugged me and I slapped a loud kiss on her cheek. That moment
always made everything else seem small, inconsequential. “Hey,
baby, how was your day?”

“Not good.”

“No? What happened?”

She pouted. “I spilled my milk.”

“You don’t even like milk.”

She frowned.

“So maybe it was a good day and you didn’t
know it.”

“I spilled it on my favorite pants.”

News to me. I didn’t even know she had
favorite pants. “Maybe it was an average day. A little good, a
little bad.”

“I’ll have to think about that.”

I found Erin sitting Indian style in the
middle of the couch, textbooks and notebooks stacked on either
side. “You busy?”

“No. I like reading Trig for the fun of
it.”

“Good. Time to earn your keep.”

“Finally,” she said. “A chance to
contribute.”

I dug the laptop out my bag, sat it on the
kitchen table and powered it up. A business card was on the table.
Detective Randall Rogers, Indianola Sherriff’s Department.
“What’s this?”

Erin went into the fridge and came out with a
Grapico. “It was stuck in the door when I came in.”

I turned the card over.
Please call me at
your earliest convenience in relation to an ongoing
investigation.
We believe you may have some valuable
information.

I found that kind of odd.
If Randy wanted
to talk to me, why not call?
I crumpled the card and tossed it
on the table.

Erin had taken her seat in front of the
computer. “What are we doing?”

I reached over her and navigated to the
Looking4Mine
page. My faux knockout had received plenty of
attention since this morning. Fifteen looks and five winks. One of
those winks had been from
J-love.

“Oh goodie,” Erin said. “The honey pot.”

“That’s you.” I clicked on the
J-love
profile. “And that’s the fly.”

“Not really my type.”

“Mine either. Wink back and let’s see what
develops.”

I opened the back door and went out onto the
deck. Blondie bounded off into the fenced backyard. I had another
two months—hopefully—until I had to start working on it again. I
fired up the grill and went back inside. If it wasn’t for barbeque
my daughter and I would have starved long ago.

“That was fast,” Erin said. “He’s already
invited me for an online chat.”

I wasn’t surprised. I figured this was the
best time to catch Jenks, before he went home and had his wife
looking over his shoulder. Or went to the Chickasaw Inn.
“Perfect.”

“Can I be a Penelope? I feel like a Penelope
today.”

“Fine with me. Do your thing?”

She tapped on the computer. I pulled a pot
from the cabinet, filled it with water, and sat it on the
stove.

“What’s my story again?”

“Divorced, looking for fun.
Professional.”

“What exactly does that mean?
Professional?”

“Whatever you want it to mean.”

She pursed her lips in thought. Just like her
mother. “I think I’ll be in the medical field.”

I took out some pork chops, placed them on a
plate and sprinkled rub on them. I got the box of macaroni, the
margarine and the milk and set them next to the stove. I opened the
door. Blondie rushed in. I scraped the remnants of the last meal
from the grill and went back into the kitchen. Blondie bounded
out.

“He wants to get together for a drink.”

“Get a picture first.”

“Right.” I had done something like this
countless times before, but Erin was much better at it than I was.
Nobody sounds more like a young, attractive woman than a young
attractive woman. I dumped the macaroni in the pot, took the chops
to the grill and put them on. Blondie ran back into the house.

“Got it.” Erin opened the email. “Not a very
handsome fellow.”

“Don’t tell him that.”

“What about that drink?”

“You doing anything tomorrow night?”

“I don’t exactly look like Penelope. Do I
have to actually meet this guy?”

“No. I need you to watch the princess while I
meet him.”

“Gotcha.” She tapped on the keys.

“Make sure you save the conversation.”

“Way ahead of you, Uncle Bees.” More tapping.
“It’s a date.”

I pulled out my wallet and handed her a
hundred dollar bill.

“Ooo,” she said. “A paying gig.”

***

I sat on the back deck looking up at the
stars. Dinner had been eaten and the mess cleaned up, the princess
bathed, stories read, and had finally gone to sleep. Hopefully.
Erin had retired to the master bedroom, presumably to study, but
most likely to talk on the phone in private. It was probably too
cold to sit on the deck. The rum helped.

This was one of my favorite places on earth,
next to my tree stand and most reliable fishing hole. Naked
dogwoods lined the back of the lot, bushes of unknown origin were
on the left. The right side of the fence was bare, allowing me to
look into Steven and Amber’s backyard. They had a kidney shaped
swimming pool, covered until spring. If Steven hadn’t been so cheap
and had put up a privacy fence like most pool owners, none of this
would have happened.

Light spilled out from their den into the
backyard, but otherwise the house was dark. I hadn’t heard from
Amber since the incident at the Holiday Inn. Our conversations were
almost as sporadic as our liaisons. She was terrified of Steven and
went to great lengths to keep him from finding out about our
affair. Sometimes we went several days without talking, often a
week or more. She was always the one who initiated contact, waiting
until it was safe to call or text. I wondered what happened Sunday.
Or Monday.

It was always quiet, peaceful, in my
backyard—aside from Blondie’s sudden eruptions. The perfect place
to look at the stars. And enjoy a drink.

The phone rang, my cell. Blondie began
barking. I checked the caller ID.
Unknown.
Two in one day. I
almost let it go to voicemail, wanting to stay in the rare still
moment. But it could be about a job and I couldn’t afford to pass
up work. Or maybe it was Amber, calling from a payphone.

***

“Hello.”

“Uh, yeah, this is Detective Randall Rogers
with the Indianola County Sherriff’s Department.”

“Hey, Randy. How you doing tonight?”

“Uh, fine. Thanks for asking. I’m calling
because you may have some information on a case we are working
on.”

“I got your card.”

“My card?”

“What’s the case?”

“Well, it’s a little on the delicate side.
I’d rather not talk about it over the phone.”

“Okay.”

“I’d be happy to come by your work or home if
that’s convenient.”

“No, I’ll just stop by your office in the
morning. It’s on my way.”

“My office?”

“At the Sherriff’s Department.”

“Oh. I guess that should be fine.”

“You going by the gym tomorrow?”

“The gym? I’m not sure. What’s a good time
for you?”

“Nine?”

“Perfect. Just ask the duty sergeant for the
detective’s and he’ll show you up.”

“I’m pretty sure I can find it.”

“Tomorrow at nine.”

“I’ll be there with bells on.”

Delicate.

Blondie took off after something, probably a
shadow. I finished me drink and stood. Only a little wobbly.

Chapter Five

The Indianola Sherriff’s Department was
collocated with the jail, the sheriff’s office on the first two
floors of the modern brick building, county lockup on the top two.
I almost turned into the employee lot before circling around the
block to visitor parking. The courthouse was across the street.
Rain had moved in during the early hours, a drizzle that promised
to stick around. Not much, but it was enough to pull out my hiking
boots.

The uniformed officer at the desk looked up
without interest as I pushed into the lobby. He was overweight,
balding, about to turn fifty, and counting the days. “You come to
turn yourself in?”

“You’ll never get a confession out of me,
Bo.”

“Bet we could beat it out of you.”

“Bet you couldn’t. How’s the gout?”

“Hurts like hell. Hope you didn’t come to get
your job back.”

I shook my head. “I need to talk to
Randy.”

“Gotta leave your piece with me.”

“It’s in the Jeep.”

He nodded and pushed a button to release the
electronic lock.

“You’re supposed to give me directions to the
detectives.”

He gave me a bland look instead.

I took the stairs, figuring the exercise
wouldn’t hurt and waiting on that damn elevator would. The bullpen
was unchanged, three sets of desks pushed together, a door at the
side with
Lt. Grant
spelled out on the glass, two unmarked
doors on the other. A muscle-bound man was coming out of the
office, his shirtsleeves tight against the biceps. He gave me a
curious look.

“Sorry, son,” he said, “we ain’t hiring.”

“Nuts.”

“And even if we were, it would be a cold day
in hell. When you burn a bridge, boy, you burn a bridge.”

“Morning, Harold.”

He grunted and made his way past me.

Randall Rogers was at his desk, in a light
blue shirt and a darker tie.
Must be a court day.
He gave me
a double take. “Hey, Beason. What’s going on?”

“Not much.” I sat across from him. The man at
the adjoining double desk—my old desk—gave me a dirty look. “How
you been, Larry?”

Larry Coleman was closing in on forty, his
dark hair shot through with grey. His face was deeply lined, in a
perpetual frown. He gave me the finger.

I winked at him.

Randy said, “What do you need?”

“I came in to talk to you.”

“Yeah?” He looked at his watch. “Make it
fast. I’ve got an appointment.”

“Nine, right?”

Surprise spread across his face. “Holy
shit.”

“What?”

“I knew that was your old neighborhood. I
thought you had moved.”

“Got caught in the housing bubble.”

“You live next to the Noble’s.”

“Yeah.”

Coleman laughed.

“I’m a little confused,” I admitted. “You
want to tell me what’s going on?”

Randy shook his head. Evidently, I wasn’t the
only one confused. “We are looking into the disappearance of Amber
Noble.”

“I didn’t know she was missing.”

He nodded. “Her husband hasn’t seen her since
Sunday afternoon.”

“I’m not surprised,” I said. “It was my
understanding that they were having problems.”

Coleman said, “You should know.”

I ignored him. “I’m sure she’ll turn up. She
probably wanted some space.”

Randy said, “Her car is gone and she isn’t
answering her cell. Her purse was left on the kitchen table.”

I crossed my legs, bouncing my foot on my
knee. I had worn boots for a large portion of my life, for long
stretches at a time. I had sworn I would never wear them again.
Yet, for some reason, they always gave me comfort. “What does this
have to do with me?”

Randy reached into his desk and pulled out a
manila folder. From the folder, he extracted a single sheet of
paper. “This is Amber’s cell phone records.”

The little hairs on the back of my neck stood
up.

He slid the paper across the desk to me. One
number was circled in red pen. A lot. “This is your number.”

Coleman said, “I thought only drug dealers
used prepaid phones.”

“I don’t like hidden charges.”

Randy said, “That’s why we couldn’t find out
whose number it was.”