A Good Kind of Trouble (A Trouble in Twin Rivers Novel Book 1) (21 page)

Ugh, Ben. The thought of him did nothing to settle her stomach.
 

She would rather have him at her side when she returned to court, not the newspaper's weird in-house counsel. But when Lyle Wilkes threw out the name Stanton & Lowe, she had started to have doubts about continuing to see Ben.

The bell over the glass door rang out, startling Lindsey out of her worries as she stepped over the threshold of a barbershop. The shop was empty, except for a man in a white smock reading the newspaper in the first of three worn chairs. She introduced herself and asked if she could talk to him about the arena.
 

"You bet, you can," he said, waving at the empty barber chairs behind him. "Have a seat. Need a trim?"

He laughed as Lindsey politely declined.
 

"Dion Upchurch," the barber said, extending his hand to Lindsey.
 

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Upchurch," she said, shaking hands with the older man. "How long have you had your shop here?"

Dion Upchurch sat in the chair next to Lindsey's and swiveled to face her. "I took this shop over from my dad after he passed, so it's been more than thirty years now. It was a good run. Met lots of nice people. Kept my family fed. Put two boys through college."

"You sound like you're wrapping it up," Lindsey said.
 

He nodded. "Yeah, I am. Not right away, but I can see what's going on. The arena's coming in, we're all going to get pushed out."
 

She took in the photographs on the wall—family pictures, a few local celebrities, certificates from civic organizations thanking Dion for his donations.
 

"Is your landlord pushing you out?"
 

Dion laughed harshly. "Got a new landlord last year. My former landlord, he got an offer he couldn't refuse and cashed out and retired. The new owner is some corporation. But now some appraiser's been by again, so I expect the building will be sold again soon. Everyone thinks they're going to get rich quick with this new sports complex." He shook his head. "Still, it will be nice to see something other than that fence out there."
 

Lindsey asked a few more questions about the neighborhood, other businesses in the block. He told her to stop by a couple other stores down the street. The owners of a tobacco shop and a used clothing store had both told him that their buildings were also sold recently, so he wasn't the only one getting shoved out.
 

"Ah, well. I'm looking forward to retirement now. Anything else I can help you with?"

"Can you tell me who your new landlord is?"
 

Dion stood and walked to the counter where a tired cash register sat. He unlocked a drawer and slid out a large binder of checks and flipped through the pages. "Ah, here it is. Some corporation called Vanda, LLC. Never met anyone from that company, just got a letter telling me who to send the rent check to."
 

Lindsey jotted down the name and the company's post office box, then stood up and thanked Dion for his time.
 

"Go on down the block and talk to Pete at the Smoke Shop. He's got a new landlord, too."
 

She left the comfortable cool of the barbershop and was hit with a wall of dry heat. The wind had picked up again, but offered no relief from the oppressive heat. Lindsey walked back toward the tobacco shop she'd seen earlier and introduced herself to the store's owner.
 

A half-hour later, she jogged back down the street, just beating the parking enforcement officer to the car and dodging a ticket. She climbed in and cranked the air conditioning.
 

The meetings had been instructive. The other two businesses were in a separate building just a few doors down from Dion's barbershop. They had similar stories to share—last year, their buildings were sold to a new landlord. But those buildings were changing hands again. The tobacco shop owner had showed her the letter he'd received last week telling him that his new landlord was a corporation Lindsey had never heard of—Central Property Holdings—a generic corporate name designed to be forgotten. The previous owner, who held the title for just about ten months, was Laelia, LLC.
 

She took that name down, too. Maybe if she had time after court, she could run over to the county records office and see if there was more information about the properties.
 

That is, if she wasn't in jail.

Ben watched the door of the liquor store where Lindsey had entered after leaving the barbershop. He ignored the complaints from Gordo, who was still fanning his face madly with a magazine. The car's air conditioner was barely keeping up with the outside temperature.
 

"It's too hot to do this," Gordo said. "If I were a dog, someone would have called 911 to report abuse. Plus, I'm hungry."
 

Ben rolled his eyes. "It hasn't been that long. Just wait—”

He saw Lindsey leave the liquor store and turn right, heading toward her car.
 

"Finally!" Gordo said. "Where are we eating lunch?"

"Not just yet," Ben said. "Follow her and see if she's going back to work."

Gordo grumbled, but eased the car on to the street, careful to stay behind Lindsey's car so they wouldn't be noticed—by her or by the tan sedan that kept pace with them. Within a few minutes, she was pulling into the employee parking lot at the newspaper. Her whole trip had lasted less than an hour.
 

Ben watched the tan car circle the block slowly. He could see the driver hold a phone to his ear.

"Illegal," Gordo tsked.
 

"Not the worst of his crimes," Ben muttered. "Let's see where this guy is going now."
 

The tan car picked up speed and passed the office building again, heading back toward the commercial district, Gordo a half-block behind him. The sedan continued past the arena site, turned onto a frontage road and entered an industrial area in a seedy part of the city. Gordo again stayed back far enough that it didn't look like his car was following the sedan past an endless row of warehouses and parking lots. The car turned into an alley and Gordo parked at the corner where the street met the alley.
 

"If we turn down there, he'll see us." Gordo said. A small SUV passed them and pulled into the alley.

"Maybe it's used by more than one business," Ben said.
 

Gordo shook his head. "It might be, but now the driver will be getting out of his car and it will be too obvious that we’re following him. I'll get out and look around."
 

Gordo was taking to the investigations work a little too eagerly. He may have brought Gordo into this mess, but Ben didn’t want them to get in over their heads.

"We're not the Hardy Boys," he said, but Gordo was already parking and opening his door. "Fine. But I'm going with you."
 

When they were both out of the car, he and Gordo were even more conspicuous. Two men in suits walking around an industrial neighborhood looked like IRS agents or some sort of code enforcement officers. The hot sun beat down on them as they followed the path the tan sedan had taken. The alley was an empty, dusty length with more potholes than pavement. The narrow way was lined with the back end of warehouses and other commercial buildings and their small parking lots, some of them fenced, but none more secure than the lot in the middle of the block-long alley.
 

Ben caught a glimpse of a gate sliding shut at the entrance of the secured parking lot. The building's few tinted windows faced the alley, but just in case the occupants needed more of a view, two security cameras on opposite sides of the building were trained on the lot. Ben had done enough research to know what business was at that address—Lonnie Corcoran, private investigator. He wasn't surprised the car returned here. He had only wanted to confirm that Lindsey was still being followed. But now he wanted to know who was hiring Corcoran to do it.

Gordo at his side, Ben crept closer to Corcoran’s parking lot, but he couldn't see any details through the security slats in the Cyclone fence. The gate had closed, but they'd be exposed to the cameras if they walked down the alley unless they stayed close to the fence.
 

Gordo nodded toward the gate and Ben realized that there was a small gap in the fence where he might be able to see into the parking lot without being observed.
 

"I'll check out the side," Gordo said in a low voice, then crept along the fence and disappeared around the corner.

Ben nodded and walked along the back boundary of the fenced parking lot. Leaning forward, he pressed his face to the slats, peering through a two-inch gap in the privacy fencing. He could see the driver taking off his baseball cap. Even though the man was now sporting a deep purple shiner around one eye, he immediately recognized Bikey, the murderous messenger who had knocked Lindsey to the ground, then stalked her on the motorcycle. Bikey was talking with a heavyset man with slicked-back hair. If ever there was an image of a sleazy P.I., that guy fit the bill. Well-cut suit, too much jewelry, dark sunglasses. The man at his side shook Bikey's hand and Ben caught a glimpse of his face.
 

The shock of recognition sent him reeling away from the tiny gap in the fence, as if Ben were as exposed as the trio he was watching.
 

What the hell was Gregory Stanton doing here?
 

Ben peered through the gap, watching as Stanton and Corcoran walked up the back steps, Bikey limping slowly behind them, and into the building. It was definitely Stanton. He hadn't imagined it. Ben started to turn away, looking for Gordo, when he caught a blur of gray, blue, and orange in his peripheral vision. He ducked instinctively, but was knocked off his feet. He hit the ground with a thud, kicking up a cloud of dust. The man on top of him was like a wiry feral cat.

"Who are you? Why are you following Lindsey Fox?"
 

Ben gasped for breath, but got only a lung full of hot dust. He coughed and tried to protect himself from skinny flailing arms. "Stop it! I'm not following Lindsey!"
 

"Are you a cop?" Ben deflected one incoming fist, but the man managed to land a blow above his ear. "If you're a cop, you have to tell me."
 

"I'm not a cop," Ben said, still hacking up dust. "And if I were, I wouldn't have to tell you, you idiot."
 

"Then who are you? We saw you following her."
 

Ben heaved the man off him and struggled to stand. The man assumed a half-crouched stance with his fists in front of him. He couldn't weigh over a hundred fifty pounds, but Ben's ear was still ringing from the punch to the head and he didn't want to have to fight him off again. He put his own hands up in a nonthreatening gesture.
 

"I was following the car that was following her," Ben said. The man's loud Hawaiian shirt was familiar. He'd been one of the coworkers walking out of the newspaper building with Lindsey.
 

"No,
we
were following the car that was following her," the man said.
 

"Who's 'we'?"
 

He was answered by a high-pitched wail from the side of the fence where Gordo had gone. He shoved the smaller man out of the way and raced around the corner of the fence.
 

Gordo was writhing on the ground, his navy suit covered in dust, his hands over his face. A young woman was standing over him, a canister of pepper spray in one hand and a camera in the other.

"You okay, Dani?"
 

Ben turned, surprised to find the man who had attacked him at his side.
 

"She's not the one in the fetal position," Ben snapped. "Gordo, what happened?"
 

"AAAAAGHH! My face! It's melting!"
 

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Dani cried. "You snuck up on me!"

"I was trying not to startle you!"

"You failed!"
 

Ben helped Gordo to his feet. His thick brown hair was coated with a fine layer of dirt, his hands were still clapped firmly over his eyes. "Oh my God, I'm blind!"

Ben pulled Gordo's hands from his face. His skin was red, his eyes swollen shut, tears streamed down his face, and his nose was leaking like a faucet.
 

"You'll be fine, let's get you some first aid." Ben remembered too well the burning sensation from the pepper spray. He started to lead Gordo away, but Dani was at Gordo's other side.
 

"We should call 911," she said.
 

"No!" Gordo said. "No police!"

Ben rolled his eyes.
 

"We just need some water," he said to the young woman who looked both concerned and guilty.
 

"I have a bottle in the car," she said, turning to run down the alley.
 

The older man watched Ben with a suspicious stare. "You sure you weren't following Lindsey?"

Ben gave an exasperated sigh. "No. We were trying to follow the stalker—I mean, the guy who was tailing her. And who are you, exactly?"

The man's eyes narrowed. "I'm Charlie Grove. I work with Lindsey at the
Beacon
."
 

Ben continued to help Gordo down the alley toward his car, but it was like leading a blind mule. Gordo kept trying to walk to the right and Ben struggled to keep him on course and prevent him from walking into any hazards in his path—a fence post, a parking berm, or a pothole. He nodded toward the other end of the alley where the young woman had just run off.

"And who is she?" he asked Charlie.
 

"That's Dani Carter, she's an intern at the paper." Charlie cast a skeptical eye toward the parking lot. "We're friends of Lindsey's."
 

Ben nodded. Sure, that made sense. Lindsey would turn down his help, and then enlist a crazy old hippie and an armed teenager for assistance.