A Shred of Truth (17 page)

“Risky. Could make him mad.”

“I hope so. That’s when people start making mistakes.”

“Well, you oughta hear what I dug up.” He stepped inside as I spun my seat toward him. “First off, the state of Georgia stopped issuing the ‘Georgia … on My Mind’ license tags at the end of ’03. Most of ’em are obsolete.”

“Narrows it down some at least. So the van’s tags must’ve been renewed.”

“Reckon so. And you’ll be glad to know we’ve got agencies here in Nashville that’ll run reverse license-plate searches for thirty-five, forty bucks.”

“Let’s do it then.”

“But why pay when I’ve already tracked her down for free?”

I rocked forward. “You’re kidding.”

“Say hello to your older, wiser brother.”

“Emphasis on
older
. C’mon, spill it.”

“Well, that particular tag was sold on eBay a couple months back. A cheap, ten-dollar collectible. It’s out of circulation and no good to anyone.”

“Unless, of course, you slap on some fake stickers.”

“And drive it outta state, where the cops are less likely to hassle you about it.”

“So it’s nothing but a dead end.”

“Don’t you wanna know the name of the buyer?”

“I thought that was private information.”

“Private? On the Internet?”

“Who was it?”

“A Miss Felicia Daly. Sorry to get your hopes up, kid. Just like you said, a dead end.”

I gritted my teeth and pinned him with a look. “That’s not even funny.”

“Aramis, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Yeah.”

“Really. I’m sorry.”

My eyes clamped shut, and my head nodded until I heard his footsteps receding down the hall. A gale was brewing inside me. I couldn’t trust myself. Couldn’t trust my brother. Couldn’t trust my own memories. Who could I trust?

“Someone left you a sealed envelope,” Diesel told me over the phone. “He came into the shop just a few minutes ago. Said it was important. For your eyes only.”

“Who was it?”

“That street bum who’s always leaving us tips.”

“Freddy C’s not a bum. He’s homeless.”

“Here’s one for you then. True or false: on the average, one out of four bums—I mean, homeless men—are convicted felons?”

“Diesel, are you even working? Or are you cramming for our final?”

“Both. Things’ve been slow this morning.”

“I’m heading that way.”

“True,” he called into the phone as I hung up.

Normally I walk through the park to Black’s, threading along the shores of Lake Watauga, beneath the Parthenon’s pillars, or alongside monuments honoring Nashville’s civic leaders. But not today. Instead, after repairing my rearview mirror with a tube of epoxy, I drove the back streets to the shop. I saw no sign of surveillance, but Meade knew where I worked. I’d hear from him soon enough.

“Well, if it’s not Aramis himself,” a woman greeted as I entered the shop.

“Ms. Thompson. Good morning.”

Dressed in a fitted tan business skirt and jacket, she crossed her legs at her table and cupped her usual mocha. She’s a regular customer, the first to spot the camera crews last year when I was selected for the reality TV show. “To what do we owe the pleasure? I thought you did church on Sundays.”

“Sometimes I go with Sammie, but I don’t exactly ‘do’ church.”

“Please, I didn’t mean it as an insult.”

I waved it off. “It’s all good.”

“I’m probing here—you’ll tell me if it’s none of my business, won’t you?—but I know I’ve seen you reading your Bible here in these booths.”

“I love God, definitely. It’s just the ritual of it that makes me feel awkward.”

“Having been born Roman Catholic, I rather liked the ritual.”

“Liked?”

“I haven’t attended Mass in years.”

“Maybe the ritual’s not enough. I guess that’s what I’m trying to say.”

“Hmm.” Sipping her drink, she watched me round the front counter.

I would have loved to continue the conversation, but my thoughts had already jumped ahead to Freddy’s hand-delivered envelope.

D
iesel. What’s going on?”

“Oh, hey.” He waved. “Just showing my parents around.”

I run Black’s on a tight budget and can’t afford to ignore county health codes or the high standard for roasting, grinding, and brewing in my little space. While employee guidelines are more lax, it didn’t keep me from balking at Diesel’s parents standing in the work area.

“Uh. No one but staff allowed behind the counter. House rules.”

“Sorry, boss. They’re just heading out, flying back home.”

“Okay, for now.”

“Mother, Father, meet Aramis Black.”

As the middle-aged couple turned from their tour of the kitchen, I took a quick visual inventory, concerned with good impressions. Anna had closed last night, and the floor still sparkled, the sinks still shone. Everything tidy and in place.

Mental note:
speak to Ms. Knight about a raise
.

“Mr. Black.” A small, firm hand was shaking mine. “Heard a lot about you.”

“Good to meet you, Missus … uh?” A hint of recognition triggered a sudden memory glitch. I’d seen this woman before … hadn’t I?

“Hillcrest,” she said.

Diesel stepped in. “Don’t take any offense, Mother. Around here, no one calls me by my full name.”

“Desmond’s a fine name,” she huffed.

“As is our family name,” his father agreed, heavy cheeks jostling.

I paused, trying to place the man’s face. I’d seen him before as well. “Uh, I hope you’ll forgive me, Mrs. Hillcrest.”

“But of course,” she told me. “As for my son’s denial of his given name, that’s another matter.”

“He’s a good kid.”

Diesel’s eyes narrowed at me. His father’s did the same.

“A young man,” I amended.

“We’ve raised him to be nothing less.”

“You should be proud.” I stretched out my hand, found a strong grip attached to Mr. Hillcrest’s arm. His husky form must’ve been rock solid at one time, but the years had taken a toll. “Lipscomb’s a good university. And Diesel … uh, Desmond studies hard. Even with the long hours he puts in here at the shop, he still seems to get his schoolwork done. We have a night course together.”

“Social psychology. Yes, I’ve spoken to Professor Newmann.”

“In fact, we’re working on a class project together.”

“Thank you, I’m well aware.”

“I’m sure you are. Like any good father.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Black, the statistics regarding fatherhood in our nation don’t support your rosy outlook. Marriages are crumbling, and liberalism is corroding our moral fiber. My son’s fortunate.”

Rosy outlook? What was with this guy? I recalled Newmann’s claims that Mr. Hillcrest had not only made threats but had blamed my brother and me for his son’s grades. I was forming a question along those lines when the front door chimed.

“Customer,” Diesel said. “I’ll be at the front counter.”

As he disappeared, Mr. Hillcrest trudged on, his double-chin quivering: “Yes, our forefathers are turning in their graves, Mr. Black. My hope for a better future rests on the shoulders of my son and ones like him.”

“A better future. We all want that.”

“And yet …” He glanced at Mrs. Hillcrest. “The antics of your celebrity brother only serve to undermine our years of personal investment.”

“Excuse me? What has he done exactly?”

“Cavorting. Inebriated carousing. I’m concerned that he’s influencing Desmond with his decadence and partying.”

“Hold on. You’re making a mistake.”

Mrs. Hillcrest touched my arm. “We only wish that were so.”

“This weekend,” her husband continued, “has been an eyeopener. No doubt you’ve been told of Desmond’s legacy of academic excellence. I have doctorates from SMU and the University of Houston.” His droopy eyes bored into mine. “As parents, we cannot stand idly by. We’d appreciate your help as his employer in redirecting his energies toward more productive pursuits. For the sake of your family, you may also need to intervene in your brother’s destructive relationship with our son.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“When one suffers, Mr. Black, all suffer.”

During class sessions, Diesel had hinted at childhood abuse. I’d heard him describe what I considered to be extreme methods of correction. Now, face to face with this couple, I felt a rush of heat in my neck. I, too, knew the sting of a father’s blow and of his glare of disdain. Violence wasn’t something I’d learned from TV or the Xbox.

“Okay.” One last effort at remaining cordial. “Johnny does tend to enjoy a little too much Jack Daniel’s now and then—”

“A little?” Mr. Hillcrest’s reaction shot spittle through the air.

“But he is my brother. I care about him.”

“Of course you do,” his wife purred. “A little tough love might be just—”

“And,” I barreled forward, pinning Mr. Hillcrest with my gaze, “if he’s had any negative influence on Diesel—which is what we call him around here, and he seems to like it—then I am sorry. I’ll look into it. But I won’t have you come into
my
shop, behind
my
counter, and bad-mouth
my
brother to my face.”

“We’re leaving now,” Mr. Hillcrest assured.

“Good plan.”

“And if I’m not mistaken, your brother will be departing soon too, embarking on his first major tour.”

“That’s right.”

“For his sake and yours, I suggest a tighter leash on—”

“He’s not a dog.”

“On his activities. The book of Proverbs says that a ‘dog returneth to his vomit.’ Seems an apt description of a man ensnared. A lifestyle of excess will exact its pound of flesh.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” I said, crossing my arms.

“Likewise. We’ll continue this discussion later.”

Long ago I’d learned to keep my hands available during confrontations, ready to strike, to snap up the closest object for attack or self-defense. Now, with a deep breath, I shoved my hands into my pockets. I tried not to think about Felicia’s plane, heading back to Oregon this morning with an empty seat.

“Mr. Hillcrest, Mrs. Hillcrest, you have a safe flight home.”

They said curt good-byes to Diesel, then, from the large front windows of Black’s dining area, I watched them cross Elliston Place to their car.

A rented, dark green Hyundai.

That was where I’d seen them. The hotel, last night.

“They gone?”

I nodded.

Standing at the glimmering espresso machine, Diesel seemed to relax. “They’re not always that bad. They were wound tighter than normal this trip, with my finals coming up and everything.”

“They’re your parents. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“They can be a real pain, but I love them.”

“What else can you do? You can’t change them.”

“Got that right.” He wore a rueful smirk. “Nothing’s ever good enough.”

“Speaking of which, why would someone with your dad’s expectations and education settle for a rundown hotel in the seedy part of town?”

“What? How do you know where—”

“Long story. Just answer the question.”

“He’s a tightwad. They had to fly down because of Mom’s circulation problems, and he got the cheapest place possible to get back at her.”

“And she stands for that?”

“She has to.” Diesel started to say more, but another customer had arrived at the bar. With studious care, he worked on a dry cappuccino. “By the way,” he said, “that detective friend of yours stopped by and said he needed to talk to you about some e-mails you sent him.”

“When was this?”

“I don’t know. Before you got here.”

Diesel shut off the steam wand and handed the man his drink. The customer took a sip, then tucked two dollar bills into the tip mug before heading out.

“Nicely done,” I said. “And I’ll take one just like that.”

“A cappuccino?”

“Haven’t had my morning coffee yet. Gotta get it from the best.”

Diesel looked at me. My expression remained flat. His chest seemed to swell just a bit as he dispensed and tamped the espresso grind, then he flipped a black mug from the grill above the machine and set about his work.