Caffeine & Killers (A Roasted Love Cozy Mystery Book 3) (10 page)

When the prayers ended, Steven looked up at me. I
realized I had been staring at him. I wondered how a young man with
his whole life ahead of him could disappear into addiction and the
streets instead.

In that brief moment, I made a decision. I would
have to go and visit John's brother at the prison. I had to know more
about my friend's life. I'd come too far to stop now.

When the brief service was over, I turned to
leave. I walked back across the parking lot and clicked the remote to
open the lock on my car door – and just as I did, I got the feeling
that someone was watching me.

When I turned around, I caught sight of the blonde
woman who had viewed the service from a distance. She was hurrying to
a small compact car parked near a line of cedar trees a few yards
away from mine. She got in and then drove out of the cemetery using
the farthest exit gate.

Then she was gone, leaving me to wonder who she
was. I wasn't the only woman who'd come to the cemetery to say
farewell to John.

Chapter Thirteen

The next day off I had from Roasted Love, I went
back to Skid Row. I leashed Thor, my partner, and drove down to the
blighted downtown area of West River.

Today’s banner across the barred windows of the
grocery store advertised five packages of hot dogs for five dollars.
I tried not to think about what those hot dogs were made of.

"It’s too bad poor people have to eat such
lousy food," I said over my shoulder to Thor. His almond eyes
locked onto mine in the rearview mirror. His large frame took up most
of the backseat, and I'd learned to rely on my outside mirrors when
he was in the car with me.

Slowing down when I got to the potholes in the
street, I noticed several people walking or standing alone. I passed
the small run-down shops that remained open for business. A large
heap of bricks and stone blocks was all that was left of one of them.

I drove until I found a spot to park that looked
to be mostly free of rocks and broken glass. My eyes scanned the area
where I had talked to the scruffy dealer the last time. I decided to
stay inside the car for the moment. The few people I saw standing
around were either drinking from paper bag-covered containers or
smoking things that I doubted were ordinary cigarettes.

Then I spotted him. The bushy hair was
unmistakable. Today he wore a dingy tank top and I could see that his
arms were lined with tattoos. I was too far away to see whether the
large imprint near his shoulder was a bulldog, but I knew he had to
be Ricky Thomas.

I got out of the car and then opened the rear
door. Holding Thor’s leash tightly in my sweating hands, I walked
towards Ricky. I took one quick glance at his shoulder and saw that
yes, it was a bulldog tattoo.

Strangely enough, that helped calm me. Who would
go through the pain of having a large bulldog needled onto his arm if
he didn’t like dogs? I vowed not to give him an opportunity to make
friends with Thor. I needed my dog as an attack beast if it came to
that.

Ricky spoke first. "What does John want this
time?" he growled.

Confusion hit me at first, and then I realized:
He
doesn’t know John is gone
. "Sorry to tell you, but John is
dead and buried," I said.

The shocked look on Ricky’s face surprised me.
It told me that he'd had no idea that his enemy was out of his life
for good. This was one drug dealer who had not killed John.

"What do you mean, John is dead?" he
asked. "He was alive and well yesterday." He eyed me
suspiciously. "What are you and John trying to pull?"

I stood my ground, holding Thor close at my side.
"I’m telling you the truth. He died five days ago. I went to
his funeral and it was John they buried in the ground."

He shook his head, and his eyes narrowed
menacingly. "You're high on something, Miss Uptown. I don’t
know what stuff you’re taking, but you’re mixed up. John was down
here yesterday. I saw him myself."

I thought about how Steven resembled his older
brother John. Maybe Ricky had mistaken Steven for John – but how
was that possible? Steven was living in prison, not on Skid Row.

"I’m not high. I know what I’m talking
about. John Collins was buried yesterday. I stood at his grave
myself." What was wrong with Ricky? He was the one on drugs, not
me.

He edged a step closer. The same anger I saw at my
last visit was growing. I could see it in his face. Thor stiffened
and began growling. My sweat-damp hands were slick on the leash.
Ricky saw me glance at my dog, and to my relief the man stepped back.

"Look. I'm telling you that you're dead
wrong. I know John Collins when I see him and I saw him yesterday
just in front of that pawn shop." He gestured to a shop across
the street from where we stood. It had a rusted sign on the front
and a flickering neon light in the window announced "open,"
even though the "n" looked more like an "r."

But Ricky still had more to say. "He was
talking to two buyers when I saw him. And I'm positive that it was
John Collins."

I was more than stumped at his words. He seemed to
be telling the truth – but did drug dealers tell the truth?

"Where were you the day John was murdered?"
I asked him. I gave him the date and approximate time of day.

For the first time, the dull skin around his eyes
crinkled. His hoarse laugh surprised me. "What’s so funny?"
I asked him.

He spread the fingers on his right hand as far as
they could be parted. His fingernails housed dirt and unknown debris,
but what I really noticed was that his index finger was severely bent
in the wrong place.

"I have a solid alibi for this one," he
said. "I was at the walk-in clinic three streets over from here.
I waited almost all afternoon for my turn. They told me I had a
broken finger and two more that were bruised. They wrapped them up
for me with splints and I left about five o’clock."

"Where are the splints?" I asked.
"Surely they told you to leave them on."

"Ha. I can’t do business with bandaged
fingers. I pulled 'em off."

Well, that explained the deformed index finger
that would end up permanently bent. But I was frustrated and felt I
was going in circles. This man not only had the misfortune of damaged
fingers, his mind was as messed up as any I'd ever heard of. The
streets took their toll on people like Ricky Thomas.

"Okay. Look, Miss Uptown – for some reason,
I kind of like you. I can see you don’t belong down here. Maybe I
can help you out."

"Yeah, well, don’t suggest any of your
party favors. I’m not interested."

He lifted his bent-fingered hand and waved it as
if clearing the air. "I can give you the name of someone who can
get you whatever it is you want."

"Uh – whatever I want?"

"Sure. You can get anything in this world for
the right price. And if you're trying to find out who killed somebody
who lives on this side of town, I’ll point you to Licorice Billy."

"Licorice Billy."

"Yeah, sure. He knows everything that goes on
around here and everybody who does it. And he'll also tell you that
John Collins isn’t dead." He shuffled a little on the cracked
sidewalk. "Licorice Billy is a fighter. He got into it more than
once with John."

I couldn’t imagine John physically fighting
anyone unless it was absolutely necessary. If Licorice Billy and John
argued a lot, what was that about?

I took a closer look at Ricky. He still had not
bathed since I last saw him. Facial expressions could not be detected
from behind the mass of facial hair, but his eyes looked sincere. I
was sure he thought that if he could find someone to back his story
about seeing John recently, it would get him off the hook as a
suspect.

"And just where would I find this licorice
guy?" I asked. "This Licorice Billy? I don’t need him to
back your story, since I know John is dead. But I might be able to
get some information from him that I need."

I was reluctant to stay down here much longer. An
uneasy feeling had washed over me more than once in the few minutes
I'd spent with Ricky. Striking up familiar relationships on this side
of town weren’t exactly in my plans.

"Billy hangs out in different places around
town. You can’t miss him. He's always got a piece of licorice
hanging out of his mouth."

I recalled the man I'd seen as I left the area the
last time – the man with the black licorice stick and the black
stains around his mouth.

Then Ricky looked up. His eyes suddenly narrowed
again, and he turned and hurried off in the opposite direction
without a word. I wondered what that was all about, until I started
walking with Thor towards my car.

It was then that I saw the same DEA guy that I'd
seen at the precinct house and at the Bistro. He stood waiting for me
at my car.

As I approached, he nodded briefly. "Aren’t
you the woman I saw waiting for Chief Hayes the other day? What are
you doing down here?"

When I hesitated, he went on. "It’s
dangerous for anybody, but especially for someone like you. These
people don't have a lot of patience. Some become violent at the least
provocation."

His deep blue eyes locked with mine and I saw
visible irritation there. "You aren’t down here buying, are
you?"

With as much dignity as I could muster, I looked
him right in the eye. "I am not a druggie."

"Good. Then there's no reason for you to be
in a place like this."

I tried to smile. "I’m sure you’re right.
I did take a chance. I don’t plan to come back down here." I
knew that I probably should listen to him. A DEA officer would know
about the real danger on the streets. I didn’t envy him.

"Glad to hear it. Hope I don't see you
again."

I tugged lightly on Thor’s leash to give him the
sign it was time to leave. The DEA man walked away and got in his own
car, and then drove off.

I had to smile. Ricky Thomas had sure high-tailed
it when he saw the officer drive up. If just one agent put that much
fear into him, then maybe drugs could be eradicated after all.

As I drove away, I saw that the streets were empty
except for one man who stood in the doorway of the pawn shop. I
guessed that he must be the shop owner. I wondered how these shops
did enough legal business to stay afloat.

It began to dawn on me that cheap hot dogs and
pawned jewelry weren't all they were selling.

Chapter Fourteen

The next morning, as I started measuring out the
Arabica and the Columbian at Roasted Love, I saw Ronald Larch walk
in. Jacob and I exchanged glances. Apparently, Larch had cooled off
and was back as a customer. As the coffee house filled with the usual
morning crowd, Lily walked past me.

"Hey, Laila – did you notice that Larch has
a friend with him this morning?" she asked, handing me her stack
of orders.

I looked again at the campaign manager, who now
sat in his favorite spot near the window. And this time I noticed the
woman who was sitting with him.

The slender frame and long blonde hair were
unmistakable. She was the same mysterious woman I'd spotted at John's
funeral.

She turned towards the counter and gave me the
opportunity to get a good look. Her eyes were a shade of turquoise,
but when she spotted me looking at her our eyes locked.

I saw her lean across the table to speak to Larch.
Whatever she told him, his response was to shrug his shoulders. Then
his mouth curved into a smile as he looked at her with what seemed to
be genuine affection.

But the pretty blonde didn't stay around. She
quickly got up and left, while Larch stayed at the table.

Now my curiosity was in overdrive. I'd recognized
her and it sure seemed that she'd recognized me. But most intriguing
of all, she and Larch apparently had a very cozy relationship with
each other.

"Hey, Lily," I asked, "Do you know
who that woman was with Larch?"

"I know her name is Linda Henson, but not
much else," Lily said, as she grabbed a coffee pot and started
filling a few white ceramic mugs. "I guess she’s one friend
Larch manages to keep."

But I wanted more. "I’ve never seen her in
here before. How do you know who she is?"

"We went to the same high school. She was
always ‘the most this' and 'the most that,’ if you get my drift.
She was real popular and managed to get herself elected Homecoming
Queen." Lily picked up a couple of cappuccinos and scooped up
two cheese scones. "I haven’t seen her in here recently. She
used to come in sometimes, but not often."

I shook my head. "I don’t remember her at
all," I said.
Except for seeing her at the cemetery.

The rest of my shift moved at a fast pace. The
crowds didn't slow down until around one in the afternoon. Finally, I
took a break and went outside, intending to take a short walk down
the alley behind the coffee house to get a minute of fresh air.

Then I had an idea. I took out my phone and dialed
Carpenter’s headquarters. I only hoped that the barracuda who sat
at the main desk was not the one who answered.

"Calvin Carpenter Headquarters," said
that dreaded raspy voice. "How may I help you?"

"Um, hi. I'd like to speak with the
councilman, please."

Her voice sounded like the final sweep of
sandpaper on a worn desk. "He's in conference right now with his
top campaigners. Please leave your name and a number. I will be sure
to give it to him."

Carpenter could do better with a front woman. "How
long will be in conference?"

"Oh, probably for at least another hour. We
hope you intend to vote for him! He does have so many wonderful ideas
for our community." She went on to talk about his position on a
few of the most popular issues, not leaving out the homeless matter.