Chill Factor (49 page)

“In other words, I’m a stubborn fool. What did you defend this poet against?”

“Killed seven women. Claimed he was madly in love with every one of them.”

Tuesday

Dixie’s students had heard her name in the news again. She spent most of the first hour explaining how it felt to be shot. She couldn’t talk about Mike Tesche yet; they seemed to respect that. She ignored Joan’s fresh bruises and, toward the end of class, finally got in some instruction.

“How’s your son?” she asked Lureen on the way out.

“Little pissant wants to be a
cop.”
A grin illuminated the woman’s face. “One
week
the other side a them effin’ bars, seeing uniforms on the free side. Tell me it don’t matter who they hang wit’.”

Dixie hugged her. She’d been giving out a lot of hugs since she took the garrote from Philip Laskey’s hand. Give one to get one.
Cows going to slaughter.

Dixie left the center without glancing into Mike’s empty classroom. All the way down the hall she could swear she heard the muted sounds of Mozart. Or maybe it was Bach.

Pointing the Mustang toward Amy’s house, she dialed her number on the cell phone.

“I’m fine,” Dixie told her sister, before she could ask. “No broken bones, no bullet holes.” The crease in her arm didn’t count. Luckily, the full details of Mike’s death hadn’t been released yet, so Amy wasn’t as panicked as she might’ve been. “Is Marty around?”

The copied pages of Edna’s journal lay on the passenger seat, topping a handful of mail from Dixie’s post-office box. Marty would find some of his mother’s words painful. But others, Dixie knew, would surely grant him the peace he’d desperately sought for so many years.

“Marty went to see Belle, then he’s flying back to Dallas. Last night, he sprinkled Edna’s ashes in her garden. He’s going to be all right. He said to tell you that Ashton agreed to sign a partnership agreement. Dixie, have you talked with Parker?”

No.
She hadn’t returned his calls, but she’d listened twice to his messages on her voice mail. “Don’t worry, Amy, I’ll call him. First I want to talk to my nephew. Is he around?”

“You just missed him. He rode his bike to the park.”

This time Dixie had a notion at which park to find Ryan. She spotted his scrawny, T-shirt-clad shoulders and eased the Mustang out of sight at the curb. His bicycle was slanted against a tree, a dirt bike close by. Ryan sat at a picnic table. A man—sandy hair, tattoos, black tank top—sat on top of the table, booted feet on the seat, arms resting on his knees.

As Dixie aimed a directional microphone, she recalled the King Pin posture Ryan had taken as he traded porno with his peers. The man on the table sat in command, despite his casual pose. Dixie hadn’t liked Ryan’s big-man-on-campus posture, but his subservience to this guy chilled her.

“Did you look at those last photographs before you sold them?” The man spoke low and secretively, his voice husky.

Ryan shrugged, that familiar lazy roll of his narrow shoulders. “Sure. I mean, you know, sort of.”

“You knew those were models, didn’t you? Posing like that. Not really doing what it
looked
like.”

“Really?” Ryan clearly hadn’t known.

“Looked real, though, didn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Kids make a bundle, modeling like that.”

Ryan didn’t say anything.

“Takes a good-looking kid like you to make the big bucks.” Then he stared out at the park. “Nice town you’ve got here, but kinda slow. You travel much?”

“No. It’s okay here.”

“Yeah, real nice. But like I said, kinda slow. You said there’s an arcade? Any girls there?”

Ryan shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“You’re not into girls? I mean like
into?”
He laughed and punched Ryan’s arm. “Bet you’ve got something they’re hot for.” He laughed again. “Hanging down to your knees, I bet.”

Ryan’s weak chuckle sounded embarrassed.

Dixie dialed HPD Vice Division. She knew someone who would handle this the way it needed to be handled, to take this slimeball off the streets—and off the Internet.

But she also knew he might make them as cops. Leaving the microphone positioned and a recorder going, she strolled casually across the grass, behind Ryan’s line of sight, as if headed to the water fountain. When she was close, she veered and straddled the guy’s dirt bike.

“What the shit, bitch—?”

“Nice wheels,” Dixie commented.

“Aunt Dix?!”

“I’ve been listening to your conversation with my nephew.”

“Me and the kid were just talking.” He slid off the picnic table and started toward her.

Dixie casually exposed the .38, holster unsnapped for quick access. He stopped walking.

“You didn’t tell him what happens to young studs after a couple years, when they get too old to be in your kiddie shows. The ‘big bucks’ are all gone, into your pocket for their clothes, food, a place to stay, and the drugs you manage to hook them on. After that, the kids are out on the street, too ashamed to go home to family, too young to earn money any way but hooking. But I’ll bet you can help them out there, too?”

A car from HPD Vice had arrived, and Dixie let them take over. Remembering Doc Arceneaux’s comments about
discipline, Dixie’d thought seriously about arranging for Ryan to spend a few hours in juvie lockup, give him a dose of the real world his small-time porno racket could lead to.
I turned the little pissant in.
But Ryan wasn’t as street smart as Lureen’s fifteen-year-old son, and maybe Dixie wasn’t as strong as Lureen. She decided a personal jail tour would do the trick.

Back in the Mustang, she watched the Vice unit turning a corner toward downtown, Ryan’s porno supplier scowling out its back window. Ryan might not speak to her until he turned thirty.

After dropping her nephew and his bike at home and providing a lengthy explanation to Amy and Carl, Dixie headed gratefully, wearily toward home. On the way, she phoned Parker.

Listening to the rings at a stoplight, she shuffled through her mail … a box of new checks and deposit slips, with all new account numbers … some bills … a payment from the bonding company for bringing in Voller … a letter from

Atlanta State Bank …

Parker picked up on the fourth ring.

“Got your messages,” she said. “But I was … tied up.”

“Guess that’s why I heard your name in the news again.”

“Guess so.”

“Thought I’d cook steaks tonight.” Parker’s voice slipped into the sexy zone, the one that always turned her to mush. “Thought maybe you and Mud could join me … maybe bring an overnight bag.”

She considered it. A week ago, she’d’ve raced to take him up on such an offer.

“I have a different idea,” she told him. “How about if I order pizza and
you
bring an overnight bag?”

He hesitated, but only an instant. “Sounds good to me.”

Before hanging up, she said, “Parker? Thanks for worrying about me.” She ordered the pizza—half with extra cheese for her, the other half with extra mushrooms for him—then she studied the letter from Atlanta State Bank. She didn’t
know
anybody at Atlanta State Bank. She ripped it open.

RE:#70005466789

Dear Ms. Flannigan,

Your account has been closed due to numerous unpaid insufficient funds statements issued to the address you provided. Please contact us immediately …

Shit!