Kill Smartie Breedlove (a mystery) (23 page)

“You think?” said Belinda. “I’m not seein’ it, but, hey. Go for it, hon.”

“He’s been so gallant and sweet to me. Way beyond the call of duty.” When Belinda didn’t respond, Smartie added, “He doesn’t come cheap, but he is discreet.”

“He’s no cub scout, either,” Belinda slurred. “He knows how to get things done off the grid, and he’s got the balls to do what’s necessary when… well, you know how it can be.”

“Things get so terribly complicated.”

“God, they do, don’t they?”

“Like that terrible situation with your father’s wife.”

“I don’t know how I would have gotten through it without his help.”

Shep squeezed Smartie’s knee and whispered, “Yes! Beautiful.”

“Christ. Awful. The whole thing. A nightmare.” Belinda started sobbing gracefully. “It still is. You don’t know a fraction of it. Some days I can hardly bear it. If there was ever a time I needed Dean—needed someone to talk to—”

“You shouldn’t have to be alone with a thing like that,” digital Smartie cooed and offered Kleenex. “It isn’t healthy to keep it inside.”

In real time, Smartie fast-forwarded again, telling Shep, “She cried for a little while there, and I did exactly like you said, Shep. I just waited.”

“—couldn’t be any sweeter. My sweet Marco.” Belinda’s voice was tinny and small, slurry from drinking, soaked with regret. “But obviously, to continue the family name, the family industries, Dean and I tried for years to have another baby, but he left me when Marco was thirteen. I told Daddy he needed to get married again. That was our best hope. I vetted several very nice young women from fine families, but oh, no. He wouldn’t have anyone but
her
.”

She rattled another ice cube from the bucket into her glass.

“I wanted to make sure that if she did get pregnant, the baby would be a genuine Bovet and not some trailer spawn from Junkyard, Arkansas, so I had Suri Fitch put that investigator on her. He came up with this young man, and I knew right away she wasn’t fucking him, but I told Suri Fitch, I said, ‘I don’t care what you have to do. You make it stick.’ See, I’d had Charma thoroughly checked out by a PI out of Dallas before she and Daddy married. He told me she’d had an illegitimate child. Gave it up for adoption. Kid is precisely that age. So first she drops it to me that she thinks she might be pregnant. Then surprise, surprise! Here comes her little hee-haw throwback. She’s buying him electronics and toys. Want a new car, kid? Sure. Come on down. You’re the stepson of a billionaire now. Locked in and loaded.”

Belinda huffed a hardened laugh.

“Mother of Christ, what was she thinking? We’re all gonna be one big happy family now? Her trash bastard should be sitting next to my son at Sunday dinner? Taking a share of my inheritance? I was not about to let that happen.”

“How are we doing over here, ladies?” A male voice interrupted the digital conversation.

“Damn it!” Shep sat forward, gripping his kneecaps.

There was the sound of glasses and ice. The waiter offered more hot towels, then evaporated, and digital Smartie gently led Belinda on.

“Goodness. What an appalling situation for you.”

“I really shouldn’t talk about it,” Belinda said. “I’ve said too much already.”

Shep groaned. “Fuck me running. You were so close.”

“Just hang on,” Smartie said. She fast-forwarded past the forty-five minutes and three cocktails it took to get Belinda back to the story. When she clicked play, Belinda sounded slurry and bitter.

“…said she had checked into the Lady Bird suite at the Bonham that morning. Did her little home pregnancy test. Oh, she was all duckies and hugs about it. I told her I had her hog tied on the pre-nup, but I’d make it worth her while to go on her way. That didn’t mean a thing to her. She went on about how this baby was my little brother or sister, and didn’t that mean anything to me and this was the hope of the Bovet family and on and on. Then she flounces out like the belle of St. Agnes.”

Digital Smartie softly responded, mildly prodding about the night in question.

“I called Ms. Fitch. We prepared a generous offer. More than generous. Daddy was due to fly in from Seattle around midnight. All I wanted to do was talk to her before she had a chance to tell him about the baby.”

Belinda was breathing hoarsely now, pausing from time to time to drink and swallow.

“The Foundation keeps an identical suite directly below the Lady Bird rooms. For friends, guest speakers, that sort of thing. Marco gets these bad headaches, so I gave him one of my migraine pills and tucked him up in the Foundation suite. I went up to the Lady Bird Suite and waited. Called down to the concierge. He said my father had gotten in earlier than expected.”

“Your father was there? At the hotel?”

“I didn’t know. Why didn’t they come up to the room, right? Why aren’t they here? She’d met him. Obviously. In the bar or at another hotel. Playing their sick little game. In any case, I knew she’d told him. Our family was ruined. There was no getting rid of her. Whatever. I decided I would take Marco, take my money, go to Europe. I always wanted to live in Paris. To hell with them. So I went down to the Foundation suite…”

“Oh, no,” whispered digital Smartie. “They were there.”

“On the balcony.” Belinda’s voice clouded and choked with rum and weariness and remembered panic. “Oh, God, if I could go back and change it—”

“Change what?”

“Change
everything
. If only I’d left Marco in the limo. If I’d gone to Paris sooner. Maybe tried harder to save my marriage.” Belinda began sobbing in earnest. “Oh, God, if only I could have gotten pregnant instead of that ignorant lowlife whore.”

“Belinda, what happened?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know.”

“You walked in the door. You saw them on the balcony. Charma and your father…”

“No,” said Belinda. “My father and Marco. Daddy’s pants were down around his ankles. Marco was having a horrible asthma attack. They were both looking over the rail, down into all that darkness, and Daddy kept saying,
she’s gone, she’s gone
, and Marco was struggling to breathe, saying,
I’m sorry, I’m sorry
.”

Belinda made a clenched, tortured sound in her throat.

“It was all her fault. Marco woke up and heard them, he thought Daddy was hurting her because of the noises she was making. He went to make Daddy stop, and she lost her balance, grabbed at him. Marco had these deep claw marks down his arm. I think he got scared, and—and—oh, my poor baby.”

There was the soft scrape of a Kleenex from a box, the sound of both women weeping.

“Daddy wanted to say he was alone with her. He said I should take Marco and get out. But no one was going to believe Daddy didn’t kill her. Even if he wasn’t charged with murder, people would always think it, and it would be all over the media with questions and jokes and humiliating talk. I called Suri Fitch. I was panicked. I said you’ve got to get us out of here. Barth came. We went down in the service elevator, straight to the airport with just the clothes on our backs. He flew with us to Mexico in the Foundation jet. We couldn’t risk a hotel. Ms. Fitch had set up a private place with friends in Ixtapa. She told us to stay there until she got things sorted out. Daddy couldn’t stop crying. Marco had to be sedated. He’s still tortured by nightmares about it. I can’t let him go to school—go anywhere—for fear he might say the wrong thing. This has been absolutely hellish for him.”

“Ms. Fitch…” digital Smartie nudged, “she was able to sort things out?”

“She called a few days later and said everything was going to be fine. The coroner was calling it a suicide. The body had been taken care of, so they wouldn’t find Marco’s skin under her nails. It was over. But Daddy felt responsible, of course. Within weeks, his health was ruined. He couldn’t sleep. Refused to take his blood pressure medicine. Totally isolated himself. The moment he died, the vultures swooped in to dismantle the empire.”

Belinda hissed a harsh slip of laughter between her teeth.

“Only the very rich can afford the particular hell I’m living in, darling. God, if that stupid bitch wasn’t already dead, I’d strangle her for the trouble she’s caused. What was she thinking, sitting on the railing like that? Christ, the insanity—the
perversion
.”

“I need to know what it felt like,” real time Smartie whispered. “I have to know.”

Digital Smartie asked one more small question.

“Nothing,” said Belinda. “Daddy told me she didn’t scream, didn’t make a sound. He said she just disappeared. Like an angel, he said. Like a dream.”

Smartie clicked off the digital playback.

“Jesus,” Shep breathed.

“Plot bomb,” Smartie nodded.

“Smartie, that was gorgeous. Incredible.” He clapped his hands together, then pulled her over and kissed her cheek. “Beautifully played. I knew you could pull it off. I kept waiting for her to wake up to what… whoa, whoa, don’t go to that function. That erases— Smartie, don’t do that.
Smartie, no!
”

Shep seized the digital unit, but the sound file was already gone.

“What the hell?” he stammered, astonished. “Why did you do that?”

“Suri didn’t have Charma killed,” said Smartie. “Whatever she did in those other cases has nothing to do with this. All she did here was—”

“Suborn perjury, obstruct justice, abet the evasion of prosecution, conspire the unlawful disposition of remains,” Shep ticked off the indictment on his fingers. “At the very least, we could have used it to obtain a search warrant.”

“Car,” said Charlie, blowing a little motorboat sound between his lips.

“Shep, it would have been all over the media. Charma wouldn’t have wanted Mr. Bovet hurt or humiliated like that. And Belinda is right. If we place him on that balcony with Charma, no one’s going to believe he didn’t intentionally kill her. In
The Postman Always Rings Twice
, when the wife accidentally—”

“This is not
The Postman Always Rings Twice
,” Shep roared. “It is not
Red Harvest
. It is not
Smartie in fucking Wonderland.
This is a goddamn murder investigation, and you don’t get to destroy the evidence just because you don’t like the story it tells.”

“Oh, right. Society must be made safe from horny billionaires on hotel balconies.”

“Oh, that’s fucking great.” Shep struck the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “You’re the one who opened this can of worms. My ass is out on the limb right now because you absolutely could not live without knowing.”

“And now we know, Shep. Phyllis told me it was three separate stories, and she was right. What happened to Charma was an accident. And that—that horrible Bean person—he killed Twinkie. And the rest of this thing with Suri is frankly none of my business.”

“How do you know Belinda didn’t call Suri two minutes after you walked out of there? It’s entirely possible—if not probable—that Suri knows Belinda spilled the story and who she spilled it to, so don’t even imagine you’re walking away from this now.”

“I’m not saying I won’t help if I can, Shep. I’m still your consultant, right? I have my appointment with Juarez next week. My agent has a call in to Caitlyn Cassidy’s PR staff.”

“Yeah, well, forget all that because you obviously can’t be trusted with anything beyond walking the goddamn dog.”

“Charma would have wanted me to keep Marco and Mr. Bovet out of it.”

“Oh, save the bullshit for your fans, Smartie. You ditched that interview to keep
yourself
out of it. You don’t want the truth known because then your precious public would find out that Bean is—”

“
Don’t you say it!
” Smartie raised her hand but stopped short of slapping him. “You do not put me in that word with him.
Ever!
”

Charlie clapped his hands. “Car tummy.”

“Bean did not kill Twinkie,” said Shep. “I checked out his alibi. I spent time with the guy, and I’m telling you, Smartie, there’s no way in hell—”

“
Shep?
”

The edge of alarm in Smartie’s voice jerked his eyes up to the rear view mirror. He caught a fleeting glimpse of grill closing in like the opening mouth of a great white shark in the half-moment before a hard rear impact slammed the Range Rover forward into the cement retaining wall.

The air bags exploded, leaving their ears ringing and faces scorched. Shep ratcheted the emergency break, but pressed by the larger Lincoln SUV, the Rover inched forward and the retaining wall groaned, buckled, cracked. Chunks of finishing cement crumbled away, exposing steel rebar, bowing outward with a sound like screeching seagulls.

Shep slammed the Rover into reverse and pushed back.

“Get Charlie,” he
told Smartie above the whine and screel of spinning tires.
“Get Charlie and get out
.
”

Smartie scrambled over the seat and frantically worked to free Charlie from the safety seat belts and buckles. He wasn’t crying, but he looked very serious and crowed an imitation of Shep’s booming bellow.

“Van Reuse?”

“Van Boys!”

“Goddamnit, Van Reuse, don’t make me shoot you!”

Smartie felt the Range Rover groan and settle with relief as the Lincoln backed off, but the next moment, she and Charlie were slammed forward by another blow.

“Get down.” Shep’s arm swung out over the back seat. “Cover Charlie.”

As she dragged Charlie down on the leather seat, the rear window of the Rover exploded in a quick succession of thunder and lightning. The Lincoln’s windshield spidered and sagged open. There was an answering rev of the Lincoln’s engine, and the Rover’s battered bumper broke through the retaining wall, rebar raked like rusty fingernails along the front right quarter-panel. The right front wheel dipped over the edge, and Shep jammed down on the gas, sending up the stench of burning rubber as the remaining three wheels spun back against the forward force.

“Van Reuse!” Shep steadied his arm on the back of the seat. “Van Reuse, don’t make me kill you, goddamnit!”

Now Charlie was screaming, and Smartie realized she was, too. She could hear herself in her own head, as if there was a frightened child trapped inside her skull. She jerked and toggled the door handle, threw her shoulder against it, tried the other door and found it just as solid. The window mechanism whirred and moaned against itself.