Lalla Bains 02 - A Dead Red Heart (10 page)

Del pretended I wasn't grinning at him. "Hellooo baby, how 'bout I light your fire tonight?"

I calmly wiped my hands on my napkin and lost the grin. "How 'bout I just light those last three hairs on your head with my Bic."

He choked and coughed.

"Hair ball?"

"You're joking, right? You don't even carry a lighter anymore. You quit smoking, right?"

"Don't count on it. What do you want?"

Now sure I was teasing, he was back to his old obnoxious behavior. "Hey, baby, be nice. Bet you'll want to know me better when I win the Pulitzer."

I pretended to examine my fingernails. "You got five seconds."

He shook off the insult. "Okay, here's the deal. I'm going to help you find out who killed Billy Wayne Dobson."

"After you called me a murderer? I think not."

"No, no, you totally misunderstood that article. It was his mother who said that, not me. I know you wouldn't hurt a fly. Besides, I'm here to help you."

"If you know something, call homicide. Better yet," I said, pulling Detective Rodney's card out of my purse and giving it a little shove in his direction, "here's the lead detective's card. Tell him."

With one stubby finger, he gingerly scooted the card back to me. "No thanks. The guy has no sense of humor."

At least we agreed on one thing. "Tick-tock, Del."

He leaned closer and whispered, "'The more there is the less you see'—that's what Billy Wayne said before he died, right?"

I blinked. "That's... I never—nobody could've… Wait a minute. How would you know what he said to me?"

"I haf my vays. Look, baby." At my frown he switched gears. "Okay, Lalla. I got an interest in this case and I can help, but not if Rodney gets to shove his way into it."

Another thing we agreed on. "So far you haven't said anything to change my mind about you, either."

"I heard you were pretty smart... for a blonde. You still want to talk to Merriweather Cook, don't you?"

"What do you know about Merriweather Cook?"

 
"Come on, let's blow this joint and I'll explain everything." he said, and hopped off the stool.

I stayed where I was. "About Merri Cook?"

"Yeah, yeah. But, first we've got to go meet a guy."

I started to get off the stool, then paused. "What do you mean,
we
?"

He grabbed my arm. "Come on, we can talk about it in the car."

I resisted the arm-tugging and asked, "What guy?"

"An informant of mine. Look, I don't want to talk about it here, too many ears. He's got some information to give us about Billy Wayne. So, can we go now?"

I hesitated, looking around at the audience we were attracting. "I don't think it's such a hot idea, me and you leaving together."

Someone might mistakenly think I'd agreed to give him an interview. I'd rather have a root canal.

"I know, I know. You think the boyfriend might hear and get jealous, right? I got that problem, too. I'm a regular chick magnet these days. The women can't get enough of the 'ol love machine, probably because I project all this incredible self-confidence. Chicks like that. Though from what I hear, things aren't going so smooth in lover's land for you."

"We're not leaving together, Del. I'll meet you out front of the Modesto Bee in twenty minutes, and we'll talk about Miss Cook and your informant there."

"Suit yourself."

I let Del Potts have exactly five minutes' head start, then jumped into my Caddy and tore out of the parking lot. I hit the on-ramp for downtown Modesto doing sixty. I had to crowd in between a couple of commuters so I could get in, but you would've thought I'd stolen their place in line for tickets to a Smashing Pumpkins concert. Jeez, some people.

I was coming up on the exit to Standiford Road when I saw the cold blue lights of a Modesto city police cruiser behind me. I slowed down, hoping he wasn't after me, but when he snugged up close enough to my bumper for me to get the point, I took the freeway exit and pulled into the nearest parking lot. A couple of drivers gaily tooted their horns at us. Tomorrow, everyone in town would know I'd been caught speeding again.

In the rear view mirror I saw the officer position his spotlight so it bounced off my rearview mirror and blinded me. I shut my eyes until his bulk shadowed the glare, but when I smelled his peppermint chewing gum I knew exactly who had stopped me. Damn! Two years into his job with Modesto's finest and my softball team mate's little brother, Byron Bettencourt.

"Evening ma'am," he said, toggling his police issue flashlight around the interior of my car. "May I see your driver's license and registration?"

Why do parents name their children after dead poets? Should I ask him? Maybe not. Humor, I knew was not going to work with deputy stick-butt. Uh-oh, didn't my dad say something last week about returning a call to the insurance company? How many tickets would this one make for the year—one? No, two, and this would be—three.

"Hello, Byron, how're you doing? How're your mom and sister?"

"Ma'am, can you tell me how much you've had to drink tonight?"
 
His attitude was beginning to chap my hide.

"Byron Bettencourt, have you ever seen me drunk, even tipsy? And why're you acting like you don't know me? I play softball with your big sister every Wednesday night. I know all your secrets, Byron, and if you want to keep them secret, do us both a favor, give me a warning or whatever it is you have to do. I'm in a hurry."

I'd already done the Comedy Club, and I paid on the other one, didn't I? He simply had to give me that get-out-of-jail card.

"I asked you a question, ma'am."

Crap. How long would Del Potts wait at the newspaper office if I didn't show in the next few minutes? Byron was definitely taking himself a little too seriously... still maybe I should just take my lumps and the ticket.

"I'm sorry, Byron. It's been a long, hard day, so will you just please give me a ticket, or let me go?"

"Step out of the car, please, ma'am."

"Byron Bettencourt! Is this a joke? You aren't serious—are you?"

"Serious as a heart attack, ma'am." He opened my car door and stepped back, his hand on his holstered gun. "I'm going to want you to walk a line for me. Right over there, please."

Dusk had already settled along the western hills of the San Joaquin Valley, but it was still light enough that drivers could tell it was me out here standing at the rear of my big ol' red vintage Caddy, the heavy lights of a local police cruiser battering me in the face.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Why're you doing this?"

The pink ran up his neck.

Yup. Thought so. "You bucking for promotion, Byron? Looking to impress the captain with your hard-nosed stance on speeders?"

The muscle along his jaw twitched. "Don't know what you're talking about, ma'am. Over there, please," he said, pointing me to the spot he'd chosen. "Put your hands on your head and walk a straight line, one foot in front of the other."

The thought of walking a drunk-line in a parking lot next to one of the main streets of Modesto was beyond humiliating. This simply would not do. I had to try again, get him to understand that he had to let me go.

"Byron, look at me. Do you smell alcohol on my breath? Do you? I will not walk a silly line for you or anybody else."

"If you say so, ma'am."

There, that was settled. But as I turned to leave he grabbed my palm and twisted my arm around my back, and winching my thumb up onto my scapula, frog marched me over to the side of his car where he cuffed me and said, "You're under arrest. Code Number #647F, driving while under the influence, and Code Number #148-1-a, disorderly conduct and resisting arrest."

"What? I did no such thing, you little brat! You are in so much shit right now, buster!"

He shoved me into the backseat, where I flopped over, righted myself, and sat painfully on the metal cuffs. I was humiliated beyond words, but it finally occurred to me that I was the one who might be in trouble. So, before he taped my mouth shut I asked what he was going to do about my car.

"It'll be towed," he said, and then as if having second thoughts, he went back to my car, grabbed my purse, and tossed it into the front seat of his cruiser then got in, buckled up, and using the radio to call in his location, asked for a tow.

While we waited, I leaned into the mesh that separated the back seat arrestees from the arrestors and tried again. "Byron!
 
You know this is a crock." And in a less than artful attempt to remind him whose girlfriend he'd just arrested, added, "We were both at Caleb's barbeque last week, remember?"

He didn't answer, but I could see the red creeping up the side of his neck. Byron's emotions were as transparent as when he was ten and I caught him spying on his sister and me trying on bathing suits.

"Byron, I'm talking to you! Do you really think this is going to get you Brownie points with your chief?" I was losing it, but I couldn't seem to stop myself and pulled out my last card. "I had nothing to do with Billy Wayne's murder!"

I watched the tendons in his neck bunch up against the verbal assault. Something was up. "Did someone put you up to this, Byron? Detective Rodney, perhaps?"

He turned around and glared at me, but before he could answer, a tow truck honked and pulled in front us. Byron escaped by leaping out of the cruiser to give directions to the tow truck driver.

He never did answer any of my questions, but I made sure he heard all of mine as we drove into the Modesto police station parking lot. He was a little less rough when he helped me out of the car and took me by the elbow into the receiving area. I resisted the standard spiel of most drunks on the way to the clinker, that I was going to sue his ass all the way to Jersey and back, I had some serious ass kicking planned for Bryon. Soon as I made bail.

Chapter eleven:

I was leaning against my cuffed hands holding up a wall while Byron yacked it up with the desk sergeant in the Modesto police station. Then to add to my misery, Del Potts strolled in, eyebrows rising halfway up his bald head. "Why, if it isn't Lalla Bains! You've been arrested? Whatever for?"

"Are you responsible for this?" I hissed.

"Me?" Feigning surprise he pointed to his chest. "I just report the news, I don't ordain it."

"Then what're you doing here? I was to meet you at the newspaper office, remember?"

He giggled and looked me up and down. "You look to be a little preoccupied. Maybe some other time?"

"No, you idiot. You had something to tell me about—" I glanced over to where Byron was writing up the paper work to put me in the slammer, "Merriweather Cook."

"Hey, don't be sore. I can't be held to every promise I make to a woman."

Was everyone here nuts? I felt like Alice in Wonderland, dropped through the rabbit hole and I was about to pull my hair out. First I'm arrested, handcuffed, and brought into the police station, then Del Potts shows up and acts like I'm an odd surprise. The good news was that Pippa Roulette also just walked through the door.

"Pippa! Thank God!" I would've waved, but my hands were securely tied behind my back.

Fortunately, she took in the problem at a glance and answered my prayers. "What's going on here?" She looked from Del to me, and back to Del again.

Del decided to trot out his own special charm. "Hey, if it ain't Officer Pippa Roulette. How about you and me go take that Roulette for a spin?"

Pippa narrowed her eyes, then leaned down and spoke softly into his ear. He blinked, nodded, and power walked his short legs for the exit. Then she turned on Byron looking like a small boy caught filching cookies. Making it sound as sweet as Roxanne's iced tea, she said, "Officer Bettencourt."

Though Byron may have the looks that stopped young girls in their tracks, but he was still a couple of inches short of Pippa. Looking up into her deep green eyes, his Adam's-apple bobbed up and down. All he could manage was a croak. "Officer Roulette."

This was going to be fun.

Pippa smiled, and gently eased the clipboard out from under his arm. "What're you charging her with?" she asked in that husky voice.