Lassiter 06 - Fool Me Twice (25 page)

“
Blinky. Of course, who
else would it be?”

“
A week later, he mailed in
a signature card signed by Cimarron and you.”

“
No,
forged
by Blinky.”

“
So you say. Well, we can
have a handwriting expert take a look at it.”

I was still chasing the shadow of an idea.
“They still needed my bank account number.”

“
What?”

“
Abe, the night Hornback
was killed, Kip said someone came up to my bedroom.”

“
Right. That’s where they
got your necktie.”

“
They got more than that.
There’s a desk in my bedroom by the window. In the middle drawer,
along with last year’s Christmas cards, is my checkbook. Abe, I
want you to dust for prints. There shouldn’t be any latents, except
mine.”

“
You expect to find
Blinky’s greasy thumb? Did he kill Hornback, too? As I recall,
you’re the one who said he wasn’t capable.”

“
Abe, this is really
getting complicated.”

“
You’re trying too hard.
Come on in, Jake. You’re just going to make it worse for
yourself.”

“
Worse! How?”

There was a faint buzzing on the
long-distance line. “I don’t know,” Abe Socolow said, “but I’m sure
you’ll find a way.”

***

The ride down the mountain seemed to take
longer, but that’s always the way it is when you’re in a hurry. I
had parked the car on Durant Street near the Little Nell Hotel, and
I told Kip to hustle. He did, and we both hopped into the rental
convertible without opening the doors.

I drove north on Spring Street to Main,
turned left, passed the courthouse, the old Hotel Jerome, the Sardy
House, and the Christmas Inn, turned right on Third Street and
parked just behind the music tent. It hadn’t taken five minutes,
one of the joys of small towns.

“
What’s up?” Kip
asked.

“
A little culture for you,
my boy.”

There were maybe eight hundred people half
filling the place. We took seats in the rear, near the main
entrance, Kip pausing long enough to fill his pocket with candied
throat lozenges thoughtfully provided at the door.

“
What is this?” Kip
asked.

I looked toward the stage. “A couple of
women playing violins,” I said, providing expert commentary.

“
A violin and a viola,”
whispered the man next to me. He had silver hair, a matching
mustache, and wore a tweed sports jacket with elbow patches. His
eyes were closed, and his head swayed gently to the
music.

“
That’s what I meant,” I
whispered back. “We miss anything?”

He didn’t speak until the
music stopped and people applauded, and the violinists—or is one a
violist?—took slight bows. “I should say so,” the man said, eyes
open now. “You missed all of Mozart’s K. 423 in G, and quite
marvelous it was, filled with contrapuntal ingenuity, enhanced by
double stops, a wonderful piece of didactic,
é
tudelike virtuosity.”

“
It’s one of my favorites,”
I allowed.

“
Well then, you will
appreciate K. 424 in B-flat. It’s next.”

In a few moments, they started playing
again, and in my expert opinion, they sounded swell. I walked down
the aisle, crossed in front of the stage, and up another aisle. I
caught a few stares, but most people seemed entranced. Finally,
halfway up on the right-hand side, there she was.

Jo Jo Baroso was wearing jeans and a
long-sleeve green cotton blouse covered by a red Mexican serape.
She wore no makeup, and her dark hair was pulled straight back. She
would have looked about eighteen years old, but there were dark
circles under her eyes and her face, even in quiet repose, seemed
to convey a profound sadness.

I slid into the seat next to her. “I’m
partial to violas, how about you?”

A tremor seemed to go through her body. She
reached for my hand, the healing one, and pressed it to her cheek,
which was cool to the touch. She just held my hand there, letting
it gently caress her face. In a moment, twin tears slid down her
granite cheekbones. She lowered my hand, leaned close to me, and
softly kissed me on the cheek.

“
Oh, Jake,” she whispered,
now grasping my hand with both of hers. “I’m frightened. So much is
happening. Simmy has flipped out over all of this. I just don’t
know what to do.”

“
Go home with me. Help me
prove I didn’t kill anybody.”

“
Is that all?”

“
No. Be with
me.”

“
I want to, at least I
think I do.”

From behind us, a
loud
shush
.

“
Go now, please,” she
whispered. “I’ll call you later and tell you
everything.”

“
Call me? Why don’t we meet
somewhere?”

“
No, Simmy’s watching me
like a hawk. I ride every night before dinner. I’ll call you from
the barn just before dark. Please, trust me.”

I told her where we were
staying and promised to be in the room for her call. Then I
gathered up Kip, who was dozing peacefully just as the violin, or
maybe it was the viola, got to one of those parts of
didactic,
é
tudelike virtuosity.

***

I was sitting in the little cottage at the
Lazy Q, waiting.

Thinking.

Worrying.

I thought I heard the floorboards creak on
the front step. I opened the door and looked outside.

Nothing.

Getting paranoid.

I shouted to Kip, who was across the road in
a grassy field with two kids from a neighboring cottage. Kip was
fooling around with the video camera, trying to get some shots of
the golden eagle. He waved to me, one of those I’m-having-fun,
I’m-not-hungry, don’t-bother-me kind of waves.

I went back into the cottage and sat on the
sagging bed. Something was nagging at me, something besides the
fact I was wanted for Murder One, to say nothing of transporting a
juvenile delinquent across state lines. There was an itch I
couldn’t scratch, a feeling of dread I couldn’t contain or even
describe.

I had made a mistake with Blinky Baroso. I
had gotten too close to him, forgetting he was just another client,
and let’s face it, a born loser. I had let my guard down because he
was Jo Jo’s brother.

Pathetic.

Such bad judgment.

Jo Jo had been right about him all along.
And right about me, too, I suppose. Just what was the social
utility of keeping that crumb out of jail. What was my thanks,
anyway, getting set up for murder?

Louis X. Baroso. What a waste. He could have
been successful in a legitimate business, but that held no thrill
for him. Risking it all and losing it, that was Blinky’s style. He
was like the slots player who hates to hit the jackpot because it
takes so long to put the quarters back in.

Now, who had killed him? If he really was
dead. Socolow had told me the blood in the Range Rover was
Blinky’s, but they never found a body or a trace of other evidence.
None of the surf bums saw or heard a thing. Blinky had disappeared,
bloodied but seemingly invisible.

And here I was, trying to figure it all out,
coming up empty, but filled with a sense of foreboding.

The phone rang, startling me. It took two
rings for me to even realize what it was. Get hold of yourself,
boy.

“
Oh, Jake! Thank God you’re
there.” Her voice was desperate.

“
What is it? What’s
happened?”

“
He hit me. Oh God, just
like before. He used to knock me around, Jake. He’s got such anger
in him. I thought it was my fault then, and finally, I couldn’t
take it anymore. That’s why I left him, but he’s changed, or I
thought he had.”

The fury began as a ball of fire in the pit
of my stomach and moved up, thickening my chest, constricting my
throat. I could barely speak. “Did he hurt you?”

“
No. He just does it to
inflict pain, to humiliate me. If he ever let loose, I’d be
dead.”

“
Where are you?”

“
In the barn. Somebody saw
us together at the concert. Either that, or he’s having me
followed, because he knew I kissed you. It set him off. He threw me
across the barn. Jake, I must have flown thirty feet. Thank God for
the hay, or I would have broken my neck. Then he lifted me up and
slapped me, back and forth, again and—”

“
I’m coming over. Wait
there.”

“
No! Please, Jake! I don’t
want you to see me like this. My face is puffy, and I’m…I’m so
filthy.”

“
What?”

“
Oh, darling, I didn’t want
to tell you. He forced me. He tore off my clothes, just ripped them
to shreds with his hands. He was crazed, his eyes wild like a rabid
animal. He took me, then left me here, filthy and naked and
freezing.” She started to say something else but was racked with
sobs. I waited, the heat spreading to the back of my neck, sweat
pouring off me. “Oh, Jake, I feel so stupid, so
ashamed.”

“
Wait there! Don’t move.
I’m coming over.”

“
No, don’t!”

“
Jo Jo, I swear I’m going
to tear him apart, and when the doctors put him back together,
we’re going to prosecute.”

“
Jake, no! You don’t
understand. It’s more complicated than you realize.”

“
I know. You said that
before. You said you hadn’t told me everything, you were sorry
Blinky got me involved in it, and you hoped I would forgive you.
When I get there, you can tell me everything.”

“
I’ll tell you now,
darling, but you’ve got to calm down. I’ll be all right. You can’t
come out here. Simmy’s in the house. If he—”

“
Don’t move,” I told her
again. “Wait for me.”

I flew out the door, running for the car.
Kip was videotaping a mangy dog urinating against a tree. I don’t
know what I looked like, but Kip turned, at first puzzled, then
fearful as he watched me. He left the dog there and raced toward
the car.

“
Uncle Jake, what’s wrong?
Your face is all angered up.”

“
Huh?”

“
That’s what Granny says
about you. That you’re sweet as mother’s milk, but watch out if you
ever get all angered up. “

From the neighboring cottage, the father of
the two boys wandered out, pulling up suspenders over plaid Bermuda
shorts.

“
Kip, I’m in a hurry, and I
don’t have time to explain. Stay here.’’

I hopped in the car, and as I started the
engine, Kip tossed the camera in, then vaulted over the passenger
door, just like I taught him. “Nothin’ doin’, pardner. Granny also
told me that when you’re like this, you don’t think clearly. You
make mistakes, and my job is to help you stay cool.”

“
C’mon, Kip, out! This is
serious.”

The car was moving, and Kip was buckling his
shoulder harness. “I’m not letting you head into Shinbone all by
your lonesome. I’m riding shotgun, Uncle Jake.”

was aware of Bermuda Shorts watching us
argue. “Kip, this isn’t a movie. Now, for the last time, get out!”
I started to unbuckle him.

“
I’ll scream child abuse,”
Kip said, “so you might as well

gun it before knock-knees there throws
himself in front of the car.

“
Kip!”

“
You promised never to
leave me alone again. Last time—”

“
I remember last time,” I
said, hitting the gas.

We tore up clouds of dust as we headed
toward the Red Canyon Ranch and what would be my third and final
meeting with the last living witness.

CHAPTER 18

A TOOTH FOR A
TOOTH

Granny taught me right from wrong.

I didn’t have a father or a mother around,
and I didn’t pay a lot of attention to teachers, ministers, or
United Nations ambassadors. I hung around Key Largo and Islamorada
with the kids from the trailer parks. Their idea of fun was to
throw rocks at tourists’ cars coming down U.S. 1, maybe jimmy Coke
machines in their spare time. Their dads—the ones who had
them—worked on shrimp boats or road crews, if they worked at
all.

For a mentor, it was either Granny or the
guys who loafed at the 7-Eleven on Little Pine Road, the place I
started drinking beer when I was about Kip’s age.

Thank God it was Granny.

She taught me not to cheat, not to steal,
and not to hit anyone who hadn’t hit me first. She taught me to
avoid cruelty in words and deeds. She taught me that black and
brown folks were as good as white folks, and many times, a damn
sight better.

And when I was a little older, she taught me
never to raise a hand to a woman. “Only the lowest kind of trash
hits his woman, and don’t you fergit it. Only a sniveling weakling,
a bottom-feeding gutter rat will ever strike a woman, and no
Lassiter ever done it or ever will. You understand?”

I told her I did, and if I ever saw a man
abusing a woman, I’d step in and put an end to it right then and
there.

“
Another thing, too, Jacob.
No real man ever forces a woman to do what she don’t want to do. A
woman who don’t want to be touched is
not
to be touched.”

I understood that, too. The thought of a man
doing violence to a woman, any woman, is repellent to me. The
thought of it happening to Jo Jo Baroso filled me with rage.