Legwork (2 page)

The reply from the second man was instantaneous.
“Try this on for size, Shorty: by morning it’s going to be in all the newspapers that the SBI was so goddamn stupid they swarmed all over the lawn, tramping on evidence, moving the victim, and all but asking the lead suspect to dance.”

I was shocked at the second man’s accent.
He wasn’t southern.
It was the nasal twang of up by New York City way. What the hell was he doing down here?

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Shorty asked.
His smile was the usual power smile: flat and thin and threatening.

“Yes, I am goddamn from around here,” the second man answered.
“I’ve been from goddamn around here for three years now so don’t give me any of your goddamn cowboy crap.
I know the goddamn laws of this state, of this city, and of this county. This is my goddamn jurisdiction and I have a goddamn right to speak to the suspect.”

Well, goddamn.
The man seemed a mite irate.

“Who the hell are you again?” Shorty asked, whipping out a notepad like he was going to write up an order for eggs and grits.

“I am goddamn William Bryant Butler, that’s who I am.
Allow me to make it easy for you.” The tall man held out a badge and practically speared Shorty in the eye with it, reading out his number slowly.
“Don’t forget to put down William Bryant Butler, arresting officer,” he said when Shorty finished penning the number in his little book of shame.

Arresting was right.
Bill Butler’s appearance was as impressive as his vocabulary.
He stepped into the glare of a street light and I got a better look.
My mind raced shamelessly for misdemeanors I might commit that would trigger a full body search.

He was tall with a slim build and solid shoulders.
And he was wearing my favorite: old jeans and a black sweatshirt.
He had long hands and beautifully tapered fingers. Brown eyes, longish brown hair.
Long eyelashes.
A long nose, long dark mustache, and a long smile.
I liked the long motif and wanted to explore it further.
Good heavens.
And me not looking my very best.

“Excuse me,” I interrupted cleverly.
Both men jumped when I stepped from the shadows.
Good thing I had vetoed the puke-stained dress.
“I’m Ms.
Master’s bodyguard and I’m concerned about her safety.
Where is she?”

“Bodyguard?” Shorty asked incredulously, surveying my sturdy frame with exaggerated skepticism.
“What would you do if I started to attack her like this, huh?” He came towards me, arms outstretched, ready to grab my arms and pin them behind my back.

What is it with short men?
They’re always trying to prove they’re bigger than they are.
It was time to cut this one down to size.

“For starters, I’d kick you in the balls,” I said, flexing my left leg for balance as I whipped out my right, stopping an inch from his crotch with the heel of my size- nine Ferragamos ready to strike.
Shorty froze.

“Nice shoes,” William Bryant Butler said.
It was enough.
I was in love.
He took his eyes off my black velvets and examined me carefully.
“At ease, Sergeant,” he said with a laugh.
I dropped my foot, smiling sweetly at Shorty as he backed away.
“Your client is in the back seat of that car,” Butler explained and I noticed that he not only had brown eyes, but deep brown ones.

Oh, mamma.
It felt like a million butterflies were nibbling inside my stomach.
“You married?” I asked.
I couldn’t help it.
Reflexes, you know.
Besides, I pride myself on my subtlety.

Shorty stomped away toward the blue sedan, grateful for what was left of his pride, if not his balls.

“Not at the moment,” the detective replied, admirably unshaken by my prying.
“What about you?”

“I’m not married at the moment, either.”

“A coincidence.
Mind if I ask you a few questions?” He pulled out a notebook.
Damn.
He was a worker, not a romantic.
I had a feeling I knew why he wasn’t married anymore.

“Detective?” I asked.

“First class all the way.” He pulled a small wallet out of his back pocket and flipped it open.
I love it when they do that.
The badge winked at me and he flipped it shut again. “Name’s William Butler.
But you can call me Bill.”

“How old are you, Bill?” I asked, just to try on the name for size.

“Old enough to know better.
Mind if I ask the questions and you give the answers?”

Mind?
Not at all, I thought.
Especially if we remove our clothes first.
Oh, stop, I told myself.
This is serious work.
My client is sitting over there in the back seat of a car being guarded by a steroid-filled dwarf.
Get your mind put of the gutter, girl.

“You know anything about local politics?” I asked Bill Butler.
“You know who’s sitting in the car, right?”

Bill nodded.
“I know who she is.
How long you been working for her?”

“About a month,” I told him, flashing a quick look at the sedan.
Shorty had propped his butt against the front hood.
I was surprised he didn’t lift his leg and pee on the bumper to mark it.

“Why?” he asked.

“Why what?” It’s tough to follow a conversation when you’re busy imagining the speaker naked.
He had great teeth, small and even and white.
It might be nice to have a boyfriend who practiced personal hygiene for a change.
Everyone needs to branch out on occasion.

“Why were you working for her?” he repeated impatiently.
“You on drugs or something?”

The question was like a slap.
“Me?
God, no. Why do you ask?”

“You’re acting a little out of it.”

“Well, it’s four fucking o’clock in the morning,” I explained.
“How with it are you right now?”

“Plenty with it because I’m plenty mad.
Were you lurking in the bushes long enough to hear my conversation with Runthead?” He nodded toward Shorty.

“Yeah,” I admitted.
“If I help you out, will you help me out?” I thought it best to get right to the point.

He had a great laugh.
“I guess you aren’t so out of it, after all.
What makes you think I know anything?”

“All I want to know is the identity of the victim,” I said.
It wasn’t all I wanted to know, but it was a good start.

“Who do you think it is?” he countered.

“Oh, no.” I shook my head.
“We need a little faith here or we won’t get anywhere.”

“Okay,” he agreed, lowering his voice.
“You answer two questions for me and I’ll answer one for you.”

“Deal,” I said.
“Then I get to talk to my client.”

“Hey, I can’t even talk to her,” he protested.

“No problem.
I can help us both out there. Shoot.”

“Why were you guarding her?
What’s wrong with the locals?”

“She didn’t trust them.
Thought they were reporting back to the Maloney campaign.
She might have been right. Maloney is Senator Boyd Jackson’s nephew and everyone is in Boyd Jackson’s pocket.”

“Why did she hire you?
You don’t look that . .
.
big.”

“How sweet of you to notice,” I said.
He had a disconcerting habit of staring intently while he waited for an answer.
I was sorry I’d worn my glasses.
Where were my contact lenses when I needed them?

“She wanted a woman,” I explained.
“Not a lot of us around.”

“You licensed?” he asked.

“You’ve had your two questions,” I pointed out.
Talk about a close shave.

He shrugged.
“What’s your question?”

“Who’s the dead man?” I stared up the steep driveway toward a Jeep Cherokee surrounded by a horde of forensic specialists in yellow windbreakers.
They looked like giant hornets swarming around a dish of honey.

“Thornton Mitchell,” he said.
“Ring a bell?”

“Shit,” I said.
“You’re kidding?”

“Not me,” Bill Butler promised, snapping his notebook shut.
“I never kid about business.”

Somehow, I believed him.

Thornton Mitchell being dead made this a tough one.
He could have been killed by half the state.
You either loved him or you hated him.
You loved him if you had sold your land to him and made a pile of money while he put up his houses and shopping malls.
You hated him if you had to live down the street from one of his little development projects, enduring the endless traffic jams, noise, and loss of privacy that inevitably resulted. Thornton Mitchell had made North Carolina into his own little pie and sliced it up nicely through the years, paving and bricking his way to a fortune.
He was a big contributor to political circles, but on the opposite side of Mary Lee Masters.
Plus he lived in Wake Forest, a good twenty miles away.
What the hell was he doing dead in her car?

A phone trilled in the sudden silence and Shorty snapped to attention.
He pulled a small cellular phone from his coat pocket, unfolded it with military precision, and barked something unintelligible into the receiver.
I hate portable phones. I want to rip them out of people’s hands and beat them over the head with them.
Pretty soon, we’ll all be walking around with big cords up our asses so we can be wired every moment of our lives.

Shorty turned his back on us and whispered frantically into the receiver, nodding his head vigorously like he was on a video hookup or something.
“I’m on it, sir,” he said loudly and I knew he was talking to the governor, if not God himself.
He began waving frantically for someone to take his place guarding the car so Bill Butler couldn’t have his crack at interviewing Mary Lee.
“Yes, sir.
Right away, sir.” He flipped the phone down to its ridiculously tiny size, stowed it in his pocket, and began to sprint up the hill.

“I wonder if Thornton Mitchell contributed to the governor’s last campaign?” Bill Butler asked as he watched Shorty’s stubby little legs churn up the front lawn.

“I’d have to say yes,” I agreed.
“Now’s our chance.
Follow me.”

Shorty’s replacement was still a quarter of an acre away when I tapped on the back seat window.
It rolled down and Mary Lee’s face popped into view.
I was startled.
I had never seen her without makeup before.
She looked a thousand times better, much softer and more approachable.
She had a roundish face with wide cheekbones and a thin, businesslike mouth that was usually caked with bright red lipstick.
Her nose looked long on camera, but up close it had a cute buttonlike tip.
She was the kind of person who had taken makeup lessons while still in high school and who spent thirty minutes each morning with a magnifying mirror making it look like she had nothing on when, in fact, she was supporting the quarterly profits for Max Factor.

“What the fuck is going on, Casey?” she asked.

Aaah, she was still the same old Mary Lee.

“Do they honestly think I’m so stupid that I would murder that scumbag and be dumb enough to leave his sorry carcass in front of my own front door?”

“Mary Lee, I’d like you to meet Bill Butler, detective first class.” My not-so-subtle hint was received.
Her public smile reappeared and her accent softened.
In another five seconds, she’d be grieving for the unfortunate loss of one of North Carolina’s finest citizens.

“Where’s Bradley?” I asked about her husband before she could turn on the plastic charm.
I had a feeling Bill Butler was not easily fooled.

“Business trip.
What else?” she said.
“Where is my lawyer?”

“On his way,” Butler said, flashing her what I suspected was his best grin since it couldn’t get any better.
“I don’t suppose you’d care to talk to me first?
These SBI guys are giving me a hard time.
I just want to ask a few questions.
They’re being a little overprotective, don’t you think?”

“What I think is that they’re giving you a hard time because you all have an extra Y chromosome,” Mary Lee explained sweetly.
She opened the door and motioned for me to climb inside, just as Shorty’s reinforcement arrived to protest.