Matryoshka Blues (The Average Joe Mysteries Book 1) (2 page)

“At my end, just the three of us. And my administrative assis-tant, Loretta.”

“How much does she know?”

“Right now, more than you. But not everything.”

Snark. Nice. That means he’s getting comfortable around me, and that will help greatly. “Have you told her about this little tête-à-tête?”

Yes, I know that’s literally French for
head-to-head
, and that it specifically refers to two people. I get that. Now shut up.

Sandecker shakes his head. “I was going to after I left.”

“Don’t. Keep it to yourself. The fewer people who know I’m involved, the better.”

“Done. No problem.”

He doesn’t even put up a fight, which tells me he just straight-up lied to me. See? This is why I put provisions on liking people.

“And on the other end?” I ask.

“Excuse me?”

“You told me about your end—who knows about this on the other end?”

His eyes flick up and to the right, which indicates he’s trying to recall something, instead of preparing to spout off another lie.

“Six, maybe seven people.”

Allowing for ignorance and/or deception, intentional or otherwise, that means at least ten others probably know about it. I don’t like those odds.

“Where was it last seen?” I ask.

Sandecker hesitates, casting a quick look to Tully, and I instantly hate where this is going. “There’s going to be an ex-change tonight,” he says.

Fuck me. Of course there is. I see Tully in my peripheral, flashing me the same shit-eating grin I used on her.

“Details?” I ask.

He scoots in his chair and clears his throat. “Still being ironed out.”

Right. Sure they are. “Make sure you call Tully the second you hear.”

I can’t get a read on Sandecker, but Tully is uncharacteristically diplomatic. Normally when she brings clients to me, she’s more upbeat, more loquacious. Right now she’s quiet, and with her that’s never good. If she was in charge and uncomfortable with the case, she’d have politely recommended Sandecker to someone else. Since the two of them are sitting at my dining table, however, I’m guessing her doubts were overruled by her employers, much to her chilly chagrin.

Not much I can do about that, but I can help calm her fears by taking the job. That way she’ll have someone on this she trusts, in case shit goes south.

I’m already planning my moves. I won’t be on the exchange’s approved guest list, so I’ll get to dust off my interloper skills. Goodie. I’ve been looking for a chance to play wedding crasher again.

Yes, just like Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn. Only, with far more stunted emotional development and far less Rachel McAdams and Isla Fisher.

“Anything else I need to know?” I ask to wrap things up.

Sandecker shrugs and looks to Tully for verification. She nods and Sandecker looks back to me.

“I think we’re good,” he tells me. “But I’ll keep you updated as things change.”

I stand to refill the mugs, thrilled to have a job right now, but confident in no way what-so-fucking-ever that I’ll be updated of anything.

2

I
’m in the autumn of my forties; Tully’s in the summer of hers. That’s apropos of nothing, really. Simply making small talk while Jeff Sandecker walks to his car. I suppose I could have led with the weather, or maybe sports highlights, but this felt like a natural time to bring you up to speed.

Sandecker’s brand new Audi Whogivesashit is parked across the street behind Tully’s ’69 Boss 302, but I ignore that marvel of German engineering to once again admire a bit of American muscle.

I helped Tully rebuild that Mustang from scratch, way back when. She bought it for four hundred bucks off a junkyard owner when she was fourteen, after talking him down from a grand. It took the two of us and Scotty two years to turn that thing into a proper beast, and we loved every damn second of it.

And then Tully went and painted it goddamned periwinkle blue, which incidentally were the only words I understood out of Brad Pitt in that movie where he played a homeless Irish boxer or whatever. Well, those and
caravan
, whatever the fuck that is.

People. Go figure.

“What do you think?” Tully’s words in my ear.

Sandecker waves as he drives off. I mean it—like, out the window and everything. It kind of freaks me out. Who does this guy think he is?

“Him, or the job?” I ask.

“Both.”

I give it some thought. “He’s older than he looks. It’s carried him this far, and he thinks it’ll make up for what he lacks—which is more than he’s able to admit. He comes from where a hard day’s work is the tip of the iceberg, and made it to the big league without ever really learning how to fit in. But he’s learned to fake the confidence and hopes no one notices.”

“That all?”

I know what she means, and she knows I know. “He’s lying to us,” I say. “Or at least holding back, though it’s hard to know what about. He could be in over his head, or he could be setting us up for failure. Maybe he has partners he doesn’t want us to know about, or perhaps things are just worse than he’s letting on. I don’t like not knowing, but it’s not something that’ll keep me up at night.”

“Not the way you’ve been spending them.”

Tully’s smiling, I can tell. She had to get one more dig in about my overnight guest to take her mind off Sandecker and his problem. She’s probably been thinking the same things I am ever since he showed up at her office. Needing someone she could count on naturally brought her to me, as it always does, and always will.

“And the job?” she asks.

I raise my eyes to take in the cloudless blue sky above. It’s barely lunchtime, and already it’s a gorgeous day.

“Box retrieval? Sounds easy enough,” I reply. “If he’s being upfront about the details. But I’m sure it’s going to get messy.”

“It usually does.”

I look down at her, literally—I’m six-four and she’s five-two. “He said it was tonight, so give it twenty-four hours, tops.”

She sniffs the air between us. “You plan on showering today?”

I smile. Even I can smell the combined fragrances of sex, sweat, and melted cheese. I’d wear it proudly if all I had going on today was mowing the yard and binge-watching
Gravity Falls
on Hulu.

“Fine, twenty-five hours.”

The floral dress sways in the summer breeze as Tully walks to the fugly-blue Mustang. “You want cash or a transfer?”

I have to think about that. “Two hundred cash. Transfer the rest.”

“You’ll need to swing by the office and sign the contract.”

Ah, yes. Contracts. The bane of the modern world. “I’ll bring lunch. Have the pen ready.”

She starts the car. “Maggie Jane’s?” I barely hear her over the throaty roar of the most beautiful engine ever designed.

Maggie Jane’s. Damn, haven’t had them in a while. “Combo?”

“Not if I want to keep wearing pretty dresses.”

We’re shouting to each other over the engine now. Yet another reason for the neighbors to keep right on loving me.

“You could always go back to jock straps and wife beaters,” I tell her.

“Why?” she asks. “I got rid of my balls, and they’re still bigger than yours.”

That elicits a chuckle. “One of these days you’re going to stop reminding me of that.”

“One of these days you’ll stop pretending it isn’t true.”

The Mustang tears away from the curb, smoke from the tires and a wave from the window. I stand on the porch a long moment, taking in the sun and air and birds and all that happy-go-lucky shit.

We have to take these moments as they come, because not only are they few and far between, but they never last as long as our rose-colored recollections eventually convince us they did, so it’s always best to draw them out like Stretch Armstrong in a tug-of-war between screaming siblings.

A bird flies by. Fuck me if I know which kind. It’s black and it has wings. I give it a wink, a private hello to Scotty somewhere up there in the blue.

There. Another moment of Zen over and done. I go inside to shower.

Tully’s right, you know. Hers have always been bigger.

3

T
he company Tully works for is on the top floor of a four-story, art deco building in the old business section of downtown. The building is nestled between a place that helps people find shithole apartments and a skeezball lawyer’s office specializing in accident and injury lawsuits.

It was a nice building once, back when people rode pterodactyls and knew what a
cordwainer
was. Not that I do. I had to Google that shit like a normal person. Now the building is just an ugly reminder of so-called better times and a nice place for the local tweakers to take up space. The rent’s cheap though, so the occupancy rate is nearly one hundred percent, despite my rampant incredulity.

There are two rooms in the company’s otherwise open floorplan, and I’m sitting in one of them, a carry-out bag on the conference table stuffed with the two best sandwiches in the long, awesome history of putting shit between hunks of bread.

Glass panels make up two of the conference room’s four walls, while the third has a TV mounted and angled slightly downward on it, and the fourth has a dry erase board and assorted markers. With nothing else to focus on, apart from some blue doodles on the dry erase board in the shape of either a Tyrannosaurus rex or an old man’s pecker, the aromas emanating from the bag are taunting me mercilessly.

Tully comes out of the other room—her boss’s office; nice guy—and crosses the open space to the conference room I’m in. The door’s open so she walks right in. She slaps a folder on the table, then a stack of twenties before reaching for the bag. I’d stop her, but I’m not that stupid.

“Top bit’s the contract,” she says. “Sign the last page, initial where indicated. The rest is yours.” She’s got her sandwich out, unwrapped, and bitten into before her words even reach my level of comprehension.

“Any updates of note?” I ask. It’s been two hours since she and Sandecker graced my home; maybe things have changed in that time. You never know.

I shove the cash into a pocket, then sign and initial where necessary, sliding the contract over to her sight-unread. We’ve done this particular dance before, and while she’s legally required to repeat herself each and every time, I’m in no way obligated to read through that shit more than once.

Which reminds me, I should probably read through that shit at some point. God knows what the hell I gave them permission to do. Maybe I’m lucky to still have all my kidneys.

Tully chews and shakes her head, her eyes rolling back into her head like the wheels on a damn slot machine. Maggie Jane’s will do that to you. Why do you think I haven’t eaten mine yet? I don’t know these people. Let Tully make stupid faces for their enjoyment—some of us have reputations in need of protecting.

She drops the sandwich on the conference table and sits up straighter, and it makes me smile. Watching her be a hard ass, knowing our history? It’s fucking priceless.

“You want the friend version or the work version?” she asks.

I steal a glance through a glass wall to her boss’s office. “Let’s keep it aboveboard for now.”

She nods in silent agreement. “Exchange is set for tonight, as expected. Details start on the second page. There will be three people accompanying the box: the man currently in possession of it and two bodyguards. Assume all three will be armed. An emissary will be there to take possession, along with one body-guard. Again, assume both men will be armed. It is the emissary we wish to stop, not the actual exchange. We have no intel on the rest as of yet, but updates will come as fresh information reaches us.”

No mention of any of the bodyguards’ training or experience levels. No idea of the weaponry involved, or the possibility of snipers and IEDs. Are these men old, young? Retired military? At risk for congenital heart disease and/or erectile dysfunction?

Basically, I’m screwed. I have nothing to work with, and Tully knows it. She’s acting like it’s no big deal, but I know this woman—if I told her it wasn’t worth it, she’d scream
Thank God
and tell Sandecker to kick rocks, her boss be damned. But she knows I won’t, because she thinks I’m a slow-witted moron who’s never backed down from a challenge in his life.

She’s half right. No, I’m not saying which half.

She licks her fingers, her nails freshly manicured and painted in geometric shapes of pink and purple. Surprised she didn’t show them off earlier. It’s weird the shit she’s gotten girly about over the years. It used to be action figures and bottle rockets. Now I’m just glad she’s finding things that make her happy again.

The first page in my stack of official documents is relevant contact information: Tully’s, even though I hardly need it. Ditto on her company’s. But it’s also got Jeff Sandecker’s—both his office and cell—and Loretta Turnbill’s, Sandecker’s admin assis-tant. It’s all standard operating procedure for contract employees like yours truly, a nicer term than
freelancers
.

“What’s the deal with Turnbill?” I ask, turning the page.

I did some online research on Jeffrey Rydell Sandecker before heading out to Maggie Jane’s; his company website had photos of the staff, and Loretta Turnbill jumped out immediately. She’s absolutely beautiful, at least in her online photo. Unfortunately, that tells me fuck-all about who she is, and there’s already too much I don’t know.

Tully’s got her sandwich half-inhaled already. She should be showing that glorious work of art a little more respect—it took the guys behind the grill longer to make the damn thing.

“Sandecker claims she’s his right-hand on this,” she says. “That’s all I really know. If there’s a need to contact anyone outside this company, you’re to try him first. If you can’t reach him, call her.”

I’m leaving the
she’s his right-hand
comment alone, because I’m nice like that. If Sandecker’s like most guys I’ve known, then it’s pretty much a given he’s either banging Turnbill or constantly trying to. Twice on Sunday. Based solely on her headshot and what I know of the male of the species, I can’t picture Sandecker letting any sort of time go by without at least trying to hit on her.

Maybe she’s better than that and doesn’t fall for his bullshit. If true, then good for her. No one should have to put up with that crap. If Tully’s boss ever tried that shit on any of his employees—not that he would—well, I’d have a hard time stopping her from tossing his ass out a window. I might be nice and open it for her first, though.

But back to my point: say Sandecker and Turnbill are bumping uglies—if he doesn’t answer, then it’s likely because he’s getting blown or something, which would make calling her at that moment kind of a dick move on my part. No pun intended.

Well, maybe a little intended.

“Has he told her about us?”

She gives me The Look. “Please don’t make me lie to you.”

I smile. Yeah, there’s no way Sandecker didn’t blab the first chance he could. Keeping secrets is hard, and he isn’t the seasoned master he thinks he is. If they’re in this together, lovers or not, he would have told her. Maybe he felt guilty, maybe he’s just more of an
instant gratification
guy versus
delayed satisfaction
. I don’t know. I’m just spitballing here.

“And on your end?” I ask.

This company has rule for freelancers. Most are to protect them; a few are to protect me. The ones that apply change frequently and for good reason.

She puts down what little remains of her number six, wiping her hands on a napkin I never even saw her take. “You’re to do whatever is required to complete the task assigned to you and to ensure the delivery of the item in question.”

Translation: We’ve got your back; whatever shit goes down. Just don’t do something stupid like die, because then you’re on your own, and we don’t cover funeral costs, which you’d know if you ever read your damn contract.

I stand. “Done.” Tully’s motioning at me, coaxing me to hand something over. Damn it. How did she know? I’m not
that
transparent, am I? “I thought you wanted to keep wearing pretty dresses, Tullinger?”

“See these nails?” she asks.
Kind of hard not to
, my face tells her. “Hand it over or you’ll be digging them out of places most unflattering, while I saunter off for a brand new set.”

I reach into the bag and give her the box of dessert. I only got the one, hoping she wouldn’t want it. Serves me right for thinking. I usually get in trouble when I do that, and it’s not the first time I’ve lost out on a damn fine meal because of it.

“Whatever’s required?” I ask. In my experience, it never hurts to ask twice. More often than not, it’s completely fucking necessary.

“Those are the instructions.”

I nod. “See you tomorrow.”