Matryoshka Blues (The Average Joe Mysteries Book 1) (7 page)

13

H
eard you were causing trouble again,” Tully says as we drive off, pointing to the police scanner mounted under her dash like I didn’t help her install the damn thing. The floral print sun dress from earlier has been traded in for jeans, T-shirt, and a snakeskin jacket.

I’m still fighting for air, fresh or otherwise, but my need to get my next words out far exceeds my current ability to perform basic human functions like breathing and swearing.

“You’ve been out here the whole time, haven’t you?”

I lean to my side, tugging Sandecker’s pilfered book from my back pocket and tossing it in the well between my feet. It may look intriguing, but it makes for a terrible butt pillow.

Tully makes a concerted effort to look straight out the windshield, a dead giveaway that she’s about to lie. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t.” I close my eyes and try to regulate my breathing.

I’ve seen her look a thousand times, given to a thousand different people from all walks of life. Never thought I’d see the day she used it on me.

It’s a small lie, really, a white lie that doesn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of our relationship. But we’ve never lied to each other before, not once, and I’m not in the mood for her to start now, regardless of how innocuous.

I’m not even angry with her, for the record. Truth is, she never promised to
not
come. She simply nodded and said
okay
a bunch of times with increasing huffiness until I dropped the matter. So technically, she never lied until now. And I can’t blame her for wanting to be here. I’d have done the same thing. But really, be a man about it.

Or a woman.

Whichever. Just, you know, take ownership.

She looks over, then quickly turns back to watching the road. “Of course I have. How else would I know where to send you?”

I speak before thinking. “The truth?” That almost pisses her off, and I realize I’m close to losing any high ground I have.

“Are you going to hurry up and open that box?” she asks. “Or did you want to pass out first?”

What kind of galactically stupid question is that to ask? Of course I want to pass out first! It’s a stupid box, and it’s not going anywhere. But since what I want doesn’t matter, I fish Sandecker’s key out of my pocket and try it in the lock.

It’s a perfect fit. I hear Tully over in the driver’s seat rattle off a string of curse words, questioning the legal and moral validity of Sandecker’s parentage.

Inside Sandeecker’s cheap box is a puzzle box, roughly the size of a book. It feels like it weighs about eight or nine pounds, including contents. The variously-colored wood pieces are in alternating herringbone patterns, the small sections doing enough zigzagging to give me vertigo if I stare at it too long.

“He had it the whole time.”

Tully’s not asking. She’s not even really talking to me. I just happen to be within earshot.

“Maybe,” I say.

I’m also not really talking to her. If I stopped to think about it, I’d more than likely come to the conclusion that Tully and I have turned into my parents—minus the passive-aggressiveness and fondness for Wild Turkey.

I’ll let you decide which parent fits which descriptor. Here’s a hint: you’re right either way.

Anyway, I’m not convinced Sandecker had the box this whole time. I mean, it makes no sense. Why go through all the trouble? It’s possible, I suppose, but I can’t see why it’d be necessary to send strangers off on a wild goose chase when you’ve already got whatever it is you sent them to get—even if you are hoping to keep that knowledge hidden from whoever.

Fuck. I mean
whomever
. Stupid English language.

Whatever the answer, this explains something from earlier. Tully said that Turnbill had received an email about a new player, and it seemed at the time that Sandecker was a fool to not follow up on it himself. Now I realize why: there was no reason for him to. If he knew all along that the exchange was a trick, then someone else sticking their nose into it was no skin off his own. Why would he care? The more players gathered there, the fewer eyes looking elsewhere.

It fits with my belief that Sandecker used me as a distraction. He snagged the box sometime after leaving my home, and kept it in his hidey-hole until he needed to show it to someone. Pretty sure getting beaten and shot wasn’t part of his plan, but death isn’t usually something people pencil into their daily schedules between
Dentist Appointment
and
Pick Up Latest Brooks Brothers catalog
.

Tully studies the box in my lap. “Can you open it?”

“Not yet,” I tell her.

It’s a puzzle box, so pieces slide, twist, and pop open to reveal the hidden compartment inside. There’s no key to it, which is sort of the point. The easiest ones have two or three steps, but more complex ones can have upwards of a dozen or more.

Normally I’m pretty good with puzzles, when my legs and brain aren’t screaming at me in tandem, but now’s not the time.

Still, I fiddle with it anyway, because there’s not much else to do while Tully’s driving. I’m sure as shit not going to ask her to turn on the radio. I know her taste in music, and I’m better off in silence.

“We have other problems,” I remind her. “Did you find Turnbill?”

Tully reaches into the back seat, her tits brushing my arm. I’m still getting used to those, even after all these years. Take it from me—I don’t care how progressive you are in your thinking and tolerances, knowing those are on someone you’ve seen naked in a gym class locker room is just fucking
weird
.

She hands me her purse and has me pull out her cell phone before walking me through the complicated steps of bringing up an email. Because apparently I’m a technological troglodyte who can’t be trusted with the miracle of fire, let alone the complex organism that is a goddamn cell phone.

“Loretta Turnbill chartered a private jet supposedly bound for Costa Rica,” she tells me. “Plane lands in two hours, and goes wheels-up thirty seconds later. The reservation says there will be three passengers.”

Sandecker’s admin assistant isn’t wasting any time. I wonder what got her knickers in a bocker. I also wonder who her mysterious traveling companions are. Was Sandecker supposed to be one of them? If not, did he know who they were? Were he and Turnbill in this together with them?

During our meeting he flat-out told us no one knew about the box except him, Tully, myself, and Turnbill. Now there are two others in the picture. Do they know Turnbill doesn’t have the box? If so, will they turn on each other because of it?

On the other hand, if Turnbill was forced to go all Benedict Arnold on Sandecker, then maybe these new people are her—what? Handlers? Kidnappers? Tough call there, so let’s go with
chaperones
for now. Having her reserve the plane would have been a nice touch, as it makes her look complicit.

I’m reading the email on Tully’s wondrous invention of near-alien design, but I ask anyway. “Do you know where the plane’s leaving from?”

She looks mildly insulted. “Do you look like a gorilla used you as a blow-up doll and wiped its dick on your face?”

I assume stupid shit like that always means yes. So should you.

“How far out?” I ask.

“Private airstrip, fifteen minutes from here.” She tells me the address when I can’t immediately find it in the dense fucking text of the email. I swear, part of it looks like a recipe for tortilla soup.

Or maybe I want it to because I’m starving, and tortilla soup sounds really good right now. Well, that and Thin Mints.

“That puts it thirty-five minutes from my house,” I say. “Plenty of time.”

Tully stares at me, completely ignoring the road. “Is that information relevant?”

“Do you want to stop her and her merry band of murderers?”

“Do you look like a walrus dry-humped—”

“Just drive the car.”

If we’re going to confront Turnbill and her chaperones, then we’ll need supplies. And I know precisely where to get them.

Tully smiles, but I know she’s beyond pissed. However you choose to look at it, she got played, which means her company got played, and that company is the most important thing in her life, after this car and yours truly. In that order, too. She loves this car way more than she loves me. I can’t blame her, either. It’s a sweet fucking ride.

Regardless of why or by whom, somebody managed to pull a fast one. The proof of that is sitting in my lap. Multiple somebodies and multiple fast ones, too, if the cookies crumbled the way I think they did. And with Tully and me, that’s not an easy thing to do. So yeah, it stings the pride just a skosh.

“Can you speed things up?” I ask. “You’re driving like your Gam-Gam Dottie after the Lynyrd Skynyrd concert.”

She punches me in the arm. It’d hurt if I had any feeling left in it. “Asshole. You said you’d never bring that up.”

I laugh. “What? I thought her BJ offer was a good call. How was she supposed to know the cop was married?”

And yes, that story is as awesome as it sounds. Maybe you’ll hear about it one of these days. Trust me, Dottie was a firecracker back then. God I loved that woman.

Tully stomps on the gas and my seat tries to swallow me whole, but at least we’re going faster now. I’m replaying events, working the angles. I’m good at guessing things, but there’s only so much I can do when I enter the scene this late. I could be completely off-base in my assumptions, but I don’t think so. I won’t know for sure until I get some answers, and to do that, I need to see a woman about a homicide.

We reach my house in record time, and I hop out while Tully cases the neighborhood. Cops will be looking for me soon, plus God knows who else, so it helps to have someone checking things out for you.

The house is dark, just as I left it, and the gym bag I need is in the window seat in the living room. Most of what I’m looking for is in that bag, but the rest is easy enough to get to so it won’t take long. The front door unlocks smooth and easy, and I make it to the window seat before the door even hits the wall.

Scotty and Tully and I smile from behind framed glass on the mantel. The ratty old cushion I keep meaning to repair or replace gets tossed to the floor, and I raise the seat up on its tired old hinges. I remove the gym bag, slam down the seat, and spin around to leave.

And there’s Sergeant, my Canadian hitman, Dudley Fucking Do-Right himself, standing in the archway between the living room and dining room, pointing his motherfucking gun at me.

14

S
ergeant came in through the back door, smashing several panes of glass to reach the lock on the inside. I can see the missing sections from here, though not the glass most likely covering my tile floor. He didn’t even close the door when he came inside; I see it wide open against the back wall.

Thanks, fuckwad. That’s how you get mosquitoes and shit.

All things being equal, this guy hasn’t been too bad up to this point. But now he’s broken into my home, and for that reason alone, he deserves an ass kicking.

“Where’s the box?” Sergeant asks. His playful tone from earlier is gone. He’s downright pissed at the moment, and I can’t fathom why. I’ve literally done nothing to him.

“What makes you think I have it?” I ask in a high falsetto. Sorry about that. Couldn’t keep the shock from coming out.

Yes, I have
a
box in my possession that might possibly be
the
box he’s looking for. But who told him that?

Sergeant’s not buying it. “I’m waiting.”

He steps into the living room, his All Stars squeaking on my hardwood, and I get my first solid look at his face. I wouldn’t go so far as to call him ugly, but if he told me a sad little tale about having to tie steaks around his neck so dogs would play with him, I’d be willing to take it on faith.

The man’s eyes are a little too muddy brown, and a little too close together. His skin is pimpled and dry, but clean shaven. His nose reminds me of a parsnip, while his lips are…I don’t know,
thick
or something. Can’t think of the right word. They’re also ridiculously dry.

Dude, it’s called Chap-Stick. You should look into it.

I shift the gym bag from one hand to the other. Slowly, so this Canuck doesn’t take it as a sign to fucking shoot me.

“Give me a minute,” I tell him.

“You don’t have a minute.” Another step, another squeak.

No, I probably don’t. My guess? I’m looking at the short end of two-point-eight seconds here. Sergeant cocks the hammer for emphasis.

“We all have a minute,” I say, trying to stall. “It’s the one thing we have plenty of. That, and self-storage units.” I shrug like we’re best buds, shooting the shit instead of each other.

“You’re stalling.” There he goes with that mind reading crap again.

“Well, duh.”

Shit. Meant to think that, not say it.

Holy shit—
bee-stung
! That’s the phrase I was looking for. His lips look bee-stung.

Thank God. That would’ve kept me up all freaking night.

“Man, I know you killed him,” he says, his frustration building. “So just tell me what you did with it. I don’t even
want
to shoot you. I just want the damn box.”

Hang on—now I killed Sandecker? What the actual shit? Not sure what this guy’s been smoking since our last encounter, but I’m thinking about making him share.

“Would you believe me if I told you I didn’t kill Sandecker?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Momma didn’t raise a fool. Remember?”

Agree to disagree,
mon frère
.

“Okay,” I say, switching gears on the fly. “Would you believe me if I told you the box was in the passenger seat of a 1969, periwinkle blue, Mustang Boss 302?”

I move to my left as I talk, toward the fireplace, Tully and Scotty and younger me at my back. The gym bag goes back to my original hand, and I flex the free one out of habit. This all causes Sergeant to move to
his
left, closer to the front door, my couch now between us.

Sergeant’s gun lowers for a second, my friendly neighborhood assassin wearing a look of pure
what the fuck
. “Who on earth would paint a masterpiece like that such a god-awful color?”

I actually laugh. “Brother, we do not have that kind of time.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Don’t worry, I was.” When a shadow flits across the window facing my porch, I grip the bag tighter, preparing to move. “So, were you hired by Sandecker?” I ask Sergeant. “Or are you more of a double agent in this epically screwball scenario?”

He tries to smile, but his eyes aren’t playing along. He wasn’t expecting me to know that much, but he doesn’t insult me by pretending he doesn’t know what I mean.

“The second one,” he says. “Where’s the box?”

I ignore him. “Turnbill hired you, right? Sandecker’s secretary? What was the job—to spy on him?” Sergeant nods, and his body relaxes ever so slightly. Not enough to convince me I can charge him without getting shot, but we’re on the right track, so I continue. “Sandecker found out, and what? Offered you more to lie to her?”

“Something like that.”

“What’s she like?”

I’ve only seen a screen shot of her, so all I’ve got to go on is her physical appearance. I mean, yeah, she looks hot and all, but that tells me nothing. There’s a metric shit-ton of beautiful women on the Internet these days, and all they know how to do is make stupid duck faces and stand in the same pop-the-knee-and-put-one-hand-one-your-hip pose. My redheaded spitfire from last night is crazy hot, and I know more about her than I do Turnbill. But Sergeant’s spoken with her, and he’s all I have to work with.

“Have you seen her?” he asks. I nod. “Hot. Like, supermodel hot. But it’s a balancing act. You lose a little to get a little.”

I read between the lines. “You’re saying she’s stupid.”

“No, I’m trying really hard to
not
say she’s stupid.” He makes a face. “Gentleman, remember? Anyway, why does it matter to you? Thinking of paying her a visit from the afterlife?”

That doesn’t make sense to me. Not the afterlife part; that I get. Despite what you’ve been led to believe I’m not a moron, thanks.

No, I don’t get that Turnbill is an idiot. She was smart enough for Sandecker to consider her his right-hand, and she was smart enough to hire Sergeant for whatever reason she hired him. So if that’s all true, then how can she be dumb enough to let it all fall apart? You’re stupid, or you’re unlucky. You really can’t be both. Or, God help you, you fucking shouldn’t be.

Sergeant raises the gun. “Any last words?” He breathes deep in anticipation of the kill shot.

He really means to do this.

Great, that means my last words truly are going to be,
What the fuck?

Damn it. Guess I owe Tully twenty bucks.