T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 01 - Southern Fatality (23 page)

“He was going to kill my dog, for crying out loud,” my father said.

I hadn’t realized Spud considered the dog his, but then I guess from a domestic standpoint, we had joint custody. And one thing was certain about Spud. Although his eyesight had deteriorated and his arthritic joints continued to thicken, his aim with a weapon was still dead-solid perfect. A gun collector and shooting enthusiast even before he’d become a cop, Spud taught me how to shoot at about the same time the training wheels were hammered off my bicycle. By the time he walked out of my life when I was nine, I could put a tight circle of holes through the center of a paper target with a .22 revolver at thirty feet. He’d taken his other guns, but left the snake gun with me. I still had it.

“Can’t say I blame you,” I said, petting the dog to calm Cracker’s stressed nerves. And mine. “But when they ask, tell the cops the guy was aiming at us.”

Spud didn’t flinch. “He was aiming at us.”

We studied each other for a beat.

“Look, kid,” my father said, gesturing with his gun, “that man didn’t break in to shoot a dog, for crying out loud. And since I can’t think of anybody who wants me dead, I figure the guy planned to shoot you, as soon as he took out Cracker.”

Still, he could have put his round into the man’s shoulder instead of his brain. “Your point is?”

“I don’t want to lose my daughter, for crying out loud.”

It was as close as he’d ever come to saying how he felt about me. I’d take what I could get. “Thanks, Spud.”

It suddenly occurred to me that my sanctuary had been invaded. Since I’d opened the Barnes Agency, no one had ever come after me at home. The overwhelming majority of my jobs were nowhere near Wilmington and I’d come to think of the Block as my peaceful refuge. Although I’d installed a nearly impregnable security system when I first bought the building, nobody ever bothered to use it. Waking up to find an armed killer in my home
stung like an unpredicted slap in the face. I felt foolish and vulnerable.

Cracker threw a final growl at the dead man before trotting to stand by Spud’s side.

“Way to kick some ass, you too-white fool,” Spud told the dog. Like me, he hadn’t believed the animal had any guard-dog instincts in him.

“You okay?” I asked Spud.

“Sure. You?”

“Sure,” I said. “Except for the minor detail of a dead man in our home.”

Glock in hand, I jogged down the stairs to search the Block’s lower level. There were no more bad guys hanging around, but one of the industrial garage doors had been pried open and was raised just enough for a man to belly-crawl through. The shooter had come in the same way he’d entered the previous day, when he’d spoken to Ox—right off the sidewalk, through the door, and into the pub. Only this time, he continued up the stairs that led to my home. I was in the habit of locking only the doorknob instead of the dead bolt above it, and that was just to keep an errant customer from wandering in. It was an easy lock to pick and once again, I mentally scolded myself for not taking precautions like setting the alarm system, especially considering current events that included getting shot at on the side of the road. Complacency could get you killed.

I flipped on the Block’s outdoor floodlights and grabbed the cordless phone from behind the bar to call Dirk. Oddly, it rang before I had a chance to punch any numbers.

I answered before the first ring stopped. “Hello?”

“What happened?” Ox said, the words rushing out. “You okay, Barnes?”

“A man tried to kill me, but he’s dead. How did you know something happened?”

“A dream woke me up. Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Spud?”

“He’s fine. Cracker is, too.”

“You search the guy?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Need to search him before police arrive.”

The mere thought of squatting next to a dead person repulsed me. “Think to yourself that it’s just a body,” Ox continued. “An empty shell that can’t hurt you.”

“Okay,” I said, not at all comforted.

“See you in a few minutes. Meanwhile, do the search.”

“I haven’t called the cops yet. Can’t you search him when you get here, then we’ll call?”

“Somebody else may have already called,” Ox said patiently.

Knowing it would take police ten minutes to get to the Block regardless of who summoned them, I disconnected from Ox and immediately dialed Dirk at his home number.

“Thompson here,” he replied automatically through a sleep-laden haze. Since he was a detective on the force, phone calls in the middle of the night were probably more common than he’d like.

“Got a dead man inside my house,” I told him, “and it’s completely creeping me out. Would you please send somebody to haul the body out of here?”

“Jersey?”

“It’s me.”

“Somebody came after you at the Block? Is Spud okay?”

“Yes, and yes. But if it’s the same boys who came looking for me yesterday and spoke to Ox, there were two of them. I’ve only got one.”

“You see the other one?”

“No.”

“You dial nine-one-one?”

“No.”

“I’ll take care of it. You’ll be flooded with blue lights in no time,” he said.

I walked back upstairs and forced myself to take another look at the body on my floor. I didn’t know him but felt positive Ox would recognize him from the day before. In case I’d need them later, I snapped two photographs with a digital camera, one wide shot and one close-up of the face. Next, holding my breath and reminding myself that being frightened of a dead person was absurd, I slipped on a pair of latex gloves and did a rapid search of his clothing. He didn’t have another weapon on him nor a wallet. All I found were a set of car keys, half a roll of Turns antacids, a money clip holding less than a hundred dollars, and a matchbook from Club Capers. I wasn’t familiar with the establishment, but from the etched silhouette of a naked dancer on the cover, I imagined it could be an adult club. Scrawled in blue ink on the inside cover was what appeared to be,
“collect”
and below that,
“5th St. left.”
There was also
“4:30”
and tomorrow’s date written on it. I returned the money, keys, and Turns to their rightful pockets, went to my bedroom to get dressed, and practically ran back downstairs to get away from the body. Within minutes, the Block turned into a blue-and-white flashing circus. Ox arrived immediately after and when he encircled me with broad, warm arms, the rapidly cooling body on my floor ceased to panic me.

I thought about
the man that Spud killed while I grunted with the effort of bench-pressing one hundred and five pounds. I was at the Kingsport Health Club enjoying a free visit. I’d told the anorexic girl behind the counter that I was thinking about joining and wanted to try the place out. She gave me the once-over and, smiling with what she thought was a glamorously healthy look, told me to help myself and call her if I had any questions about the equipment. Although it was a beautiful smile, her face looked gaunt, as if the skin were stretched too tightly over her chin and cheekbones. When she handed me a towel and locker key, I noticed that her collarbones protruded enough to rest a pencil on top of them, and I experienced an urge to feed her. Instead, I returned the smile and toured the facility.

I’d already been once, to ask the manager a few questions after
I found the encoded flash drive hidden in the same gym bag as a Kingsport Health Club aerobics schedule. The manager was happy to cooperate but all I learned was that the Chesterfields had a family membership. Jared and Lolly, separately, would work out occasionally.

I wasn’t accustomed to using Nautilus equipment instead of free weights and decided I didn’t much like the machines. There was something satisfyingly puritan in placing heavy metal discs on a bar and pumping it without the controlled stability that a Nautilus machine provided. But Kingsport didn’t have a free-weight room. I missed the odor of clean sweat and the grunts of exertion and the words of encouragement from spotters forcing one more repetition out of their partner’s exhausted pectorals. And I missed the cold beers that were drunk afterward, not to mention that I was often the only woman in the place. Kingsport was a gym for the beautiful people of Wilmington and its social-friendly atmosphere came complete with televisions, sofas, and a juice bar. The sounds of electronic beeps, blended with smooth hydraulic swishing sounds blanketed the room. It was almost hypnotizing.

Shaking out my arms, I maneuvered myself into an incline leg machine and set the pin to one-fifty. Lying on my back, focusing on the rhythmic tones as I methodically pushed the foot panel out and slowly allowed it to return, I noticed a fellow in the wall mirror looking at me. I gave a nod of acknowledgment before doing two more sets of twelve. I was looking forward to getting back to my regular gym for the next workout, even though there were better-looking men at this one. I managed to extricate myself from the machine with some grace and was wiping my face when he approached. He was younger than I with a slim, well-toned body and a dark, perfectly uniform summer glow that must have been gained by lying inside a tanning bed. Flirting with a regular might be a good way to pick up some useful information about Jared.

I gave him my charming smile. “Feel free to work in with me,” I said, even though there was an identical—and empty—leg machine right beside us.

He returned the smile. “Thanks.”

“Actually, I think I’m finished with this one so you’ve got it all to yourself. Lying nearly upside-down to do squats makes me a little nervous,” I said.

He laughed knowingly. “I know what you mean. It took me a couple months to get used to this club after always doing free weights. But it’s like drinking skim milk. Once you get used to it, you don’t like the regular stuff anymore. Free weights now seem archaic. I like having my pulse automatically checked, and knowing how many calories I’ve burned, and the total amount of weight I’ve lifted.”

“So you’re a regular here, then?”

“Sure am. Name’s Matt.”

I touched his arm. “Perfect, Matt! I’ll buy you a smoothie at the juice bar and you can tell me all about the place, since I’m thinking of joining.”

“Sounds good. Half hour?”

“Works for me.” He wasn’t as hunky as Ox by any means and he didn’t have Bill’s model-perfect face, but if I were in the dating market, I’d share a dance floor with him any night.

We went our separate ways and in my peripheral vision, I caught him discreetly watching as I navigated the machinery, expanding and contracting muscle groups in my body. I showered in the locker room and threw on a pair of white flare-leg jeans, the Sig in an ankle holster, a black tank top, and the same sandals I’d worn in. After returning the locker key to Anorexia, I found the juice bar and slid onto a seat next to Matt. He’d showered, too, and donned a clean tee and jeans.

I would have preferred my customary glass of water chased by
a Bass ale but we ordered two fruit smoothies with powdered protein, ginseng, and vanilla. Surprisingly, mine tasted good—similar to orange sherbet with a bit of grit and spice in it. I felt healthier after the first few swallows, like I was making up for all the salt, grease, and booze I’d dumped down my gullet during the past week.

“Are you new to Wilmington?” he said.

“No. I work out at a different gym, but heard about Kingsport and thought I’d check it out.”

“I thought you might be a gym rat,” Matt observed. “Great muscles, but not too bunchy for a woman. I’d have trouble hanging out with a girl who could kick my ass, like one of those female bodybuilders?”

I thought about informing him that I could kick his ass. “Thanks,” I said, instead. “So what can you tell me about the gym? You must like it here.”

He sucked some smoothie through a straw. “Sure. I’ve been a member for two years.”

“You probably know everyone here, then. Do you happen to know Jared Chesterfield?”

He studied me with renewed, perhaps skeptical, interest. His expression fell into sad disbelief. “Yeah, he’s a member here. Shame what happened. I’ve been following the kidnapping on the news.”

“Maybe you can help me out then,” I ventured. “I’m working for his father.”

He frowned. “I thought we were sitting here because you liked me. And because you were thinking about joining Kingsport.”

I showed him my most charming smile. “Always good to keep your options open.”

His face softened. “Are you a cop or something?”

“Or something. I’m trying to learn what I can about Jared. On a
separate note, you seem like a terrific guy and I probably would like you. But hey, at least you’re getting a free smoothie out of the deal.”

He laughed. “I might just have to get a wheat bran and flaxseed energy bar, too.”

“Done.”

“I’m probably not going to be all that helpful, but what do you want to know?

“Anything you can tell me. Such as how often you saw Jared here. And who he worked out with.”

“Do you have a steady?” Matt asked, changing the subject.

“Yes, I do.”

“Too bad,” he said, giving me an appraising look.

We discussed Jared while I finished my nutrient-packed shake. Matt told me how he first met Jared when the family moved to Wilmington and how he was shocked to discover that Jared’s father was Samuel Chesterfield. He knew Jared was gay because a lot of gay men worked out at Kingsport and Jared palled around with them. But he never worked out with anyone in particular, Matt said, and he never spoke of a boyfriend. The disclosures covered ground I’d already traversed and I started to think I’d wasted my time when Matt mentioned the roommate.

I perked up. “Roommate?”

“No big deal. I just happened to be at the juice bar talking to Jared when one of his old college roommates stopped in. They’d gone to school together. You know, small world and all that. Jared seemed really surprised to run into him.”

“You remember a name?”

He studied the bottom of his glass for a moment. “Walter, maybe?”

“Walton?” I said, mentally keeping my fingers crossed.

“Yeah, I think that was it. Jared called him Walton. Used it as a greeting. You know, like they weren’t good friends or anything.”