This Case Is Gonna Kill Me (30 page)

*   *   *

I had thought that John would handle this online and with phone calls, but he had given me a smirking grin and said, “Oh, no, this gets done the old-fashioned way. Legwork.”

Which is how I found myself telling the office I was taking a few days off. Fortunately, Shade seemed to think this was reasonable. He peered at me from behind his desk and said thoughtfully, “Yes, I suppose you should, given that you were attacked … again. And you’ve earned it with that settlement.”

I was relieved he had filled in the reasons so I didn’t have to invent one—meaning lie, because I couldn’t very well tell him that I was setting off to do the work of another lawyer.

“Detective Washington is quite … interested in you,” Shade added.

I didn’t like that significant pause. “Why? I didn’t do anything. At least anything wrong.”

“So he has concluded. But he does think you are a nexus around whom interesting events swirl.”

“If he actually said ‘interesting,’ I’m going to kick him if I ever see him again. I can tell you it was anything but
interesting
.”

I left the office and hurried to my apartment to pack an overnight bag. I was actually down on the sidewalk waiting when John’s car pulled up. I hurried toward the passenger door, then stopped—there was a stranger behind the wheel. As I stood there dithering, four more cars identical to John’s pulled up. He was in the last car. He jumped out and tossed my bag into the trunk. While it was open, I noticed two Kevlar vests in the back.

I blanched. “Do you actually think we’ll need those?”

He didn’t answer. Instead he took my arm and hustled me into the car. All four identical white cars pulled away at the same time. We drove to a particularly snarly intersection where five streets bisected each other, and the cars began an intricate weaving dance.

“What are you doing?” I gasped as the cars cut each other off, and the drivers used the extra streets to duck away and come back together like an elaborate street-sized square dance.

“Three-card monte with five cars. With luck, they won’t know which one to follow.”

“How did you.…?”

“Rented four cars identical to mine at Avis. Hired four limo drivers. Gave them their instructions.” John lifted a hand and clenched his fist, and all five cars exploded in opposite directions down the five different streets.

“Securitech,” I said hollowly.

“We know they’re watching you” came the grim reply.

We drove in silence for some time while John constantly checked the rearview mirror and the side mirrors. He relaxed against the back of the seat and gave a nod of satisfaction. “We’re good.”

“Okay, well, maybe now you’ll answer my question. Why the vests?”

“I’d rather have them and not need them than need them and not have them.”

“Makes sense,” I said, then added in a smaller voice, “Will Kevlar actually stop a werewolf’s teeth … or claws?”

“It slows them down and keeps you alive for a few seconds longer so you can shoot them.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” I said in a teasing and sarcastic tone. The grim lines around his mouth didn’t ease. In a very tiny voice I added, “Is something wrong? I mean, I know you didn’t want to do this—”

“I drove over to Bayonne to see about looking through Gillford’s house. That would have saved us some time, because he was bound to have had receipts for his storage unit. But the house is gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean,
gone
?” I had this vision of guys jacking up the house, loading it on a big flatbed truck, and driving away, leaving only a hole in the ground with pipes sticking out.

“Blown up. Burned to the ground. The cops said it was a gas leak ignited by a spark from an extension cord in the kitchen, but…”

“It seems very convenient,” I finished for him.

“It also means the Securitech guys probably found what they wanted and destroyed the place to make sure we couldn’t find it too.”

“They couldn’t have just stolen the receipts?”

“There were too many other ways for us to find the location—old tax returns, canceled checks, address books. The point is, this is probably a useless trip. You sure you still want to go?”

I considered, then nodded. “Yes, I owe Syd that much.”

*   *   *

We flew out of a tiny airport south and west of New York. John had chartered the plane, and I gulped at the price, but this was my quixotic mission, so I couldn’t very well complain. He paid in cash, and I promised to keep track of all our expenses and write him a check when this was all over.

The pilot took us into Roanoke, and John had found a cash-only rental car company. John handed me a few pages of printout, then wrestled a GPS out of its case.

“What’s this?” I asked as he got the boxy little machine and its screen secured to the dashboard.

“A listing of all the self-storage places in a fifty-mile radius of Red Oak Hollow. I figured we’ll start with the ones in town and radiate out from there. You can be my navigator and put in the addresses.”

“Okay.” I typed in the information, and a bland female voice said, “Calculating.” She then began to feed us directions.

As we made our way through Roanoke, I spotted Hot Lips, the strip club where Abercrombie had met Chastity. The sign consisted of lots of different-sized and -shaped lips that seemed to be flying in space. All the lips were very red and very lush.

I pointed it out to John, who gave me a grin and said, “Strip joints usually have good value on food. We could have lunch there.”

“You speak from experience?” I asked.

“I’ve been in a few.”

“Mostly in the line of duty, I’m sure,” I said.

He cast me an impish look out of the corner of his eye. “You can think that if you want to.”

I waved a hand in front of his face. “Hello, irony. But if we do, I insist on equal time, and lunch at Hunk-O-Mania when we’re back in New York,” I said, referring to the club that featured hard-bodied young men dressed in tight pants and long duster-style jackets with bare chests.

“Oh, goody, us and the gay guys.”

“Hey, I went to a bachelorette party at the Chippendales in Boston.”

“Thus proving my point. Women go to strip joints for special occasions. Men would happily live in one.”

The GPS soon had us out of town driving through a countryside that was multiple shades of green. We passed a lot of white-fenced pastures with horses grazing on the lush grass. I couldn’t help it: my eyes kept going to those sleek bodies, tails swishing at flies, and pricked ears as they occasionally looked up to scan for danger.

I looked back down at the printout. There were a depressingly large number of storage places. “How long is this going to take?”

“Not long.” He paused then added, “If we get lucky.” He shot me a grin. “Welcome to the thrilling world of the PI. Legwork and stakeouts. That’s my life.”

“We couldn’t have just called?” I asked plaintively.

“Most people won’t give out that kind of information over the phone. But in person…” John flashed me that amazing Álfar smile.

“That’s not going to work on a guy unless he’s gay,” I said dryly.

“That’s why I have you along.”

Our navigator robot guided us into Red Oak Hollow and began issuing ever more stringent commands.
“In four hundred yards, go left and prepare to make a turn. Turn left.”

John chuckled. “She’s got that whole dominatrix vibe going, doesn’t she? I think I like her.”

I looked over the instructions. “You can change languages and voices. How about this one?” The next command was uttered by a male voice with a strong Australian accent.

We made a few more turns while John and I switched the voices between Barbara the Dominatrix and Wally the Aussie, and we pulled through the gates of U-Store-It. Inside we found a middle-aged woman with brassy bleached-blonde hair, deeply tanned skin, and a net of wrinkles that made her look like an aged turtle head had been transplanted onto a human body. She was slumped behind the counter, smoking. At her feet was a very fat Labrador retriever. As we entered, the dog’s tail beat out a slow cadence on the linoleum floor.

The manager looked up, and perked right up at the sight of John. “Help you?” she drawled in that soft Virginia accent.

I opened my mouth, but John was there before me. “Yes, this young lady’s grandfather recently died under tragic circumstances.” He leaned across the counter and lowered his voice. “Home invasion. Murdered.”

I have an absolutely useless talent—I can cry on cue. I thought about my first horse dying, and the tears filled my eyes and spilled over to run down my cheeks. John gaped at me but recovered quickly.

“We’re trying to locate his assets, because Sarah is his sole heir.”

“What’s the name?” the dyed blonde asked, turning to her computer.

“Thomas Gillford.”

The dog rose ponderously to her feet, waddled over to me, and pressed her body against my legs. It seemed like the dog was trying to comfort me. I patted her and felt like a shit. It was one thing to fool a human, but taking advantage of a dog … The woman typed and clicked on the computer, then finally shook her head. Gillford hadn’t stored with U-Store-It even though this location was less than a mile from the former site of his office.

We thanked the woman and left. John slipped an arm around my waist and guided me to the passenger door. “Are you okay?” His tone was warm and solicitous.

“Oh yeah. I can cry when I want to. I just think about something sad.”

“If you ever decide to stop being a lawyer, you can come to work for me,” John said as he opened the door for me.

We hit five more self-storage companies before deciding at one o’clock to take a break and find lunch. We had been slowly circling outward in search of Gillford’s elusive storage unit, and there weren’t a lot of restaurant choices out on these country roads. Finally we spotted a small diner on the outskirts of another small town.

As we walked through the door into the icily air-conditioned dining room, the smell of frying food and baking bread folded around us. The walls were hung with photos and plates that had been autographed. I didn’t recognize most of the names, but then I spotted a few jazz and blues greats.

“Somehow I think ordering a salad would get me tossed out,” I whispered.

“Live a little. Just don’t think about your arteries,” John whispered back.

We settled into a booth. The Muzak was blues and bluegrass. Our waitress, a pretty young woman with cocoa-colored skin, a cloud of jet-black hair, and a name tag that read
Julie,
delivered our menus. John quizzed her for a few moments about what was good. She said everything. John went for the chicken-fried steak. I went with fried chicken.

The food arrived. I appeared to have half a chicken served with garlic mashed potatoes and cream gravy, a mound of hush puppies, and a side of greens that looked but didn’t taste like spinach. There was also a plate of cornbread and biscuits to share. The iced tea was heavily sweetened, which surprised me. The waitress correctly interpreted my expression.

“Are you from up North? I bet you want unsweetened tea,” she said with a smile.

“Because that’s going to make
so
much difference in the calorie count,” I said as I stared at my overflowing plate.

The girl laughed, went away, and soon returned with my unsweetened tea. I began to eat. John had already made inroads in a breaded steak that seemed to cover his entire plate and was swimming in cream gravy.

The food was wonderful, but I only managed to eat a thigh, a leg, and a wing. The girl packed up the leftovers, saying, “It’s really fine when it’s cold. It’ll make a nice snack for you folks. Anything else I can get for you? We’ve got peach cobbler and blackberry pie.”

I shook my head, but John ordered peach cobbler à la mode. When Julie came back with the dessert and my packed chicken, I regretted my self-control. The crust was perfectly browned and dusted with sugar, and the rich syrup, bubbling at the edges of the bowl, made the ice cream melt like a late snowfall on a hot spring day.

John pulled out the sheaf of papers and asked, “Is Chipmunk Storage near here?”

“Yeah, it’s not far,” Julie replied.

She gave us quick and concise directions and handed John the bill, which I promptly took away from him. I went up front to pay so I would be removed from the temptation of the cobbler.

Back in the car, with the smell of chicken filling the space, John gave a gusting sigh. “I feel like a python that just swallowed a goat. Can I go hibernate now?”

“No. You’re the one who ordered the dessert.”

“And it was reeeally good.”

He put the car in gear, and since Julie’s directions had been so clear we dispensed with Barbara/Wally. It was kind of a relief not to have them nagging us.

Ten minutes later, we spotted a large billboard sporting a giant chipmunk, the tail rising even higher than the top of the sign. It was holding a nut between its paws and had a faintly crazed expression. Next to the squirrel the sign read
CHIPMUNK STORAGE
.

We pulled in and went to the office, housed in a double-wide trailer. A young redheaded man with an impressive paunch and suspenders to keep his pants from falling below his belly stood up as we entered. John dropped back behind me, my cue to take the lead.

“Hi, my name is Sarah Hall.” I almost began our usual patter, but something made me change it to say, “An elderly relative of mine was recently murdered, Thomas Gillford—”

“Wow, that’s strange.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve been dealing with that account. The rental checks stopped coming three months ago. I’d send letters to Gillford, but there was no response. Guess this is why. And somebody broke into his unit.”

My spirits dropped like a stone at these words. We were too late.

“Lucky for you, we had already moved his stuff out. But Mrs. Dannforth is gonna be pissed.” He grinned. “Oh Wow, that’s kinda funny.”

“What is?” John asked, stepping in.

“Whoever broke in just ripped the door off, but when they got inside they didn’t take anything. They just peed all over her furniture.” John and I looked at each other.