Two for Flinching (6 page)

“Can you email me a copy of the file?”

“Sure. Just as soon as you clear it with
Grant.”

I groaned.

“Everything we have, we pretty much got from
Mr. Noble,” he said. “You can get it from him.”

“It will save me a lot of time if I get it
from you.”

“Uh huh. I’m sure Grant saving you time is at
the top of his list.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

There was a long pause.

“What?”

“If something did happen to Mrs. Noble,” he
said, “you know who our number one suspect would be.”

“Steven.”

“Yep. Take a wild guess who our number two
would be.”

I didn’t have to think about it for very
long. “Me.”

“I don’t see the Lt. agreeing to copy a file
to a possible suspect.”

“Neither do I.”

“I can’t help you.”

“Officially or unofficially?”

“Either.” Randy waited a moment before
continuing. “If something pops, I’ll try to let you know.”

“Thanks.”

“Best I can do.”

“I appreciate it.” I ended the call and
booted up my computer. I wasn’t worried about being a possible
suspect. First of all, I didn’t think anything had happened to
Amber. Second of all, I hadn’t done anything. I Googled Alabama
hospitals and came up with a page and a half of hits. I had a
couple of hours to kill before my big date and spent most of them
on the phone. The conversations all followed the same basic
pattern.

“Information.”

“This is Detective Beason Camp of Chickasaw
Falls. How are you today?”

“Fine. You?”

“Peachy. I’m calling to see if you have
admitted an Amber Noble in the last few days.”

“I’m sorry, but we are not allowed to release
patient information.”

“She has gone missing and we are checking
hospitals to see if she might have been in an accident.”

“Yes, sir. I understand. However, we still
can not divulge private information.”

“I’m not asking you to. I only need to know
if she is there.”

“I’m sorry.”

“If she isn’t a patient, then there is no way
for you to divulge her information. Right?”

“Well…”

“So all you have to say is that you don’t
have a patient by that name. Her family is extremely worried about
her.”

And then the deep sigh. “Hang on.” Computer
keys clacking. “We have not admitted a patient by that name.”

“How about any unidentified patients?”

“What?”

“Any women without identification?”

“In the last few days? No, sir, we
haven’t.”

“Thank you very much. You have been a
tremendous help.”

When the hospitals came up empty, I
considered calling police departments on the off chance she had
been arrested for something. Maybe DUI. But as soon as Randy put
her in the computer, her name would have popped up. I thought about
calling auto repair shops. I had checked her car before going home
and the damage had seemed mostly to the body. Nothing that would
prevent her from driving it. I had once pointed out that her engine
was fifteen hundred miles overdue for an oil change. She had
shrugged. I didn’t think Amber would be overly concerned with a
banged up bumper.

Until I talked to Steven and got a list of
her friends, her parent’s number, maybe her insurance agent, there
wasn’t a whole lot I could do.

Chapter Eight

I was in a booth at the back corner of the
bar when Melvin Jenks came in. It was half empty and half of those
people were playing with their phones. He made a slow inspection of
the place, checking for a divorced twenty-seven year old knockout.
He came up empty and settled into a stool and ordered a drink. My
laptop was on the table.

I gave him time to finish his screwdriver and
order another before I approached. He was still in his suit and
tie, the London Fog overcoat draped over his chair. He looked up
with mild curiosity when I tapped his shoulder.

“Melvin Jenks?”

“Yes?” His face darkened, knowing at least
one person in the bar knew him, would be able to report his meeting
with another woman. “Can I help you?”

“J-love.”

His eyes went wide.

“Looking4Mine. I’m Penelope.”

His face went suddenly red. “What’s this all
about?”

I held out my hand to the table. “Maybe we
should talk in private.”

He grunted, took his fresh drink and
followed. As soon as we sat, he said, “What’s this all about? Who
are you?”

“My name is Beason Camp. I’m a private
investigator.”

He finished the drink in one gulp.

The waiter came by, another kid attending the
local college. “What can I get you?”

“Vodka and orange juice.”

I said, “Coke.”

The waiter gave me quizzical look. “Rum and
coke?”

The curse of living in a small town.
“No, Pete. Just Coke.”

He shrugged and walked away.

“What’s this all about?” Jenks demanded for
the third time.

I turned the computer so he could see the
screen. It was my favorite montage of his and his secretary going
in and out of the Chickasaw Falls Inn.

He opened his mouth to speak and I held out
my hand to stop him. “Before you claim these pictures are doctored,
remember you are talking to the one who took them. So skip that
part about it not being you.”

Jenks crunched on a piece of leftover ice.
“How much?”

“How much what?”

“How much do you want to make this go
away?”

“Too late for that.”

“I’ll pay whatever you want,” he pleaded.
“Within reason.”

I shook my head. “Cynthia’s lawyer already
has copies of these pictures. And our little chat.”

“Cynthia has a lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“Aw hell.” He rubbed his face with both
hands. Pete dropped off the drinks, and for once, left without
speaking. “What does she want?”

“What does she want? She wants a divorce,
Melvin.”

“A divorce? I can’t get a divorce!”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

Jenks knocked back half of his drink. I
sipped my coke. Something was missing.
Oh yeah, the rum.

“What’s this all about?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are we here, Camp? What’s the
point?”

“Well, part of it is to show that you came to
meet a young lady you found on a dating website.”

“And the other part?”

I leaned forward, speaking so only he could
hear me.
Building rapport.
“Cynthia has no desire to destroy
you publicly. Which is what would happen if you went to trial.
Community like this, they’re not much for scandal. I doubt the bank
would go for it much, either.”

“I love my wife.”

I didn’t answer. The pictures spoke for
themselves.

“I’m going to lose my wife, my family, my
career. For nothing.”

“Wife definitely. Family and career are up to
you.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m sure Cynthia would be willing to give
you liberal visitation with the kids. You can be a part of their
lives, watch junior grow into a man. The affair doesn’t have to
come out.”

“Black mail, then.”

“Maybe,” I answered honestly. “It’s all
legal.”

“What do I do?”

I folded my hands. “Cynthia’s lawyer will
call you tomorrow. If I were you, I would listen to what he has to
say.”

Still in disbelief, Jenks said, “I’m getting
a divorce.”

***

Unfortunately, my big date didn’t run as
long as I had hoped. Felicia and Orrin were coming out of my house
as I was pulling in. I was preparing to take the coward’s way out
and enter through the garage as they went down the front walk.
Felicia called out to me. “Beason.”

Shit.

I stepped into the drizzle. Orrin gave me a
nod of the head and climbed into the passenger seat of the sedan.
Felicia was walking towards me. “Have a nice visit, mom?”

Her face contorted. “Thank you for allowing
me to see my granddaughter.” There was definitely something in her
voice and it was definitely not gratitude.

“You’re welcome.”

“I hope you won’t make us wait this long next
time.”

I felt my back stiffen. “All you have to do,”
I said, “is call.”

“Uh huh.” She shook out a cigarette and her
lighter flared in the darkness. I knew she was about to turn sixty,
but looked closer to seventy, deep lines in her face, her hair an
unbelievable chestnut pile high on top.

“I hope you didn’t smoke around my
daughter.”

“No, I didn’t.” Venom now clear in her voice.
“Although it never caused Stella any problems.”

“If you say so.”

She took a deep drag, squinting her eyes from
the smoke. “Have you heard from her?” The hard voice had gone soft,
tinged with hope.

“Who?”

“Stella. My daughter? You remember her,
right?” she said. “Your wife?”

I shook my head. “Not in four years.”

“I know—a mother knows—that something awful
has happened to her. There is no way she would have gone all this
time without calling me. At least a letter or a postcard.”

I shrugged.

“Aren’t you the least bit worried? You were
married for five years. I know you were gone for most of that time,
but you had to have
some
feelings for her.”

Zing!

“Good night, Felicia.”

***

“How did that go?”

Erin gave me a look.

“Daddy!” Sarah came running at the sound of
my voice, her curls bouncing, face alive. Blondie remained on the
couch, giving me her soulful eyes, wondering why I had abandoned
her.

I scooped up my daughter, planting a loud,
wet kiss on her cheek. “Hey, baby.”

“MeeMaw and PeePaw came over.”

“Yeah? Have a good visit?”

She pushed back from me and held my face in
her tiny hands. “You’re scratchy.”

“Yes, ma’am. Daddy needs a shave.” I hadn’t
been able to stand in front of the mirror since Sunday.

Seriously, Sarah said, “Why don’t you let me
see MeeMaw?”

That cold feeling washed over me. “Who said I
didn’t?”

“MeeMaw.”

“Your MeeMaw is confused. She knows all she
has to do is call.”

Sarah frowned. “Not what she says.”

“She made a mistake, baby.”

“When can I go for a sleepover?”

“We’ll see.” I set her back down on the
hardwood floor. “Time for a bath.”

“Bubbles?”

“Sure, honey.” I kicked her gently in the
butt. “Let’s go.”

“Yea!” She tore through the den and up the
stairs. Blondie jumped down and chased after her. Anything good for
the girl was usually good for the dog, though there was no way I
letting
her
take a bubble bath.

“Was it that bad?”

Erin rolled her eyes.

“I know.”

“Nice of you to do it when you’re not going
to be here.”

“I do what I can.”

Erin shook her head. “How you ended up in
that family is beyond me.”

“I used to drink a lot.”

“Used to?”

Chapter Nine

I had fought it as long as I could. I stood
naked with a damp towel wrapped around my waist, the steam clinging
to the mirror. I shook the can, sprayed the cream on my hand and
rubbed it on my face. I dragged the razor across my cheek, along my
jaw and under my neck, the thick beard peeling away under the sharp
blade. I ran the water hot and cleaned off the remnants of foam,
poured out a liberal helping of aftershave and splashed it on my
face. In the field, aftershave had been a luxury I couldn’t afford.
Then again, so had hot water.

The face stared back at me. The face of a man
who had coveted his neighbor’s wife, who had committed adultery.
Light brown hair cut short, blue eyes, a nose on the crooked side.
Nothing to write home about, yet it had never sent children running
and screaming. Except for brown children in brown villages of mud
huts, surrounded by rock and sand on the other side of the world. I
told myself it was because of the rifle I carried, the helmet I
wore, the patches on my uniform. But I knew it was more than that.
More than the fact that I was hunting their fathers and brothers,
their uncles and their cousins, that I had shot and stabbed and
called in explosions on their homes. Those children had run out of
fear of me, of the darkness within that I had been forced to call
out in order to survive. The darkness I now attempted to push back
down. Yet, once that genie was out of the bottle, he didn’t want to
go back in. The children had been right to run.

Blondie began going nuts downstairs, not her
I see a squirrel bark
, but the
Somebody is here
warning. I pulled back the curtains. Steven was walking across my
lawn. I hurried down, grabbing Blondie by the collar and hustling
her out the back. Erin had left a little earlier, Sarah was on the
couch watching Dora the Explorer.

“What is it, daddy?”

“Nothing, honey.” Still in only the towel, I
opened the front door. Steven stood on the stoop. His eyes settled
on my chest, gaping at the spider web of scars.

“What happened to you?”

***

She lay in my arms, her head on my chest,
both of us slowly recovering our breath, that deep satisfied
feeling spreading across us. She ran her hand softly over the trail
of white scars.

“
Does it hurt?”

“
No. Not anymore.”

“
Was it a gunshot?”

“
Not there. Shrapnel.”

“
Shrapnel? Like from a grenade?”

“
Like from a rocket launcher.”

“
How did it not kill you?”

“
The body armor. It wasn’t a direct hit,”
I said. “Plus, I’m tougher than the average bear.”