You Don't Know Jack (2 page)

"What investigation?" But even as I asked, the little spider feet were back. Stone Maddox is a Seattle homicide detective. Bruce earns his keep impersonating Britney Spears nightly on the stage of
Club Jaded Edge
in downtown Seattle. Two men had recently been murdered in the gay community. I gaped at Lars. "The
Black Boutonniere Murders
is
Stone's case?"

Lars nodded, peering around to make sure no one was within earshot. The other passengers all had the good sense to be indoors and out of this cold wind. Heading to their vehicles. "Bruce is... helpin' Maddox... somehow."

My heart hitched. "You mean... as a decoy?"

Lars nodded. "Maybe. Probably. The two murdered men used to work at
Club Jaded Edge
."

My eyes widened. That detail hadn't been in any of the news reports I'd read. Nor had my current client, Dinah Edger, the
owner
of Club Jaded Edge, mentioned it. Damn. By working for her I was already, indirectly involved in the police investigation.
In Stone's investigation
. Double damn. I was not getting anywhere near Stone Maddox. I was not.

"So, will you help me?"

"No, no, no." I left Lars standing there, check dangling from his hand, mouth agape as I hurried off chanting to myself: "
I don't do men. I don't do men. I don't do men.
"

I scrambled down the stairs to the car deck, shaken. Unsure what to do next. The phone rang. Private caller. I unlocked my car, answering as I scrambled onto the driver's seat. "Jack B."

Breathing. Static. But this time a faint voice said, "Stop looking... me... you... die."

My heart stopped, then restarted with a thud. "Endré?"

The line went dead.

"Stop... looking... me... you... die..."

I couldn't shake the chill those words brought. Was it Endré on the phone?
Endré
... my second ill-fated foray into wedded bliss; ink wasn't dry on the marriage license before I obtained an annulment.

Was he the caller?

Were unknown, unseen hitmen stalking me? I wanted to hide. Become invisible. Not something I could accomplish on the car-deck of a jammed ferry, sitting in my aged and battered Mustang, Old Yeller. Then again, I never blend in a crowd. I'm too tall, too blond, too stacked.

I stand out like Lady Gaga in... ah, in... ah,... in anywhere.

Oh, God, I was a walking target.

I needed to tell someone about the phone call. But who? Not Endré's cousin. Not until I was sure the caller
was Endré
. Then who? Not Stone. Endré was a sore subject — and Stone didn't know the half of it. Just the mention of his name makes Stone start harping on my
issues
.

He claims my inability to get my life on solid footing is rooted in the unsolved murder of my father when I was eight-years-old. He claims I need counseling. He claims I can't, or won't, give my whole heart to anyone.
He claims my tattoo is proof.

I glanced at the small red ink work on the underside of my right wrist. Downing three margaritas hadn't numbed me to the needle. I'd halted the S & M torture with only the right half of the heart completed. I bristled. Stone was wrong. The tattoo was symbolic of nothing more than my lack of pain tolerance. Nothing. More.

I forced myself to breathe as I followed the caravan of cars off the ferry and picked my way through the heavy traffic toward the tangle of freeway ramps that led in and out of Emerald City.

The sky was slate gray. Wind battered the car and wayward autumn leaves winged through the air like a horde of disturbed bats.

Since Stone was not an option, what about some other cop? A scenario popped into my head of me trying to explain the call. "The voice? Well, officer, it was sort of a whisper, broken up by static."

"Did you recognize the caller, ma'am?"

And... we were back to square one. It might or might not have been Endré...  In fact, it might have been a wrong number. After all, I wasn't looking for Endré. INS was.

I merged onto I-5 southbound, then blue-toothed my BFF. Apollo Argus is the only male beautician at the
Clip and Flip
, the neighborhood beauty salon owned by my mother and my aunts, the Crain sisters. The clientele tips the scale on the senior side of the age charts, and though the deed claims C & F (shorthand for the
Clip and Flip
) is a beauty shop, anyone who has strode the black and white checkered floor, or sat in one of the pink and black chairs, and listened to the retro rock and roll issuing from hidden speakers knows it's actually where they serve a great cup of free coffee sweetened with the latest local gossip — the good stuff the Renton Gazette doesn't print.

Apollo was the one man I couldn't give up. He was the best best friend. He said, "You sound like something a storm blew in. What's up, girl?"

"Hurricane Lars."

"What did he do this time?" I pictured Apollo cleaning his work station, a fuss pot by nature and energy. He's taller than me, has black hair and warm brown eyes, and the blunted features of someone who'd been slammed into a wall one too many times. Given his childhood, perhaps he had been. But as best friends went, he was the best.

"Lars offered to pay me a year's living expenses, plus buy me a new computer and printer."

Apollo whistled. "Who does he want you to murder?"

"If only that was it." Now that I'd decided to vent to Apollo I wasn't sure I should mention Bruce's possible involvement in the
Black Boutonniere Murders
. Apollo had friends in the gay community and was constantly updating the
Clip and Flip
with the latest rumors regarding the investigation. Lars' interest would only pique Apollo's hyper curiosity.

"He said he wanted to hire me."

Silence. "Why?"

"Why indeed." I'm not a licensed PI. I offer a service I call CHEATIN' HEARTS. If I decide a woman could be right that the man in her life is cheating on her, I look into it... for a fee. As to Apollo, I decided to keep my speculations to myself for now. "He lied. Said Bruce was cheating on him, then danced around the real truth. When I figure it out what that is, I'll let you know."

"I hoped you were calling to tell me you'd heard from NYC." Apollo switched subjects like my mother switched hair color. He referred to the manuscript I had on a New York editor's desk, an editor who liked it enough to have passed it, with a recommendation, to a senior editor.

"Not yet." I sighed. Though the thought of getting "the call" made me giddy, waiting ate at my confidence, gave weight to the doubters and naysayers. Including Lars. Had I been too quick to turn down his offer? No. Damn it. I refused to waffle. I didn't need Lars' money or his line edit. I'd publish without him.

Besides, I couldn't risk being around Stone.

"Oh, oh, my two o'clock's here," Apollo said. "TTYL."

I exited I-5 at Tukwila, and stopped at Kinko's. As the photos I had taken that morning were printed my neck began to ache. Nerves and dread joined the queue. The sooner I could shed all connection with Dinah Edger — and everything and everyone even remotely linked to the Black Boutonniere Murder case — the better. Just show her the photos, collect my fee, and split. Done and done.

Not that I was eager to get to the meeting. I hated this part of the process: confirming a clients' worst suspicions. Being shown the proof of your man's infidelity was like slamming into a glass door. I knew. I'd been there. The blow could knock the wind from you, then buckle your knees, while inside the pain reverberated through every cell until you felt as though your organs were snapping like ice crystals in hell.

Within the hour, Dinah would be another miserable, yet convinced
Cheatin' Hearts
customer. So, why did I put myself through this, time and again? I did it because I
had
been there, because I knew it was better to get the news from someone who'd already strode the depth and breadth of Heartbreak Highway than to find out from a well-meaning friend, or worse, an enemy. If I didn't believe with all my heart that I was giving my clients the power to control the situation, to handle the outcome whichever way they chose, then I'd turn in my imaginary license and make dog walking my full time, part time job until my whodunit manuscripts started selling.

Dinah's turf was downtown Seattle, but today she'd chosen to meet near the Southcenter Shopping Mall, the first big mall built in the Pacific Northwest. I'd suggested meeting in the food court; she'd stressed the need for privacy. Dinah insisted on the bar in a nearby restaurant that had seen better days. State law had rendered smoking illegal indoors, but a faint stench lingered in the carpets, drapes and wallpaper.

This late in the afternoon the lounge was nearly empty and dark as night. As my eyes strove to adjust, I scanned the room trying to pick out a recognizable form at one of the three occupied tables. Finally, I decided Dinah had to be the lone figure at the table farthest into the room, and I set out for it. Even up close, she was all but unrecognizable in a floppy hat and huge sunglasses that hid most of her face. I couldn't imagine she could see anything behind those lenses.

Nor had I realized she wanted
this
degree of privacy. Maybe
I
should have come in disguise too. Actually, all this cloak and dagger stuff really rubbed me wrong, smacking too much of the real P.I. thing. Reminding me of Lars. I'd had about all of that I could take for one day.

"Hi," I said.

"Sit."

Okay, so she wasn't in the mood for chitchat. I could be all business. I'd prefer to be all business, but the nature of my business was too emotional. I just had to remember
I
wasn't the one who broke my clients' hearts... that honor went to the men in their lives, but I'd be lying if I said I never felt like I might be shot or stabbed for bringing bad news.

No matter how expected that news might be.

"So, you followed Frankie this morning?" Dinah lowered the sunglasses and in the dim light offered by the candle between us, I saw her eyes were heavily made up giving them more of a catlike appearance than normal.

She was a striking woman, beauty rife in the exotic bones of her cheeks, the full sculpted lips, the slight dimple in her chin, the creamy pale skin, the ebony hair, and those golden-green eyes.

"I did." Frankie was her much younger husband, a bouncer at
Club Jaded Edge.
At forty, Dinah Edger looked ten years younger. She was taller than me by an inch, had a dancer's strong, wiry build and the air of someone who made things happen. She didn't strike me as the insecure type, but she suspected her husband was using her generous allowance to woo an old girlfriend, and I was about to confirm her suspicion.

"Let's have it, then." She reached for the gimlet glass of clear liquid in front of her and took a long swallow. I figured it was vodka, one of the pricy brands.

I considered ordering one for myself, but I was working. "Frankie went to Bainbridge Island."

She rolled her eyes. Not the reaction I'd expected, nor the reaction of a woman bent on taking out her heartbreak on me.

I ordered a diet soda from the barmaid, then continued. "A woman met him at the ferry. They walked into Winslow for an intimate chat over a couple of steaming espresso cups."

Dinah's exotic face tensed. She laid her glasses on the table next to her drink. The barmaid arrived with my drink, but I didn't look away from my client. I could feel emotion wafting off her as strong as the expensive perfume she wore, but I could identify neither the emotion nor her pricey scent.

"I did some checking afterwards," I said. "The woman owns a floral shop in Winslow, on the main drag."

"She specializes in exotic blooms," Dinah muttered, her voice flat, unimpressed by my fact-gathering skills. Okay, so, she already knew what business Frankie's inamorata operated. It was a fact she might have shared with me, as it would have saved me some time. I removed the photographs from the envelope and shoved them toward her.

She did a quick flip through the glossy prints, sighed and leaned back in the chair. "You wasted your morning, kiddo."

"What?"

"You wasted my time and yours and my money." One of her long pointy nails tapped the photos. "This ain't the bitch. He's not cheating on me with
her
. That's his sister."

"His... sis—"

"Yeah."

Wow. What I'd witnessed between Frankie and this redhead seemed a lot more sexual in nature than my chaste ideas of brotherly and sisterly affection.

"She's a total bitch," Dinah said, her voice low, sharp. "A homophobe. I really hate her guts. I'd be totally pissed if Frankie gave her a cent of money he's earned at the Club. Jade would roll over in his grave, and rightfully so."

Yes, he would. Jade Edger, Dinah's brother, had opened
Club Jaded Edge
and been the star attraction for a few years. Until he contracted HIV that soon developed into AIDS. Dinah had nursed him through until the very end. He'd willed the club to her and Dinah had continued on — making the club a memorial to him. She embraced the gay community as her own. If there was a prejudiced bone in her body, it was for the prejudiced.