“Mess it up how?”
“Me and Brittany kind of picked up where we’d left off before. I mean, since we were cool as a threesome I figured Kimmy wouldn’t mind, you know?”
“And she did?”
“She totally did. Came home one day, found us in bed together and just completely lost it. I said to her, ‘This isn’t what it looks like.’ And she said, ‘Really? Because it looks like you’re screwing my best friend.’ Kimmy couldn’t handle it, man. Told me I had no soul. That I was dead inside. Next thing I knew she’d moved back in with her folks and we were toast.”
“What about Brittany?”
“She split town. Ended up married to some businessman down in Austin. Has a bunch of kids.” He finished off the last of his beer. “That’s the real story, man. From the source. Naturally, the old prune-faced biddies vastly prefer their own version, which is that Kimmy came home and found me in bed with a guy. It fits together better with all of the lies they’ve been telling about Courtney and me for so many years. To this day they will swear to you that Kimmy dumped me because I’m queer. Let me tell you something, man. I have to make an honest living in this place. So I work for them. I take their money. But some day those old prune-faced biddies will get what’s coming to them. The bad you do comes back to you.” J. Z. ran a hand over his weathered face. “Who said that?”
“You did,” Mitch replied. “Just now.”
“No, like isn’t that a line from a chick song? Natalie Merchant, maybe? God, I hate her.”
“How are things between you and Kimberly now? Do you speak?”
“Sure. Wouldn’t jibe with her whole Zenny self-image to snub me. Bad karma. We’re cool. Well, not cool, but civil.” J. Z. gazed out of the bay window again, only this time his eyes widened with alarm. “Whoa, it’s getting dark,” he gasped. “I have to clear out right now.” He grabbed his baggie of dope and jumped to his feet. “Is it okay if I wear your clothes home? I’ll drop ’em off next time I’m out this way.”
“No problem,” Mitch assured him. “But what’s your hurry?”
“I don’t like the dark.”
“Why not?”
“Bad things happen,” he whispered, gulping with genuine fright. Or at least it seemed genuine. The man was quaking with terror.
“What kind of bad things?”
J. Z. Cliffe didn’t answer him. He’d already gone barreling out the front door, leaving it open wide behind him. Mitch got up and closed it, then reached for his cell phone to call Des.
CHAPTER 8
That night, Des left her cruiser in front of the firehouse and patrolled the Historic District on foot. Oly and two other troopers were prowling the District in their rides.
The night air was warm and sultry. If there was a moon up there she couldn’t see it. She strolled her way along the rows of exquisitely preserved colonial mansions, her big leather belt and holster creaking, eyes and ears open. She could hear the sound of TV sets coming from open windows. Someone somewhere was playing an unsteady version of “Stardust” on a piano. She saw a few folks out walking their dogs. And a pair of giggly young girls running down the street for home in their bathing suits, dripping wet from somebody’s swimming pool. But hardly any cars drove by. This was not unusual. The real action in Dorset on Saturday night wasn’t in the Historic District. The bars and clubs were down near the marina.
It was nearly nine o’clock when she came to a halt out in front of the Captain Chadwick House. Only one room was lit up at the Farrells’ place. Dex and Maddee were watching television or reading, she figured. In contrast, there were lights on all over Beth Breslauer’s condo. As Des started across the lawn toward the backyard she could see Beth through her kitchen window. Mitch’s first love was doing the dishes. Kenny and Kimberly were with her, the three of them chatting merrily, laughing. Already one little happy family. Upstairs, Bertha Peck’s unit was dark. She’d gone out apparently. Her garage door was down. All of them were down except for Augie’s. The man’s vintage, red GTO sat there, gleaming under his garage’s overhead light. There were lights on in his apartment upstairs, too. Music was playing. An old Neil Diamond record. She settled in among the arborvitae bushes that edged the property and crouched there, waiting for him to make his move.
Twenty minutes had gone by when she felt her cell phone vibrate. She glanced at the screen and took the call, keeping her voice down.
“I’ve got a hot prospect for you, girlfriend. I am talking sizzling.”
“Mitch, I thought you weren’t going to do this again,” she whispered.
“Do what?” he asked innocently.
“Go Nancy Drew on me.”
“I’d rather be classified as one of the Hardy Boys, if you don’t mind. Either Frank or Joe will do. I’m not picky. And you’re right, I was. But this kind of fell into my boxer shorts.”
“Into your what?”
“Des, I can barely hear you. Why are you whispering?”
“Mitch, what do you want?”
He was calling to tell her about J. Z. Cliffe, the burnout case who painted houses around town. How J. Z. had just left Big Sister stoned off of his gourd and just plain out there. Why J. Z.’s marriage to Kimberly had fallen apart. And why J. Z. remained filled with anger toward the Historic District’s “old prune-faced biddies.”
“J. Z.’s girlfriend, Maggie, slings drinks weekends at the Monkey Farm,” Mitch added. “That means he’s been footloose and fancy-free every single night our flasher has struck. His mom, Connie, has a big place right there on Dorset Street. He lives in her guesthouse. Refresh my memory-is Connie one of the ladies who’s been victimized?”
“That would be a no.”
“Naturally. No way he’d flash his own mother, would he? Well, maybe he would. But let’s not go there. I’ve already had a full dose of weird tonight.” Mitch fell silent. “You’re not excited. Why aren’t you excited?”
“The man’s a prospect, no question,” she admitted.
“He should be home in ten minutes. Are you going to shadow him?”
“Can’t. I’m sitting on someone else.”
“Augie, am I right?”
“Baby, just let me do my thing, will you?”
“I can sit on J. Z. for you. I’ll jump in my truck and head right over there.”
“Mitch, this isn’t Tombstone. I’m not deputizing you. And we’re not, repeat not, doing this. I’ll take it from here. Just watch a movie, will you?”
“The Mets are playing.”
“Even better. I’ll swing by your place later, if that sounds appealing to you.”
“Extremely appealing. It so happens I picked up some lavender oil at the health food store today.”
“And what are you planning to do with that?”
“Well, first I’m going to massage you with it from head to toe. And then…” And then he proceeded to describe in great detail what else he planned to do-much of it involving his tongue and her most private crevices.
“Um, okay, I’m hanging up now.” She flicked off her phone and waited for her pulse rate to slow back down to under a hundred. Then she called Oly, who promised he’d swing by the Cliffe place right away.
A car pulled into the gravel driveway of the Captain Chadwick House with a loud thump and started its way around back toward the garage. Bertha Peck’s powder blue Mercedes 450 SL convertible. It was coming hard and fast and not particularly straight. The old girl was potted. Almost took out a row of Maddee Farrell’s cherished Blush Noisettes before she screeched to a halt, using her remote control to raise her garage door. Bertha swung in way wide, very nearly scraping the side of her car as she pulled in. Then idled there for a moment with the rear half of the Mercedes still sticking out before she inched the rest of the way in and shut off her engine. She got out of the car, hit the switch to close the garage door and went tottering up the path to the mansion’s rear entrance, humming to herself. A few moments later her living room lights came on upstairs. Then her bedroom lights. Then her bathroom light. After a minute, Des heard her toilet flush, and sincerely hoped it didn’t choose tonight to clog up again.