“What do you want me to do, Brady? Just take off across the state line and swoop in like the FBI’s done here?”
“Somebody should. Maybe I will.”
He stood there looking at me for a second, and then he laughed. “This is a real investigation now, Brady; the Feds are all over it. Why in the hell would you get involved in this?”
“I’m already involved,” I said.
“Really?” he asked. “Says who? The court? That old woman who runs the home? This isn’t a game, man; you can’t play your way back onto the force. The last thing you need to do is get involved and step on somebody’s toes.”
“Whose toes are you worried about, Sandy: yours?”
“I’m just trying to keep you from getting in over your head. Again.”
“You’re not thinking about me. So far I’m the only one who got your witness to talk about this money. You can’t even find him. Now we’re the only ones who know about it, and you can’t stand it, can you? You can’t stand sharing this case with me.” I flicked my cigarette butt against the glass door to my office.
“Look, Brady, I came over here to give you an update. I’m trying to help you out.”
“I don’t need your charity, Sandy.”
He stepped back and took a look at the window where 1-800-SAF-HOME was printed on the glass. “Yeah, Brady,” he said, smiling, pulling his car keys out of his pocket. “It looks like you’re doing just great on your own.”
CHAPTER 24
Saturday night was the college fair over at Jessica’s school, and I spent most of that time at home, watching baseball and thinking about the decision Jessica was going to make about going to Peace. I could picture her, Tina, and Dean moving from table to table, talking to all of Jessica’s friends who I didn’t know anymore about a graduation party that I probably wouldn’t be invited to.
And I just felt stuck, like I couldn’t even get out of my chair to turn off the lights or the TV to go to bed.
So maybe that explains why I don’t quite remember going to the closet for my.38, then going out to the car and hiding it under the driver’s seat. But I definitely remember sitting out in the parking lot at Tomcat’s, staring at the building and wondering who or what I’d find inside and exactly what I was going to do once I found out. I had a feeling that whoever had killed Wade’s mother was the same guy carrying around a picture of Easter, and I had no doubt that he was really looking for Wade, and I was even more certain that Tommy Broughton was the one who’d sent him. I’d never met Wade Chesterfield, but by all accounts he sounded more like a fool than a murderer. But I had met Tommy Broughton, and I knew if he’d had that much money hidden in one wall then there was no telling how much he had hidden in others-every single cent of it stolen. He’d be desperate enough to do just about anything to cover his ass.
The bass from the music inside the club pounded in my chest as I walked through the parking lot, and it pulsed against my hand when I touched the door. Inside, the club was dark and smoky, and it looked exactly like what you’d expect a place to look like on Wilkinson Boulevard in the no-man’s-land between Belmont and Charlotte: purple neon lights shone over the bar, and glaring red light lit the dance floor. The place was filled with people of all ages, but most of them were grizzled-looking men in their forties and fifties, drinking beer and staring up at the TV screens. None of them seemed surprised or interested that I’d shown up to join them.
There were a few empty stools around the bar, and I walked over and sat down and leaned my back against the counter. Someone tapped my shoulder a few minutes later, and I turned around and saw the bartender. His mouth was moving, but it was so loud that I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I screamed, “Budweiser,” and he nodded and walked down the bar; a few seconds later he came back and twisted off the cap and sat the beer in front of me. I opened my wallet and fished out a five-dollar bill and slid it across the counter. He picked up the money and turned to the register, and when he turned back around he slid a one-dollar bill across the counter to me. It dawned on me that maybe some of the money hidden in Broughton’s walls came from selling four-dollar bottles of Budweiser to lonely middle-aged guys. I slid the dollar across the bar, and he nodded and picked it up and dropped it into a glass tip jar. Before he could turn away, I motioned for him to lean forward.
“Is Tommy here tonight?” I yelled.
“Who?!”
“Tommy!” I screamed. “Is he here?”
“He’s not here tonight!” he screamed back. He stepped away and shrugged his shoulders, and then he walked to the other end of the bar, where a waitress had been trying to get his attention.
I turned around and leaned against the bar, and then I lit a cigarette. The beer was barely cold, and I took a few more sips before leaving it on the bar and crossing my arms.
A shaft of light spread across the back of the club where someone opened and closed a door, and I watched a tall skinny guy walk toward the bar. He stopped a few feet to my right and held up his hand until the bartender saw him and came over and took his order. When the bartender walked away, I leaned toward the guy.
“Tommy here?” I screamed.
“No,” he yelled back. He turned toward the bar, but then he seemed to think better of it, and he looked at me again. “Who wants to know?”
“Just wondering,” I said. “Just want to meet him-that’s all.”
“Tommy’s not here,” he said. The bartender brought over the guy’s order: a Bud Light and what looked like whiskey on the rocks. The guy looked at me again, and then he picked up his drinks and walked toward the back of the club. Light poured from the door when he opened it and stepped inside. I sat there for a couple of minutes, smoked another cigarette, and then I snubbed it out, got up, and followed him.
The hallway was black and the door was painted black too just like the doors on the men’s and women’s restrooms that sat to the right of it. A strip of light glowed beneath it. I thought about knocking, but I couldn’t think of a good reason, so I turned the knob and opened the door instead.
The guy I’d seen out at the bar sat in a chair against the wall on the right side of the room. Facing me was the kind of desk you’d see at a used-car dealership with a faux-wood tabletop supported by black aluminum sides. Behind the desk sat Tommy Broughton. He was fatter than he was the last time I’d seen him, and his black mustache and black hair had clearly been dyed to hide the gray. Both he and the guy sitting against the wall looked shocked that I’d opened the door, much less had dared to step inside.
“There you are,” I said, staring at Broughton while closing the door behind me. The guy sitting against the wall made to stand up, but I held up my hand to stop him. “No, no, no,” I said. “It’s okay. I just want to talk.” I pulled out one of the chairs facing the desk and sat down. The guy on my right sat back down too.
“So,” I said, looking at Broughton, “it’s been a while.” I crossed my legs and let my hands rest in my lap.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Broughton asked.
“I’m just out on the town on a Saturday night,” I said. “Just like anybody else, but when I found out that you were the Tommy in Tomcat’s, I was just dying to see you. So I asked your buddy here if he knew you, but he said no.” I sat up straight and turned to the guy sitting in the chair. His face was almost white and he looked nervous, like he didn’t know what was going to happen; I didn’t either. I pointed at Broughton. “This is Tommy,” I said. “You should get to know him. He’s a real stand-up guy. We go back a long way, don’t we, Tommy?”
“What do you want?” Broughton asked.
“I just want to talk,” I said. “Ask a few questions.”