[Cutthroat Business 01.0 - 03.0] Boxed Set Page 18

  He opened the door of a Lincoln Town Car double-parked at the curb. I hesitated. In mystery novels, the heroine always gets abducted when she gets into a cab she hasn’t ordered herself. Then again, if Rafe had wanted to abduct me, he could have done it himself yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that. Plus — and the thought only now occurred to me — he might not have any vehicle other than that monstrous Harley-Davidson, and if so, it was really quite considerate of him to send a car instead of expecting me to ride pillion.

  So I climbed into the Town Car and sat back against the leather upholstery, enjoying the feeling of being chauffeured and wondering where I’d end up for dinner.

  “Where are we going?” I inquired when the car circumvented the downtown restaurant district and headed for the snobbier west side instead. A pair of flat, brown eyes, as expressive as pebbles, met mine in the mirror.

  “Can’t say.”

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  He shook his head. “I mean I can’t say.”

  “You know, but you won’t tell me? Why not?” I kept my eyes on him in the rearview mirror.

  “Rafe told me, get the lady in the car and drive. No talkin’, no detours, no answerin’ questions. Just drive.”

  I arched my brows. “So you can’t talk to me?”

  “Nope. Sure don’t wanna upset the man.” He turned his attention back to driving. I leaned back, looking out of the window at the cars moving past and thinking dark thoughts.

  When we turned into Murphy Avenue and I saw a familiar red, green, and white canopy of Fidelio’s Restaurant up ahead, I knew where we were going, and I admit it: I would almost have preferred McDonald’s. Almost. Still, I made an effort to smile graciously when I approached the maitre d’. “Good evening. I’m meeting someone for dinner.”

  That distinguished gent inclined his gray head and murmured, “But of course, signorina. I’m afraid the gentleman signorina was with yesterday has not arrived yet, but...”

  “Never mind.” I had spotted Rafe over in the corner, carrying on what looked like a flirtation with all three women at an adjoining table. “I see him.”

  I left the maitre d’ in the dust and headed in that direction.

  I got a few glances from male patrons as I walked through the restaurant tonight too, but none from Rafe, who was much too busy to notice my approach. The three women were keeping him occupied, and he didn’t seem to mind one bit. Not very flattering, I must say. It wasn’t until I was standing across from him that he looked up and saw me. I could see his eyes light with amusement when he took in my primly buttoned blouse and tight chignon, but he didn’t comment, just grinned as he got up to pull out the chair for me.

  He had made an effort to clean up for the occasion himself, which was considerate of him. (Of course, the maitre d’ would have refused him admittance had he been dressed the way he usually was.) Tonight’s dark slacks and plain, button-down shirt wouldn’t win any awards for sartorial elegance, but the women at the next table didn’t seem to find any fault with him. The blue shirt made the most of his dusky complexion and dark eyes, and when he walked back around the table, I couldn’t help but notice that the slacks set off his posterior very nicely.

  Naturally I didn’t comment. Instead, I folded my hands demurely in my lap and waited until he was seated again before I smiled sweetly. “It was nice of you to send a car for me. I wasn’t looking forward to riding on the back of the bike.”

  “I figured.”

  “Although, if you had told me where we were going, I could have met you here.”

  “Stood me up, you mean.”

  “No, just...”

  He didn’t say anything, but a grin was tugging at his mouth.

  “Oh, all right,” I said. “I wouldn’t have stood you up — I have better manners than that — but if you had given me the opportunity to cancel, I would have.”

  “Why d’you think I didn’t answer the phone all afternoon? Drink?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He nodded toward the waiter, hovering next to the table.

  “Oh. Yes. White wine, please.”

  “And you, sir?” The waiter turned to Rafe. The ‘sir’ seemed to be an afterthought, but if Rafe noticed, he didn’t let on.

  “Just a beer.”

  The waiter sniffed. “We carry a large selection of imported beer, sir.”

  “I ain’t all that fancy. How about a Bud?”

  Fidelio’s could oblige with a selection of domestic beers as well, and in no time at all, Rafe was drinking a Budweiser while I was nursing a glass of chilled white wine. The waiter had brought another glass, so cold frost was forming on it, but Rafe had indicated that he preferred the bottle. The waiter had removed the glass with an eloquent sniff. Now Rafe leaned across the table and knocked his bottle against my glass. “Cheers.” He poured about half the contents down his throat.

  “If you keep drinking like that,” I commented, “I’ll know all your secrets before the evening is over.”

  He grinned. “Don’t count your chickens, darlin’.”

  I shrugged and changed the subject. There is more than one way to skin a cat. “That friend of yours you sent to pick me up seems nice. How long have you known him?”

  He looked at me for a moment, dark eyes watchful. Eventually, he seemed to decide that it wouldn’t do any harm to answer. “Going on ten years.”

  “Were you in prison together?” Maybe the man’s loyalty dated back to some occasion when Rafe had stood up against the prison bullies for him, or something. Not that he had looked like he would need help taking care of himself. There had been absolutely nothing servile about him, hired hand, or no. In fact, he was the least polite chauffeur I’d ever encountered.

  But Rafe shook his head in response to my question.

  “So you met him after you got out? Do you work together?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “At the... um... car lot?”

  He smiled. “The car lot’s what you might call a sideline.”

  “So you’re not a used car salesman?”

  “God forbid. No, darlin’. I don’t sell cars. Drive’em sometimes, but I don’t sell’em.”

  “So you’re a... chauffeur?”

  My questioning seemed to amuse him, because he laughed. “Not the way you mean.”

  “Truck-driver?”

  “Not really.”

  “Mover? Pilot? Maybe you freelance as a NASCAR-driver?”

  “Haven’t tackled that one yet, no. Might be fun, though.” He took another swallow of beer before leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. I conceded defeat with a sigh. He wasn’t going to tell me what he did for a living, so I might as well ask him something there was a chance he’d answer.

  “Tell me about Brenda’s storage unit.”

  “Ain’t much to tell. I was looking for something specific, so I didn’t take no notice of nothing else. What were you wanting to know?”

  “What you were looking for, for a start. And whether you found it.”

  He didn’t answer for a few moments, just watched me in silence. I was getting ready to squirm when he finally spoke. “I was looking for the paperwork for that house on Potsdam.”

  “And did you find it?”

  He looked away, over to the next table where the three women were sitting. One of them caught his eye and smiled. He lifted one corner of his mouth in return and turned back to me. “Yeah.”

  “So you know that Brenda Puckett offered Mrs. Jenkins a measly fifth of what she hoped to sell the property for.”

  He nodded.

  “Did you know that that kind of contract stipulation is illegal in Tennessee?”

  He shook his head. “But I don’t have to know that to know it’s wrong.”

  Good point.

  “Did you know that the hundred grand is already on deposit with the Milton House?”

  It was my turn to shake my head. “How did you find that out?
It wasn’t in the contract. Not the part I saw, anyway.”

  “I asked,” Rafe said.

  “And they told you? Oh, wait. That’s right. There’s not a nurse alive who can say no to you.”

  He grinned and toasted me with the beer bottle.

  While we had been bantering, the waiter had come back to take our dinner order. I ordered without consulting the menu — Chicken Marsala, the same thing I had had the night before — and waited for Rafe.

  “I don’t suppose you got cheeseburgers?” The waiter just stared at him, stonily, down the length of his nose. “Guess not. I’ll have what she’s having.” He handed the waiter his menu.

  “It won’t go well with the beer,” I warned. The waiter sniffed. Rafe shrugged.

  The waiter took the menus and disappeared, his back radiating disapproval. I turned back to Rafe. “They do steaks, I think. You can call him back and...”

  “Chicken’s fine.”

  “Oh.” I bit my lip. “OK, then. If you’re sure.”

  He grinned. “I ate courtesy of Riverbend Penitentiary for two years, darlin’. Chicken Marsala and beer ain’t the worst meal I’ve ever had.”

  “Maybe not,” I admitted, “but if you’re paying these kinds of prices for dinner, you may as well get something you enjoy.”

  “You afraid you’re cleaning out my food budget for the week? Don’t worry. I can afford to pay for dinner and still eat tomorrow.”

  “Good for you,” I said, trying not to think about the state of my own checking account and the refrigerator at home. “So you went to Brenda’s storage unit to look at the contract for 101 Potsdam Street?” He shrugged. “Or to steal it?” He smirked. “Why would you do something like that?”

  He didn’t answer, just kept his eyes on the now empty beer bottle he was turning over in his hands. I looked at him, at the downturned eyes and sweep of lashes across his cheeks, and decided to take a chance on expressing an idea I’d been toying with for a couple of days. The worst thing that would happen, was that he’d laugh at me, and even if he did, I’d survive. After all, it wasn’t like I cared what Rafe Collier thought of me.

  “Tondalia Jenkins really is your grandmother, isn’t she?”

  He looked up abruptly, and for just a second I saw a genuine emotion in his eyes. Surprise, and something deeper. Then it was replaced with amusement. “Quite the girl detective, ain’t you? How d’you figure that out?”

  “Process of elimination,” I said modestly. “You’re interested in the house, but there’s nothing in it worth stealing, and you can’t afford to buy it. You don’t have the resources in-hand, and without a steady job, you won’t be able to get a loan.”

  His eyes narrowed. “How d’you know anything about my resources?”

  I did a mental eye roll. He didn’t object to the suggestion that he would have stolen things had there been any to steal, but he didn’t like the idea that I knew about his financial status. “Todd did a background check on you.”

  He sat up straight so fast that the beer bottle wobbled. “You had Satterfield look into me? Why?”

  “I didn’t ask him to,” I said. “He did it all on his own. He was worried about me being involved with you.”

  Rafe leaned back in the chair again, relaxed once more. “I should be so lucky. So what did Satterfield come up with? Other than that I’m broke and unemployed?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. Rafe smirked, but the smirk faded as I went on to enumerate the things Todd’s background check had found. (So much for Todd’s assertion that the search hadn’t gone deep.) “You’ve never been married. You have no children, or at least none you’ve acknowledged. You don’t own a house. You don’t borrow money. You file taxes, but you don’t have the kind of income Todd thinks is necessary.”

  “But what does he know?” Rafe murmured. I ignored him.

  “And although you haven’t been arrested again since you got out of prison, you’ve been suspected of a fair number of crimes and interviewed in connection with several of them.”

  “Like Brenda Puckett’s murder.”

  I nodded. “Which brings me back to your interest in the house on Potsdam. And the Jenkinses. Tyrell was your father and Tondalia is your grandmother.”

  He arched a brow. “What if she is? Ain’t no crime for a man to look for his family.”

  “Of course not. And I’m glad you found her. Especially now that your mother has passed on.”

  I planned to add something else, but before I could, the waiter arrived. He placed a steaming plate of Chicken Marsala in front of each of us. I waited while Rafe cut a piece of chicken and put it in his mouth. Silence reigned while he chewed.

  “So what do you think?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “It ain’t a cheeseburger, but I guess it’ll do.”

  “It will help you sustain life, anyway.” I lifted my own utensils. “Just out of curiosity, how did you find Mrs. Jenkins after all this time? Or did you always know who she was?”

  Rafe shook his head. “My mama never talked about my daddy, and if I asked questions, old Jim would hit me, and her too, if she answered. I learned real fast to keep my mouth shut.”

  I nodded. I would have, too.

  “After he died, I tried asking her again, but all she said was that my daddy was dead, too. Wasn’t till last week, when I was clearing out all her stuff, that I found a newspaper notice about some kid named Tyrell Jenkins. She’d written a date on it, a couple months before I was born.”

  “What made you think it had anything to do with you?” I nibbled delicately on another piece of chicken. Rafe answered readily enough.

  “The date. And she kept it for thirty years. And... here, I’ll show you.”

  He put down knife and fork and fished in the pocket of the black leather jacket hanging over the back of his chair. Out came a wallet, and out of that a creased, yellowed piece of newsprint which he handed across the table to me. It was brittle, and felt fragile in my hands. I unfolded it carefully, and caught my breath when I saw what it contained. “My goodness. No wonder Mrs. Jenkins thought you were Tyrell.”

  According to LaDonna Collier’s childlike script, the clipping had come from the Tennessean, three years before I was born. A brief paragraph stated bluntly that Tyrell Jenkins, 19, had been shot to death by an unknown assailant outside his home on Potsdam Street. Beside the text was a grainy, black and white photograph of a smiling teenager. A yearbook photo, maybe; Tyrell was wearing shirt and tie, and had the fixed look of someone posing. The resemblance to Rafe was uncanny. Tyrell was darker-skinned and blunter-featured, with an afro that would have made the Supremes envious, but the eyes were the same, fringed by the same long, thick lashes, and he had the same hairline and the same bright grin. Rafe’s face was harder and more sculpted these days, but I could remember when he looked a lot like this. I looked from father to son a couple of times before I handed the clipping back. “That’s pretty conclusive. Almost as good as a note saying ‘this was your father’.”

  Rafe folded the clipping and tucked it back in his wallet, next to — I couldn’t help noticing — a thick stack of bills. “That’s what I thought. It even talks about the street. All I had to do was check the tax assessor’s website for the right address. When I drove up to it, I saw it was for sale, so I called Miz Puckett and asked to look at it. I hoped maybe she’d tell me where the family was.”

  “And did she?” I asked innocently.

  He squinted at me. “On the phone, you mean? No, darlin’, she didn’t.” And then his voice changed. “Oh, I get it. Nice try.”

  I shrugged. “I thought it couldn’t hurt to ask. Just in case.”

  “Can’t blame a girl for trying.” He cut another piece of chicken and chewed on it before he added, “I thought you said Clarice killed Brenda. Why’re you trying to pin it on me?”

  “I’m not. Not really. It just makes for a nice, neat solution. If you knew beforehand that Brenda had cheated your grandmother out of her house — and
you out of your inheritance — and you made an appointment to talk to her about it, and she refused to listen and told you that hell would freeze over before she released Mrs. Jenkins from the contract...”

  “I might have got so angry I killed the old broad?” He shrugged. “I guess I might have.”

  I squinted. “Really?”

  “No, darlin’. Not really. Not when I coulda just broken into her office and taken all the copies of the contract. No contract, no deal.”

  “It’s not as easy to break into our office as into the storage unit.”

  He didn’t answer, but I could tell from his expression that he didn’t think he’d have much of a problem. I added, “So what are you going to do now?”

  “Don’t know that there’s much I can do. I ain’t got no legal standing, remember. I can’t prove who I am. Tyrell’s name ain’t on my birth certificate, and my mama ain’t alive to say it oughta be. And Mrs. Jenkins — my grandma — ain’t in any kind of condition to know who I am one way or the other.”

  “They can do paternity testing for babies these days. Maybe they can test your DNA against Mrs. Jenkins’s, and tell whether you’re related. Heck, if they could prove that Thomas Jefferson slept with Sally Hemings two hundred years ago, they ought to be able to do something like that!”

  Rafe didn’t answer, just shrugged. I hesitated for a moment before I added, “My brother Dix — do you remember Dix? He was a year behind you in high school — Dix is an attorney. He and his partners — my sister Catherine and her husband — specialize in family law. He might have some ideas. I could ask him, if you’d like.”

  “Knock yourself out. Though maybe you’d better not tell him who you’re asking for. I don’t think he’d want you doing me any favors.”

  Knowing Dix, he had a point, but before I had time to say anything, I was interrupted.