Love Under Two Private Dicks Part 16

"We figure he wasn't so much stupid, as he was in over his head," Connor said. "Everything we were able to learn about him prior to 1998 gives us the picture of a man who was glib and charming, but generally lacking depth. I've spoken to old friends of his, and cla.s.smates, who recall a guy they would party with, but not one that they'd call on when they needed a hand with anything."

"He cut and run once, and it likely cost him more than he imagined it would," Mel said. "He took care of business within days of killing Jackson, and then settled in at his place outside of Divine and waited for the dust to settle. But as time went by, the fear of what might be waiting for him if he stuck his head up out of his little hidey-hole likely worked to keep him in one place."

"So he'll stay where he is unless he perceives he's in danger," Ace said. "But if he thinks he's threatened, he could do d.a.m.n near anything. There's something really off about the guy. I'd bet the man is working with diminished capacity."

"That's what we think, too," Connor said. "If Smith, or Baxter, thinks he's in danger, then all bets are off. That's why we want to go slow, take our time, and build a case. Find out who this man is now, his habits, what he does with his time. If, however, at the end of the day, we can't find evidence of what he did, then we will need him to panic-but according to our script, and not his 'diminished capacity.'"

"That makes sense." Ethan Grant sat back and looked from him to Mel. "I never met Carrie Rhodes, but I did meet Chloe on a couple of occasions. She lived here in Divine, as you know, for a time. She worked at Madeleine's, where Gracie likes to go."

Connor guessed that Ethan had something on his mind. Since the man was Mel's friend, he sat back, and waited.

"She did," Mel said. "She came to live in l.u.s.ty when her sister settled there, and after a relations.h.i.+p she was involved in here didn't work out." Mel sat forward. "One of the things we do for the l.u.s.ty Town Trust is have a look into the backgrounds of people who decide to make l.u.s.ty their home. Normally that information is extremely confidential. I would never have mentioned it, but you seem to have a reason for bringing her and that past relations.h.i.+p up."

Ethan seemed to relax at that. "I do. The man she lived with-Beck O'Malley-took her leaving hard, and has only recently been coming to grips with the fact that things didn't work out between them. He's in a new relations.h.i.+p now, and finally getting his s.h.i.+t together. I'd like to bring him and his best friend into this. I think it would be good if he could have a hand in finding justice for Chloe. I think it would be good for him, and good for Chloe, too."

Mel looked over at Connor. Perhaps a few months ago he would never even have considered Ethan's request. But as a man dealing with a woman who'd been wounded by a past relations.h.i.+p, he could totally understand the need to heal. Not for that a.s.shat that hurt their Emily Anne, of course. But he knew enough of the situation to understand that in the case of Chloe Rhodes and Beck O'Malley, no one really mistreated anyone. Neither one had done anything bad. It had just been a case of their not really being meant for each other.

Chloe had been wise to understand that and turn down O'Malley's proposal. From his perspective of having one broken marriage under his belt, he could attest to the simple truth of things. Sometimes it was better not to marry than to marry and then have to walk away.

Connor hoped O'Malley had finally found the woman meant to be his. So he nodded.

"That's fine with us," Mel said. "Bring them up to speed on the situation. In the meantime, Connor and I will get to work and gather as much as we can on Smith. When we get to the point where it's time to figure out our game plan, another couple sets of eyes and ears-especially ones rooted here in Divine-could prove useful."

Chapter 16.

Maybe I'm going crazy.

There were days when Bruce Smith looked into the mirror and didn't know who he was anymore. Sometimes, he'd look into his own eyes and feel a sense of disconnection, as if what he was looking at was a painting, the representation of a fictional character. It was almost as if there was a gap opening up between himself and the image that stared back at him-a gap that kept getting wider and wider with each pa.s.sing day.

Those sensations had escalated in the last few weeks. He didn't quite know what to make of it except to wonder if he finally was just going crazy.

Bruce had made choices in his life, some that he regretted, certainly, but there were no do-overs, and nothing he could do about all of that now, anyway. In a lot of ways, even though the life he had been living the last fifteen years was all a lie, it was easier, day to day, than what had come before it.

As Bruce Smith, he didn't have to present a particular facade to the world. He didn't have to have the latest styles hanging in his closet. He didn't have to smile all the time and put on that hat that read "salesman." He didn't have to fuss over his appearance, although he thought he'd probably been vain enough that it hadn't seemed a ch.o.r.e to him before. Not like it did now. h.e.l.l, sometimes he found it hard to remember to shower or even comb his hair.

He didn't have to meet people every day and pretend to like them. That alone was worth everything he'd been through over the last fifteen or so years. People, by and large, were just no d.a.m.n good and it felt right to be able to let his true feelings on the matter show.

Bruce almost never, ever even thought the name "Ralph Baxter" anymore. Ralph Baxter was dead. Bruce Smith had been born from his ashes, and after all this time, Bruce should just accept that he'd survived, and he'd won, and the fear and the hiding were over.

He'd begun to do that, venturing into the town of Divine more often, thinking of himself as Smith more often. He was home. The past was over. He was happy because life really was good.

So if life was good, and he was happy, why was he so on edge, lately? He should be feeling on top of the world. He'd actually won the first two rounds of the Grand Texan Tournament, and would log in to play in the final on Sat.u.r.day night.

He would log in to that final, and play, and he would win!

Bruce looked down at the paper bag he'd just set on the kitchen counter. He didn't even know why he'd decided to go into town, get those few things at the grocery store. He'd made a habit of shopping for what he needed usually on Monday. The original plan had been to be seen just enough that no one would gossip much about him, so that after a year or so he'd be considered a regular, a local, and be left alone. That had worked to a large degree. He'd been a regular of Divine for more than a dozen years.

That was why he'd thrown out all his power suits and dressed instead in clothing that was notable only for being very bland and nondescript. He was clean, and pressed, but not impressive. He'd stopped going to the stylist, instead opting for an ordinary barber shop. Lately he'd actually been cutting his own hair. He'd made all these adjustments just so that he would blend in, become invisible-so that he could fade away. And for the most part, for more than a decade, Bruce knew he'd been successful.

Around the town of Divine, folks who knew his name nodded when he went past. h.e.l.l, he'd even begun to stop in at the Dancing Pony and had made that a regular part of his routine for the last year. He enjoyed having a cold beer once in a while. The nightclub was decent, and the music, in the late afternoons, not too loud.

Bruce Smith's life was predictable, if boring, but after what he'd been through back in the late nineties as Ralph Baxter, predictable and boring were good things. If he went into town on a day that wasn't his regular shopping day, he usually had a reason, like taking one of his computers in for repair, or fetching something he needed.

Today hadn't been like that. He'd been on his way to town before he'd known what he was actually doing. He'd gone, he thought now, as if something deep in his subconscious had warned him to go and look and see. And there, had felt that unease, that uncertainty. He'd felt dread.

Why can't I shake the feeling that everything is going to blow up in my face?

He'd felt "off" for the last couple of months, now that he thought about it. He couldn't even say what the h.e.l.l was wrong, but whatever it was, whatever had stirred his insecurities, it was getting worse.

He focused on the last couple of hours, let everything that he'd done, everything he'd felt, play over in his head. This morning, while he'd been walking from the grocery store back to his car, he could have sworn that someone had been watching him. He'd looked around as casually as he could, but he hadn't seen anyone or anything out of the ordinary.

Had Brody Carp finally found him? He ran a hand through his hair. No, if that b.a.s.t.a.r.d loan shark knew where he was he wouldn't follow him, or watch him. He'd break down his f.u.c.king door, and then he'd break him.

Maybe it's time to move again. Maybe I am going crazy. Maybe I'm being haunted by ghosts-ghosts that are long dead and buried They were still dead and buried, weren't they? He was still dead and buried, wasn't he? Of course he is. No one comes back from the dead.

Bruce left the grocery bag on the counter and headed outside. The Texas sun beat down without mercy, making the air hot and the gra.s.s dry. If the weather gurus had it right, 2013 was going to be another scorcher. Thank G.o.d he had AC and that he didn't have to go outside very often at all.

Sweat began to dot his forehead as he made his way across his backyard toward the barns. He had four of them, s.p.a.ced out in an arc behind the house. They weren't actual barns-they were more the size of s.p.a.cious garages, but he never, ever referred to them in his thoughts as "garages."

Not ever.

He thought of them as barns because the land he lived on had once been a farm. But he didn't farm. He just did what he did, which was not much. He stood and looked at each building in turn.

What will it be, Mr. Smith? Will you choose door number one, door number two, door number three, or door number four?

Bruce snickered as the image of a game-show host, complete with microphone and phony smile popped into his head.

He'd choose door number three, of course. It was always door number three.

He pulled out the fistful of keys he religiously kept close at hand and began to open the sequence of locks that barred entrance to the building. Seven sets of hasps with seven different styles of locks had been installed on this building. He'd repeated that pattern with each of the buildings, of course, just so that they were all the same. So that they didn't look suspicious, being different. On each one of the "barns", the line those locks formed down the outside wall appeared straight and precise.

He hadn't marked the keys, because he hadn't wanted to make things easy for anyone who might try and sneak in and see what he had inside.

He nearly snickered aloud. If thieves broke into any of three of his buildings, they would be left disappointed. They were empty. Only this building had anything inside it.

Smith put his attention on his task. He might have trouble figuring out what keys opened the seven locks on each of the other three barns, but he knew the ones that opened these locks on this barn by heart.

Startled, Smith realized it had been a few months since he'd last opened this door. The locks functioned, but a couple of them seemed to have weathered slightly. He'd have to oil them-and make a point of coming out and opening these locks at least a couple of times a month.

Finally the last padlock sprang open. He looked around, that sense of being watched almost as strong now as it had been earlier that day in town.

There's no one there watching you. Well, no one corporeal, at any rate. The idea of a ghost had been planted in his mind, and he wondered how long the concept would haunt him.

He swung the door open just enough for his body to pa.s.s through, and stepped into the dark and dank interior.

He reached for the switch on the wall, sending electricity to the single bulb that hung down from the roof rafters. He'd have more light if he opened the larger, main roll-up door, but of course he would never do that.

Not ever.

The bulk that took up s.p.a.ce in the middle of the building, covered by an old tarp, rested exactly in the same place as it had been since the day he put it there, what-fourteen years ago? More? Less? He forgot and really, it didn't matter.

He'd scattered talc around the ma.s.s, so he'd be able to tell if anyone had been close to it. No prints of any kind marred the white powdered surface.

Do ghosts leave tracks?

He stepped forward to get a better look, and his foot kicked something that skittered ahead of him on the concrete floor.

Bruce Smith looked down at the crack that dissected the cement, and the piece of loose concrete that he'd sent flying with his foot.

He felt his heart thud heavily in his chest. As he walked and looked, he noticed that several other cracks had opened up, the pattern reminding him of a shattered winds.h.i.+eld.

This is worse than a shattered winds.h.i.+eld. This could be a shattered life.

He inhaled deeply, and fought for calm. There were no such things as ghosts. He'd simply done a poor job of laying this concrete pad all those years ago. He hadn't let it cure properly, because he'd been in a hurry to have it covered over with a structure, and out of sight.

He'd taken a short cut here and that-and only that-was what was going to haunt him.

He turned from his inspection and headed for the door. Anger fueled his motions as he flicked down the light switch and slammed the door behind him.

It didn't take long for him to put the locks back in place. Then he stepped back, slipped the key ring back in his pocket, and considered his options.

No one could see into this building, and no one would be opening it and looking around inside of it. It was just not going to happen. He had to quell the fear that had begun to blossom deep into his chest and pulse with each heavy heartbeat into his blood. No one was following him, no one was watching him, and there were no such things as ghosts.

People got away with stuff all the time-it was simply propaganda from law enforcement agencies that maintained every criminal would be caught. The truth was that very few criminals were ever caught. So he didn't have to worry about any f.u.c.king thing except one, and that was his own nerves. His only enemy at this point was his own stupid, asinine fear.

If he let it, that fear could eat him alive-or make him do something that would ultimately prove to be his downfall.

Bruce Smith inhaled deeply, then ran his hand over his face. He decided to ignore the fact that his hand was shaking. Instead, he cast his thoughts in search of a solution.

He didn't feel safe and he needed to feel safe.

Of course! He was a little embarra.s.sed that he hadn't thought about it before. He headed back into his house. He walked through the kitchen to his bedroom. He reached into his sock drawer and pulled out the bank envelope he kept there. He counted out the money he thought he would need.

His movements were automatic as he stuffed the money into his pocket, s.n.a.t.c.hed up his keys and headed out again.

Because he had lived in this area for so long, he knew where a man could get most anything he wanted-whether he should have it, or not.

Ol' Bill was a man he'd met and talked to now and again, over on the other side of Morehead. He had a collection of guns and rifles that would make a military man proud.

And he knew that Ol' Bill would sell him a nice little Glock for a couple hundred dollars, and then forget he'd done so.

Smith started the car and headed out. Having a handgun with him at all times would be just the thing to make him feel safe and secure.

Emily Anne's step faltered as she neared the front door of l.u.s.ty Appet.i.tes. She couldn't believe what she was seeing-who she was seeing, right there before her two disbelieving eyes!

The last time Emily Anne had seen Billy J, she'd been certain that her heart-and her self-esteem-had been shattered beyond repair. She'd even sung along at the top of her lungs as Miranda Lambert's "Mamma's Broken Heart" played on her car radio while she'd made her way to San Antonio for her retail therapy.

Her own mother bore an amazing resemblance to the mother in Miranda's song, more concerned with appearances than feelings. True, it hadn't taken her very long, once she'd arrived in l.u.s.ty, to understand she was better off without Billy J. Cooper. He'd treated her shabbily and as she'd opened her eyes and seen what real love looked like, and how real relations.h.i.+ps worked, she'd healed not only her broken heart, but far more significantly, she'd begun to heal her broken self-esteem. But before she came to l.u.s.ty she'd believed that day-the day Billy J dumped her-had been the worst day of her life.

How could I have ever been so stupid?

Today she'd used her lunch break to go down to Chloe's to have her bikini line waxed. She was working up her nerve to get a full Brazilian-she planned to ask Connor and Mel if it was something they'd like her to have done. If their eyes lit up at the prospect then by d.a.m.n she'd do it, and suffer the discomfort gladly.

Emily Anne dragged her attention back to the here and now. About the only good thing she could think of to say about what she was looking at was that it sure as heck took her mind off the lingering burn from Chloe's wax.

Inside l.u.s.ty Appet.i.tes, right there at a table beside the front window, bold as bra.s.s, sat Billy J. The foolish man had his attention fixed in a way she knew meant he was looking at one of the women inside there.

Too bad I know Chloe's not in there. It sure would be interesting to see Billy J's reaction if Grant and Andrew Jessop caught him ogling their fiance.

Then another thought took over center stage of her brain. How the h.e.l.l had that little p.i.s.sant even found her?

Oh, Momma, what have you done? Emily Anne's heart hurt from the thought of parental betrayal. She shook her head. That was something she would have to deal with, later.

For one fleeting moment she thought to spin on her heel and go back toward Chloe's. She'd call and speak to Kelsey, and explain that she'd be back to work as soon as that low-down, no-good son of a...No.

No, this was her town, and that was her place of employment. She belonged here, and Billy J. Cooper most definitely did not.

Emily Anne inhaled deeply and walked right through the door and into the restaurant.

Billy J didn't see her at first, and wasn't that just typical? He had his gaze fixed on Mich.e.l.le Grant or, more specifically, Mich.e.l.le's b.u.t.t. Her friend and co-worker had her back to him as she was serving lunch to Miz Bernice and Miz Abigail who were chatting with Mich.e.l.le. Not one of those good women had a clue about the lech seated so near to them.

I ought to go right over there and slap his face.

Then she blinked and looked around. Those ladies may not have any idea of what was happening in their midst, but some of the men sitting around, finis.h.i.+ng their lunch, sure as h.e.l.l did. Emily Anne held on to the urge to laugh. She could see Colt Evans and Ryder Magee, at a table beside Carrie's two husbands, Chase and Brian Benedict, who were sitting with their brother Greg and Cody Harper and all six men looked p.i.s.sed.

Emily Anne didn't call out to him, or call him any of the nasty names that came to her mind. She simply took the steps needed to stand so that she blocked his view of Mich.e.l.le's b.u.t.t.

Billy J could never be called swift. He scowled, then looked up. For a heartbeat she thought he didn't even recognize her. Then his expression cleared, and he pasted on the smarmiest smile she'd ever seen on anyone anywhere anytime.

"Emily Anne! Sweetheart! There you are." He jumped to his feet and made as if to grab her into a hug.

She stepped back, held up her hand. "Don't you 'sweetheart' me, Billy J. Cooper. What in the h.e.l.l are you doing here?"

If Emily Anne hadn't been forewarned, if her mind hadn't been worrying the problem of why her mother had wanted her to give this no account another chance, she might have been fooled by the downcast turn of his face, as if he was fixing to fess up to some horrible sin.

But she was paying close attention and she caught the glitter in his eyes and knew what was about to come out of his mouth for the bulls.h.i.+t is surely was.

"You know that sayin' you don't never know what you've got till it's gone. That's me, right there, Emily Anne. You left and I realized that I had made a terrible mistake. I...I owe you an apology for the way I treated ya. I'm sorry, and I'm hoping you'll forgive me and take me back."