Drop Dead, Gorgeous Part 14

"Don't toy with me, boy!" Edgar's face flushed red again. "It's not what you say. It's what you don't say! It's what you imply!"

"What the h.e.l.l have I implied? Tell me, man! You're talking in circles here! Have you been snorting that s.h.i.+t with Bridgette?" He reached out to Edgar, but the old man slapped his hand away.

"I did what I had to! I did the only thing I could! You know that! You said that yourself, Jordan! I did the only f.u.c.kin' thing I could!"

"You did, Edgar."

"I never expected you to judge me, Jordan! Not being who you are!"

The longer Edgar ranted, the more Jordan realized what was really going on here. Guilt was gnawing away at him. It had been eating at him for years, and Edgar was finally starting to buckle under the weight of it.

"I'm sorry if I ever made you feel that way, Edgar," Jordan said as sincerely as he could, and he meant it. Edgar had been like a father to him. In so many ways, he'd been more of a father to him than Julian ever had. "If it means anything to you, I'll back off." He raised his hands in surrender. "You don't need the pressure right now. I understand that."

Jordan stood up and started to walk away and leave that old man alone with his conscience.

"He's only your half brother, Jordan," Edgar called out. "Joel Tunson's b.a.s.t.a.r.d son..." His voice trailed off. "Make it easy on yourself, son. Make him go away and be done with it."

'Cause You Could Catch a Bad One Jordan knew where she lived. Lonnie lived in a secure building, but she doubted that a door that required a code card to open and a nice person sitting at the front desk to welcome visitors and mail carriers would be enough to keep him from getting to her if he really wanted to. Time was running out for Lonnie. The only thing working in her favor now is that Jordan didn't feel the urgency of the situation, and he'd made it clear that he wasn't taking seriously the threat of using Frank Ross to expose him. She'd hoped for that. Lonnie had counted on it. Frank was never meant to be more than a ruse, a tactic of misdirection and a distraction to Jordan, and a way to buy her more time.

It was after one in the morning and Lonnie had spent the better part of the night Googling the h.e.l.l out of Edgar Beckman. In her career as a journalist, Lonnie prided herself on her research skills. She had a knack for finding the obvious, but more importantly, she had a gift of being able to read between the lines of truth and speculation, and for being able to put together the puzzle pieces of circ.u.mstance.

She had a notepad filled with the vital statistics of Beckman: when and where he was born, a list of law firms he'd worked for through the years, including heading up his own practice twice, once at the beginning of his career, and again before he finally retired nearly a decade ago. He'd run for the position of mayor of Fort Worth in his fifties, which she suspected was the reason he even had a Wikipedia page. But there was almost nothing written about his upbringing or his immediate family. And like Phillip had said, Beckman was on his third wife now, thirty-year-old Bridgette Fontaine, a former cheerleader for the New Orleans Saints professional football team.

She'd noticed a pattern early on in her search of Beckman. And it was in his a.s.sociation with one of the wealthiest and most influential families in Texas, the Gatewoods. Lonnie stumbled upon photograph after photograph of Beckman shaking hands with or with an arm wrapped around some member of the Gatewood family. An old black-and-white photo of him with Julian Gatewood's arm wrapped around Beckman's shoulder or of the two of them in fis.h.i.+ng gear, laughing together, was a clear indication that the two men had been close and more than just business partners.

Later, after Julian's death and at Desi's trial, images of Beckman sitting next to Olivia Gatewood and holding her hand, or escorting her and her children out of the courthouse surfaced, showing again how close he was to this family. More recent pictures of him and Jordan together at press conferences and sitting around meeting rooms together implied that he was as close as ever to the Gatewoods and that Jordan had filled the void in Beckman's life Julian had left behind, all except for the fis.h.i.+ng part. She couldn't find any picture of Jordan wearing a fis.h.i.+ng hat and casting a rod anywhere.

How do you topple a king? You find his weakness. She'd done that. Jordan's weakness was his name, Gatewood. But after you find his weakness, then what? You turn his most loyal subjects against him. There was no doubt in her mind that Jordan's biggest fan and cheerleader was Claire. Phillip wouldn't have taken the trouble of pointing out Edgar Beckman to her if Beckman wasn't important. He'd obviously had something to do with nullifying Julian Gatewood's original will in the probate courts. Which meant that he knew the truth. He knew that Jordan was Julian's stepson, and that Desi was Julian's biological daughter, at least, as he'd admitted it in his will.

If Beckman was Jordan's right-hand man then how could Lonnie get him to turn on his number one? The man thought enough of Jordan to see to it that he was magically made a Gatewood by blood, despite the glaring facts that disputed it. What else had he been willing to do for Jordan? And if he was buddy-buddy with Jordan, then he was dirty too.

Beckman's first wife, Annette Clark, died of breast cancer in 1985. They'd been married for thirty years, and had four children, three boys and a girl. Dominga Rojas was his second wife. Dominga was Chilean and was twenty-four when she married Beckman in 1987. They were married for seven years, until 1994. Bridgette Fontaine, his current wife, had been married to Beckman for three years. She was twenty-seven when she married Beckman.

Lonnie leaned back and sighed. The fact that the old dude liked them young wasn't a crime, but if he did have any dirt on him, she couldn't find it. "Come on, Edgar," she murmured to herself as she scrolled through pictures and articles, including wife number one's obituary and the grieving widower, Edgar, leaving the funeral surrounded by his children. "You're not that squeaky clean. I know you're not."

Any good and close friend of Julian Gatewood and now his son, Satan, had to have some dirty little gem hidden somewhere. Lonnie just had to look and then look some more if necessary. It wasn't long before she hit pay dirt.

"Persistence is a virtue," she said to herself. Lonnie had painstakingly done Internet searches on each of his wives, and come up with nothing on Annette Clark except for a photograph of her and Edgar and their family in a Christmas picture all standing in front of a tree. The grainy picture was published in the society section of a Dallas newspaper, and Annette looked like the disease had certainly gotten the best of her. She looked thin and weak, her hair thinning, and her dress cinched around an emaciated waist. She sat next to her husband, surrounded by their children, grandchildren, even staff that helped to run the house. Standing off to the side, and in the back row, stood a young, dark-haired woman, who bore a striking resemblance to Beckman's second wife, Dominga.

If I Were Giant Sized "I got to be ready, Lonnie," Frank said to her over the phone. His paranoia had gotten the best of him and Frank had moved out of his house and into a motel outside of Dallas. He sat on the side of the bed, raking his hand over his head. "He might call my bluff, and if he does, I got to be ready."

Frank's life had been spiraling out of control for so much longer than he'd cared to admit. It was f.u.c.ked the first time he took money from Reggie Rodriguez, lying to himself, and telling himself that it wasn't that much money, and that it wasn't that wrong to take it. A dirty cop is a thug-period.

"Jordan can smell weakness," she responded softly. "He can sense it if you're not sure of yourself, and if you can't sell this, he'll know it."

He picked his pa.s.sport up off the table by the bed. A month ago, he was living in a fog, and under the roof of a lie that everything would somehow magically work its way out. Colette was a ticking bomb, and he was a fool. Was it any wonder that the two of them would end up in prison or dead?

Frank had been blowing up Jordan's cell phone number for most of the night. He was about to leave another message, when a knock came at the door. Call it instinct or intuition, Frank froze, his eyes fixed on the door to his motel room. All those years of being a cop had taught him to listen to his gut, no matter how ridiculous it might have seemed. No one knew that Frank was here. Not Lonnie and not even Colette. He placed the phone down on the bed, and reached for the gun inside the drawer of the nightstand.

Another steady knock.

Frank swallowed, eased up off the bed and over to the door, holding his gun at his side. "Who is it?"

His answer came in a spray of bullets. Frank dropped to the floor, and rolled over toward the bed. Frank hid at the foot of it, crouched low, and fired off several rounds. The door suddenly flew open, and three men, at least as big as Frank, dressed in black, burst through it, and tackled Frank like a defensive line. Punches landed in his face, side, and stomach. The crunch of his ribs stole his breath. Frank's gun was torn from his hands, and then everything around him went black.

The sunlight was blinding as Frank grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut. His head felt like it had been split wide open. Pain shot through his side, and air was at a premium. He had no idea where he was or how long he'd been here. It looked like a big, empty room. Frank felt the rumbling of what felt like a train pa.s.sing by under his feet.

Frank hardly recognized Jordan when he opened his eyes. Gatewood sat across from him, wearing faded jeans and boots, a black pullover, and a ball cap pulled down low on his head.

"A good friend of mine told me that I should just end this." Jordan's voice sounded like he was talking through a tunnel. "I really don't have time for this, Frank," he said calmly.

Frank squeezed his eye shut as he cringed through the sharp pain stabbing his ribs. His head felt like it weighed a ton as he struggled to raise it and hold it up. What was he saying? That he wanted to kill Frank? Or was he just showing him that if he wanted him dead, that he'd have no problem making it happen?

Jordan must've read his mind because he answered Frank's question for him.

"I can s.n.a.t.c.h you out of your bed in the middle of the night, son," Jordan continued. "I have the resources to find you, no matter how deep you hide or how far you run, Frank."

Frank's arms dangled heavy at his sides, but he wasn't tied up. Frank was free to move, free to stand up, if he could, and probably free to walk out of this joint if he wanted to, but fear kept him in that seat.

"You're nothing to me, man," Jordan said. "Your threats are empty at best, and meaningless. I'm mildly annoyed by you."

If this isn't f.u.c.kin' rock bottom, then what is? Frank wondered, holding Jordan's glare, sipping small cups of air. Is this what his life had come to?

"You're a bottom feeder, man, and you need to take this lesson and make it mean something."

Frank finally gave himself permission to come apart. He'd watched Colette do it and he'd been trying to stay strong and in control for the both of them. But he couldn't do it anymore.

"I got nothing, man!" he gasped, swallowing through the pain.

Jordan shrugged. "Since when is that my problem?"

"s.h.i.+t!" He stared dismally at Jordan. "There's nothing left!" Every grand idea he'd had to save his a.s.s had gone up in smoke. Frank couldn't afford to sit back and wait for trouble to pa.s.s over his head like a bad storm. Colette was bursting at the seams and was on the very real verge of exposing the whole cop-killing case wide open, putting bull's-eyes on both their backs. She was crumbling, and so was he. This money was everything! It was the only thing! And without it, Frank and Colette might as well turn themselves in and confess.

"I can't help you," Jordan said, shaking his head, and starting to get up to leave.

"But you pay Joel?" Frank blurted out desperately. "You paying Woody and Malcolm too? But you can't pay me?"

He hated the sound of his own voice. Frank was finally a broken man, afraid for his life, and desperate enough to beg for help from this man.

Jordan stopped and looked at him. "What are you talking about?"

Frank grimaced. "Oh, now your a.s.s has amnesia!" he growled. "I know about the money, man! I know what you giving that old man!"

Despite what he'd told Frank, Jordan had lied. It meant something to him. Keeping the secret that Joel Tunson was his real father had to have meant something to him if he thought enough about it to put money in the bank for him!

"You paying him to keep quiet! You paying all of them! So, why the f.u.c.k not me?" His voice cracked.

These might be the last words Frank ever said. He understood that he might not leave this room alive. But what the h.e.l.l? He didn't have s.h.i.+t to lose.

"I wouldn't come to you like this if I didn't need it!" he said, raising his chin and gritting his teeth. "I could give a s.h.i.+t about you or your G.o.dd.a.m.ned money, if I didn't have a good reason for coming after it!"

"And what reason would that be, Frank?"

Frank had no choice. He had to tell him. Jordan would kill him, or maybe Jordan would even turn him in, but without the money from Jordan, Frank was a dead man anyway.

"To save my a.s.s," he said reluctantly. "I've done some things ... I need it to save my a.s.s," he said, dropping his gaze shamefully to the floor.

"You killed those police officers."

Hearing Gatewood say that s.h.i.+t out loud stripped Frank of any shred of dignity that he might've had left. He nodded.

So what if Jordan knew the truth? What did it matter? If Frank left this room alive and broke then it was over. Colette would be showing up in a week, looking for enough money to disappear with, and Frank would have nothing to give her. She wouldn't go back to Cotton and it would only be a matter of time before the sky fell on top of their heads.

"This money you're demanding from me is supposed to buy some distance between you and Cotton, Texas?"

Blood pooled in his mouth and Frank spat. "That's it," he said dismally. "Distance and a second chance."

Jordan started toward the door, and then stopped. "That's one h.e.l.l of a mess you got yourself in," He sighed. "Go home, Frank," he said over his shoulder. "I'll be in touch."

The Wine That's Drinking Me "Claire! Oh, G.o.d! Claire! I can't believe what just-You need to call me! Please! I can't believe what he just did to me! Claire, please!"

Claire immediately erased the first frantic message she got from Lonnie Adebayo on her phone. She'd just come from seeing her gynecologist to talk about increasing her chances of conception. Claire was high on the possibilities, and the last thing she needed in her life was Lonnie and her drama.

"There's no reason why you can't get pregnant, Claire," her doctor told her. "In fact, if you're going to do it, then the sooner you get started the better. You're in your mid-thirties now, and the pregnancy would be considered high risk but you've got all your moving parts." Her doctor laughed. "So go make a baby."

Jordan finally wanted a child, and that's all Claire had ever wanted: him; a family. Claire was happy. For the first time in a very long time, she was happy, and she had something to look forward to. Lonnie Adebayo could go to h.e.l.l!

Claire was beside herself with the antic.i.p.ation of being a mother. On her way home from her doctor's visit, she stopped at a boutique specializing in baby clothes and furniture. The house was so big. Claire had already chosen the room for the nursery, the one next to the master bedroom. It had big, pretty windows that let in a lot of light. In her head, she'd already decided on a theme (owls) and the colors. A designer had been recommended to her, and Claire had already set up a meeting with her to discuss the possibilities.

"Isn't that adorable?" the saleslady asked, walking up behind Claire as she held up a snow-white bunting.

"It's lovely," Claire said, holding it up and admiring it. "Too warm for Dallas, though."

"Not always. Some of those ice storms can be frigid. Is this for you or-"

Pride swelled in Claire, and she blushed as she responded. "For me."

"Well, congratulations. Do you know what you're having yet?"

Claire found herself caught up in this fantasy and loving every minute of it. "Not yet. I'm hoping for a girl, though."

"When are you due?"

"Next winter," she lied.

"We have some beautiful little-girl dresses expected to come in in a few months. It's our winter line, and they are adorable."

Claire's phone vibrated urgently in her purse, but she ignored it and followed the saleswoman to the back of the store.

Jordan would think she was crazy if he came home and found out she'd bought all of these things. Claire spread a dozen neutral infant outfits across the bed and stood back, admiring them all. She'd waited too long for this. Claire had waited too long to finally be excited about the future of her marriage. Jordan had changed so much. He didn't ignore her or cringe now when she brought up talk of having a child. Instead, he actually listened, and he was- Claire's phone vibrated on the nightstand. She glanced irritably at it and noticed the number belonging to Lonnie.

She would've turned the phone off if it wasn't for the fact that her husband was out of town on business and she didn't want to miss a call from Jordan. Claire made up her mind right then and there to have her number changed. She'd had that number for years, and of course she'd have to explain to Jordan why she needed a new one. She'd tell him that she was getting too many telemarketers calling her or too many wrong numbers. But she couldn't let Lonnie continue to get in touch with her.

She picked up the phone and saw that she had seven messages from Lonnie, and three texts. Claire deleted the text messages without reading any of them. Next, she decided to get rid of all those voice mails from Lonnie, deleting them before the messages could even begin to play. Claire's phone rang again, and it was Lonnie.

"What the f.u.c.k do you want?" she blurted out when she impulsively clicked over to finally answer it.

"I know that you got my messages, Claire," Lonnie shot back.

"You need to stop leaving them!" Claire snapped. "Leave me alone!"

"And your man needs to leave me alone!"

"What?" Claire asked. This b.i.t.c.h was crazy. Lonnie had lost her d.a.m.n mind and she needed professional help.

"I saw him, Claire! Jordan knows-Jordan knows where I live! He came to my house!"

The sound of her world cras.h.i.+ng down around her forced Claire to her knees. "No! That's a lie! No!"

Lonnie was crazy! Maybe she'd suffered brain damage! She was delusional. She was just wrong.

"I didn't want to tell you..." Lonnie's voice trailed off in a sob. "How'd he find me, Claire? How the h.e.l.l did Jordan find out where I live?"

Crying. Claire heard the sound of a woman crying. She raised her fingers to her face and it was dry. Lonnie ... Lonnie was crying. Claire was too numb to cry. Lonnie was lying. Of course she was a liar! All she ever wanted to do was to take from Claire the only thing she'd ever loved. Lonnie wanted Jordan, and she'd say or do anything to get him.

"You lying b.i.t.c.h!" Claire spat, using the bed as leverage to stand to her feet. "Jordan doesn't want you!" she screamed into the phone. "He never wanted you! Stay away from my husband! Stay the f.u.c.k away from him!"

"He found me! He came to me! G.o.d! Why would I want him after what he did to me, Claire? You saw me after Jordan finished with me! Jordan's a f.u.c.kin' pig! He's a beast! Open your eyes and wake up!"

Claire didn't realize she was shaking. She didn't realize that she was aimlessly wandering from room to room in the house, cursing and screaming into her handset. Lonnie had pushed her too far! And Claire was sick and tired of her games! Of her lies!

"He put his hands on me," Lonnie continued unabated as she sobbed into the phone, trying to match screams with Claire. "He touched me, Claire! f.u.c.k! He put his filthy hands on me!" Lonnie's words evaporated into incomprehensible blobs of words.

He put his hands on her? Claire forced images from her mind of Jordan touching that woman. He touched her? No! No! He wouldn't touch her! Lonnie dirtied his hands, and Claire knew Jordan. He wouldn't dirty his hands with her again. Lonnie was trying to ruin their marriage. She was bitter and angry because in the end, it wasn't her that Jordan wanted. And he'd shown her how much he didn't want her.

"He should've killed you!" Claire spewed mercilessly. "I should've left you there!"

"He kissed me, Claire!"

Claire went silent, and she froze where she stood. Her mind wrestled with what Lonnie had just told her. She refused to believe it, but she couldn't help visualizing it.

"He grabbed me, pulled me into his arms, and kissed me," Lonnie repeated. "Oh, s.h.i.+t! I can still taste him on me! I can smell him! Tell him to stay away from me, Claire! I'm begging you! Please! I'm leaving town soon, but tell him to please-stay away from me!"