Open Season (Alex Delaware #40)

Chapter 18

Chapter

18

As we headed for the unmarked, Milo let out a low whistle. “Iron lady. Did you see that cookie abuse?”

I said, “Could be her way of dealing with loss. On the other hand, she did tell Whitney to abort a potential grandchild. So Whitney could’ve been escaping more than just the conflict with Sterling.”

“Getting away from Mom.”

“From Mom and everyone else except Jarrod.”

“Little green boat, perfect for calming the soul,” he said. “Until it wasn’t.”

—

As he pulled from the curb, I said, “For all Mom’s anger, she could be onto something. If Sterling was out to rid himself of her and get Jarrod, he succeeded in spades. He’s an executive so he’d be used to delegating.”

“Like Boykins,” he said. “Coupla honchos with connections paying to solve their problems. So there doesn’t need to be any link between them other than the choice of hit man. And at the risk of being boring, Boykins had dealings with Parmenter and O’Brien. First job turns out great, why not hire the same shooter a coupla years later?”

My doubts about Boykins and O’Brien hadn’t faded but I said, “Sure. Is there any truth to the dark web being a source?”

“For dope, yes, for hit men not so much. Yeah, that was a big scare a while back but it mostly boiled down to scammers in Montenegro or wherever taking bad people’s money and knowing they wouldn’t protest. There was actually a case a few years ago, stupid asshole wanted his wife killed, forked out a whole buncha bitcoins to a scary website and of course nothing happened. So he fired off angry emails then shot her himself and left tons of evidence behind.”

He got back on the 101 and merged into southbound traffic.

“On the other hand,” he said, “there could be a link between Boykins and Sterling that led them to the same shooter. Think about it, Alex: the music biz and the rag trade. For all we know Sterling dressed up dancers in Boykins’s videos, the two of them became buds, bitched to each other, one of them ends up advising the other about problem solving. I’ll check out the dark web, but assuming nothing shows up, where do I take it?”

“No idea.”

He put on speed. “Aren’t you guys supposed to answer a question with a question rather than admit you’re stumped?”

I said, “Would it make you feel better if I did?”

He cracked up. But the mood didn’t last.

—

He dropped me at home and I called in for messages. Light weekend sprinkle: one new referral from a personal injury lawyer, the assistant of an impatient family lawyer wanting to know when my report would arrive.

Last, a call-me-back from Lee Falkenburg, no details.

In the office on Saturday? Knowing Lee, sure.

I called, got the same numerical menu, pressed 1, and was greeted by her personal recorded message.

I left messages for her and both attorneys and went out to Robin’s studio to see if Blanche was in the mood for a sprightly waddle down to the Glen and back.

Her body language said, Forget that.

She lay stretched on the floor a few feet from Robin’s bench, snoring operatically. My footsteps caused her to raise one eyelid that eventually lost out to gravity. She managed a brief smile and two twitches of a nubby tail before returning to dreamland.

Robin was French-polishing the rosewood back of a hundred-year-old Santos Hernández guitar, her hands gloved in thin plastic as she gently rotated a pad of linen soaked in spirit varnish.

She stopped and smiled and said, “C’mere, it’s not toxic.”

I went over and kissed her. Sometimes affection between us perks Blanche up and she vamps for attention.

Today: nonstop log-sawing.

I said, “The diva okay? She looks wiped out.”

Robin said, “Just took her for a little walk down to the Glen and then she had a couple of treats. Okay, three.”

“Sensory overload. I won’t interrupt either of you.”

“It’s never an interruption, darling. Just a momentary shift of focus.”

She kissed me again.

Blanche grumbled.

I waited for the little blond sausage body to animate. It didn’t.

Robin’s fingers flexed. A sprinter stretching before the starter’s gun.

I said, “Nice polish.”

She picked up the pad. “Helps when you start with lovely wood.”

I returned to the house.

—

During the few minutes I’d been gone, Lee had called back. This time she picked up.

“Hi, Alex. Are you with your police friend?”

“Nope, at home.”

“Good. We need to talk in private.”

“Sure.”

“Not over the phone,” she said. “I’ve got one more patient for another hour, Don’s out of town, and Becka’s going to a friend’s to study. Let’s meet somewhere between your place and mine, say ninety minutes.”

Lee lived in Little Holmby.

I said, “How about campus.”

“Perfect. There’s a parking area west of the quad.”

“Know it. I’m intrigued.”

Lee said, “Not sure I’d use that adjective.”

—

Her call had heightened my senses, which was a good thing. Bad idea to run on the Glen in a distracted state. Too many cars and sharp turns. I began an hour jog with a throbbing but clear head, returned the same way, showered, dressed in fresh clothes, left Robin a note on the kitchen table, and made it to the Seville with time to spare.