Chapter 3
Y ou dickhead,” John said. “Good thing my gun is in the bedroom. I could have shot you.”
The other man grinned through his scraggly mustache. “I knocked.”
“I was in the shower.”
“No lights on. Your front door unlocked. Useless dog. Anybody could’ve waltzed in here.”
“When I got home, I had other things on my mind, like getting painkillers into my bloodstream.”
“Hey, you started the fight.” He gave John’s face a closer look and grimaced. “Looks ugly. How’s it feel?”
“Throbs like a mofo.”
“I had to make the fight look authentic.”
“You made it look authentic enough,” John grumbled. “What’s with the matchstick?”
“I need to look like a creep with an attitude.”
John snorted, giving the other man a disparaging once-over. “Well, you succeeded. In fact, you may have overshot it. How’s your belly?”
The guy raised the hem on his dirty t-shirt. Beneath his rib cage was a bruise the size of John’s fist. John whistled. “Landed it right where I was aiming. I feel better.” He smiled beatifically. Then they laughed, high-fived, and man-hugged, slapping each other on the back.
Mitch Haskell and John had been partner detectives before Mitch was recruited by the DEA to work undercover. He was a former Marine with a service record that included one deployment to Iraq and three to Afghanistan. He was whipcord lean and as tough as boot leather—a guy you didn’t mess with. But at heart, he was all heart. John had seen him unashamedly cry over fallen service members and law officers of every stripe.
John looked down at Mitch’s raggedy jeans. They were wet up to his knees, his boots caked with mud. “You’re tracking up my floor.”
“Your fault. You live on the edge of a swamp. Muddied floors are the price you pay to have visitors.”
“You weren’t invited.”
Mitch only grinned. “I’m just glad I made it here without having a run-in with a gator or getting bit by a water moccasin.”
“You came by boat?”
“Less likelihood of being followed. Wouldn’t do to be seen making a house call on a cop, although it seems to get darker out here every time I come.”
“Which is why I like it.” The living room was still lighted only by the muted television, and John kept it that way. He gestured toward the kitchen. “There’s beer in the fridge.”
“Bring you one?”
“No, thanks. I’ve had my limit for the day.”
Mitch gave him a knowing look, but John didn’t need a reminder of the period of time when his limit had been dangerously high. “Make sure the fridge door closes all the way. You have to push on it.” He stepped over Mutt and plopped down on the center cushion of the sofa.
From the kitchen Mitch said, “I’m over my quota, too. Had to pretend to guzzle longnecks all day.” He returned with a bottle of water, uncapped it, and almost emptied it with one long drink. Then he sprawled in an easy chair. “God, this feels good. Played pool till I wanted to impale myself on the cue. High point of my day was when you sauntered in. Couldn’t believe my eyes.”
“You could’ve knocked me over with a feather when I turned around and saw that you were the smart-ass. Not that you aren’t one. You’re just not the smart-ass I expected.”
His friend toasted John with his water bottle. “You played it well. No reaction except that steely-eyed glare of yours. Ten seconds of it had me shivering in my shoes. I was thinking, ‘Shit, I hope he recognizes me.’ Nearly peed myself when you stormed back in and belted me in the gut.”
John laughed. “Well, you’d flipped me the bird. I took it as an invitation.”
“It was, but I wasn’t sure you’d pick up on it. Sorry about the black eye, the jaw, but laying into you won me points with those guys.”
“Only one pitched in to help you.”
“My new partner. He didn’t know you, bought our act, too.”
“Did you tell him later?”
“No. I thought we needed to show the dirtbags how we’d do in a fight.”
“You did all right,” John said, working his jaw from side to side.
“So, mission accomplished. Thanks for the sacrifice. I owe you a favor.”
“Thanks for not pulling your knife on me.” John knew Mitch carried one in an ankle holster. “How close are you to nailing them?”
“Close, I think.”
“Be sharp, Mitch.”
“Always.” He downed the rest of the water, then set the bottle on the floor. “What the hell were you doing in that place?”
“Having a Coke.”
John knew the quip wouldn’t satisfy his intuitive friend, and he was right. Mitch squinted one eye and stared him down.
John leaned against the back of the sofa and linked his fingers over the crown of his head, trying to look casual and indifferent. “Just killing a Saturday afternoon. Went for a drive through the boonies. Thought about fishing but was too lazy to get the gear out. Got thirsty and stopped at the next place I came to, which happened to be that bar.” He shrugged.
“Uh-huh.” Mitch continued to look at him through his squint.
John rolled his eyes. “She was just a woman.”
“I noticed that right off. I’m smart that way.”
John thought of dropping it there, but curiosity wouldn’t let him. “How long had she been there ahead of me?”
“Fifteen minutes. Thereabouts.”
“Did she talk to anybody?”
“Except to order her drink, no. Sat over there all by her lonesome until you showed up. Is she someone special?”
“ Special? Mitch. I never laid eyes on her until today. It was totally random. You saw. She paid for my Coke. I went over to thank her. We chatted. She said she had to go. I saw her safely past you reprobates and to her car.”
“A perfect gentleman.”
“On this particular occasion.”
Mitch grinned. “You didn’t score. Either that or it was a record-breaking quickie.”
“She bailed. No loss.” He gave another uncaring shrug. “How’s Angela? What does she think of the Fu Manchu?”
Mitch stroked the mustache, which extended a couple of inches below his chin. “Hates it.” He sat forward, elbows on his knees, and stared down at the floor. “The mustache will be the first thing to go as soon as I get enough on these guys to win an indictment.” He raised his head and looked across at John. “I’m getting out.”
John lowered his hands from the top of his head. “You’re leaving the agency?”
“Yep.”
“You’re serious?”
“Angela’s pregnant.”
John sputtered a soft laugh. “Congratulations, man.”
His friend smiled sheepishly. “Thanks. It’s a boy,” he added with obvious pride.
“How far along?”
“Five months.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Angela and I wanted to make sure everything was okay, find out the sex. And, sorta, you know, savor our secret.”
“You’re still sappy over that woman.”
Mitch placed his hands over his heart. “I confess.” But after a moment, he resumed looking down at the floor and turned serious. “You uh… you know how you felt after the Mellin girl’s case? Fed up? Disillusioned?”
The pleasure John had felt over Mitch’s happy news drained from him. He went as still as stone and said nothing.
“Shortly after the book was closed on that, I took you out in my bass boat. Remember? You were in pretty bad shape. About as low as you ever got. I thought a day on the water might help. I’d brought along a six-pack. You brought a bottle of Patrón.
“The bottle was almost empty when you asked me—I doubt you recall, you were so drunk—but you asked me, ‘Why do we do it, Mitch? What’s the point?’
“You said that we were spinning our wheels, fighting a war that’ll never end because the bad guys just keep getting badder. You said the justice system was a joke and that seeking justice was an exercise in futility.”
“I was shit-faced on straight tequila. Blubbering. Nothing I said was worth listening to.”
Mitch shook his head. “Drunken ramblings, maybe, but when Angela told me about the baby, I thought over everything you’d said. I want to see my son grow up. I want to grow old with my wife. I don’t want to take a forty-five-caliber bullet in the back of my head and have my body dumped in a swamp by some punk doper who got wise to me.”
“No explanation necessary. I get it,” John said quietly. “What do you plan to do?”
“I’ve got some irons in the fire. A position in Florida is looking good. Generous benefits, regular hours. Angela wouldn’t have to eat dinner alone every night.”
“You’re an adrenaline junkie,” John said. “You’ll miss the rush.”
“I’ve thought of that, sure. I’ll take up motocross, white water rafting, hang gliding. Something that keeps my battery charged. Do you miss it?”
“The rush? Naw.”
“Liar. What’s Butthole Barker got you doing these days?”
“Let’s see. Follow-up on a home burglary. The thief got away with a lawn chair. Last week I was sent to check out a report of rabid skunks under someone’s house.”
“Jesus. What a waste. Who’re you partnered with?”
“Nobody. I don’t need a partner to investigate the dirty words spray-painted on Walmart’s restroom walls.”
“John,” his friend sighed.
“No, no. It was an interesting case of vandalism. All the obscenities were misspelled.”
Mitch didn’t look amused. “You should have left when I did.”
“I didn’t get an offer from the DEA.”
“Would you have taken it?”
John said nothing.
Mitch sighed. “John, why do you stay? What’s keeping you from telling Barker to go fuck himself and leaving?”
“The paycheck.” He glanced around his living room. It had been shabby in the 1950s. Today it bordered on derelict. “I’d have to give up living in the lap of luxury.”
“Yeah, this house is swell, the bayou in your backyard is a petri dish for creatures that bite and sting and poison.” Mitch gave him a sympathetic smile and shook his head remorsefully. “You gotta get over that case, John. Move back into town. Move on .”
“One day, maybe.”
Mitch held his gaze a moment longer, then indicated Mutt. “When did he move in?”
“A few months back.”
“As a watchdog, he’s useless.”
John regarded Mutt fondly. “Yeah, but at least he’s got pedigree and good looks.”
Mitch chuckled, then slapped his knees and stood up. “I gotta get home and explain to Angela how I got the bruise on my abs.”
“Give her a hug for me.”
“Like hell I will.” He headed toward the door. “You gonna see her again?”
John knew he was no longer referring to Angela, but he played dumb. “Who?”
Mitch looked back at him and laughed. “She was cute.”
“She was. Just not my type.”
Mitch laughed harder.
“Anyhow, she was too young for me.”
“You doth protest too much, my friend. Did you at least get her digits?”
“I didn’t even get her name. If I did, I don’t remember it,” he lied. “I told you, the encounter was—”
“Totally random. Right, right,” Mitch said, still grinning. “Don’t turn any lights on till I’m long gone. I can’t be seen sneaking out of a cop’s house. Take care of you.”
“Same.”
They fist bumped, then Mitch slipped through the door and melded into the misty darkness so easily he didn’t even disturb the wispy Spanish moss hanging from the lower tree branches. John locked the door and made certain that it was also bolted. He let Mutt out the back door in the kitchen. “You’ve got two minutes. But no pressure.”
John walked back into the living room to turn off the TV but was brought up short by what was on the screen. It was a photograph of a full orange moon that shone like a gold coin in a deep purple sky. The weatherman appeared to be waxing eloquent about it. At the bottom of the screen was superimposed: A blood moon .
Beth’s phone call was answered with a grunt of displeasure. “It’s an hour later here, you know.”
“Oh, sorry, Max. I didn’t think.”
“It’s okay. I don’t sleep much anyway.” There was more grunting, what sounded like the rustle of bed linens, and the unmistakable snick of a cigarette lighter.
“You’re smoking ? You promised, Max.”
“With my fingers crossed.”
Arguing wouldn’t make a dent with him, so she moved past his unhealthy habit to address his mood, which was more irascible than usual. “Bad day?”
“They’re throwing me a retirement party.”
“They? The network?”
He muttered several curses. “Black tie affair. Waldorf Astoria. They’re inviting every living president, a British royal or two, and A-list movie stars.”
Knowing how he would feel about that, she winced, but said, “Wow. How nice.”
“ Nice? No. Gratuitous. I’d rather die than be there.” After a puff of breath, no doubt creating a cloud of smoke, he said, “It’s late there, too. Why are you still up?”
“I’ve been putting off calling you.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want to hear ‘I told you so.’”
“Ah. You’ve met with Bowie and struck out.”
Max Longren, who was four decades her senior, was her boss. Also, in truth, her best friend. Until recently he’d been executive producer of Crisis Point .
But since last year when the network had been bought by an international media conglomerate, the corporate shift had been seismic, and the infrastructure of Crisis Point hadn’t been immune to changes in management. Max had been replaced by a much younger corporate animal named Winston Brady.
Max wasn’t taking his forced exit well. His career had been his lifeblood. He was a living legend, known throughout the industry for his talent, grit, caginess, and often tyrannical tactics.
Beth had been with the show for only two years when, to her dismay and delight, Max had handpicked her to be his personal assistant producer. Under his tutelage, she’d received the best education she could have wished for. She’d been taught by the headmaster himself, the developer of techniques that told true stories in a manner that made them as exciting and compelling as fiction. His innovations had been replicated by just about every other successful documentary series.
Through all the years they’d worked together, naturally they’d had disagreements, but nothing compared to the explosive quarrel they’d had when she’d approached him with her reservations about the accuracy of the soon-to-air Crissy Mellin episode. He’d frowned and reminded her that it was a done deal, that Brady had signed off on it.
“I know that, Max. But recently something’s come to my attention. We might have missed a vital element of that story. The impact could be major, and we’d be derelict to leave it out.”
“Are you saying we’d go back in and change it?”
“Let me explain and then you decide.”
So he’d listened, but by the time she’d finished, he was bristling.
“A blood moon?” he asked with incredulity. “That’s your vital element? What the hell is that, anyway? Have you gone loopy? Are you eating those funny gummy bears?”
“Max, please don’t dismiss—”
“Around here, you and I are considered a unit, Beth. Everyone regards me as your Merlin. If you start spouting this moon cycle crap, they’ll think it originated with me, that I thought up something outlandish just to get under Brady’s skin.”
“Don’t you think it warrants deeper digging?”
“It no longer matters what I think. Professionally, I’ve been castrated. I’m surprised they haven’t confiscated my executive men’s room key. Now, forget about it, and let that episode air as is.”
She’d dropped the matter that day, but, on the next, she’d informed him of her intention to take a few vacation days. He’d eyed her with the daunting shrewdness that a New York Times columnist had accurately described as “withering.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “Destination Louisiana.”
“Even you don’t have authority over my vacation plans, Max.”
“Vacation, my ass. When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow morning. There’s no time for delay.”
He’d shot up from his massive chair and stabbed his desktop with his index finger. “You have no authority to go nosing around the police department down there. It’s Louisiana, for crissake! They feed people they don’t like to the alligators. They’ll have a voodoo doll of you in no time. But never mind the danger to yourself.”
Here, he’d gotten really wound up. “I created Crisis Point . I nursed it through infancy, whipped it through puberty, and eventually placed it in the top five of ratings, where it has remained for years. Your amateur sleuthing will put the show, my baby, at risk.
“In addition to the smudge on my hard-won reputation, the egomaniac who’s taken my place will shit bricks if you go behind his back. This obsession of yours could get your butt fired.”
Quietly, she’d said, “Not if I return with an Emmy-winning story for us to work on together before your retirement.”
Despite his lauded career, that most coveted award had eluded him. She knew the disappointment he suffered for being forced into retirement without having received it.
“Emmy-winning story,” he scoffed. “Based on this crazy notion of yours? Ha! What I think is that you’ll make a fool of yourself and be drummed out of the business.”
“Very possibly. But it’s a chance worth taking.”
“Then go,” he’d shouted, waving her toward his office door. “But if you’re sunk in a swamp down there, expect an ‘I told you so.’”
His rejection had cut deeply, but she’d left without his sanction. She hadn’t consulted Winston Brady at all, a move that very well could get her butt fired, especially if Detective John Bowie complained to him about being ambushed and harassed by one of his producers.
Now, as though Max been following her thoughts, he said, “Just how much of a prick was Bowie?”
“As reputed.”
“Wasn’t happy to see you, huh?”
“Hostile, actually. He wasn’t at all interested or open to discussing Crissy Mellin’s case. He was completely unmoved by my attempts to persuade him otherwise. Why don’t you just say ‘I told you so’ and get it over with?”
“Hell, no. I’m not letting you off that lightly. I want details.”
She gave him a bullet-point account of her unorthodox meeting with the detective. Max listened without interruption except for his wheezing inhales and exhales of forbidden tobacco smoke.
When she finished, he said, “Did he take it like a kick in the nuts?”
“Take what?”
“Mention of the blood moon. How’d he react?”
“He didn’t. He gave me a blank stare.”
“Meant nothing to him, then?”
“No. I’m almost positive.”
Finally he said, “I told you so.”
“I concede, but not happily.” After a moment, she made one final pitch. “You know, it’s not like I dreamed up this mysticism surrounding blood moons. For millennia, mankind has regarded them as omens, both good and bad.”
“Silly superstitions. You’re reading too much into it.”
“Possibly.” She rubbed her forehead, no longer feeling defensive but defeated. “Maybe I should leave it alone. You were certainly right about the detective. It was a contentious meeting from the start. We got off on the wrong foot, and it never got better.”
“What kind of wrong foot? Why a wrong foot?”
She wasn’t going to tell him about the sexual undercurrents of those first few minutes. “Doesn’t matter. As soon as I said the girl’s name, he shut down. How did you know he would?”
“Fifty years of reporting news and current affairs. The code of honor among law officers is sacrosanct. Band of brothers. Blue wall of silence. You know.”
“But during the investigation, he mouthed off,” she argued. “He was quoted as saying that it had been sloppily conducted. Rushed. You read what he’d said.”
“Yeah, yeah. People bitch and moan off the cuff. But it’s different when backed against a wall and asked to go on record.”
“I don’t think he was speaking off the cuff then. I think he wanted people to hear, to know, that the investigation was being streamlined. I also think he was right.”
“Take off your rose-colored glasses, Beth. Nobody gives a damn about what’s right or wrong anymore. Or accurate. Even if Bowie was right back then, it no longer matters now. Obviously not even to him. Especially not to him. He was your golden key. If he blew you off and wouldn’t listen to you—”
“Then no one will,” she said.
“Which I told you before you went down there. So, when are you coming back?”
“Tomorrow. I’m booked on a four o’clock flight.”
“That late in the day?”
“There’s a morning flight. I could stand by for it, I suppose.”
“Do that. The sooner you drop this, the better. Start thinking about how you’re going to impress your new executive producer, not alienate him.”
“I can’t stomach Brady.”
“Then he should excel.” He gave a phlegmy laugh. “Nobody could stand me either. Nobody even liked me a little.”
She would have told him that she liked him a lot, but he would have rebuffed it, even knowing that it was true. More than a mentor, he was a father figure and plain-speaking friend she depended on for sound advice, even if she didn’t welcome it.
“Sorry to have disturbed you. Try to get some sleep. I’ll call you when I land.” Before he could disconnect, she said, “One more thing, Max.”
“I know, I know, don’t smoke.”
“You mispronounced his name.”
“Huh?”
“It’s Bowie. Like the knife.”