Chapter Eight
Banks Residence
North Houston Street
Chance parked on the street in front of the small bungalow.
The property needed considerable maintenance.
Two cars in various stages of disassembly sat in the yard.
A blue tarp on the roof suggested a leak waiting for repair.
The considerable litter on the porch and banked around the foundation of the house declared the owner either wasn’t capable of cleanup or lacked the desire to get the job done.
If Taylor Banks was as muscled up and physically capable these days as he had appeared in his last arrest photos, then the man should take care of the place.
Sadly, his rap sheet alone implied he wasn’t one to care about anything other than his next hit of whatever illegal drug he preferred on a given day.
“Why don’t I go to the door first?” Chance offered. “If the guy is open to an interview, we can both go inside.”
Rory looked from the run-down property to him. “Don’t worry about me. The house my parents owned was just a couple of streets over. I’m familiar with the neighborhood, if that has you concerned.”
Chance nodded. “We go together then.”
Before he could say more, she opened her door and got out.
Chance did the same. He rounded the hood and joined her on the sidewalk that led from the street to the front porch.
He took his time, surveyed the block. There were several houses undergoing renovation along the block.
He’d noticed considerable changes happening on the south end.
He supposed the changes were slowly making their way in this direction.
Luckily there was no dog on the porch ready to give them a hard time.
Rory stood aside, and Chance knocked on the door.
As hard as he tried not to stare, her eyes drew him in every time he looked her way.
The striking contrast of her black hair and pale skin would garner the attention of anyone in her vicinity.
She reminded him of a fairy-tale creature found only in books.
“What?”
He blinked, realized he had been staring too long. “Sorry. I was just thinking.” Rather than explain, he knocked again. The door was battered, the paint worn. Someone had or at least tried to jimmy the lock on more than one occasion.
With the lack of noise on the other side of the door and no serviceable vehicle in the drive, Mr. Banks might not be home.
Chance knocked a third time, louder this time.
“Hold on!” echoed from inside.
Their gazes met, his and Rory’s. Apparently someone was home after all.
The door opened, and a man resembling the latest mug shot available on the net stood before them.
His jeans and tee looked as if he’d lived in them for about a week.
His hair was longer than in the mug shot and poked out around his head like a dark cloud.
But the baseball bat held firmly in his right hand made the biggest statement about the man. Angry.
“Who the hell are you?” Banks demanded.
Chance removed his credentials case from his back pocket. He showed the ID to the guy. “Chance Rader, private investigator.”
“Tay,” Rory said. “You remember me? Rory Wilkins. I married Pete Harris.”
Banks had kept his attention fixed on Chance until she spoke. Even then he spared her only a brief glance.
When he didn’t respond, Rory added, “You came up with this story that you and I had an affair.”
His gaze shot to her again, something like annoyance on his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We’re not here to cause you trouble,” Chance assured him. “We just want to talk about what happened back then.”
The disheveled man’s gaze narrowed. “You got some kind of reward for information?”
“Tay Banks,” Rory snapped, moving a step closer to him, “don’t even go there.”
“As a matter of fact,” Chance intervened, “there is a reward.”
Rory turned and stared at him, her expression less than pleased at the prospect of giving the guy anything.
“Depending on what you know,” Chance went on, “the amount works on a sliding scale.”
Banks hitched his head. “Well, come on in, then.”
He turned and headed deeper into the house.
Rory gave Chance a bewildered look before following Banks.
Chance supposed he should have mentioned that this was sometimes a necessary tactic.
He would explain later, in the car, and hopefully she wouldn’t be upset that he hadn’t prepared her—particularly with a man like this who had wronged her so flagrantly.
Inside the house was in worse shape than the exterior. Dimly lit, cluttered. Smelled as bad as it looked. Empty beer cans and liquor bottles. Pizza boxes and fast-food leftovers cluttered most surfaces.
Banks pushed aside a pile of blankets and pillows on the sofa and gestured to the newly cleared area. “Have a seat.”
Rory hesitated before taking him up on the offer. Chance suspected the number of not readily identifiable stains on the cushions were the reason for her reluctance. When she finally sat down, careful not to lean back, Chance did the same.
Banks dropped into the equally stained recliner he’d no doubt vacated to answer the door.
He propped the baseball bat against his knee and reached to the side table for the only unopened can of beer among the half dozen or so scattered there.
He popped the top and took a long swallow.
Once he’d wiped his mouth with his forearm, he looked from Rory to Chance.
“Let’s get this party started. What do you want to know? ”
“You tried to blackmail me,” Rory said, not waiting for Chance. “You were lying, but that’s not the part that matters. I need you to confirm who put you up to saying all those lies about me.”
He made a disgusted sound. “You still think you’re too good for me, don’t ya? Even after going to prison for murder.” He gave her a cold once-over. “You ain’t no better than me. So don’t even pretend.”
Rory nodded. “I have never considered myself better than you or anyone else.” When he would have protested, she held up her hands. “I’m not here to judge you, Tay. I’m just trying to find the truth. Can you help me with that?”
He turned his beer can around and around between his fingers. “I get it. You’re still trying to prove you didn’t kill your husband.”
Evidently, Chance decided, the man didn’t watch the news or he would know there was going to be a new trial. Not exactly surprising. He glanced around the room. The old box-type television probably didn’t work, and even if it did, the news likely wasn’t on his up-next list.
“Yes, I am,” she admitted, her chin going up in protest of the way her voice trembled. “Because I didn’t kill him.”
“What we’re looking for,” Chance explained, “is any information you know firsthand or may have heard about Pete Harris’s murder.”
“And the identity of who put you up to blackmail me,” Rory tacked on.
“First off,” Banks said, his gaze fixed on Rory, “I ain’t telling you nothing until I see the money.”
“This is not a negotiation,” Chance warned. “If the information you provide is worth hearing, then you’ll be paid. Until we hear it and make that determination, we are not going there.”
“Fine,” he spat. He looked to Rory once more. “Anyone who ain’t stupid knows you didn’t kill him.” He downed another long swallow of beer. “Do I know anything that can prove you didn’t? I wish. But there are people who do know stuff. You can bet your sweet ass on that.”
“Who hired you to try and blackmail me?” Rory repeated.
Banks grinned, laughed a little. “You should know the answer to that, girl. She hated your guts. It’s a flat-out miracle she didn’t put out a hit on you.”
Rory stared at him but said nothing more. She had the answer to her question.
Chance picked up the conversation from there. “You’re suggesting Eudora Harris paid you to pretend you possessed scandalous photos of Rory and that the two of you had a relationship.”
He gave a single nod. “She did. Paid me five hundred dollars up front. All I had to do was say all that stuff and then not tell anyone who hired me. If I did everything just like she said, when it was all over, she’d give me another five Benjamins for keeping quiet.”
“You said,” Chance ventured, “there were people who knew things. Who would you go to if you wanted the facts about what happened to Pete Harris?”
A grin kicked up one side of the man’s mouth. “That sounds more like advice you’re looking for than just plain old information. You asking me for advice, hotshot?”
Chance nodded. “I am.”
“Just so you know—” Banks leaned forward, braced his elbows on his knees “—advice costs extra.”
“All right. Let’s hear your advice.”
“Well—” he looked from Chance to Rory and back “—first off, I wouldn’t bother with his people. That family don’t let nobody see or hear about their issues. Ever. So you’ll never get nothing from one of them. My advice would be to go to the police.”
Rory’s mouth gaped. “Seriously? Is that the best you’ve got? The police are the ones who said it was me who killed him. Why would I go to them?”
Banks allowed his grin to widen. “Come on, girl. Think. Just cause they said it was you don’t mean they didn’t know it wasn’t.”