Bad To The Bone (4 page)

"Why do you say it that way?"

"She used to work here," he explained. "She
left the department about a year and a half ago."

"Are we talking about the same woman? The
Tawny Bledsoe who's married to Robert Price?"

"That's her," Bill confirmed.

"She was a cop?"

"No, she worked in public relations. I think
that's how she met her husband."

"No kidding? Well, that may have been a bad
career move on her part. She was just in my office, beaten
black-and-blue. By her husband."

"I knew they were having trouble," Bill
said. "I think they've been having trouble from the start."

"I'd call this trouble with a capital T. Her
husband pounded her, then absconded with their kid. She says you
gave her my name and number."

There was another brief silence. I didn't
like it. There was something going on that I didn't know about.

"I gave her your name and number a while
ago," Bill finally said. "When she thought her husband was playing
around on her."

"So you don't know anything about the
husband taking the kid?"

"No," he said too quickly. "I haven't even
seen her in months. I'm back in Robbery now. You know I don't like
that domestic shit."

"Who does?" I sighed. "So, is she a nut case
or what?"

"She's fine," he said. "What makes you
think—"

"Nothing," I admitted. "I'm just checking
up."

"She held some executive position in public
relations, Casey. She was well respected. I think you're safe."
There was a silence. "I don't suppose you're holding her perfect
body against her?"

"I don't suppose you're holding her perfect
body against you?" I countered.

He laughed. "I wish. Nope. I've been
celibate for a long time now."

"Yeah, right. And I don't know the
difference between shit and apple butter."

"It's true," he protested. "Ever since I
heard you had a boyfriend, my heart has been breaking. What can I
say?"

"You are so full of crap," I told him. "No
wonder your eyes are brown."

"Could be. But I must say, I was surprised
to hear you had settled down. With a gimp, no less. You don't
strike me as the one-man-woman type."

"I'm not," I said calmly. "And I never
settle, down or otherwise. Burly and I have an arrangement. He does
his thing, I do mine. Sometimes we meet in the middle. So to
speak."

"Really?" His voice perked up. "In that
case, if you ever want to arrange anything, give me a call."

"In your dreams."

I hung up on him, annoyed. Bill Butler had
the unique ability to piss me off when he was trying to make me
laugh, and to make me laugh when he was trying to piss me off. But
at least he'd given me the information I was looking for. It was
time to tuck him away in my memory until the next time I needed his
help. 

This inner pep talk, of course, did me no
good. I munched Twinkies and daydreamed about Bill Butler's
lean-and-mean cop body until Bobby returned from his trek into the
wilds.

"You better have left me some of those
Twinkies for dessert," he warned as he trundled across the room
with a giant box of chicken wings in his hands.

"Those smell great," I admitted. "Got some
for me?"

"Yeah. They give me a volume discount." He
plopped the box on his desk and struggled out of his coat. "But
you're going to lose your appetite when I tell you what I saw
walking over to Domino's."

Something in his tone made my stomach dip.
"What?" I asked.

"Your ex-husband bending over your newest
client's car engine."

"Shit," I said.

"Exactly."

"Jeff doesn't know diddly about cars," I
protested.

"I don't think that was the point."

"That means he was sitting out there waiting
the whole time I was with her."

"Yup. But which one of you was he waiting
for?" Bobby has a knack for cutting to the heart of the matter.

"Do you think they know each other?" I asked
as paranoia poked its head up for a peek at my innermost fears.

"They do now," Bobby answered. "But don't
worry. I don't think they knew each other before this. They were
talking about frozen fuses and shit. And when I walked back by, the
client was gone but your ex-hubby was trying to start his own car.
He drives a late-model Mustang, by the way. Bright red."

"He would," I muttered.

"You sure lead an interesting life, babe."
Bobby tore into a hot wing with the gusto of a vulture attacking a
carcass. "These are good. Try one."

"No thanks," I said, thinking of Jeff
interfering with my life. "I just lost my appetite."

I have a short attention span when it comes
to men, which I blame entirely on my ex. The moment someone reminds
me of Jeff, I show him the other side of the door. This theory
lacks introspection, but it does explain why I suddenly had a
powerful need to see Burly that night.

Burly is the opposite of Jeff in many ways,
including the most important one: while Jeff is ruled by his
pecker—making him the modern-day equivalent of the pea-brained
dinosaur—Burly can't even feel his. He is my knight in shining
armor, though his armor comes with wheels. He couldn't help me
forgive, but he might be able to make me forget.

I drove out to Chatham County in weather so
cold that the squirrels slipped from ice-covered tree branches like
a cartoon gone mad. In the early twilight, Burly's farm looked like
a page from a fairy tale. It was frozen over with a layer of frost,
and a peaceful column of smoke spiraled from the chimney.

He was in the kitchen cooking Brunswick
stew, a process that required the use of at least six pans.
Cooking's a great hobby for a guy in a wheelchair, especially one
with a total pig for a girlfriend. Did I mention that I don't do
dishes? I try to make up for it by licking my plate clean.

I sat down on Burly's lap, ripped his shirt
open and starting licking the hollows of his collarbone. There's
really no other way to show his world-class shoulders the proper
respect.

"Hey," he protested, "you popped my buttons
into the stew."

"This is an emergency," I explained. "I just
saw my ex-husband."

"Why didn't you say so in the first place?"
he complained, turning the stew to low and rolling us toward the
bedroom. "By the time I get done, you won't remember his name."

He was right. In fact, by the time he got
done, I couldn't remember my own name. Afterward, I ate half a pot
of Brunswick stew to regain my energy. When I was done, I put the
mixing bowl on the floor for our inert hound to lick, but the
effort of raising his head proved too much for Killer. He simply
yawned and went back to sleep.

"Incredible," I called out to Burly. "Not
only is he too lazy to get up and piss, he's too lazy to eat."

"That hound will have to get his priorities
straight one day," Burly yelled back. His mind was on more
important matters. In a show of solidarity with all guys after sex,
he was watching sports on television.

I wandered lazily into the living room,
hoping to complain about my ex. No such luck. I stopped short,
knowing that life had just staged one of its infamous schizo-turns
and that, warm house and hot sex aside, I was suddenly looking at
trouble. Burly was hunched over, staring at the television, his
face and body frozen—the way he gets when he's been reminded of
what he had to give up. I knew without even looking at the screen
that he was watching basketball.

"Why do you do that to yourself?" I asked as
I did a U-turn, needing the comfort of chocolate ice cream for what
was sure to follow.

"Because I can't play it anymore, I'm not
supposed to even watch it?" he yelled back. My good mood
evaporated. His tone told me that the whole time I had been in bed
with him, thinking of how we owned our own private space, he had
been in bed with me, thinking of the things we could not do
together.

"You had physical therapy today, didn't
you?" I said.

He ignored me and I knew I was right.
Physical therapy always reminds Burly that he lives in a wheelchair
and that all the exercise in the world isn't going to change
that.

Killer, sensing his mood, actually hefted
his tubular body aloft and waddled over to Burly's feet, where he
flopped down and began to snore. Traitorous little cur. He always
took Burly's side.

We're each difficult to get along with in
our own way, so I told myself it was no big deal. I was lying to
myself. It was. He had gotten this way before and it scared me.
Sometimes his funk only lasted for a few hours. But once it had
lasted two weeks. I never knew what to expect until it was over.
The thing was, this was not the right time for it to be happening.
I had enough on my plate.

I left Burly watching basketball and went to
bed early, feeling sorry for myself, since what was the point of
having a boyfriend who looked like your very own Nine Inch Nail
(dark hair, even darker eyes, cheekbones to die for) when he
periodically acted like you weren't even alive? I really, really
hated this part of being in a relationship—the
being-so-understanding-and-giving-them-
personal-space-so-they-can-sulk part.

The black dog had my boyfriend firmly caught
in his jaws, but I was the one who was going to get bit.

I went to bed wishing that
songs could come true.
You be me for a
while,
I hummed as I fell asleep,
and I'll be you.

The next day proved warmer all around. Burly
made me waffles for breakfast, and the drive back to Raleigh was
filled with sunshine and the crackle of melting ice. Bobby D. and I
fueled up on coffee before we got down to work. I was on a new diet
kick and refused to eat Krispy Kremes cold; this policy alone saved
me thousands of calories a day as thy were only warm for an hour in
the mornings and another hour at night.

Once sufficiently buzzed on caffeine, we
made a number of phone calls to Robert Price's friends. We took
turns pretending to be everyone from a credit card company rep to
Price's lawyer. Together, Bobby and I were able to confirm that
Price was thought to be on vacation by his colleagues and would be
back in a few weeks. The family members we reached were less
forthcoming. Either he wasn't staying with family, or he had
instructed them not to speak to anyone who called, no matter how
much we poured on the charm. I'd have to stake out their houses in
person to get anywhere, but I didn't feel it was necessary yet.
Like I said, he had to spend his money sometime.

Sure enough, the morning of the third day,
my clerk contact in the Durham Police Department—Marcus
Dupree—called to let me know that Price had made a large ATM
withdrawal the afternoon he disappeared with his daughter. This was
followed by another withdrawal a few days later in Rocky Mount. His
sister lived in Rocky Mount, I knew, as I had just gotten off the
phone with her a few minutes before—after being assured that she
hadn't seen her brother in months. I'd have called her a lying
bitch, but since I'd posed as Price's neighbor, I had no room to
talk.

I went back to my friend Marcus for more
help. Marcus is a stubborn man. He refuses to give me direct access
to his sources at the major card companies. Either he figures he
can squeeze more money out of me if he pulls the strings or, more
likely, he suspects I lack discretion. Whatever the reason, until I
can find a fourteen-year-old computer whiz to seduce in exchange
for a way to hack into credit card systems myself, I have to depend
on Marcus for real-time financial tracking information. The good
news is that Marcus never lets me down.

He called me back later that same afternoon
to say that Price had used his Visa card in Kingston, North
Carolina, at a Target store two days ago, and later that same day
at a restaurant in New Bern.

He was heading toward the beach, I decided,
an odd place to go in January when it was cold enough to freeze
your nookies off. Unless, of course, you were looking for somewhere
totally deserted, yet not too far from home and family.

"Can you let me know the second he uses his
card again?" I asked.

"He'll have to use it during my contact's
shift," Marcus explained. "Otherwise I won't be able to find out
until she comes in the next day."

"Please tell me that she works the late
shift." I was hoping to get another hit before the day was up.

"Noon to eight. If he charges dinner, you'll
know within minutes."

I didn't wait for the call. I booted up my
iMac and started a property search in all the coastal counties,
looking for the names of anyone on the list of Price's friends and
relatives. If that failed, I'd start dialing motels.

I got one hit: a married couple listed by
Tawny Bledsoe as being among Price's closest friends owned a beach
house on Emerald Isle, a protected strip of land that runs east to
southwest just below Atlantic Beach. It's one of the few areas to
have escaped heavy development along the Carolina coast. This meant
it was private. But it was also home to a handful of year-round
residents, so Price would have access to heat, water and groceries
if he was holed up there.

I was debating whether to take a chance and
drive to Emerald Isle when Tawny Bledsoe called from her car. I
could barely hear her. Raleigh skirts the Piedmont foothills and,
depending on where you are, your reception can run from crystal
clear to unintelligible. God, but I hated car phones with a
passion. People who talk and drive simultaneously are four times
more likely to get in an accident—unless they're driving in front
of me, in which case they are four hundred times more likely to get
rammed from behind.

"What did you say?" I shouted into the
crackling.