Divas and Dead Rebels (50 page)

He considered a moment, then nodded. “Within reason. So talk.”

“He had a wad of jewels big enough to choke a mule lying right in the middle of his coffee table. He tried to tell me it was costume stuff, but it wasn’t.”

“How do you know that?”

“Costume stuff doesn’t have the same kind of sparkle. I’m sure I’m right on this, Bobby. Check him out. I’m willing to bet he’s got a record.”

“Loose jewels?” Bobby looked skeptical.

“No. Necklaces and bracelets—diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds. If the stuff is real, it’s worth a fortune.”

“And he just let you in to look at it?”

“Of course not. I knocked on his door to ask him if he’d seen King, and even though he tried to block the door, I .
 . . uh . . . looked around him and saw it lying on the table.”

“So, a jewel thief—or fence—sits in his living room with a fortune in jewels lying on the table, and opens the door wide enough for any stranger to see it? Doesn’t wash, Harley.”

She glared at him. “Well, maybe he was expecting someone else. Maybe he was stoned. Or maybe he’s just stupid.”

“Or maybe it was costume jewelry.”

She stood up, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. “Right. Thanks for the help. If this is how the MPD solves cases, it’s a wonder any crooks are ever caught.”

“Aw Harley, don’t go away mad.”

“I know—just go away. The least you could do is look up his name and see if he’s some kind of ax murderer living next door to my parents. Is that too much to ask?”

Grinning, Bobby shook his head and leaned toward his computer. “Guess not. Not that I expect to find him listed, but since his name isn’t that common .
 . . hm.” He’d been tapping away at the keyboard, and something flickered on the monitor screen. Light played over his face as the screen scrolled. Finally, he said, “You may be on to something.”

“Really? Oh, I just knew it. I’m right, aren’t I? Oh yeah, I’m right. Remember, share and share alike here. If this leads to a bust, I get the reward. I need it.” She smiled. “Maybe I’ll go back over there, sneak around and see what I can find out about Jett. That’d probably help out, wouldn’t it?”

Not taking his eyes from the monitor, Bobby just nodded absently. When he finally turned to look at her, his eyes were guarded. “Wait.
No.
Stay away from there, you understand?”

She blinked. “Why? Is he .
 . . that dangerous?”

There was a moment of taut silence, then Bobby said, “I’ll show you the printout.”

Harley didn’t know what to think when he gave her several pages listing charges that ranged from simple assault to embezzling and even theft. It wasn’t just unnerving, it was .
 . . well, disappointing. It wasn’t that Bruno Jett meant anything to her; it just seemed a waste, that’s all. A man with a killer body like his shouldn’t really be a killer. She looked up at Bobby to find him watching her with an appraising look in his eyes. She frowned.

Wait a minute
 . . . she’d seen that look before. It was his poker stare, the one he used when he had a pair of fours and was trying to bluff her down from a full house. She studied the papers again. There had to be a catch.

The name on the printout said Bruno Jett. The description looked the same, and he’d been arrested for fencing stolen jewelry. It had to be the neighbor. Yet .
 . . she flipped through pages and then looked up at Bobby.

“Where are the last few pages? It says there are nine pages, but there’s only six here.”

“There are only six pages.”

“Right. That’s why it says ‘one of nine, two of nine—’ don’t play cute, Bobby. Where’re the other pages? Why don’t you want me to see them?”

He stood up. “I’ve got to be in a meeting in two minutes. If you find out anything, let me know, and I’ll keep you posted if I hear anything.”

“You’re a lyin’ dog, Bobby Baroni. I can always tell when you’re lying.”

He smiled, plucking the pages from her hand as he turned her around toward the door. “I gotta go. So do you. Bye, Harley.”

Oh yeah. There was more to this than he was telling. But what?

When she reached her Toyota, she saw a ticket stuck to the windshield. Illegal parking. Where had that
Reserved for Police
sign come from? It hadn’t been there when she’d parked, she was sure of it. Damn. Since it was pretty unlikely the sign had been sunk in concrete in the half hour she’d just wasted talking to Bobby, the odds were pretty good she just hadn’t noticed it. Now she did. And obviously, so had a cop. Double damn.

What a great addition to her day. Now she had to tell Diva and Yogi the police weren’t going to get involved in King’s abduction. Like she hadn’t known that before she’d ever walked into the precinct.

It went just about like she expected.

Yogi stared at her in disbelief. “You mean they’re not going to do anything? Are these the same police who arrest citizens for littering and conducting peaceful protests? Shit, it’s just like living in Bosnia.”

“Exactly. But without the minefields and massacres.”

Ignoring Harley, Yogi turned away, shoving his clenched fist into his other palm. “My dog is going to be killed if somebody doesn’t do something. This is incredible.”

“Yogi, we don’t know that. If they were going to kill him, they’d have sent more than a clump of hair with the letter, don’t you think?”

“You must be able to do something, Harley,” Diva said calmly.

“Oh no, let her go. She doesn’t care if King is slowly hacked to bits by some madman.” Yogi choked slightly on the last words.

Harley sighed. “Do you have any idea what it is they want? The letter says you know.”

“How would I know? How would I know?” He looked a little wild with his hair straggling from a ponytail on his nape to frizz out around his head. “Anyone could have him. If it’s not Jett or Trumble, who could it be? I may never see him again. You’ve got to find him!”

“All right, all right, calm down. Jett doesn’t have him, so I’ll go talk to Mrs. Trumble again.”

“
No,
” Yogi said quickly, putting his hands in the air palms out. “Stay away from there. She .
 . . she’s crazy.”

“She’s always been crazy. She’s a neighborhood legend. Don’t worry. I’m used to cranky citizens. I have Mace if she gets too violent.”

“Harley—” He paused, staring at her, his eyes white-rimmed and dilated. She frowned at him when he shook his head, his arms falling to his sides. “King’s not there.”

Alarmed, she said, “You went down there
again?
”

“It doesn’t matter. Someone else has him. They have to. Diva’s seen things.”

Harley’s attention shifted to her mother. Diva stood with her hands clasped in front of her, a calm expression on her face. “I’ve made a psychic connection, Harley. King is in a dark place. Small, cramped .
 . . he can hear us but can’t see us.”

It took a supreme effort not to roll her eyes. Harley settled for saying, “So tell him to get his scruffy ass home.”

“He’s being held against his will.”

“Right.” She’d given up a sunny afternoon for this. There should be some kind of reward other than a pounding headache.

“You’ll rescue him,” Diva said after a moment. “I know you will.”

Maternal confidence. Or a major guilt trip. Harley sighed.

“I’ll try.” It was the best she could do under the circumstances.

When she left, she drove past Mrs. Trumble’s house again on the off-chance that the dog would be in the yard. The black car she’d seen earlier was gone, and the back porch light was on even though it wasn’t near dark yet. Afternoon shadows clung to the side of the garage, and limp towels still hung on the clothesline that stretched between two metal poles. It looked quiet and still. Too quiet for King to be there, that was certain.

She walked up to the back of the house, hopping over the cracks in the sidewalk with the weeds growing through, and opened the screened door. Several sharp raps on the door’s peeling paint managed to give her a splinter, but failed to summon the old lady. Probably inside calling the cops. Determined, she knocked again, harder.

“Enough is enough, Mrs. Trumble. Answer the door. I know you’re here. You’ve still got clothes on the line.”

When there was still no answer she rattled the door knob in frustration, and to her surprise, it swung open. She paused, considering. What was one more restraining order?

Two steps into the kitchen, she yelled for her again. “Mrs. Trumble. It’s Harley Davidson, and I’ve come to talk to you for a few minutes. Hey, Mrs. Trumble? You okay?”

No answer, just an odd sound like someone coughing. She inched further into the kitchen. It looked a mess. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink and on the stove. The smell of turnip greens hung in the air, a peculiarly strong stench that she’d never gotten used to. It had to be something you grew up with to truly appreciate. A pot sat on the stove with the greens still in it. A black iron skillet of golden corn bread had been upended on a plate, with one pie-shaped wedge missing. A plastic prescription bottle sat beside it. She picked it up, frowning when she saw the label.
Give one twice daily for sedation
, it read. Now this was very interesting—and suspicious.

“Mrs. Trumble?” It was eerily quiet. The strange coughing sounded again, and she thought the old lady might be having some kind of fit. She eased through the kitchen to a dim hallway and called for her again, not wanting to sneak up on her and scare her into a heart attack. This time, when the strange coughing sounded, she realized it was more like a bark. A bark?

Her head jerked up. Pills for sedation—he
was
here. She called King’s name and this time the sound was distinct. A definite bark. She made her way down the hall opening doors, calling his name, and when she came to a locked door with frantic barking on the other side, she pulled out her trusty little metal pick. Those formative years helping Yogi in his work shop came in so handy at times, she thought, as she got it unlocked and open in a matter of seconds.

The first thing that hit her was the smell. The second was a black, white, and pink thing lunging at her, smelling like dog shit and deliriously happy to see her. Excited barks and whines filled the air. Staggering backward under the assault of canine joy and excrement, she managed to keep King from knocking her down. Barely.

“Down, you wretched mutt.”

He barked at her, turning in circles. He didn’t look so good. He looked like he’d been attacked by a bevy of boll weevils. A Border Collie mix, he had long shaggy hair. Usually. Now, huge patches of fur were missing, and pink bald spots as big as her palm splotched his body like crop circles. Other than that, he looked fine except for dried poop clinging to his back legs. Apparently his ordeal hadn’t curbed his exuberance. Relieved, she found herself grinning like an idiot. Stupid dog. She shouldn’t be so glad to see him relatively unharmed.

“Well, won’t Mrs. Trumble be surprised when she gets home to find her hostage missing,” she said to King, and he barked an excited agreement. “Yep, serves her right, the scary old bitch.”

She peeked into a room off the hall, but there was no sign of Mrs. Trumble. King raced down the hallway, barking dementedly. If she was here she was as deaf as a post, that was for sure.

“King,” she said severely when he disappeared into another room, “stop that. Come here. Come here, you goofy dog.” She followed him, grabbing at him when he skidded across the floor and up under a dining table. He barked again, spinning in a circle like a wind-up toy possessed by demons—Chucky’s dog. She resorted to cooing sounds to coax him closer, but he avoided her. She grabbed at him again, barely missing him as he raced past, barking crazily. She landed on her knees, swore loudly, and glared at the deranged dog still racing in circles. This wasn’t going well.

She looked around. The room was messy, with newspapers and magazines strewn on the table, and scissors lying on pages that looked like rats had chewed them. Drawers were open and stuff thrown on the floor like Mrs. Trumble had been in a hurry or looking for something. Big dark furniture squatted against the walls and in the middle of the floor. Musty light penetrated windows closed off by heavy drapes. It smelled old. Rusty.

King darted past again, barking his fool head off. This was getting ridiculous. She should have left him in the closet. Why on earth did Yogi love this insane creature so much? He was the most annoying animal she’d ever encountered.

“Come on, little shit,” she cooed, snapping her fingers, and when he came close, she made another grab for him but got only a fistful of hair. As if he had some to spare. “Okay, this is war,” she said when he darted past again. She got to her feet and waited, looking everywhere but at the dog, and when he made another circle through the dining room, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth and his eyes gleaming with joy, she lunged again, but tripped over a pile of old clothes on the floor near the wall. Falling flat this time, she banged her knees and elbows.