Hijack in Abstract (A Cherry Tucker Mystery) (21 page)

Twenty-Seven

Back at Max’s gate, I climbed from the Civic to buzz his intercom. Instead of the sound of gate locks tumbling, Max’s disembodied voice told me to go away.

“I’m in no mood for this,” I said. “Open the friggin’ gate or I’m climbing over it.”

I felt his long sigh but had already climbed into the car to wait for the gates to open. They slowly swung back. I gunned the motor, glancing in my rear view to see if I could spot Luke watching. I lurched through the gate, burned rubber up Max’s drive, and squealed to a quick stop before Max’s house. The Bear stood in his doorway, waiting.

He wore clothes. No more robe with pec cleavage for me.

“You are going to talk to me,” I said, marching past him and down the hall to the sitting room. “No subterfuge tonight.”

He followed me but halted in the sitting room doorway and shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’s a bad time, Artist.”

“You got a dinner party or something? Poker game in your basement?” At the brief shake of his head, I continued. “That’s what I thought. I figured it was a bad time, considering the local po-po are watching your door.”

“You noticed.” He scrubbed his thick, brown hair, then strode into the room and collapsed on the couch.

I remained standing, but gave my tube top a small hike before pulling a sheet of paper out of my satchel. “Who is this?”

Max took the copy of the composite sketch and studied it. He tossed the paper onto the couch and pursed his lips. “Your hijacker?”

“He’s not my hijacker. You are tied to this crime somehow. Why else would the deputy in charge of the hijacking investigation stake out your house?”

“Are you sure Deputy Harper’s still in charge of this investigation? Perhaps he has a personal vendetta?”

I opened my mouth to dispute his accusation and then closed it. If the crime was bigger than a hijacking, would a lowly deputy be in charge? Would he even remain on the investigation team? How big was big?

“Dammit,” I stomped my foot. “I’m tired of all this secrecy. What is going on? I need to help the Coderres. The state took away Jerell. I’ve got to do something. What do you know?”

Max snagged my hand and pulled me to the couch. Clasping my hand in his, he studied my face. “You have been crying.”

“So what? Sometimes it happens.” I struggled to pull my hand free, but he held tight.

“Listen to me. The Coderres have the bad luck. No effort to catch the killer will help that family.”

“I don’t believe you,” I said. “Justice should serve everyone.”

“You are too idealistic. Justice doesn’t serve everyone. That is life. You know this personally. I do, too.”

“What are you talking about?” I scrubbed my eyes with my free hand and tried not to sniffle.

“Go home. Stay away from me. As you say, I’m watched by the local po-po.”

“That’s just Luke. I don’t care what he thinks.”

“You should. You were very worried about the town’s opinion of you a few days ago.”

“Too late for that.” I jerked my hand away. “You turned on me, too. Shawna said you’re doing a show for her now. Thanks a lot.”

“I hired her gallery.” He stood. “Now go. No more drop-in visits.”

I sucked on my bottom lip, then took a deep breath. “You can count on that. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you. Rupert was right, you’re impossible to read.”

“Rupert? You have been talking to Rupert?” Max grabbed the strap of my bag and jerked me to my feet. “Get out of my house.”

Amid my curses and threats, Max drug me from his sitting room, through the foyer, and out the door. Breathing hard, his icy stare caused ripples of goosebumps to prickle my skin.

“Stay away from me,” he growled.

The door slammed shut.

I kicked the door. “Tell your maneuvers they can go to hell.”

Spinning around, I flew down the porch toward the red hatchback. The hijack was bigger than two murders? That meant finding Tyrone’s killer had been bumped down the Sheriff’s Office to-do list. Looked like I had been left alone to continue my quest to bring the murderer to justice.

I was going to the SipNZip tonight. To hell with Max Avtaikin and the rest. I knew that store had to be involved. The coffee was too good to be that cheap.

E
ven at night the SipNZip had the bustle of early morning accompanied with the smell of coffee, cleaning formula, and simmering nacho cheese. I pulled in an appreciative deep breath at the door, then strode to the counter.

“I’m Cherrilyn Ballard,” I said, sticking my hand at a guy with a short, brown mohawk working the cash register. He wore a bright yellow tracksuit with a red stripe and several chains around his neck. I admired his choice in color.

“I am Anatoly,” he shook my hand. “You call me Little Anatoly.”

“Nice to meet you, Little Anatoly,” I said. “You’re not from around here are you?”

He winked. “You are good judge. How can you guess? You haven’t even heard my rhymes yet.”

“What rhymes?”

“I’m dope rapper, yo.” He dropped back to swing his arms and move to an internal beat. “Freestylin’ rhymes to score more dimes. I’ve got lyrics so good you’ll think you’re in da hood. Beeyatch.”

I stood on my toes and leaned over the counter. “You listen to me, Little Anatoly. I don’t want to hear any of that ugly talk. You call me a bitch again, and I’ll teach you some American whoopass you won’t forget.”

“Chill, woman.”

“And don’t call me woman. I hate that.” I looked around. “Now who else is working here?”

“Just me and Sam.” Anatoly hopped back on his seat. “Why you so crazy?”

“Let me talk to Sam,” I said. “I’m not getting much from you.”

“Sam’s busy right now.” Little Anatoly glanced toward the back of the store. “He’s unloading.”

“Sounds like a good place for me to start. I can stock while he unloads.”

“What you mean 'start’?”

Little Anatoly leaned over the counter to gawk at my tube top ensemble. He mouthed the name written on my top. “Who are you? What is Che y? Spanish?”

I glanced down at my top and gave it a tug. “I lost some beads earlier. I’m here to work the graveyard. I filled out an application the other day.”

“Elena did not mention a new worker,” said Little Anatoly, still trying to work out the lettering on my top.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “That scrawny girl is the manager? Is she here?”

“No.” He sank back on his stool and studied my face. “I think she will not hire you. You must be mistaken.”

“I just came from Max Avtaikin’s house.” I watched for his reaction. “He owns the SipNZip.”

“Don’t know him.” He leaned back against the cigarette case and put his hands behind his head. “I only hear from Elena.”

Just my luck the woman who didn’t seem to take to me was in charge of hiring. Elena reminded me of a sloppier version of Miss David.

A small light bulb winked on in my brain. “Do you know Rupert Agadzinoff?”

“Sure,” said Little Anatoly, “he is my lawyer, yo. ‘Cause when you’re def like me, you can’t keep no peace. Keepin’ lawyers on retainers, no repercussions later.”

He grinned. “How do you like that?”

“Your English vocabulary is suspiciously large when you freestyle,” I said.

“I watch MTV all the time in my country. Also MTV Live, VH1 Europe, MTV Dance, MTV Hits, MTV Rocks, and Nickelodeon. I like the SpongeBob SquarePants.”

“Now that you live here, I hope you realize Americans are not portrayed at our best on those shows.”

“Living here has been disappointment,” he sighed. “But I can drive to Atlanta to go to clubs someday. Maybe I will become DJ before I make it big as rapper.”

“Sounds like a good goal. You should meet my friend, Todd. He’s a drummer.”

“I want to meet this Todd drummer. But I work all the time. Can’t get no rest--”

I interrupted before he started another freestyle block. “It seems like you need more employees at this store. How many work here?”

“Me, Sam, Dina, Gleb, Elena. Twelve hour shift. Every six day.”

“That’s ridiculous. Why would you agree to those hours? Why couldn’t Todd or I get hired?”

Little Anatoly’s gaze drew to the back again. I followed his look. A tall man with a bad crew cut and determined stare stood in the doorway of the stock room. He also wore a track suit, kelly green with a white stripe. I wondered if they exercised in the stock room when the store was empty.

“Sam,” whispered Little Anatoly.

Sam honed in on us, but planted his feet before the door. He nodded to Little Anatoly and gave me a curt, once-over.

“I’m going to introduce myself to Sam,” I said. Sam had some of the same features as Tyrone’s hijacker. Long face and nose. Rounded jaw. High cheekbones. Pretty mouth. “Did he cut his hair recently?”

“No.” said Little Anatoly. “You do not want talk to Sam. He is psychopath. Look at his eyes. I cannot sleep for fear that Sam may cut my throat. He does not like freestyle rap.”

“Seriously? You think he’ll murder you?”

“He has told me this himself. ‘Anatoly, cut the shit or I cut your throat.’”

“You live together?”

Little Anatoly nodded. “We all live together in the Line Creek Apartments. We have the two bedroom. Not so bad with our shifts, but Elena always complaining about my clothes on floor.”

I knew the Line Creek apartments. A step up in pay scale from Sweetgum Estates, swapping the meth-heads for rock bottom alcoholics, unwed mothers, and twenty-somethings who spent their rent money in bars. “I am experiencing that problem myself. Is Elena your sister?”

He shook his head, keeping his eyes on Sam.

“You sure you don’t know Max Avtaikin? Does Elena or Sam?”

“Sam doesn’t know anyone. He is at home or in this store. Sometimes he goes to movie. That is all.”

Creepy Sam. “Well, nice talking to you, Little Anatoly.” I wandered to the coffee station and began to prepare a cup while I covertly watched Sam’s sentinel position. He seemed rather territorial about the stock room.

I needed to see the stock room.

The door jangled and a man and woman came in. They began to browse the aisles. I glanced at Little Anatoly, but he had turned his attention to a magazine. Sam disappeared into the stock room. I stirred a packet of sugar into my cafe au lait and strolled toward the back of the store. I tried the store room door. Locked. I knocked.

The door swung partially open, blocked by Sam’s lanky form.

“Hey Sam,” I said, trying to peer around his body. “Max Avtaikin told me to help you in the back.”

“Who is Max Avtaikin?”

“The owner?” Why didn’t these people know the Bear? “Maksim Avtaikin? Signs your paycheck?”

Sam snorted. “What do you want?”

“To help you.”

“Are you with the church women who visit the apartment?”

“No,” I glanced at my tube top. I wasn’t usually mistaken for a church lady. “So you don’t know Max Avtaikin? Or heard about him?”

“No. Go away.” He slammed the door shut.

Sam’s shorn locks had grown out from a buzz that looked more than a week old. He had a scar on his chin, but Tyrone might have been too far away to see it. Sam was also taller than the hijacker Tyrone reported. One call to Uncle Will and I could report Sam as someone matching the hijacker description.