T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 01 - Southern Fatality (13 page)

A grand-opening celebration for Chesterfield Financial’s newest branch office had been scheduled for months and was going to happen as planned, tonight. Under the circumstances, Chesterfield wanted to cancel or postpone the bash, but the Feds counseled him not to. The evening might produce a lead, they said, and he should publicly continue his normal routine to show he wasn’t intimidated. One criminal profiler, a psychologist by trade, convinced some of the higher-ups that the kidnappers might make an appearance. I wasn’t so sure, but Ox and I decided to go anyway, with our dates in tow. Bill said he wouldn’t have missed the opportunity to schmooze with celebs for anything, and Ox’s date, Mindy, was simply along to stargaze. It was common for Ox to produce a date for special events, but strangely, a woman was rarely seen on his arm more than once. He immensely enjoyed female company, he’d told me once, but had zero desire for a relationship. A perfect complement to Ox, Mindy was longish and beautiful and thrilled to be out with him. But like the rest of his dates, I imagined that I probably wouldn’t see her again. Still, a prick of jealousy flash-fired through my head when I saw them laughing together. I shook it off, thinking that retirement was messing with my head.

The party would be power-packed with politicians and Fortune 500 executives, and giant decorated tents were strategically positioned around gourmet food and open bars to accommodate them. To promote an image of hip sophistication, Chesterfield’s PR people ensured that some prominent actors and musicians were in attendance to offset the predictably dull suits. The asphalt parking lot and surrounding areas had been transformed into a glitzy show-place and live entertainment was already gearing up in advance of people’s arrival. There were even horse-drawn carriages waiting on standby for those who desired a historic downtown tour.

When I quizzed him about the party, Chesterfield explained that the expense of his trademark grand openings was well worth the media exposure and additional business from an upper class of investors. When people had millions to invest, they used Chesterfield Financial.

It was not quite seven o’clock, but the energy level was already palpable. Although only a few guests had arrived, hired security roamed the perimeter and federal and state agents were methodically spread out like sprinkler heads on a golf course, covering the entire area and ready to spring into action. Surrounding everyone, like ants searching for a grain of sugar, media swarmed purposefully through the tents and the office building, armed with cameras and digital recorders. Chesterfield had welcomed them to the party, despite the fact that half were probably there to rehash the kidnapping on the eleven o’clock news. The other half came with hopes of snatching celebrity photographs and interviews. I figured the latter half was way too early since the fashionably late wouldn’t dare be seen before eight or nine o’clock.

In honor of the occasion, I did a full makeup application and wore one of my favorite Argentovivo satin bodices beneath a royal-blue cocktail dress and finished the look with a pair of spiky Italian heels. The knee-length dress had a sunburst of tiny rhinestones, which began at my waist and radiated upward to a scooped neckline. Upon seeing me, Bill said he had a desire to swing from a jungle vine and let out a Tarzan yell. The only bad part about my outfit was the Sig Sauer strapped to the inside of my left thigh. Although the calfskin holster was silky smooth, its buckle rubbed my other leg with each step and was irritating. I’d have preferred the Glock, but then I’d be itchy
and
walking bowlegged.

“What say we go find a copy room inside the building and rendezvous on top of the Xerox?” Bill said.

“Sorry, no hanky-panky right now because I’m working a case.
Sort of. But hypothetically, would we make single or double-sided copies?”

“The possibilities are endless.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “Let’s wait awhile and see where the night leads. Anyway, didn’t you want to meet Jennifer Lopez? She’s in town filming a movie and rumor has it she’ll be here.”

“I hope she shows,” Bill said, “but I’ll bet she won’t consider joining me in the copy room.” His fingertips brushed the length of my exposed back, sending shock waves all the way to my toes. “You, on the other hand, might decide to give it a try.”

A guest who must have been somebody arrived, because a swarm of media encircled her. As I stared into the mesmerizing show of camera flashes, an epiphany forced its way into my consciousness. Bill and I never talked about anything that really mattered. And then it hit me that I didn’t
want
to share thoughts and dreams with him. Regardless of how wonderful he was, I’d be crazy to marry the other half of such a shallow relationship. On the other hand, maybe that’s what marriage was all about. Progressing from the exuberantly sexual and carefree phase of the relationship to the intimate and trustworthy phase. It sounded a lot like work.

“What?” he said, staring at me.

Recovering, I smiled. “Nothing. Let’s circulate and enjoy the party. Isn’t that Lolly over there?”

Following the direction of my gaze, Bill strode off to mingle, saying that we’d have to make sure the automatic stapling device didn’t puncture anything important should we go through with the Xerox plan. I watched his butt with appreciation as he disappeared, wondering how long it would take before Bill demanded more from me, such as an answer to his pesky proposal.

“Stapling device?” Ox said, standing beside me. I hadn’t known he was there, and smiled at his stealthiness. He wore solid black jeans, a black silk T-shirt, black blazer, and black ostrich-skin boots.
The few women in our immediate area openly stared at him and a guy with a camera did a double take before consulting a list to determine whether or not he should be snapping shots of Ox. Walking up behind him, Mindy possessively took his arm.

“On the copier,” I answered, smiling pleasantly at Mindy.

“This one is adventurous,” Ox mused. “I’ll give him that.”

I looked at Ox, into deep mahogany eyes that danced with specks of green, and sighed heavily. “I’m not sure I can marry him, though.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Bill asked you to marry him?” Mindy said, squeezing Ox’s arm.

I nodded. “Several times,” Ox answered for me.

“Oooh, how exciting,” she bubbled before her attention was caught by Kenny Rogers strolling through the tent. “I’ll be right back!” She stretched on her toes to give Ox a cheek kiss and disappeared.

Ox turned the cheek to me so I could get a better look. “Lipstick?”

“Yeah,” I said, wiping it off with a cocktail napkin.

“Why are you worried about Bill all of a sudden?” Ox said. “Didn’t he first propose to you several months ago?”

“I don’t know why,” I said miserably. “Maybe because now that I’m retired—sort of—I’m supposed to do something more with my personal life. Bill is great but the wedding bliss thing sounds like an oxymoron. Why didn’t I break it off the second he brought up the ‘M’ word?”

Ox reached out to untangle an errant strand of windblown hair that had tangled in my diamond stud earring. The brief touch of his fingers on my earlobe felt electric. “Because you convinced yourself that the formula might work once you retired. And because you were too busy to bother with finding another boy toy.”

I punched him in the arm, harder than necessary to make my point.

“You want a quart bottle of beer to go with that clingy little dress and right hook?”

I would have punched him again but realized it wasn’t the proper thing to do at such a social event. “Thanks, no. I’ll stick with liquor tonight.”

“You’re gorgeous, Jersey Barnes, even though you want to punch me again,” he near-whispered.

More
guests began to filter in, their bodies draped in everything from cowboy hats and blue jeans to long designer gowns. While our dates socialized with the beautiful and famous, Ox and I surveyed the gathering, which now numbered around two hundred. Nothing and no one appeared out of place. On stage, an upbeat jazz band pumped out the type of horn music that made bodies subconsciously sway to the beat. On the ground, servers circulated with trays of epicurean finger foods. I sipped bourbon and Ox drank a glass of white burgundy. He emptied it and placed the glass on a nearby table.

“Nice,” he said. “Very creamy with some citrus flavors and a toasty finish.”

“I didn’t know Lumbees drank wine. It could be bad for your image.”

He left to retrieve fresh drinks and returned carrying a bourbon for me and a full bottle of wine for him.

“What if I slam it down straight from the bottle instead of using this puny glass? Would that help the image?”

The stemware did look inadequate in his huge hand. Like it might shatter between the strength of his thumb and forefinger if
he weren’t careful. “Yeah, but then you might get sloshed and I’ll have to fireman-carry you to the car.”

Ox laughed a deep rich sound that made people turn to see what they were missing.

Looking like a cop trying to fit in, Dirk approached us carrying a tiny napkin and a tiny plate covered with miniature hors d’oeuvres.

“I hate these social things,” he said.

“Better than eating doughnuts,” Ox told him.

“Can’t argue with that. The smells coming from the catering trucks are making me drool. Just wish the damn plates were bigger.”

The three of us found an unoccupied table and occupied it.

“Jersey,” Dirk began, “we’re all coming up dry on Chesterfield’s boy. It might be a big help if you’d share what you’ve learned. Besides, I’ll be up for captain in another couple of years. Helping break this case would look good on my record.”

“Why are you so sure I know something you don’t?”

Dirk responded with a give-me-a-break look.

“I really don’t have much to tell,” I said. “I haven’t uncovered anything more than your boys.” He clearly didn’t believe me and looked to Ox for help. Ox just shrugged a shoulder and delicately drank his wine, from the glass.

“Look,” Dirk said, planting his elbows on the linen-covered table and leaning toward me. “How about if we just compare notes. See if maybe we can help each other out.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “You go first.”

He did, and I didn’t learn much more than I already knew. Neither the ransom note, nor Chesterfield’s home had yielded any suspect fingerprints or other usable evidence. The Feds had run background checks on virtually everyone within Chesterfield’s
organization and were still talking to people who knew Jared, including past professors and current friends. They hadn’t uncovered anything unusual. No dusty skeletons had jumped out of any opened closets. And the consensus on Jared was that he was an honest, hard worker. Didn’t take things for granted. Was intelligent, had made good grades. Achieved a perfect record of discipline at the Citadel, a notoriously tough South Carolina military academy. Was proud to be training with his father and had never wanted to do anything other than work in the family business. No steady girlfriends, rarely dated, and wasn’t into drugs or drinking. Didn’t smoke. Had a very bright future ahead of him.

When it was my turn, I told Dirk everything I knew. Except about the Social Insecurity virus, the reports of a problem by Eddie Flowers before he was shot, and the little embezzlement scam that the Hertz couple had pulled. Since I was working for Chesterfield, there were confidentiality issues.

“There were reports of a black Mercedes-Benz at the Water Street Restaurant during a disturbance,” Dirk said. “Descriptions of a man and woman resembling the two of you were given by witnesses. In fact, a young lady would like your phone number, Ox. She’s a bank teller. Said you were amazing to watch as you took down all the bad guys, and that you were polite, too. Picked up the tab for their drinks. Her exact words were, ‘the gorgeous dark-skinned one with the tight ass.’”

Ox smiled.

“She didn’t say anything about the other one?” I asked, insulted. Maybe she hadn’t gotten a good look at me, as I took down Gary Hertz.

“Yeah. She said you stood there and watched the whole thing, staying out of the way,” Dirk said. “Described you as ‘the tall redhead with big boobs.’”

“It wasn’t exactly like that,” I said and Ox’s smile got broader. “Besides, my hair is more brunette than red. I believe the colorist at the salon called my latest shade a sun-kissed chestnut.”

“Want to tell me about it?” Dirk said.

“Just a few thugs that Gary Hertz put on Chesterfield. He was mad about losing his job as the property manager for the Bellington Complex,” I explained. “We didn’t see any need to stick around after we reasoned with them.”

“Why’d Chesterfield get rid of Hertz?”

“Suspected him of dealing drugs,” Ox said. It was a good answer, since Hertz was now in jail on drug charges. And even though the answer didn’t satisfy Dirk, it would satisfy his bosses at the police department.

“Yeah, well,” Dirk said. “The three boys you left behind at Water Street all had priors. And the Hertz couple was a good bust for narcotics. Gary squealed and we picked up the wife yesterday. Captain said to tell you thanks. Off the record.”

“Tell him no problem,” Ox said, “off the record.”

We sat at the table a while longer and surveyed our surroundings. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, even the suits who tried to be inconspicuous in a crowd that had now grown to four or five hundred.

“Shall we go mingle?” I said to Ox when our glasses were empty.

“It is what you’re suppose to do at one of these things,” he agreed.

Leaving Dirk at the table to finish his food, we walked for several minutes before approaching Chesterfield and a group of men. After introductions, I heard the word “SIPA” and my attention span perked up and zeroed in.

“Senator Ralls serves on the finance committee,” Chesterfield was saying. “We first met four or five years ago, when the committee had just begun discussing Social Security reform.”

I made sure that the level of scotch on the rocks in the senator’s cocktail glass never dipped below half and, by the time the featured band began playing, the senator and Ox were on a first-name basis and swapped stories like old war buddies. I learned that the finance committee had to give their blessing to all brokerage firms cleared to handle SIPAs. I learned that Senator Sigmund Ralls, from Georgia, owned a vacation home in Wrightsville Beach, which was less than half an hour’s drive from the Block. I learned that his wife had darting, dark eyes and that I didn’t much like her, even though she smiled and nodded at all the right times. Her expression was unattractively pinched tight, as though she were commanding a troop of one hundred men instead of just one. And I learned that Sigmund Ralls had a son, but was openly disappointed and critical of the kid. The same kid who coincidentally knew Jared.