07 Uncorked - Chrissy McMullen Mystery (26 page)

“Christina, I did not mean to give you the wrong impression. I only wished to—”

“Listen, I’ve got to pee. When I get back, I want you to tell me their genders,” I said, and stumbling to my feet, hurried toward the back of the building.

The restroom was small. It had two stalls, one free-standing metal cabinet with listing doors, and enough graffiti to fill a novel. It was also unoccupied. I have never seen such a beautiful sight in my life. I made it to the only sink, splashed water on my face and stood staring down at the drain as if life’s many mysteries would be answered there. But they remained hidden. I mean, seriously, what was wrong with me? Julio was a friend. A good-looking friend, true. A tall, dark, handsome suave friend, but a friend nevertheless.

Not to mention the fact that he was, as often as not, a paid friend. Was I so hard up that I needed love in all the wrong places?

I glanced at the mirror. The face that glanced back was okay. Not glamorous. Not heart stopping. But not hideous either. My skin was kind of pasty, my hair a little messed, as if I’d had a run-in with an opinionated dry vac. But no one was perfect. And I had a boyfriend. My face flamed red again as I thought back to some of my recent exploits. So what if I sometimes forgot his name? So what if he was in a country I had never heard of while I was being attacked in my car? So what if—

The door opened. I turned back to the sink, hiding my reddened cheeks. “It’s so hot in here,” I said, and splashed more water on my face. “But I’ll be done in a minute.”

“You sure as hell will.”

I jerked around at the sound of the guttural voice. Drag stood between me and the door. Bruising showed around his right eye as if he'd recently been hit in the face. My mouth went dry. My knees went weak, and when I looked down, my breath stopped dead in my throat.

He held a pistol in his right hand. I staggered backward, bumping into the sink.

“You can’t come in here.” They were the first words out of my mouth, barely audible, completely nonsensical. You can’t come in here? Like social etiquette was the reason he couldn’t kill me?

He laughed, low and mean and self-assured.

“I can do anything I want,” he said, and took a limping step toward me. I jerked my purse up to grab Shirley's gun, but he snatched it out of my hand and flung it across the room. The Glock flew out and skittered against the wall. My arm screamed in pain. I was breathing hard now, wide eyed as he grinned at me. I backed away, skirting the sink, but the space was limited.

I shook my head, grappling for something intelligent to say, but all that came out was, “You don’t have to do this. Andrews doesn’t own you.”

“Fuckin’ A,” he said, and lunged toward me.

I shrieked, grappled behind me and tore the cabinet away from the wall. It toppled forward, almost striking him. He jumped back just as I leapt for the door, but he was already blocking that route. Turning wildly, I dashed into the stall, but he was right behind me. I spun around and slammed the door with all my might. It smashed into his arm. I was sobbing as I yanked the door toward me and slammed it again, but he had already drawn back.

I fumbled for the latch just as his shoulder hit the door. I flew backward, landing on the stool.

“Where is she?” he growled, and yanking me to my feet, drew back the gun as if to strike me. “Lavonn, where—” But he never finished the sentence.

“I’m right here,” she snarled.

Drag half-turned, and in that instant, Lavonn leapt toward him. She shrieked as she swung. The tire iron hissed past his face. He shoved me backward and stumbled out of the stall, dodging her blows. I fell back against the wall, dazed and terrified. I heard iron strike flesh, but Drag grabbed her weapon and yanked her to the floor. Her head struck the tile with sickening finality.

“Fucking bitch!” he snarled, and stumbled toward her. But there was a pop of noise.

He jerked as if yanked by a cord. Flinging his arms wide, he turned and stumbled three steps in my direction. He raised his gun, growled a threat, then crumpled slowly to the floor near my feet.

It took me a long time to realize I was unscathed, longer still to understand that Eric Albertson was standing by the door, legs straddled, gun still trained on his target.

I watched woodenly as he closed his stance and strode forward to gaze down at Drag. He was lying on his side, pistol half-hidden beneath him, eyes wide and staring.

Blood seeped from his neck onto the grimy floor tiles. Eric held his gun outstretched, but knelt and touched his fingers to a spot just below Drag’s jaw. Nobody moved.

“Is he dead?” Lavonn’s voice was no more than a raspy whisper, but it seemed to bring Eric out of his trance. He looked up. The door creaked open. A face appeared momentarily, then disappeared. Footsteps could be heard skittering away.

Eric blinked once and glanced at me.

“You okay?”

“Sure.” I was still sprawled on the floor like a broken doll. I didn’t even try to change that situation. “I’m fine. Lavonn…” My voice was unsteady. “Lavonn got here just in time.”

She was already struggling to her feet, eyes wide. “You bet your white ass I did,” she said.

“How did you know?” I asked. “Why did you come? How did you get here?”

“I took a damn taxi,” she said. “You owe me forty-two bucks.”
Chapter 27

A true friend will stab you in the front.

—Oscar Wilde

It was hours before the police allowed us to leave the crime scene. But finally we were back home. Lavonn trekked immediately into the kitchen.

Eric watched her go, then sighed and stared down into my eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“No,” I said, and drew a ragged breath, “but I will be.” He shook his head, kissed my forehead and said, “You’re amazing.” I was, kind of. “So you think Drag was the one who shot Andrews?” He exhaled slowly, as if just beginning to relax. “That's my guess."

I thought about that for a moment. “He probably planned to take over the sale of Intensity.”

“That seems likely. But maybe he just had a grudge. We’ll probably never know for sure now.”

I nodded, feeling numb, and a little less amazing than I would have liked.

“I’m sorry I was late.”

I pulled my gaze back to his face. He wasn’t the first person to apologize to me that evening. Julio had been beside himself when he’d realized I’d been attacked under his watch. But he’d allowed Eric to drive me to the station and eventually take me home.

“I should have been more careful,” I said.

“Yes, you should have,” he agreed, and sighed. “So maybe you want me to stay the night?” He looked hopeful, and I have to admit I was tempted. But I had a boyfriend.

Rivera’s dark features flashed through my mind, followed languidly by Marc’s blander ones.

“I’d better see to Lavonn,” I said. “She’s probably more shook up than she seems.” Eric chuckled a little and squeezed my hand. “An army boot would seem more shook up.” I glanced at him and he shrugged. “I don’t think you have to worry about her too much,” he said. “At the end of the world it’ll just be her and the cockroaches left.”

“She’s probably a marshmallow in—” But just then she yelled from the kitchen.

“Don’t you ever have no damn groceries in this house?”

“Probably just hiding her sensitivity,” Eric said, and turned to go, but he paused for a moment. “Hey, Lavonn doesn't have Drag's phone does she?"

“Not that I know of.”

He nodded. “Well, if it turns up, make sure she doesn’t mess with it, will you? It wasn't on the body and we’ll need it for evidence.”

“Okay.”

He nodded and prepared to leave.

“Eric?”

He raised a brow at me.

“Thank you again.”

“To protect and serve,” he said, and left.

I walked into the kitchen, only to find Lavonn munching on a PB and J sandwich.

“I thought you couldn’t find anything to eat,” I said.

She shrugged. “I been eatin’ since I walked through the door. I just couldn’t stand the thought of you suckin’ face with that pasty-faced do-gooder.”

“What are you talking about? He saved our lives.”

“He saved your life. He woulda just as soon I was drowned in the toilet.” I scooped up a spoonful of peanut butter and sat across the table from her. “I take it you don’t care for Officer Eric.”

Another shrug, but then she snagged her sandwich and stood up. “Come on,” she said.

“Where?”

“You’re going to take me to get my shit.”

“What?”

“My shit,” she said, “In Westlake.”

I was shaking my head even before she quit speaking. “Now’s not the time. The police aren’t going to want us messing up the crime scene.”

“It’s not a crime scene, Sherlock. Case you forgot, Drag tried to kill us at the Blue Fox.”

“Technically that’s true,” I admitted regretfully. “But I still think they won’t want us to—”

“Technically I saved your ass,” she said, “so go get your damn keys.” I considered arguing, but I've never been comfortable being the sensible one. It had rubbed me wrong since the day I shed my diaper and took off across Fernbrook Avenue at warp speed. The ensuing spanking had taught me little.

In a minute we were in my car.

Outside the little Saturn’s windows it was blacker than sin.

“I still don’t understand why you decided to go to the Blue Fox,” I said.

“You think I’m illiterate?” she asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“I saw your doodling by the phone. Julio. Imp. Blue Fox. All that.” I nodded, but I really wasn’t following her line of thinking very well.

“It’s a major hangout for folks who are looking to get themselves killed,” she added.

“I didn’t want to get myself killed.”

“Well, you sure as hell act like it. When you come running that time Micky shot Jackson…” She shook her head. “I thought you must have had a thing for him. But then you do the same thing when I call.”

I gave her a nonchalant shrug.

She scowled, seeming to try to figure me out. “You come running when every nigger bitch calls?”

I raised my brows. “It’s not emotionally healthy to call yourself names.”

“Yeah, well…” She sighed and glanced through the windshield, peering into the night. “You call me that and I guarantee it won’t lengthen your life.” The hum of my engine was all that was heard for a while. That and my own roiling thoughts.

“Thank you,” I said finally, and turned to look at her.

She shrugged. “Could be I owed you one.”

“Could be you owed me a couple,” I said, and she snorted. “So what now?”

“Now I go pick up my stuff.”

“You won’t stay there?”

She shuddered visibly. “Drag, he got friends round there.”

“You’re welcome to stay with me until you get on your feet.” She chuckled. “If you knew how unsteady my legs was, you wouldn’t offer.” The little Saturn hummed on. No one spoke for a moment, then, “But I did,” I said.

She shook her head. “You and me, we don’t sing in the same choir. This time next year you’ll probably be on some big-ass book tour with…“ She paused. “What the hell’s his name?”

I sighed. “Damn if I know.”

She chuckled. “Well…you’ll be with some rich somebody, and I’ll be poppin’ out a new kid.”

“Tired of your old ones already?”

She laughed. The sound was a little off. I glanced over, but she was staring out the passenger window again. The neighborhood was deteriorating rapidly. I took a right onto Wilton.

“I’m good at making babies.”

“Maybe you’d be good at practicing law, too.”

One shoulder lifted a little. “Folks from the hood stay in the hood.”

“That doesn’t seem to be what Micky Goldenstone thinks.” She was silent for a moment. “Micky ain’t got no time for me.” It took nearly a half a minute for reality to finally strike me. When it did, I felt a little bit like an idiot. I mean, it didn’t take a genius to realize she had feelings for him. “How long have you been mooning over Micky?”

There was a long pause, then, “God, I hate this neighborhood.”

“Lavonn—” I began but she interrupted me.

“Pull up here and let’s get this over with.”

She seemed a little jumpy as we traipsed up the walkway to the door. Jumpier still as she shoved her key into the lock. In a moment we were inside. She had only been absent a few hours, but the place looked the worse for it. Dirty dishes had been left on the table.

Broken shards of glass lay on the floor, only half swept up by the nearby broom. Towels, several of them spotted with blood, were heaped on the counter, and the all-important cleaning drawer was open, showcasing enough chemical cleansers to cause an asthmatic epidemic.

I swallowed my revulsion and turned my gaze away from the towels. “What are we taking?” I asked.

“Anything we want,” she said.

“Are you sure that’s legal? Maybe the police will want to have a look at things first.” She stared at me. Her eyes showed a lot of white around the irises, making her tough-guy act seem a little suspect, but she marched into a little room off the kitchen.

Returning with a laundry basket of neatly folded clothes, she dumped the contents onto the floor. “You trying to be a saint, or what?”

In the entirety of my life I was pretty sure I had never been threatened with being canonized. Threatened with being shot out of a canon, sure. “Yes,” I said, “Saint Christina.”

She chuckled as she headed toward the stairs. “Well, Your Sainthood, you start in the kitchen. Pack up anything that ain’t growing fuzz.” In the end, that didn’t amount to too much. But I did find an un-fuzzy box of Whoppers in the cupboard above the stove. I had just popped a pair into my mouth when a torpedo erupted from the counter. I jumped and squawked, spewing gobs of chocolate and malt.

“What!” Lavonn appeared in the doorway, eyes wide as softballs, but I was frozen in place. She shot her gaze to the offending counter, then strode purposefully across the floor to dig around under the mess of towels. A cell phone lay there buzzing like a bee.

Our gazes met.

“It’s Drag’s,” she said, and lifted it from the counter.

“You’re not supposed to touch that.”