Repo Madness (33 page)

“You're helping with an investigation. Bringing a man to justice. That's your reward,” D.A. Darrell retorted.

I sat back and regarded the officers. “Not good,” I muttered.

“We
are
grateful for your—,” Cutty started to say.

“Let me ask you guys a question,” I interrupted. “What would have happened if I had gotten the five grand but waited to call you until after I had spent all the money? Would you not be interested in having me wear your hat? Tell me to forget the whole thing?”

Nobody wanted to answer that. I bitterly processed the unspoken answer to my question.

“Let it go, Ruddy,” Strickland murmured.

“Perhaps talking to the convicts gave you the wrong impression,”
Alan suggested gently.

“Hey, sport, I wrote the letter to the court,” D.A. Darrell said in a what-more-do-you-want? tone of voice.

“Thanks,” I replied listlessly.

The boys in uniform tested the hat camera and the gum backup, indicating they could receive both signals perfectly. “There's also a chip in the hat,” Donut Cop advised, “as a backup to our receivers. The chip will be recording everything. You are good to go.”

*   *   *

The sky was turning gray, everything on the ground white with snow or black with shadow as I cruised up M-66. Even with my big fat tires, when I came to the hill where I had rolled the last truck, I slowed, creeping along in low gear.

I didn't see the state police SUVs when I drove to the road down to the ferry landing. I assumed they would show up after Blanchard rolled in. I was early by twenty minutes, which gave Alan plenty of time to lecture me on why I should have known I wouldn't get to keep any of the money. “You turn in someone for not paying his taxes, you get a reward,” I argued. “This is about murdering someone. Isn't that worse?”

“Not the same thing,”
he responded.

“I met a ton of guys who set up stings and got to keep some of the proceeds, but I guess I'm taking my time and risking my life for no reason.”

“Isn't the hat probably recording right now?”

“Crap!” He was right, of course.

Well, a lot of people talk to themselves.

I glumly surveyed my surroundings. Even though I now believed something else had happened that night, sitting here stirred up all the old feelings of guilt and grief until I was almost sick with it. I believed I was innocent, Alan believed I was innocent, but my soul still blamed me for the death of Lisa Marie Walker.

Blanchard was ten minutes late. He came slowly down the road to the ferry in his Cadillac Escalade, then did something curious, driving all around the parking lot, peering at the woods, at the lake. I watched him impatiently. Finally he pulled up next to me and motioned for me to get in.

If he drove off, the government SUVs would follow, but he left the big machine in park. I climbed in. “Pretty damn cold out there,” I griped.

He eyed me for a minute. “Yeah,” he finally said.

“Nice car.”

He didn't reply. Okay, enough friendly conversation—time to draw him out. “So what's the plan? Walk me through it,” I suggested.

“Time for that,” he grunted.

“Sorry?”

“Plenty of time for that,” he elaborated. He was still gazing at me as if he wasn't sure who I was.

“He suspects something,”
Alan fretted.
“Maybe the fact that he had to remind you he would be bringing the money is bugging him.”

I sat, the hat pointed like a rifle, not letting my irritation with Alan show on my face.

“You look tired,” Blanchard said.

“Yeah, I was up late last night. Those friends of mine? The one who got your postcard? They're flying out of Traverse City this morning, headed to Hawaii. We had a big send-off.”

Blanchard didn't say anything.

“So, you said you would call me when you figured out how to get away with killing your wife,” I prodded.

Blanchard looked around the parking lot. “How is the repo business?”

“It's okay. How's the banking business?”

“He's being evasive. He's not going to talk about the murder,”
Alan advised me starkly.
“He knows something's up.”

“It's good.” He looked at his watch the way people do when they've decided to leave. He was bailing.

“Actually, things could be better,” I blurted. Blanchard glanced up at me, curious, and I nodded. “I got Sheriff Porterfield on my ass all the time. He says I'm not allowed to do any self-help repossessions, that they all have to go through his department. Kermit's lawyer got him warned off of shutting me down directly, so instead he has his lard-assed deputy giving me traffic tickets for all sorts of bogus reasons.”

A glimmer of the old crafty Blanchard showed in his eyes. “That right?”

“My glove box over there is stuffed full of the things. It's really putting a crimp in my ability to hook repos, including for your bank.”

“Well,” he replied slowly. “I might be able to do something about that. Do a little business with the good sheriff from time to time.”

My turn to say it: “That right?”

“Party I had on the boat? Let's just say Porterfield walked away from the table with a little money in his pocket.”

“He was on the boat,” I stated, talking strictly for the hat.

“Yeah.”

“With the girls. The hookers.”

He looked scornful. “Telling me you got a problem with that?”

“No. I'm just surprised that a lawman would take the risk of stepping out on his wife after what happened with Barry Strickland. Especially with prostitutes.”

“Strickland was an idiot. He didn't have to resign.”

“I agree.” I knew Strickland could hear us right now, and wondered what his reaction to this conversation would be. And I was awfully glad to get this admission on tape—wait until this part of the conversation was played for the jury!

“Well. All right,” Blanchard said. It was the way you ended a discussion, an all-right-nice-talking-to-you sort of thing. “I'll get back to you on that.”

“It's over.”
Alan sighed, frustrated.

I needed to figure out a way to keep the conversation going. “So, Mr. Blanchard, let me ask you a question.”

He regarded me warily.

“What kind of hotel are Wilma and Claude going to find when they get to the islands?”

“Hell should I know.”

“Some sort of hovel?”

He shrugged.

“You know what? The money you brought today? Keep it,” I told him.

He looked puzzled.

“Here's what I want instead,” I told him. “Claude and Wilma Wolfinger. I want you to get them a nice room at a hotel right on the beach. They arrive tonight; I want them to be blown away by the accommodations. Okay? Have them met at the airport by one of those guys holding a sign with their name on it. They call me and tell me how wonderful their room is, we're a go. Otherwise, no deal.”

“Darrell Hughes is going to have a heart attack,”
Alan observed, but he sounded gleeful as he said it.

Blanchard was staring at me. “You're serious.”

“That's what I want.”

“Craziest thing I ever heard of.”

I shrugged. I had a voice in my head. Crazy was just how I rolled.

“That's going to cost me more than five thousand dollars,” Blanchard said, a calculating look in his eye.

“Well, there's this travel club you can join to get discounts,” I told him.

He stared at me and then, unexpectedly, threw back his head and laughed. It went on and on, a gasping, rolling mirth. I sat and watched—there were literally tears in his eyes. I kept the hat focused on him even though I was starting to get a crick in my neck. “Oh God, that's hilarious,” he sputtered. “Jesus. Oh God.” He wiped his eyes. “Got to say, Ruddy, I was worried about you. Figured maybe you went to the cops. Ratted me out. But now”—he laughed again, shaking his head—“no cops would be in on anything like this.”

I wasn't laughing back. “We got a deal?”

“Okay. Yeah, why the hell not? You slay me, McCann.”

I had all their flight information in my e-mail on my phone, and I wrote it down for him. “This is too much,” he said, shaking his head some more. “Killer with a heart of gold.”

“I told you they were like parents to me,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, well, I wouldn't do this for
my
parents. Okay.” His face got serious. “I've got it all worked out. You do this right, you do exactly as I say, and they won't blame you, they won't blame me. But only if you follow my plan to the letter.”

“Sounds good.”

“It
is
good. It's perfect.” Blanchard had a merry expression on his face, but there was hate in his eyes. “The person they'll arrest is the asshole my wife is seeing. I found out who he is: a guy named Jimmy Growe.”

 

26

Something of Value

“They'll blame Jimmy Growe,” I repeated faintly.

“Yeah. You know him?”

“No. Well. I may have heard the name before.”

Blanchard's smile was ugly. “So get this. He's the guy who knocked her up. When I met Alice, my wife, she had this little girl she was raising by herself, and all she told me was the guy's first name, Jimmy, and that he ran out on her and left her with nothing. She
hated
Jimmy. And now…” He pressed his lips together.

“You sure it's him?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. Dumbass left his cell phone there. I found it yesterday; it was in the couch cushions. It rang just as I was crossing the living room.”

“How often do you do that? Go into your house?”

“Hell do you care?”

“You're right. I don't care.”

“So here's the deal. When she goes to bed, Alice always leaves her cell phone on a charger I gave her. So last night, while she was sleeping, I went in and sent a couple of nasty text messages from Growe's phone to hers. Then I erased the messages off her phone, but not his. Threatening messages, like,
I'm going to kill you bitch.
Get it?”

I decided Blanchard would prefer if I were stupid. “No, I don't get it.” This meant that I had to listen to both Blanchard and Alan explain to me that it laid down motive.

“By erasing the messages from her phone, she won't suspect anything,”
Alan concluded.
“But the messages will be on
Jimmy's
phone.”
Then Blanchard said essentially the same thing.

“I'm going on a date tomorrow night. All night long, so I'll have an alibi.” Blanchard winked cleverly.

“One of the girls from the boat?” I guessed, because otherwise I had trouble believing someone like Blanchard could be so confident about the “all night long” part.

“Want to focus, here, pal?” Blanchard suggested softly.

I supposed he thought he sounded threatening, so I did my best to look threatened.

“Want a date after all this is over, I'll introduce you. But right now I say jump, you say how high.” He glowered.

“Yessir,” I replied with an admirable lack of sarcasm.

“Here's a key to the back door of the house,” he continued, tossing it to me. “Once you're in, leave the door unlocked. They'll assume she was negligent. You take this.” He handed me Jimmy's phone. “Tonight send a text like,
I'm coming to kill you now, bitch.
This time do not erase the message from her phone; that's important. Then you wipe this phone down and drop it at the scene. They'll assume he lost it.”

“Should I put it back in the couch cushions?” Still the dumb repo hit man.

“What? No,” Blanchard replied, looking disgusted. “You think the cops would find it there?”

“Okay.”

“Repeat back to me what I said,” Blanchard ordered.

I walked through it pretty quickly. Then I remembered I needed him to be specific. “You want me to shoot her? Stab her? What?”

“Don't want you to leave any evidence, so yeah, a gun's best. Too much personal contact otherwise. And for God's sake, don't touch her! You can get your rocks off somewhere else. You do it there, you go back to prison.”

“He really is a despicable man,”
Alan said.

“And don't wake the kid. Just in, do it, drop the phone, out. Wear gloves and wipe the phone! Jesus, you handle this okay?”

“I can handle this okay.”

“You're not exactly inspiring confidence,” Blanchard muttered. He was sweating.

“Relax. This is pretty close to what I do, only instead of breaking into a garage to steal a car, I'm walking in a door to cap your wife.”

Cap
was a term I got from the mysteries I liked to read.

Blanchard looked at his watch. “Jesus. Gotta go.” He glared at me. “Don't screw this up, McCann, or you'll be answering to me.” He gestured for me to get out of his vehicle.

“And…,” I said without moving.

“And what?”

“And I'll be hearing tonight from Claude and Wilma that they love their hotel. Otherwise, I don't do anything. That's the contract.”

“Yeah.” He didn't seem to find it amusing anymore. “I'll take care of Mommy and Daddy for you.”

*   *   *

After Blanchard left, I went back to my truck and just sat there, waiting for something to happen, someone to come. Nothing and no one did.

“Maybe they want to make sure he doesn't come back,”
Alan suggested when I squirmed impatiently.

Neither
bingo
nor
not good
seemed appropriate. Hey,” I called, waving my hand in front of the hat. “You guys asleep in there?”

The back door of the Landing opened, and Cutty gestured me in.