Authors: Claire Gillian
After a long silent stretch that underscored the awkwardness, he asked, “How about trying again with my sister?”
“Sure. I can start with Jenny.”
No matter what else happened with Jon’s and my relationship, I did want another chance with his sister. Jenny probably didn’t think much of me given the nature of our introduction. I cringed at the idea she might still think I was some bimbo Jon had been cheating on his fiancée with.
“Good. I’ll set it up.” Jon’s hurt expression evaporated, replaced by a grin that reached his eyes. His mood improvement bumped mine up too.
“I’ll be sure and dress more appropriately this time.”
He laughed. “We both will.”
Too late, I spotted Jeff making a turn as we passed. “Oh no! He went left into that gated community back there. Now what?”
“Don’t worry, and watch the master.” Jon turned around, pulled up to the guard shack in front of the gate and stopped. “Hi, I’m here to visit Jeff Hardinger. He was having me follow him home, but I’ve lost sight of him. I’m sure he thinks I was in the car that just followed him in. Can you point me in the right direction to catch up to him again?”
I leaned over, smiled broadly at the guard and gave him a fluttery wave.
He smiled back at me and, after consulting his clipboard, said, “You bet. You’re going to want to take this next right, then the second left. One fourteen Greenshire. Even house numbers are on the south side of the street.” He addressed his remarks to me as if Jon were invisible.
I arranged my face into an expression of utter delight. “Thanks so much, Roddy. You take it easy now. Don’t let any bad guys in, ’kay?”
Roddy, according to his name badge anyway, chuckled and opened the gate for us.
“Who’s the master now, Cripps?” I crowed.
“You are, Lindley, you are.”
We cruised past Jeff’s home first. He had parked his Range Rover in the driveway and was in the middle of collecting his mail. Thankfully, the route back to his house was in the opposite direction we were traveling.
Jon turned around on a side street and parked on the corner—a few houses down, but away from the streetlight. I jotted down Jeff’s address while we sat and waited for Bob.
About fifteen minutes later, a silver Audi pulled into Jeff’s driveway and parked next to Jeff’s car. Bob got out and walked to the door empty-handed. Jeff answered, and the two men disappeared inside.
“Now what?” Jon asked.
“Let’s wait to see how long he stays or if they go somewhere.”
“Okay,” he said, turning on the radio.
It was in the middle of a sappy love song that was followed by another and another. I clicked it off because the whole haunted-car-Christine thing was beginning to creep me out a little. Plus, I didn’t need her playing matchmaker while we were on a stakeout.
Jon snorted when the radio continued to play despite my having turned it off.
“Now that is just wrong and manipulative, Christine,” I said.
The music stopped.
“Door’s opening,” Jon said.
Bob emerged, a folder in hand, got in his car and left. We followed him.
He headed south on Central expressway but skipped the exit that would have taken him home to Turtle Creek. He exited at Deep Ellum, just east of downtown, parked on the street and entered a bar.
“Come on,” Jon said.
“Really?” I was a little surprised he wanted to make such a bold move.
“I know this bar, and there’s a side entrance near the restrooms we can use.”
We slipped inside and moved near the barmaid’s pick-up station.
Bob sat at a table in the front corner with a man I didn’t recognize.
Jon took out his cell phone and, to my surprise, snapped a picture, though I doubted it would turn out due to the low lighting.
We sat at the bar and ordered a beer to split. Bob’s table lay in a straight line from our location, but the bar traffic near us offered excellent cover.
The two men chatted a few minutes before Bob pulled out a folder and slid it across the table. He pushed over an envelope, too.
“What do you suppose they’re doing?” I asked Jon.
Bob’s companion opened the envelope and flipped through the contents that appeared to be cash.
“Transacting something.”
“I wish I knew what was in the folder.”
Bob got up and left through the front door, leaving his companion behind, still drinking his beer. Jon turned and looked at me. “Let’s stick with Bob’s buddy.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
‘Buddy’ rose from his table and headed toward us. I seized my chance. “Play along,” I said to Jon.
Sliding off the barstool, I threw the remains of someone’s drink in Jon’s face and yelled, “You son of a bitch! How dare you talk to me that way! You’re the lying cheat, not me!” I spun on my heel and staggered toward the ladies’ room, cutting off Buddy’s path. I fell into him as if I’d lost my balance.
“Whoops!” I grabbed his arms to steady myself. “I’m so sorry.” I gazed up at him and smiled. “Hi. What’s your name? Never mind—better not tell me.” I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Jon understood his role.
A split second later, he shoved the guy away from me. “Who the fuck are you? Git yer hands offa her!” He used a drunken voice, his Texas accent exaggerated.
I moved over to Buddy, who stared, stunned. “I’m so sorry. He gets crazy jealous sometimes.”
“Doug, what the hell’s your problem?” I yelled. I tried to smooth down Buddy’s jacket, feeling for where he’d stashed Bob’s folder.
Jon moved in again. “You’re my fuckin’ problem, Tina! What are you lookin’ at, scumbag? I thought I told you to git away from ’er.” Jon pulled me to his side. He grabbed the man by the lapels and hauled his face inches from his own.
“Dude, you got the wrong guy,” Buddy said. “Leave me out of whatever issue you got with your girlfriend.”
Jon held Buddy up and sank a fist into the man’s belly, a much ballsier move than I would have expected from him.
I ran over to help ease our mark down to the floor and out of sight from most of the patrons. I fussed at Jon in a low, hoarse voice, for the man’s benefit. “Doug! What are you doing? You asshole!” In a louder voice, I said, “Mister, are you okay? Here, lie down for a second while you catch your breath.” I flipped out the edges of his jacket.
The folder stuck out from the side waistband of his pants. As I reached in to steal the papers, Jon bent over to help Buddy to his feet.
“Hey dude, I’m sorry. I thought you was tryin’ to hit on my woman.” Jon smoothed down our mark’s coat. Buddy continued to cough and tried to catch his breath. “She really ain’t worth me goin’ all crazy over, but I cain’t help it sometimes. You ever love a woman so much like that?” he said, slurring.
Jon had his arm around Buddy’s shoulders and led him toward the restrooms. I followed close enough to hear Jon say, “But if I ever catch you touchin’ her again, I’ll kill ya.” He slapped Buddy on the back and turned on me, bellowing, “Get yer bag, woman! We’re goin’ home! You caused too much trouble fer one night already.”
I threw my arm about Jon’s waist and led him staggering out of the bar, cooing loudly enough for the other patrons to hear as we left. “You stupid son of a bitch. Why you get drunk and pull this shit every time we go out?” He gave my bottom a light smack and kissed my cheek, growling before we broke into a race for his car.
“For the record, I detest the name Tina,” I said.
“Well, I don’t appreciate Doug all that much. Skip the drink in the face next time too, if you please.”
We burst out laughing as we zipped back north, toward home, to check out what we’d lifted from Bob’s companion.
32
Jon drove. I unfolded pages.
The first was a profile of Marilyn Driver—her picture, address and phone number, the make, model and license number of her car, and where she worked—all itemized. Under her picture was a brief narrative outlining her physical description—five foot nine inches, brown hair, brown eyes, one hundred sixty pounds, thirty-five years old, corrective lenses, athletic build, tattoo of a crucifix on her right shoulder, right-handed.
The next page was a list of places and people Marilyn apparently visited—Dallas YMCA downtown, the Tom Thumb on Greenville, girlfriend Alice Monroe and fiancé Tom Grabowsky and their addresses, auto makes and models, and even their employers’ addresses.
Most chilling of all was the handwritten notation ‘November 14’. Two days away.
“I think this is a contract for a hit on Marilyn.”
“What makes you say that?”
“There’s a detailed physical description of her, a list of places she goes, the names and addresses of her girlfriend and fiancé. Did you know she had a fiancé?”
“Actually, I did,” he said, his gaze fixed on the road. “She is gay like you thought, and so is he.”
“Since when, and how did you know this?”
He paused. “I’m guessing their whole lives.”
“Ha ha. I meant, how did
you
find out, and why didn’t you tell me?”
“Idle office gossip I overheard. Sorry.”
“Gossip? Ugh, men! You confirm one of my theories, and you forget to mention it? We should warn her, don’t you think?”
“What else is there? You’ve not mentioned enough for me to agree it’s a contract.”
“Well, it’s not like I’m going to find a legal agreement spelling out all the terms and conditions, you know, just this bio of her with a picture, and the list of her friends and hangouts, coupled with a wad of cash handed over with the information. You don’t think all this adds up to a road map to find and take her out?”
“I’ll read the pages when I drop you off at your apartment.”
“Drop me off?”
“Yeah. Listen, I’m sorry. I should have said something earlier, especially with it being a Friday night and all. I promised Jenny I’d swing by to check out this odd noise in her car.”
“At ten o’clock at night?”
“She’s expecting me and is probably pissed I’m so late but not nearly as pissed as she’d be if I blew her off altogether. I, uh, sort of owe her one after the other night. I’m going to call her on my way over.” He glanced at me, but I stared out the front windshield, trying to bite back my disappointment. “I’m sorry, Gayle. I’d like to take you somewhere fancy tomorrow night, if you’re free, of course.”
When had I become his mistress? “Oh. Sure. I’m sorry. I just showed up at your apartment after work uninvited. I guess I shouldn’t have assumed—”
“You had every right to assume. I’m the one who screwed up. I don’t think I’ve asked you out on a real date yet, have I?”
“I guess that depends on how you define a date. By traditional standards, no, but I’ve already slept with you, so I didn’t exactly set the bar too high, did I? Talk about easy.” I tried to laugh at myself, but the sounds came from a stranger, who, unlike me, wasn’t disappointed with herself or with Jon.
“You’re anything
but
easy.” He patted my knee. The mixed message and friendly gesture made me that much more anxious about him—about us.
Was he tired of me already? What happened between inviting me to meet his parents and ditching me to work on his sister’s car?
I consoled myself with a plan to call Marilyn and warn her. At least Jon’s abandoning me made keeping her confidence easier. I shook off my misgivings. “I would like to read those copies I got from Jeff’s office. Could we get them from your apartment before you drop me off?”
“No need. You still have your originals. I made my own set before I left your apartment this morning. I hope that was okay.”
“Yeah, sure. No problem.”
He exited the expressway. A few turns later, he pulled into my parking lot and stopped, the car still idling.
He flicked on the interior dome light. “Can I see the pages you lifted?” He extended his hand.
He planned to dump me off at my doorstep and speed away after he’d read the pages—wasn’t even going to walk me to my door.
Nice
.
“I’m still not convinced this is a hit, Gayle. I can imagine a few alternatives. Besides, why would Bob want to murder Marilyn? That’s kind of extreme, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. You’re probably right. See you later.” I took the papers from him, gave him a cursory peck on the lips and hopped out of the car.
Trudging up the stairs, I planned the details of my forthcoming pity party. Behind me, a car’s horn blasted. I jumped and whirled around. “What?” I yelled.
Christine idled as Jon sat placidly behind the wheel. He couldn’t have called out my name or, God forbid, turned off the engine, got out of his car, and caught up to me?
He lowered his window and grinned. “Sorry. It wasn’t me. Christine’s just fooling around.”
“Right. Blame the car.” I waved from my doorstep and let myself inside, locking the door behind me. “Asshole.”
I went to my bathroom and switched on the light. A tired, droopy face reflected back at me. Gone was the free-spirited, smiling girl of earlier that afternoon. I missed her.
After subduing the blues, I retrieved the slip of paper Marilyn gave me at Neiman’s and compared the number to the phone numbers listed on the pilfered papers. I found a match with her cell phone number.
I dialed but got no answer and went to voice mail. “Hi, Marilyn. This is Gayle Lindley. Please call me back as soon as possible.”
My answering machine light caught my attention with two messages.
Message one, left at 7:13 p.m. “Hi Gayle, this is Don Runyon. Hey listen, I was wondering if you might be free to have dinner with me tomorrow night. My number is 555-3624. Talk to you soon.”
Message two, left at 8:49 p.m. “Gremlin, it’s your favorite brother, Henry. I need to talk to you about something that came up in my security clearance. Call me back ASAP. Love ya!”
“Oh good grief,” I muttered under my breath. “Screw you both. I’m going to bed.”
Jon called around ten thirty, but I didn’t answer. I wasn’t in the mood to read him my policy on booty calls, and I sure didn’t want to listen to any lame apologies for acting like a prick.
I sighed, turned off my light and my cell phone, and went to sleep at ten forty-five on a Friday night. As I drifted off, a text message arrived on my cell. Thinking it might be Jon or Marilyn, I snatched up my phone to check.