Ultra Violet Part 15

He hesitated. "You sound like you've got a cold."

"Allergies," I lied.

I could almost hear him debating with himself. He didn't want to bother. He really didn't. "There's a place in southeast called Tony's, off Holgate," he said with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

Thank you, Dwayne. "I know it," I said, which wasn't exactly the truth but I was pretty sure I could find it.

"I'll be there at two."

He hung up before I had a chance to ask how I would know him. Glancing at the clock, I grabbed my windbreaker, threw the hood over my head, patted my dog on the head good-bye while she stood stiffly, staring from me to the door hopefully. She jumped down but I hurried out, telling her not this time.

The wind hit me with a rain-filled blast, slapping my face.

"Peachy," I muttered, and scurried to my car.

When it rains, it pours, so to speak. The weather was a case in point, the gray skies throwing down an endless supply of precipitation. But also in life sometimes, like now. I'd been complaining that no one returned my phone calls but now the phone was ringing off the hook. Larrabee phoned as I drove to meet him, followed by calls from both Renee Hatchmere and my brother, Booth.

I didn't have time to talk to either of them, but I had to work hardest with Renee-who seemed thrilled to learn I wasn't available-to get her to even allow me a second phone call. She was intent on doing her duty, but that, apparently, was the extent of what she considered good manners. I could hear the wheedling tone in my voice that begged her please, please, please with sugar on top let me phone her back later. She didn't say yes, but she didn't completely say no, either.

Luckily, Booth wasn't much interested in talking, either. There seemed to be something on his mind, but when I told him to "Spit it out" he retreated into his sh.e.l.l at top speed, mumbling something about his job and he was too busy to spend time trying to make me and Mom happy. I thought that was just plain rude and told him so, but he'd already hung up.

If that wasn't enough, the phone rang again and Deenie identified herself. Ah yes, the hard-to-reach maid of honor. Her tone was petulant as she said the only reason she was returning my call was that Gigi had said she should. I checked my watch. Two p.m. straight up. Anxiously, I scanned the buildings around, realizing the area appeared a little bit too industrial for a restaurant. To Deenie, I said, "I'm walking into a meeting. May I call you back in an hour?"

"Well, I guess..."

"Thanks." I clicked off and drove over the speed limit, searching the area. Finally I saw TONY'S scrawled in black cursive along the cream-painted cinder block back wall of a building in a tired-looking commercial center, tucked up against a lumberyard and some kind of sc.r.a.p metal operation.

I hoped to h.e.l.l I wouldn't be the only female in the joint, gathering my courage as I stepped past the scarred front doors whose only decoration was a large NO MINORS ALLOWED sign.

I was. .h.i.t by the cigarette smoke before the doors closed behind me. If the day had been any brighter I would have had to allow time for my eyes to adjust. As it was, I could see the bar was populated by a smattering of middle-aged men in varying degrees of decay, a woman behind the bar with a belly large and tight sporting a T-s.h.i.+rt that said Beyond b.i.t.c.h, three young men in dirty jeans and plaid s.h.i.+rts holding up the bar, all attempting to grow facial hair without serious success, and a guy in a booth facing the door whose gray overcoat and serious expression signified the long arm of the law.

I walked straight to him. "Detective Larrabee?"

"Ms. Kelly."

I slid in across from him, feeling like we were playing some scripted part in a film noir. I wasn't sure what my line was, so I waited, hoping for a cue.

His face was lean, his liquid-brown eyes filled with an underlying amus.e.m.e.nt, as if life were just one long joke of which only he understood the punch line. His skin tone was much darker than my own. He had a De Niro look about him that was both magnetic and spoke of barely leashed energy. He wasn't wearing a hat and moisture had coalesced in his dark brown hair, darkening it further, leaving dampness at his temples. He didn't have a spare pound on him. I suspected he was hard as cement.

"So, you're Durbin's friend," he said.

I heard more in his tone than was probably there. Some kind of stress on "friend" that suggested a lot more. It bugged me, but I chose to ignore it. I mean, I was trying to get in the guy's good graces. No need to start out by questioning his meaning.

"You're a friend, too," I responded, pretending there was no subtext at all.

The amus.e.m.e.nt deepened. "Known him long?"

"A few years," I said.

He was drinking a tall gla.s.s of water, which he picked up, never losing eye contact with me. Taking a long drink, he set the gla.s.s back down. "He said you were interested in the...Wedding Bandits."

"Violet Purcell is afraid the police think she's responsible for Roland Hatchmere's death. I'm looking into other options."

"She admitted to hitting him with the metal tray," Larrabee said mildly.

"She says she didn't kill him."

"You trying to pin this on the burglars?"

"I don't think they did it. Not in their m.o., unless there's something the press hasn't been telling us."

"Not in their m.o.," he agreed.

"I'd like to know what the police think. What you think," I stressed. "I'd like to know the current status on the investigation."

"Not exactly public information."

"I get that. What do you think about the Wedding Bandits?"

Larrabee held my gaze. I hoped he would share something, just throw me a few crumbs.

Our waiter arrived, a big, beefy guy wearing a white ap.r.o.n, and handed us each a menu. Mine was splatted with grease stains. I glanced down the selections, glad to break eye contact with the detective. There was something magnetic about him that made my pulse beat hard and affected the neurons traveling through my brain. The air between us felt dense. I wouldn't call it s.e.xual tension. I wasn't feeling that way...well, not exactly. But I was completely aware of him, like I'd sprouted antennae all tuned to his channel.

When Larrabee ordered, I said I'd have the same. The waiter brought us each a Reuben and a large diet cola that I at first thought was dark beer.

We ate in silence. The food was really good. And I mean, really good, which explained why he'd suggested this place. After the chicken soup and bread I'd thought I wouldn't be able to eat much, but I managed to tuck in like I'd been on a deserted island for weeks. What is that axiom? Feed a cold, starve a fever? Feed a fever, starve a cold? Whatever the case, I smacked that Reuben down in record time, though Larrabee beat me. A pile of french fries had been placed on a platter between us and I selected a few carefully, wondering if they were really to share. Larrabee grabbed a fistful and ate them slowly, watching me. I grabbed a few more and shoved them in my mouth. I had an insane urge to chew the food and then open my mouth to show him. I managed to tamp it down, but I sensed we were in some kind of p.i.s.sing match, a hazing of sorts, to determine whether we could ever speak again or if the loser should just leave in silence.

"Allergies, huh?" he asked.

"Or possibly a raging, unidentified, lethal pathogen that will take us both out."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "How did Durbin find you?"

"We had...mutual friends," I said.

"How much do you know about him?" he asked curiously.

Not enough, I decided right then and there. But I'd be d.a.m.ned if I'd let Larrabee know that. There was some kind of chess game going on between him and Dwayne, I realized. Currently, I was one of the p.a.w.ns.

I gave myself a hard mental shake. I'd offered to buy lunch, so I pulled out my credit card. I'd barely scanned the menu and I'd been afraid to check the prices, but a deal was a deal. Tony's wasn't a happening, trendy place, but one never knows. I'm one of those people so afraid of debt that I pay off my credit card every month. The idea of paying interest makes me ill.

Larrabee wiped his mouth with the tiny paper napkin they'd allotted him. I did the same with mine. After a long, long moment, he leaned forward. "You don't have much to say, do you?"

"I have a lot to say," I responded. "I just haven't started."

He lifted a hand in a "go ahead" signal.

"Who are the Wedding Bandits? Do you have any idea? Do you think they accidentally killed Roland Hatchmere, or are you focusing your investigation on Violet, like she thinks? Or..."

"Or?"

"You tell me. Is there another 'person of interest'? Someone keeping you from indicting Violet?"

He thought a moment. "Durbin asked me to talk to you. That's why I'm here. I'm not duty-bound to tell you anything. If I don't feel like keeping you in the loop, you're not in the loop."

"Check," I said, holding his gaze.

He leaned back. He seemed to consider a number of responses, discarding all of them one by one. The waiter came and scooped up my credit card.

I was signing the receipt when Larrabee finally revealed, "Your so-called Wedding Bandits have diversified. They are also Funeral Bandits now."

I looked up in surprise, more that he'd confided in me than the news he'd imparted. "You have any leads on them?"

"Maybe."

"That's all I get? Maybe?"

"We have the make and model of a van seen in the area."

"So you were doing surveillance," I said, pleased that my own thoughts traveled along the same line as law enforcement's.

"Been a number of notable weddings since the Hatchmere homicide. No 'Wedding Bandits' anywhere near them. But homes have been burgled while the mourners were at a loved one's funeral." He finished the rest of his cola and slid his water gla.s.s in front of him again. "These burglaries weren't planned as well, and the victims weren't well known, wealthy families. Not as much money involved and therefore not the same dollar recovery per item." He spoke slowly and carefully, clearly picking his words. "Then recently, another wedding was targeted. First one since Hatchmere. The groom's parents' home in Beaverton was burglarized. A van seen in the area was similar to one reported outside the home of the man who died in that six-car pileup on 205. Did you read about it? His house was burgled during his funeral. Stole their TV and DVD player."

"That's low," I said with feeling.

"Not the same caliber of crime as the 'Wedding Bandits' pulled off. Certainly not at the last wedding. No expensive presents, silver, crystal, envelopes of cash. The groom's parents lost their TV, like the man who died in the pileup, but it was an older model. Quite a bit older. Either we're dealing with a different group of burglars, or they've lost their connection to the money."

"Why do you think that is?"

"If it's the same group, their targets s.h.i.+fted after the Hatchmere homicide. I can make a guess," he said cautiously. Again, I waited, figuring the less I said, the better. I sensed eagerness would be a serious turnoff to learning more. "I think they stumbled across Roland Hatchmere's dead body and it scared 'em. Whoever was their inside man, cut out. They lost their connection to the moneyed families when he or she left. Now they're scrambling for whatever they can find."

"So you don't think the Wedding Bandits are responsible for Roland's death? And you don't seem to be focused on Violet, either."

"Violet admitted to hitting him with the tray."

"And it's definitely the murder weapon?"

He nodded.

"How many times was he hit with it?"

"A number. I see why you're Durbin's girl. We're not publicizing that fact yet."

"So you don't want me to tell Violet, I take it." I was struggling to get over him calling me Durbin's girl.

"I'd rather you didn't, but I can't stop you. Roland Hatchmere was. .h.i.t twice. The first blow didn't kill him. Did it contribute to his death? Possibly. Possibly not. The second one crushed his skull. Violet Purcell has maintained she hit him with the tray. Once. Either she's very clever and actually hit him several times, hoping we'll believe her and search for some other killer, or she's telling the truth. In that case, we have a different killer."

I nodded. "But not the Wedding Bandits?"

"Do you see the burglars stopping their looting to grab the tray and hit Roland Hatchmere? It could have happened, if he'd caught them in the act and tried to call for help. But he was likely lying right where Violet left him. I think Hatchmere was already dead. The burglars came in, grabbed a few things, discovered the body and took off. They've never killed anyone, as yet."

"Someone else, then," I said.

Larrabee said, "Learning the motive would go a long way to identifying the doer."

I nodded slowly, realizing I had only considered two possible motives: Violet's anger at Roland, or the Wedding Bandits' need to silence Roland to keep him from identifying them.

"Do you have a theory?" I asked.

"I got a lot of theories," Larrabee a.s.sured me. "When we catch the 'Wedding Bandits,' maybe we'll get some answers."

"Is that going to happen soon?" I asked.

"Hard to say."

"Will you let Dwayne, or me, know?"

Larrabee flashed a smile. He had very white teeth. "What's going on between you and Durbin?"

"We're business partners."

"Uh-huh."

"That's about it."

"Quid pro quo, Ms. Kelly. This is how the information game works. I give to you. You give to me. Dwayne understands that."

I nodded, but I felt nervous inside. I couldn't tell exactly what he wanted from me. Dwayne had warned me to be careful and that, at least, I understood.

"You have a brother with the P.D., don't you?" Larrabee said into the silence.

I felt heat rise up my cheeks. Could Dwayne have given him a healthy dose of my background information? Or had he done some research on his own? "Booth," I said. "I haven't spoken to him about this case."

"Your brother's ambitious," Larrabee said.

I wasn't sure I liked the sound of that. I let it pa.s.s, deciding I would dissect all the little nuances and meanings later.

"You haven't asked him for help."

"No."

"Why?"

"Booth thinks I'd be better off bartending again. It's that overprotective brother thing. Or maybe he just thinks I'm inadequate. Either way, I lose."

"Durbin seems to disagree."

My smile was noncommittal, though I was curious to know what Dwayne had said about my P.I. skills. He has a tendency to sing my praises and though I appreciate his faith in me, I sometimes think he's full of s.h.i.+t.