Player & the Game (9 page)

K
eith climbed inside his SUV and pulled off seconds later, feeling triumphant.

His wallet was one hundred dollars lighter, but at least he had gotten the information he needed. Stephanie Gibbons hadn't been joking. That guy at Henry's Tow had been a tough nut to crack. The tattooed badass had refused not only to tell Keith the license number of the Mercedes roadster, but also to admit that he had even towed a Mercedes out of Chesterton a week ago. But once Keith stepped into the tow truck driver's office and spotted a picture on the wood-paneled wall, Keith knew he had him. It was a framed photo of the heavily built man standing on a dock, proudly holding up a giant bass. The man's grin had been so big that day that he looked like his cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

“So you fish, huh?” Keith had asked while pointing at the photo.

“Yeah,” the tow truck driver had said, tossing a clipboard on his desk. “Why?”

“I fish too.”

In fact, Mike had taken Keith fishing quite a few times when Keith was younger so Keith knew a thing or two about the rod and reel. The tow truck driver started talking about his best catches, and about the freedom he felt when it was just him, his boat, and a can of beer as he sat on the open water, waiting for a nip on his line. After awhile, his cold glare had softened. He no longer kept his arms crossed over his chest as he spoke to Keith. After an hour, the guy was more willing to answer questions. In the end, not only did he give Keith the license number to the roadster, but also the name, address, and last known phone number of the woman who had owned it. Keith gave him a hundred bucks to thank him for his time and cooperation. It was a small price to pay considering how much the man had told him.

As Keith now drove down the highway, he quickly punched into his cell phone the number that the tow truck driver had given him. He waited with bated breath as the phone rang, hoping to God that the number was still good.

“Hello? This is the Beaumont residence,” a woman drawled on the other end. She sounded older, but she had a sultry air in her voice.

“Hello, ma'am, can I please speak to Ms. Beaumont?”

“Speaking, honey,” she sang. “May I ask who is callin'?”

“My name is Keith Hendricks, ma'am. I'm a private investigator with Stokowski and Hendricks. I'm based out of Vienna, Virginia.”

The woman grew silent. “Yes,” she said. Her voice sounded markedly colder now. “How may I help you, detective?”

“Ma'am, I understand that you own a Mercedes roadster that was recently towed here in Virginia. I wonder if you could—”

“Is this phone call related to Mason?” she asked, cutting him off.

Keith hesitated. “Excuse me? Related to who?”

“
Mason
. . . or Tony . . . or Reggie . . . or whatever name he's using now. Is that why you're callin' me? So they finally repossessed the car.” She chuckled. “Good! I hope they left him stranded on the side of the road while they were at it!”

“So you do know why I'm calling?” Keith asked.

“Of course, I know why you're calling, honey! What trouble has he gotten himself into now? If it's anything illegal, I had absolutely nothing to do with it.”

“He swindled two women,” Keith explained. “He stole sixty thousand dollars from one, and thirty thousand dollars worth of jewels from the other.”

Ms. Beaumont laughed again. “Oh, somebody has been a busy bee,” she murmured. “So I guess you called me because you're looking for him. You want to track him down and bring him to justice?”

He wasn't sure if she was mocking him or asking a serious question. Either way, Keith nodded. “That's right, ma'am. That's exactly what I'm trying to do.”

“Well . . .” She hesitated. “Under normal circumstances, I would tell you to go right to hell, Mr. Hendricks. I don't like talking to cops or private investigators, for that matter. But these aren't normal circumstances. You see, the man you are seeking . . . He and I are currently on the outs. That's why I had the car repossessed. He and I go far back, but I refuse to be taken advantage of by him any longer. If you would like help finding him, I'll help any way I can.”

Keith looked for a break in traffic. When he spotted one, he shifted to another lane and hastily pulled over to the side of the road. He flipped open his glove compartment, causing old papers and cellophane wrappers to spill onto the SUV's floor. He frantically dug in the glove compartment until he found a pen and notepad.

“Well, I'm glad you're agreeing to help me, Ms. Beaumont,” he said, after yanking off the cap to his ballpoint pen with his teeth. He shifted his cell phone to the crook of his shoulder. “If you could just give me some background about this guy . . . that would be great. You say that you—”

“Oh, no, no, no, Mr. Hendricks!” She clucked her tongue. “This isn't the type of conversation a lady has over the phone. If you wish to speak to me, you will do it like a gentleman. You will do it in person.”

He paused and lowered his pen. “In . . .
in person?
”

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “I am available next week if you are.”

He pulled to a stop in front of the brick walk-up in Vienna less than half an hour later. He would have to talk to Mike about this one. If he was going to keep following Isaac's trail, it looked like he would have to take a trip to South Carolina, something that he hadn't planned on doing. He waved as he passed the window of the dry cleaner downstairs. The shop owner waved in return.

When he opened the entrance door, Keith heard his cell phone ringing. He looked down at it and saw that Stephanie was calling him—
again
. He gritted his teeth, grabbed the bundle of mail that sat on the WELCOME mat by the stairs, and climbed to the second floor of the walk-up where their office was. Stephanie had called him four times in the last three days. That woman would not let up!

When he stepped inside, he found Mike sitting at his desk, eating a bear claw and doing a crossword puzzle. Mike glanced up at him. His gray eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Hey! Back already?”

“Yeah, talked to the tow truck company and got the contact info for the woman who owned Isaac's Mercedes.”

Mike's pale, wrinkled face broke into a grin. “Good job! So you're finally makin' some headway. That's great!” He then held up a Post-it note and waved it in the air. A name and number were scribbled on the neon-yellow piece of paper. “You can call Gibbons then and give her an update. She's called here twice today already
and
left messages. She wants to know how the investigation is going?”

Keith's shoulders slumped. “You're kidding me! She called here too?”

Mike's smile disappeared. “Yeah. What's wrong with her calling? Is something the matter?”

“Jesus, Mike, this chick has been blowing up my phone for the past
three days!
She's left voice mail messages, sent me a few texts and sent e-mails.” He tossed his jacket onto his chair. “We should have never agreed to work for her! I
knew
this would happen!”

“Why's she been on your ass so much? Did you call her back and tell her you've got it covered . . . that she doesn't have to worry?”

Keith paused. “Well . . . no.”

“What do you mean ‘no'?”

“I mean I was going to call her back at the end of the week when I had some new info! But she hasn't given me the chance!”

Mike squinted. “So you haven't been returning her phone calls at all?”

“Did you just hear what I said? I was going to call her at the end of the week!” Keith snapped.

“So you're avoiding her and you wonder why she's blowing up your phone.”

“I'm not avoiding her!”

Mike gazed at him for a long time, not saying a word. He shook his head and let out a deep breath.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to Keith's desk.

“I don't feel like sitting down,” Keith grumbled.

“Son, plant your ass in that chair,” Mike said, pointing at Keith's desk again. “Because you need a talking to and I want you to sit down while I'm doing it. You'll take it better this way.”

Keith balled his fists at his sides. If any other man had talked to him like that, he'd punch him in the face, but this was Mike so he would never do that. Besides, the old man was probably still capable of whipping his ass anyway. He could be a dirty fighter when he needed to be. It was probably the Bronx in him.

Dejected, Keith walked across their office before sullenly plopping into his desk chair.

“You want some coffee?” Mike asked as he stood up and walked across the room to their coffee maker. It sat next to the microwave. They kept it around for clients but so far, Mike seemed to be the only one draining their coffee supply lately.

Keith shook his head. “No, and you shouldn't have any either. It's not healthy for you.”

“Since when did you become an M.D.?” Mike asked, pouring himself a cup into a large blue ceramic mug.

“I didn't. But your doctor has one, and he said that you've got high blood pressure, so lay off the caffeine. He said it wasn't good for you.”

Mike walked back toward his desk. “The doc told me to
cut back
on the caffeine. There's a difference.”

Keith rolled his eyes heavenward. He had heard these arguments before.

“The doc knows I can't go cold turkey anyway. When I was a cop, I was practically shooting this stuff into my veins to keep going. I had long hours and some really tough shifts, if you remember.”

Keith nodded thoughtfully, thinking back to the old days. “I remember.”

He watched as Mike slouched down in the chair at his desk. The old man slid the chair forward. It creaked under his weight.

“But even with those long hours, I still managed to make it to all your basketball games and all your track meets.”

“I remember that too.”

“Good, then try to keep remembering it when I tell you what I'm about to tell you.”

And here comes the lecture,
Keith thought tiredly.

“If caffeine is the monkey I can't get off my back, you've got a few monkeys of your own, my friend. You've developed those habits over the years to help you, but they hold you back sometimes too.”

Keith stared at him with an incredulous expression on his face. “What do you mean?”

“I'm gettin' there! I'm gettin' there! Hold your horses.” Mike waved his hand. He took a sip of coffee. “Even back when I met you on that shitty street corner in East Baltimore, I knew you were a good kid.” He paused. “A good kid with a
good
heart . . . a really good heart. I could see it in you. You got yourself together. Started going to school again and got good grades. You went to college. I was and
am
very proud of you, Keith,” Mike said with a firm nod. “I want you to know that. I consider you like a son and no son I could have made myself could have made me any prouder.”

“And I consider you like a father, Mike,” he answered softly, deeply touched by his mentor's words.

“You think I was the one who got you and your mother out of the projects, but that's not true.
You
did it. I just showed you the way, but whether you succeeded or failed, all depended on you.”

“Thanks.” Keith cleared his throat, feeling overwhelming emotions welling in his chest. “Thanks, Mike.”

“You don't have to thank me,” Mike said. “The past isn't something that you're proud of, but you should be. You've done good! You've got chutzpah, kid. You're very focused. You always have been. You don't let yourself get sidetracked by anything—be it life . . . obstacles . . . women . . .”

Keith raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Huh?”

Mike lowered his coffee mug to his desk. He clasped his hands in front of him. “I'm going to be honest with you, Keith. There are only a few times in your life where I've seen you act squirrelly . . . or out of character. The first was the time I found out you had been smoking that pot with your friends after school. You've never been good at lying to me. I could see the lie on your face right away, the very moment I asked you. The few other times when you were acting strange were when some girl or woman was involved. Women mess with your circuits, son. You're not good at dealing with them.”

“Are . . . Are you trying to say that Stephanie is ‘messing with my circuits'?”

“Seems that way to me! That's the only reason why I could think you'd be acting this way. Since when do you ignore a client's phone calls? Hell, you're goddamn Mr. Customer Service! I'm supposed to be the surly one. That's why you never let me answer the phone.” Mike shrugged. “You said I sound too gruff.”

“Because you
do
. I don't want you scaring off potential clients.”

“And I don't want you messing up a case because you have the hots for a client!” He paused to sip his coffee again. “Look, I understand you're attracted to her. She's a nice-looking lady. That one is all legs!” he exclaimed with a grin and a wink. “But you can't keep dodging her like this. It's not professional, Keith. She's still a client. And frankly, it makes you look like a coward . . . a pussy!”

“I'm not dodging her . . . and I am not
a pussy!
”

“My friend,” Mike said, taking another sip from his coffee mug, “you are runnin' scared, and if you were any more of a pussy, you'd be wearing a flea collar.”