The Girl on the Edge of Summer Page 21

  I left a card; maybe she would change her mind, although I held little hope. She wanted to keep the Eddie who had loved her. Going to the police would force her to see the real Eddie, and that would blow her romantic fantasy to tiny pieces.

  Although I had gotten more unwanted info on Eddie’s sex life—and bathing habits—I had found he lived close to the body shop where he partied, that someone possibly named Steve was involved both at the body shop and in Eddie’s drug deals. And Eddie had let his nice girl ex see enough to know he was doing drug deals. I had no faith he had gallantly protected Enid, refusing to give out her name, no matter what. If they had asked—and they had ways of asking that made it hard to refuse—he had answered.

  The only argument in her favor was that she was still alive. If they really wanted to close loose ends, she would be dead by now.

  I headed home, breathing a sigh of relief when crossing the Orleans Parish line.

  But that was the only relief available. I could wash my hands of Enid Gardner; she was an adult, she got to make her choices. But she’d made a bargain with the devil of her ego, and it wasn’t a good one.

  The police should have stumbled over her by now. It wasn’t a good sign they hadn’t. Either they were still in the dark—people don’t always talk to the police as forthcomingly as they should—or the cops felt they had their murderer.

  Inferences, he said, she said, but no real evidence, only a list of people who might have killed Eddie that didn’t include me. Possible suspects? His drug buddies? Sure, but nothing other than men who dealt drugs were usually not upstanding citizens. A scorned girlfriend? Yeah, on paper she might look good, but I doubted she’d killed him, still too wrapped up in her fantasy. Slam her into reality and then she could do it. But that hadn’t happened yet. Unless she’d had one brief moment of clarity, long enough to pull the trigger before slipping back into her dream world—one that didn’t include her firing a gun.

  Eddie was a messy man, and he’d left a mess behind him.

  I really wanted to just hand this all over to the police. But again, I had no real evidence. I talked to people, this is what they said. Yeah, right, that’s going to be convincing. Even if I was just a private citizen, they would be polite not to roll their eyes. As a suspect, no way. It would all come off as self-interest.

  Which it was. But if there was such a thing, it was honest self-interest. I had not killed Eddie, but at the moment, I was the only one who knew that for sure.

  Well, me and his real killer.

  The next step—and one I did not want to take—was to stake out the body shop / drug dealing den. If I could get a few pictures of something shady enough to interest the police—more than the gossip of the local self-appointed neighborhood watch person or the ex-girlfriend living in la-la land—maybe I could get them to look more closely into Eddie’s unsavory friends.

  I took the slower, but less trafficked, side roads. One more left-hand turn from the right lane might be enough to send me over the edge.

  I went home, not bothering going back to the office. Probably all that waited for me there was another message from Douglas Townson demanding I solve a hundred-year-old murder case.

  I’d be doing well to make the current one unsolvable.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Admittedly, this was a shot in the dark.

  Literally in the dark.

  I’d come home, had some fruit to make up for the grease-and-more-grease lunch, then lay down to take a nap, although it was more tossing and turning than any real sleep.

  Now the clock on my dashboard read 1:48 a.m.

  I don’t stake out criminals, well, not real criminals. I mostly look for missing people, and sometimes the reason they’re missing isn’t so savory: missed child support payments, running away from the boredom of two kids and a picket fence for a new life with a Vegas showgirl, that sort of stuff. Some want to be found, others don’t.

  But not drug lords or murderers. That’s for the cops, the FBI, the ones with ten cars of backup.

  Yet here I was, gliding past the airport, on my way to see what I could see at Steve’s auto place. I had no idea if it was his or not. I’d done a brief internet search but got little more than the name—ACD Auto, guess ABC was already taken—the address and hours. No owner listed or even employees. I could find no internet ads, nothing on social media, nothing promotional. Maybe they had enough business. Or maybe they didn’t need a lot of auto body work. Or maybe they just weren’t up on the tech stuff.

  There was little traffic at this hour, making it a quick trip of about twenty minutes from my house. I hoped for as quick a trip back.

  Much as I would have preferred to stay in my car—all the better for quick getaways—a strange car in this area would cause suspicion. I was going to have to walk in. Yeah, that would be suspicious, too, but my hope was to not be seen; much harder to do with a car.

  I had planned my route from my earlier driving around the area. This little tab of land was hemmed in by the airport, the interstate, and several drainage canals. A number of the streets were dead ends.

  Still no traffic as I turned off Veterans Highway. It was cloudy, a chance of rain. The temperature wasn’t hot yet, not the kind of hot we get. We were still in the perfect part of spring, but summer was approaching and even now, at this time of night, I hardly needed the light jacket I was wearing.

  I parked a few blocks away, near a much busier auto place, one that had multiple cars around, spilling onto the street. From there I could walk. I was in black jeans, a black T-shirt, a dark navy jacket—yes, fashion faux pas, but the only other black jacket I had was a leather one, and I didn’t want it messed up. Plus a small black messenger bag with my cameras, night goggles, and a recorder. I wasn’t expecting to get much audio, but you never know.

  I sat in my car for a few minutes, listening and watching. If there were dogs or guards, better to find out before I started walking. Again, it was a quiet, still night, made even quieter by the silence from the airport, the dead-of-night lull between the taking off and landing of planes.

  I really wanted to turn back around and go to bed. There were too many drainage canals around here, perfect for dumping dead bodies.

  But I got out of my car, carefully closing the door so it made no sound. I didn’t lock it, both to avoid the blinking of lights and because if I needed to get away in a hurry, that second might make a difference. Plus there was nothing to steal.

  You’ll probably spend half an hour watching an empty building, I told myself.

  The air was moist, our usual humidity and the closeness of the canals, the ground still wet from recent rains. I walked on the side of the road, keeping my footfalls as quiet as possible. I hoped to pass as a service worker, home from a late shift, walking from the bus stop. Although in about half a block, there would be no homes to go to.

  My plan was to approach from the back, cutting along the drainage canal to the dead end.

  As far as I could tell, no one else was about. The few sounds were distant, from the interstate, or sounds that belonged in the night, an insect buzz, the croak of frogs.

  The shuffle of my footsteps.

  I stopped to make sure it was only mine.

  No, no sound. Save for the beating of my heart.

  I started walking again, alert for any noise, any shadow not fixed in place.

  It was a long two blocks to the canal. Less light here, but the bank had been mowed recently. I carefully made my way through the grass, looking out for both men and snakes.

  But the most threatening thing was a small pile of garbage, plastic bottles, beer cans.

  I finally made the corner near the auto shop.

  Again, I stopped.

  The night noises had changed. There was the faint pulse of a music beat. I edged closer to the corner. It could be a parked car, a couple seeking a secluded place.

  There were no homes or apartments back in this area, making my excuse of being someone heading h
ome implausible. My best defense was to remain hidden in the shadows.

  Joanne still had my gun, otherwise it would have been part of my equipment. Not that I planned to need it—I never planned on needing it, I was in the wrong business if I did—but for some people, it’s the only argument they understand. Even so, I missed the weight under my arm.

  I edged closer to the corner. Over the music a voice, male, I couldn’t make out the words, but it sounded like a shouted joke, as it was followed by laughter and other shouts. All the voices were male.

  I slunk behind the nearest building. Only then did I risk peering around the corner. Several trucks, most of them dark except one that looked to be red, were parked outside ACD Auto. A few faint glimmers of light showed from around windows covered with what appeared to be taped-up garbage bags. Maybe it was to keep Ms. Noisy Neighbor from calling the cops on them again. Or maybe they really didn’t want anyone looking in.

  After listening for a few minutes, I risked sliding around the corner, keeping close to the building. It was next to ACD Auto. Maybe I could find an uncovered window between the two buildings.

  As I got closer, the music and the voices got louder. They weren’t noisy enough to hear them all down the block, that might attract too much attention, but at this distance, enough for me to know it was a party. This was a weeknight, not the typical time or place for some guys hanging out after work.

  This argued for the partygoers being the kind of men who didn’t need to be up and on the job by nine. They could be, as I was pretending to be, workers for the partiers, waiters, bartenders, and this was their after-work hour. But this hardly seemed like the kind of place they’d pick.

  My guess was that Brandon had told the truth. Eddie, and now his friends, were giving the kind of get-together that needed a lot of privacy. Porn, drugs, a wild time they wanted to keep hidden.

  And they had done a good job of it. Other than the soft sounds of music and voices, and a few vehicles around, there was little sign of what was going on here. Anyone driving by with windows closed and a radio going would miss it.

  The two buildings had a high chain link gate between them. And the windows down that side showed only thin slashes of light. Also covered. Maybe they thought if no light showed, then no one would notice the party going on. But that struck me as a bit much. This was a dead-end road. The only people coming here would be the ones for ACD or the now-closed building beside it.

  This was frustrating. I knew something was going on, but there seemed little way to know exactly what. I was leery of creeping closer and attempting to peer through the small slivers of light. If I could see in, they could see out. Not likely they’d be looking, but I’d prefer not to take that chance.

  Maybe it was time to go back to my car and think this through again.

  Then I heard the sound of a motor.

  Coming this way.

  I hid back into the shadows, slowly moving away until I was past the chain link gate, by the other building. Their trash cans were at the far end, and I didn’t want to risk moving fast enough to get to them. Movement catches the eye.

  I pressed into a doorway, hoping it could help block me.

  The glow of headlights appeared at the corner, then turned this way, flooding the street. As best I could, I pulled my jacket up around my face. If they were looking, they could see me.

  The truck roared to a stop in front of ACD, but the engine kept running. And the lights stayed on.

  I barely allowed myself to breathe.

  The body shop door opened. A wave of sound, thumping music and voices followed it. A brief crack of light, then the door was quickly closed, the sound and brightness gone. Again, it was just the beams from the truck throwing harsh shadows down the street.

  Do not look this way, please do not look this way, I silently pleaded.

  Against the glare of the beams I could make out little. Someone had come out, he—I was guessing, it was only a bare outline against the bright lights—was near the driver’s window talking. I strained to hear him.

  “You’re late.”

  The driver replied, but I couldn’t hear it.

  “Fuck you, that’s not a good excuse.” The tone was joking, but the words still carried their meaning.

  Again, a reply from the driver I couldn’t make out.

  “Don’t let it happen again,” the other man said. “Did you get rid of it?”

  A muffled reply.

  “In the canal? That’s too close.”

  Something that sounded cajoling.

  “Yeah, well, we’ll just have to hope they won’t look.”

  Again a reassuring murmur, a mumbled, “Don’t worry.”

  The building door opened again. Two more people came out. One appeared drunk, the second one had a hand on his arm, seemingly guiding him.

  No, wait, her. For a brief moment, she was not hidden by her companion, and the outline revealed breasts. And not the kind of figure that could possibly be man boobs. But that was all, she and her companion got in the truck.

  “Keep the merchandise safe,” the outside man said to the truck driver.

  At best she was a working girl, here to make some money, and they were treating her the way men had always treated sex workers, like a commodity.

  Or maybe the coercion for sex hadn’t stopped with Eddie.

  I had no time to think about that, as the truck engine revved and it started coming my way.

  Was that another person coming out the building door? Short? With a reflection from glasses?

  I couldn’t stay where I was. The truck clearly intended to turn around in the wide part of the road right beyond me.

  That left only one option.

  Run.

  Like hell.

  I tore out of the door, sprinting for the canal. I heard a shouted, “What the fuck?” behind me and the roar of the truck.

  No way my feet could outrun an engine.

  The light flooded the street, getting closer.

  And closer. I was clearly outlined in them.

  My one advantage was that I was off and running before they even knew I was there.

  If they reacted quickly they would catch me.

  If they were drunk and slow—

  I leapt over the curb onto the grass verge of the canal, tearing away as fast as I could. The light dimmed as I moved out of it, taking the turn to run along the canal. But I had to put a lot more distance between me and them to be safe. Like about twenty miles.

  I had to trust there were no unseen holes or roots in this dim grass. I couldn’t risk slowing down.

  “Hey, you, there, stop!” someone yelled from the truck.

  I kept running.

  The lights turned toward me. They were driving up the grass bank.

  For a moment they got brighter.

  Then the truck stopped. They weren’t going to risk it. Maybe there was enough space for it to get by, but the sloping bank, a few trees, and the soggy ground make it difficult.

  It squealed back in reverse, then roared away in the other direction.

  They weren’t giving up but would try to catch me at the next road that ran into the canal.

  I could try doubling back in the hope they wouldn’t think I’d go back the way I’d come, but there was little back here and I could too easily find myself backed against the fence ringing the airport. I could probably climb it, but risk being caught by airport security—and I had to assume I would be caught; no modern airport was without twenty-four-hour security these days. Although that might be preferable to floating facedown in a drainage ditch. They might shoot first and ask questions later, and even if the latter, it would be a lot of questions for which I had few good answers and a lot of time in faded green interview rooms, if not a cell. Plus, they’d find my name as a suspect in a murder, and that would really make it a bad time.

  Safely through the grass, I was almost at the next dead-end road. I could hear the truck coming around the corner.

 
Keep running, you don’t have any other choice.

  I hate jogging, so I’m not a treadmill person at the gym. Yeah, I’m in shape for a woman my age, but not in sprinting shape.

  Maybe the adrenaline would make up for that.

  I kept running, cutting across the next road, just as the headlights swung around the corner.

  Maybe if I was lucky, I’d just made it out of range.

  But the truck was coming this way.

  I was starting to gasp for breath. I cut off from the open grass next to the canal and into the weeds and bushes. They could too easily see me out in the open.

  But I had to slow down to clamber through them.

  Glancing back, I could see the lights coming closer, flooding the road.

  I wasn’t far enough away.

  I dived beneath a patch of scruffy brush, glad for our year-round growing season. Even in this part of spring, everything was a leafy green. With what I hoped were enough leaves to hide me.

  The truck slowed at the end of the road. I didn’t dare look but could tell from the engine noise and the illumination from the headlights it was turning to throw the beams first down the canal from the way I’d come…

  Then moving to light where I was now hiding.

  There is a reason we wear black clothes to do things like this. I kept my jacket up, covering my face to my eyes, mussing my hair down my forehead. Maybe as I got more gray in it, I’d have to consider dying it to make sure the lighter color wouldn’t give me away in situations like this.

  The beam roved over the grass in front of me, tires on gravel and the light shifted, to the bushes hiding me. Stayed there.

  I didn’t dare breath for fear it would move a telltale leaf.

  “Where the fuck is he?” mumbled from the truck. A male voice.

  No one answered.

  One chit in my favor; they thought I was a man. Probably only got a glimpse of a figure in black. I’m tall, shaggy hair, but it can turn into a curly nest if I don’t keep it a reasonable length. So short enough to be boy length.

  “Gotta be hidden in the bushes,” the voice said. “Go look.”

  Shit.