Al’s face grew stern. He crossed his arms, quickly deflating whatever egos he’d inadvertently bolstered. “There’s no doubt the police already know what these symbols are. They’re working with the FBI, after all. Let’s not pretend like we’ve managed to uncover what they never could… But Angry Jonny has struck three times in the past month. And I don’t think he’s done. Verona PD is offering ten thousand for any information leading to the capture of Angry Jonny. Castle’s wife has raised her reward to fifty. Think it’s going to make a damn difference?”
There was an immediate murmur from the meeting of minds, heads shaking side to side.
“Well, we’ve gotten to know Angry Jonny pretty well over the course of our own investigation… And I think it’s time, high time, we started doing our part to help catch this son of a bitch.”
Everyone nodded solemnly.
Al cleared his throat, ready to move on. “Ethan, my office, ten minutes. Lloyd, get me some spreads on how we’re going to fit the grids and three symbols he’s already used. You’ve got half an hour. Everyone else… Not only is the information before you courtesy of Ms. Jessica Kincaid, but it also happens to be her birthday.”
“Happy Birthday!” came the rallying cry, along with a round of applause.
“Good. Now everyone say, Go home, Jessica.”
“Go home, Jessica!”
The meeting broke up with an enthusiastic scramble.
Al leaned close to Jessica’s ear. “Come join me for a cigarette.”
At four in the afternoon, humidity and stagnant winds had turned the parking lot into a swampland. Al’s sweaty thumb couldn’t even catch enough traction to light his smoke.
“Allow me,” Jessica volunteered, sparking up a match.
“Good work in there,” Al said, puffing away. “I’m going to get Ethan to line up some questions for the press conference at five, see if we can’t get them to spill a thing or two…” He wiped his brow, smiling nostalgically. “Got to say, for the first time in a while, it feels as though this old rag is actually here for a purpose. Like we’re actually starting to serve the people again.”
“Glad I could help, sir.” Jessica paused. “You find anything new?”
“On our latest victim? No. You?”
“Been going at it nonstop. Still no idea what the hell Dr. Frank Lazenby has to do with me.”
“Think its misdirection?”
Jessica shrugged. “Used to work for Generation Insurance, way up in claims. Claims denied, is really more like it. Who wouldn’t want to cut out his eyes and tongue?”
“His wife and two kids, for starters.” Al dropped his cigarette, squished it underfoot. Didn’t dwell on it. “How you getting home?”
“Same way I came. Walking.”
“That’s like a two hour walk. You’ll die out there.”
“It’s my party, and I’ll die if I want to.”
The front door swung open, and Malik trotted up. “Happy Birthday, Jessica.”
“Thanks.”
The two of them shared an awkward, fifth grade hug.
Fortunately, the chaperone was there to cut the cord. “Give this girl a ride home, would you, Malik?”
“With pleasure.”
“And I’m out of here,” Al said, waving farewell and heading back to work.
Jessica and Malik slipped into the Outback, strapped in.
“Got plans for tonight?” Malik asked, pulling out and heading for the freeway.
“Got a date.”
“What? With who?”
“Someone tall, dark and handsome.”
Malik squinted. “I’m confused. Does that mean me?”
“No. But don’t worry, it’s not a date either.”
“So you have plans for tonight, none of which include me?”
“Don’t get all puppy-dog.”
“I ain’t getting –” Malik punched the accelerator, swerved into the fast lane. “I’m not getting all puppy-dog.”
“Tell you what, pumpkin. Why don’t you meet me later at The Rail? Eight-thirty, nine o’clock? We’ll shoot some pool, play shuffleboard. Unless that’s too PG for a player.”
“Whatever…” A smile crept onto his face. “Our first date, we paid for PG-13 and snuck into an R-rated flick next door.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
“On The Rail, eight-thirty. I’ll be there.”
“You missed our exit.”
Malik whistled pleasantly at the opportunity to double back.
Stretch the ride out just a little bit longer.
Chapter 29: Tip Line.
Jessica directed Chaucer to a stretch of bars downtown.
“Of course,” Chaucer said, parking outside their destination. “I offer you the world, and you take me slumming.”
They crossed the street, asphalt still smoldering at six in the evening.
Southland’s patio was teeming with the after-work crowd. Sales clerks, waiters, and clock watchers seated at rickety wooden tables or perched on the ensconcing, four-foot brick wall. Cigarettes blazing over pints of IPAs.
Inside, it wasn’t nearly as crowded. One or two occupied tables, a handful of barflies buzzing around. The room was awash with a dark red flush, tempered by dim overheads and the vibrant colors of a flat screen TV. Smoke mingling with the scent of fresh-cut fries, beer and liquor.
Jessica scanned the bar, eyes landing on a trio of Pantheon preps.
One of them glanced over his shoulder.
None other than Eli Messner, decked out in his usual cheap suit and tie.
Their eyes met. Only for a moment. Then, without a hint of recognition, he turned back to his drink, laughing uproariously along with the rest.
Chaucer nudged her. “Again, you sure this is where you want to eat?”
“You may be treating, but I’m the one that’s taking you out…”
“Let’s get a table then.”
“No table.”
The bar ran the along the length of the back wall, then turned down along the left side of the room. At the end, it cut back into the wall, leaving enough space for three to sit. The perfect spot for Jessica to watch Eli and his compatriots yuck it up.
Chaucer joined her in the fox hole, hip to her game. “Guess you’ve made our friend.”
“Hard to miss.”
“Not going to say anything?”
“If he’s blowing me off, he’s got his reasons.”
Chaucer shook his head, smiled. “Damn, you never cease to amaze.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Jessica gave him a withering smirk. “What the hell are you still doing in town, anyway?”
The bartender tossed a couple of coasters on the counter. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a tonic water,” Jessica said. “And a Heineken for him.”
“You having anything to eat?”
“We are.”
The bartender handed them a pair of menus and went to fetch their drinks.
“I won’t lie,” Chaucer said. “I got my business out of the way, and now… Well, I’m worried about you, so I’m sticking around.”
“There’s a lot of people might consider that strange.”
“It’s not unusual for an older person to mentor a young, promising individual.”
“You going to teach me the ways of the restaurant manager?”
“Got to be something I can teach you… I’m not saying Al Holder ain’t been a big help to you. Man’s been around, but journalism is changing.”
“The business is changing. The truth will always be the truth.”
“Ah,” Chaucer lit a cigarette. “So that’s what you’re after.”
“Nothing but.”
“So journalism is just another way to follow that pursuit.”
“You got it.”
Chaucer sighed. “Well, if you won’t accept a mentor… would you settle for worthy adversary?”
“Much
better.”
“All right.”
Their drinks arrived, and the bartender left them to make their choice.
“Well, the food here don’t actually look half bad,” Chaucer commented. “Black-bean sliders with avocado slices? Garlic herb French fries? Stuffed mushrooms?”
“Long as there’s a university around, ain’t no such thing as a dive anymore.”
As if to prove her point, Eli’s friends hopped off of their barstools.
Their conversation tickled Jessica’s ears.
“So tonight at eight?”
“Tonight’s good, yeah.”
“Should be a lot of action.”
“Glad to be a part of it.”
Jessica averted her eyes as the two of them began to head for the exit. They called back, double-checking on their tab: “You sure you got us, bro?”
She saw Eli raise his scotch, “All good.”
“A’ight!” They sent one last wave in his direction. “See you in a few, dawg!”
Eli kept his grin smelted to his face, watching them through the windows as they headed down the sidewalk and out of sight. With noticeable relief, he let the Zoloft drain from his face and shook his head. “What a bunch of fucking idiots.”
“Sup, E-lie,” Jessica taunted.
“Yeah, sorry about that…” Eli signaled the bartender, and slid on towards them. “Chaucer, Jessica.”
Chaucer raised his beer. “Never figured you for the country club type.”
“All part of the game. Been trying to get into it for a bit now. These guys run it out of one of the new lofts downtown. Hundred dollar buy in, sometimes as many as four tables going at once.”
“So you do actually play poker,” Jessica said.
“You should stop on by if you get the chance…” Eli took out a slip of paper, reached over to set it in front of her. “Here’s the place. You ain’t seen the game played till you’ve seen me play it.”
“Love a man with some strut.”
The barkeep dropped off Eli’s tab. “Thirty-five even, buddy.”
“Got to love bar math,” Eli said, squinting at the total and pulling out a wad of cash. “No pesky decimals or nothing.”
“Twenty percent of thirty-five is seven dollars,” Chaucer said. “Case you were wondering.”
“I don’t tip percentage at the bar, old man.”
“I’m a dollar per drink man myself.”
“Raise you two dollars,” Eli shot back, dropping two twenties and a ten.
“Two bucks a drink…”Jessica whistled. “No wonder Dinah likes you.”
Eli pretended not to hear. Pocketed his money and straightened his tie. “Got to go rest up before the game. Chaucer, why don’t you sit in? These squares don’t stand a chance against you.”
“Got an appointment I can’t miss. Next time.”
“Your loss…” Eli made for the door with a spring in his step. “Peace out!”
Through the windows, Jessica saw him head off into the evening.
She bit her lip, feeling the shadows shift. When she turned back to the menu, all she could see were the prices. Numbers without decimal places. Hardly aware that the bartender had returned, fielding Chaucer’s questions about the Italian sandwich. Something about prosciutto. Something about numbers without decimal places…
“Yo, birthday girl.” Chaucer leaned in. “You ready?”
Jessica reached into her pocket, pulled out Dinah’s credit card statement. Irrational fingers ripping through the paper as she unfolded it. Her eyes shot down to the bottom of the page.
June twenty-seventh, at two-thirty in the morning.
Totaling two hundred, forty-seven dollars.
And eighty cents.
“We have to go,” Jessica said, jumping out of her seat. “Quick.”
“What’s wrong?”
“What time does The Cardinal open?” she asked the bartender.
“It opens at six,” the bartender replied amiably enough.
“Thanks.” Jessica threw a ten-spot on the bar, tugged at Chaucer’s arm. “We have to go now.”
Chaucer knew better than to argue, picked his coat off the chair.
Still trying to slip into it as they tore across the streets, cars screeching to a halt for the amusement of all those sitting outside, relaxing after a hard day’s work.
Chapter 30: The Cardinal Rule.
Two steps through the door, Jessica understood why Dinah had instantly fallen in love with the place.
The owners had gone that extra mile to give them something good.
Fresh-lit candles rested on wrought iron tables, flames flickering along glass. Black leather couches and plush armchairs. Dark, red-oak walls soaked up the music of Billy Holiday. Spotless bar, soft-lit from above. An armada of bottles lined up along three glass shelves. On either side, fancy wooden cabinets housed premium blends and single malts, shots fetching anywhere from thirty dollars on up.
It was pure class, all Dinah ever wanted.
The thought was absolutely heartbreaking.
Jessica and Chaucer took an unassuming stroll to greet the bartender. He was a tall, imposing figure; arms bulging beneath a crisp, white tux-shirt. Shaved head, thick lips complimenting a pugilist nose. Along the pale hillside of his cheek, a faded scar suggested that trouble best find itself another place to drink.
His eyes lit on them with dark courtesy.
“Can I help you two?” he asked with a thick New Zealand accent, already making it clear that Jessica was two questions shy of being asked to leave.
“Yes, thank you,” Chaucer said, ever amiable. “This is a little embarrassing but I was here a couple of nights ago and… well, I’m sorry, but I might have left without paying?”
The bartender smiled, momentarily entertained. “Without paying, you say?”
“Yeah. I opened up a tab with my Visa card, and I guess I must have had a few too many – ”
“Think someone’s got their wire’s crossed, fella. We don’t hold credit cards.”
“You don’t hold credit cards.”
“We’d swipe yours right from the get-go.” The barkeep pantomimed the action along the touch screen situated in the middle of the bar. “Got all your information right in here, you get to keep your card… But you don’t get to walk out without paying. Believe that.”
Jessica picked up the drink menu and began to leaf through it. Slowly, then frantically. Every drink, every beer, every glass of wine, bottle of champagne told the same story.
Nice, whole numbers. All dollars, no cents.
She looked up from the menu, face to face with a bronze plaque embossed with black letters.
AN EIGHTEEN PERCENT GRATUITY WILL BE ADDED TO ALL CHECKS NOT SETTLED BY THE END OF THE NIGHT.
Jessica grew dizzy, trying to imagine Dinah at closing time. Forcing herself to imagine Dinah’s pen hovering above the tip line, struggling with basic math. Basic math. Tip two dollars for each drink. And with each drink on the menu being a nice whole number, the total would’ve come to another nice whole number.
Never two hundred, forty-seven dollars and eighty cents.
“You’re not the first to come asking about it,” the giant behind the bar said. “Got a couple of gents in here last night. Wanted to see some records.”
“Last night?” Chaucer asked.
“Didn’t have what they needed on hand. So they came back here tonight…” He checked his watch. “Oh, I’d say maybe an hour ago.”
“Who were they asking about?” Jessica asked.
The barkeep crossed his arms. “Now what makes you think I would tell you, young lady?”
“Don’t matter. I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
“See you in four years, then.”
Jessica and Chaucer bolted towards the door. Didn’t need to look up to know the sky had finally begun to fall.
Because if Dinah hadn’t been around to settle her tab, then she could’ve been damn near anywhere.
And as far as the cops were concerned, that anywhere was good as in Davenport’s living room.
***
Chaucer swerved around the outer rim of the Pantheon-Prescott parking lot, gunning for the back entrance.
Jessica strained to see through the windshield, dismayed to find two police cruisers parked by the dumpsters. She yanked at the door handle, leaping out before the car could come to a complete stop. She stumbled with wild inertia. Managed to find her balance, and ran for the entrance.
A pair of uniformed officers were stationed at the beige, metal door.
They moved in, grabbed hold of Jessica and pushed her back.
“You can’t go in there, miss.”
“Step back, miss.”
“You’re going to have to wait out here.”
Jessica was seized with the urge to rush them. Positive that, with a running start and favorable wind velocity, she could easily bust right past them. Lucky for her, Chaucer had already caught up. Took hold of her shoulders, holding in check.
“What’s going on, officers?” he asked, with an experienced courtesy.
“Please step back.”
“I’m back, officers. We’re both back, that’s a promise. Please, what’s going on?”
“Sir, if you and the young lady could just wait –”
Jessica was reconsidering her plan to rush them, when the back door opened.
Donahue and a uniformed stepped out, flanking Dinah on either side. Tie askew, head bowed. She tilted her head to the side, a single blue eye pleading through a curtain of blond curls.
Jessica called out to her, shuffling along with the procession, held at a distance by the officers. Not getting any response, she turned to the detective. “Donahue, what the fuck are you doing?”
Donahue opened the door to one of the cruisers. “I didn’t want to do this in front of the staff, Jessica.” He asked Dinah to please turn around, reaching for his handcuffs. “Dinah Titus, you are under arrest for the assault on Clarence Davenport. You have the right to remain silent…”
Jessica was only partially aware that Chaucer was holding her back. What she hoped to gain from her struggle was anyone’s guess. There was nothing to be done, just stand by ineffectually as Donahue manacled Dinah’s hands. “Do you understand these rights as they have been told?”