“It’s me!” came the voice through the door. Female. Annoyed. Jennifer.
I opened the door and saw her in her green FOOD COURT shirt, name badge pinned to the front.
“I forgot my key at Cam’s,” she said, stepping in.
“You okay?” I asked, looking past her at the outdoor stairway that led down to the parking lot.
“Yeah,” she said with equal amounts of annoyance and confusion.
“You alone?”
“Yeah … Jesus!” she yelped when she saw the gun in my hand.
“It’s okay,” I said, closing and locking the door.
“What the hell?”
“Nothin’,” I said. “How’d you get home?”
“Gwen drove me.”
“What kind of car does Gwen drive?”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothin’. It’s okay. What kind of car?”
“A Sentra. You’re freaking me out.”
“Sorry. I’ll put this away.” I disappeared into the bedroom and replaced the Glock into the holster. I made a mental note to start carrying it, concealed, until I knew who my new friend in the Mustang was.
“Why did you have your gun?” Jennifer said when I returned to the living room.
“Paranoia. If you’re a cop long enough, you get a little jumpy.”
“Looks like you got out just in time.”
“Not soon enough,” I said.
Oddly enough, the tension created by greeting her armed completely dissipated the tension I’d expected when she returned. My ill-advised foray into her room was suddenly far less important than whether I was going to shoot somebody.
“I got a chicken for dinner,” I said.
“Okay.”
I boiled some carrots and threw a couple of potatoes in the microwave. Although still a little awkward, dinner was almost pleasant. We made small talk, mostly about her job at the mall. A couple of times I almost apologized for poking through her purse. But the timing never seemed right and I didn’t want to snap the thin line of civility we were balancing on.
“Listen,” I said, “I got this today.” I opened the Home Depot bag and pulled out a door dead-bolt kit encased in plastic. “It’s for your room. It’s got two keys and they’re both yours.”
She took the kit and studied it. I couldn’t read her face but I almost detected a slight nod.
“I didn’t want to open it before you got home,” I said, “so you could see I didn’t copy the keys. I was gonna install it tonight, unless you want to get it rekeyed.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“Then I’ll put it in tonight.” It didn’t look hard to install and I certainly had the tools for it. My tool kit was one of my most prized possessions. It had come with me after I’d been kicked out of the only two houses I had ever owned, and it had survived the sticky fingers of lawyers through both divorces. The longest relationship I’ve ever had has been with my cordless Makita drill.
“I’ll get the dishes,” Jennifer said.
I nodded. If the dead bolt was my lame attempt at an apology, then washing the dishes was her acceptance of it. We were speaking in Garrity code, but at least we were communicating.
I helped with the dishes. When we were done, I found my shoulder case and dug around in it.
“I have something else for you,” I said.
Jennifer looked skeptical, but remained silent. I found the CD of the new Boyz Klub album that George had given me and handed it to her. It took a moment for it to register. But then it clicked and her eyes widened.
“Oh. My. God.” She looked at the back of the jewel case and then up at me. “Do you realize what this is?”
“Yeah. The new Boyz Klub album.”
“This isn’t even available yet. You can’t even buy it until next week.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. My. God. How did you get this?”
“I know a guy.”
“A guy? What guy?”
“A guy. I used to work with him.”
“I can’t believe this. I just—I can’t believe this.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I gotta call Gwen. She’s gonna die. I mean, she’s gonna die.”
Her eyes still boring into the CD case, holding it with both hands, Jennifer started toward her room. After a step she stopped and turned back.
“This is really cool,” she said. “Thanks.”
With a smile on my face, I headed for the Makita.
“All right, G. Who’s this runner, really?”
Big Jim Dupree sat across from me in a downtown coffee shop positioned in the shadow of the SunTrust skyscraper. He had a hand the size of a dinner plate resting on a sealed manila envelope.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I had a hard time watching Jim take manly bites of a blueberry muffin, crumbs sprinkling onto the table. I’d discovered, to my dismay, that the antiseizure meds made me nauseous. Plus, Bob had the skull jackhammer going full speed this morning.
Normally, given how I felt, I would never have agreed to meet Jim for coffee like this. But he’d called early this morning and told me he had the info I was looking for. If I wanted it, I needed to get it in person.
“Garrity?” he said, after I failed to respond for a moment. “You okay?”
I opened my eyes. “Yeah,” I said, and felt the wave of nausea subside.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” I stirred my black coffee. I nodded at the envelope. “What did you find?”
“Who’s the runner?”
“Just a kid.”
“A damn rich kid. Who?”
“Like I said before, his name’s TJ Sommerset. He’s in a band called Boyz Klub. One of those all-boy deals from Global Talent.”
Jim nodded. “George Neuheisel.”
“He hooked me up. Asked me to find the kid before their upcoming tour started. He kinda went AWOL.”
Jim opened his mouth and inserted the remaining two-thirds of the muffin. A couple of chews and it was history. He slid the envelope across the table at me.
“Don’t know if this is gonna help or not,” Jim said.
“What’s the quick and dirty?”
Jim shrugged. “Boy’s got a fifty-grand limit on the credit card, but there’s been no activity—at all—in the last two weeks. Before that, goin’ back a ways, mostly furniture and big-screen TVs and shit. A computer, too.”
I thought about the furnishings at Arlene Sommerset’s Isleworth mansion. TJ not only bought her the house, but filled it up, as well.
“What about the bank account?” I asked.
“That’s the interestin’ part. Dude’s got almost seven hundred grand in the bank. ’Bout a week and a half ago, he withdraws almost a half a mil. Cash.”
I let out a low whistle.
“Damn right,” said Jim. “Dude can get himself pretty good and gone with that kinda coin.”
“He took off once before. Nothing in there that might tell me where he went?”
Jim shook his head. “Like I said, don’t know if this is gonna help or not. But it was fun reading.” Jim drained his cup of coffee. “You say he’s a kid?”
“Twenty-two. Worth maybe ten million from the first album, with a new one about to be released.”
“Ten million. Damn. Maybe I should call Georgie. I got a good voice. Sing every week in the church choir.”
“You don’t exactly have the look Global goes for.”
“What’re you sayin’? My tan’s too dark?”
“I wasn’t thinkin’ that. But, now that you say it, all their bands do seem pretty pale. No, I was thinkin’ more about your, uh … Face it, man, you weigh more than all four of those Boyz Klub kids combined. My advice: keep the day job.”
Jim shot me a mock-angry look and a knowing smile. “I’m still saving your desk, G. Place ain’t the same without you.”
“Please. Don’t waste your time.”
“Ain’t no waste of time to sit on it while I’m working. Gotta sit anyway.”
“Then don’t waste your ass. I’m sure you could put it to much better use.”
“Doubtful, bro,” said Jim. “Doubtful.”
It was a reception area, but a far cry from the reception area of Global Talent. A couple of secondhand chairs sat along a hand-painted wall decorated with appliqué” stickers of local theme-park characters. One-half of the room was filled with kid-oriented paraphernalia: tiny chairs, plastic bins of toys, puzzles, dolls, and a small TV with an older Sony PlayStation attached.
The suite looked like it had once been a doctor’s office, complete with sliding-glass window at the receptionist’s desk. The window slid open and a sandy-haired guy in his late twenties poked out.
“Mr. Garrity?” he said. “Marian said she’ll be right with you. You want a soda or something?”
“No thanks,” I said, and returned to the seven-month-old Ladies’ Home Journal in my lap. The day was getting better. Although not exactly what I’d hoped for, the information Big Jim had provided had been helpful. My nausea of earlier in the morning seemed to have subsided, and Bob’s famous “brain pain” had been reduced from a piercing stab to a dull ache. And, as a bonus, I was now learning all about Celine Dion’s brave battle with infertility.
A few minutes later a door opened.
“Mr. Garrity?” It was Marian Cooksey, executive director of Journeys of Hope. She was late fifties, early sixties, African-American, and short—maybe five foot three—but seemed taller in her bearing and heels. Her demeanor was businesslike, but unhurried, and after two seconds with her I had no doubt that she was in charge.
“Mike,” I said, shaking her hand.
“You mentioned that this was about TJ?”
“Yeah. I’m from Global Talent and I just have a few questions.”
She offered a genuine smile. “Of course. We can talk in my office.”
She led me through the adjoining hallway, past photos of kids posing with theme-park characters: Mickey Mouse, SpongeBob, Goofy, Shamu. I saw a couple of shots of young girls standing with TJ.
Journeys of Hope arranged free Orlando theme-park vacations for terminally ill children and their families. Creating memories to last a lifetime, however long that might be. It wasn’t lost on me that the kids in the pictures were probably all now dead.
We walked by several small offices where young workers talked on phones. Sitting in one office, chatting with a worker, were two adults and a young girl with a completely bald head. My hand involuntarily touched my biopsy scar.
This visit was definitely a long shot, but besides the few financial records, the letter from Journeys of Hope was the only real lead I’d found in TJ’s apartment. Marian Cooksey led me into her office, a cramped but cozy space filled with inexpensive furniture. She cleared some papers from a chair and I sat. She left the door open and sat next to me in the other guest chair, one leg crossed precisely over the other.
“So TJ’s finally changed his mind?” she said.
“Pardon?”
“I assume that’s why you’re here. I’ve been telling him for ages that he should be more open about his charity work. He would set such a positive example, and honestly, the publicity wouldn’t hurt our fund-raising.”
“He never wanted the publicity?”
She shook her head. “He said that wasn’t why he was doing it. It wasn’t about him. You should make that very clear in whatever promotion you intend to do. He was very sincere. To him, it’s only about the kids.”
“Can you describe his involvement with Journeys of Hope?”
“It started when one of our kids asked to meet him. She was a fan. As soon as he learned about us and what we did, he became actively involved. He made himself available whenever a client asked to meet him. I recall one time when he flew back on a red-eye from Los Angeles in the middle of shooting a music video, just to spend an hour with one of our kids. Then he was back on a plane by lunchtime. He probably didn’t sleep for three days.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Nobody does. He told me once that it was the least he could do. That these kids didn’t have time to wait for his schedule to clear. Of course, he’s also provided us with significant financial support.”
“And what do you consider significant?” I said.
She wagged a finger at me. “‘Whoever sows sparingly will also reap sparingly, and whoever sows generously will also reap generously.’ TJ Sommerset has been generous with more than his time. Several times a year we get a check from him for anywhere from twenty to fifty thousand dollars. It makes a huge difference to a charity like ours, believe me.”
“I’m sure it does.”
“Even with the parks donating hotel rooms and admissions, these types of trips are usually beyond the reach of our families. Most are racked by medical expenses. Each of TJ’s donations allows us to serve between four and ten families. There are probably twenty-five families whose entire trips were funded solely by TJ.”
“He’s made quite a difference.”
“He’s a blessing. A gift. And I’m glad he’s decided to take his light out from under the bushel basket.”
I paused, wondering how much longer I could deceive this woman before the floor collapsed under the weight of my guilt and I plunged straight to hell. “Do you think,” I said slowly, forming the thought in my head, “that TJ’s interest in Journeys of Hope comes from the loss of his father as a child?”
This time it was Marian Cooksey’s turn to pause. “I don’t know. I wasn’t aware that he lost his father as a child.”
“Liver cancer.”
She nodded slowly to herself, letting just a bit of her weariness show, a weariness of watching far too many people die at far too young an age.
“We all have our reasons, Mike.” She took a breath that seemed to clear the weariness aside. “So what changed TJ’s mind? The last check?”
“Last check?”
“He didn’t tell you? Well, it did come anonymously as a money order, but it’s from his bank. I just assumed …”
“May I see it?” I asked.
“I suppose …” Marian Cooksey got up and rummaged through a desk file drawer. “I have copy in here. Ah.” She pulled out a file folder and handed me a photocopied money order dated a week ago. It was made out to Journeys of Hope.
The amount was $300,000.
“It arrived the other day,” she said. “No note. No return address. I just assumed it was from TJ. I’ve tried calling him several times over the past few days but haven’t reached him.”
I handed the photocopy back. “Is that unusual?”
“Not really. Although, he usually gets back to me within a day or two, depending on what he’s doing.”
“Have you ever gotten a check that size before?”
“Never.”
Marian Cooksey and I chatted for a few more minutes, but I started to itch to get out before she realized I wasn’t being completely honest. I left her both my cell phone and the main Global number if she had any questions or information, or if she got another big check. I told her that Global was still deciding how to proceed and needed to discuss any publicity with TJ first.
After saying good-bye, I lingered alone for a moment in the waiting room, examining the bins of toys against the wall. Then I wrote Journeys of Hope a check for a hundred bucks, placed it on the receptionist’s desk, and slipped out the door.
The Journeys of Hope offices were on the fourth floor of a worn-down medical complex. I debated taking the unventilated stairs but quickly discarded the notion as unnecessarily masochistic. I pressed the call button and waited for the rickety elevator to rumble up from the first floor.
One of the downsides of a career as a cop is a pathologically heightened sense of suspicion. You tend to see many perfectly innocent situations as potentially nefarious. The shifty-looking kid lingering in the back of the 7-Eleven. The department-store shopper with the ridiculously large purse. It’s a tiresome way to live, always expecting people to act their worst, and a contributing factor to cop burnout. But the flip side is that the very same paranoia can sometimes turn out to be right, giving you a few seconds extra to prepare or react.
I saw the guy from the corner of my eye, leaning over a water fountain a few steps from the elevator. I didn’t know why, but my spider sense was seriously tingling. Looking back on it now, I should have heeded that suspicion and done something. Grabbed him. Threatened him. Shot him.
Something.
But I didn’t. At the time, I didn’t know. How could I? I shrugged it off. Besides, I wasn’t carrying a weapon at the time.
Instead, when the elevator chimed, I stepped calmly in and watched him lean up from the water fountain and step into the box with me. He was a big dude, at least four inches taller than me, in his late forties, early fifties, with an unruly shock of dyed black hair. Deep-set eyes, buried under a heavy brow. He was dressed in dark slacks and a fluorescent green golf shirt that was so bright, you could read by it. The Day-Glo shirt was stretched across his girth, topped with a blue blazer. Neon business casual.
I hit the first-floor button and the doors wheezed closed. We each assumed the standard elevator position, facing forward, saying nothing, like at a line of urinals. As soon as we started our slow descent, however, Mr. Day-Glo spoke, still looking forward.
“So, Mike,” he said in a voice higher and more nasal than I would have expected. “How goes the search?”
I paused for a breath’s length. “Who wants to know?”
“A friend.” He turned and took a single step toward me. “Actually, a friend of a friend.”
I quickly sized up my situation and it wasn’t good. No escape. Him between me and the alarm button. The elevator continued its glacial, vibrating descent.
“That’s far enough, pal,” I said.
He took another step, which, in the confined space, put him right in my face.
“Any leads?” His breath was polluted with cigarettes and stale coffee. “The clock’s ticking, Mikey.”
“Back off, or—”
“What? What are you gonna do?” He placed a hand into his blazer and rested it under one arm. I saw the shadowy glint of a pistol handle. I tensed my body, preparing to grab his arm and launch a knee into his groin. I was unarmed, my Glock sitting uselessly in my truck’s glove compartment. I had foolishly questioned the appropriateness of bringing a nine-millimeter semiautomatic weapon into the Journeys of Hope office. Without a weapon or even the obligatory can of cop pepper spray, I knew my only hope was to make a decisive, dirty move.
“You gonna find him?” he said. “I suggest you find him soon.”
I contracted my thigh muscles, preparing a preemptive blow. In the instant before I struck, the elevator suddenly chimed and the door opened onto the second floor. An elderly couple stood there expectantly in the hallway.
Day-Glo took a half step back and we both watched the stooped woman assist the even more stooped man, lifting his walker over the gap in the elevator threshold as they entered. Just as the doors closed, I slipped out of the elevator and bolted across the hall to the stairs.
I tore down the steps three at a time and pushed out into the parking lot. A few seconds later I was in my truck peeling out onto the road. I saw no one exit the building and no one following me. I took a quick look around for a blue Mustang, but didn’t see it.
Once I was a few miles away and the adrenaline began to subside, I got mad. Really mad. Pissed. Goon-style intimidation never sat well with me, and this was a classic case. A friend of a friend? If my guess about the friend’s identity was right, he was going to get a goddamn scorching earful.