Chapter Fifteen

  

The kid really knew how to drive, even in his big pickup. Blu’s research had turned up the kid’s racing record. He’d been on his way to the big leagues—NASCAR Cup Series. And then he stopped.

Race-car driver to bar owner by way of the Marine Corps in Afghanistan. The world was a crazy place.

They made it to the news office in forty minutes. When they walked in, Blu expected Miss Dell to be waiting for him with nothing on but a teddy and a smile. Either he was lucky and she had gone home, or she was waiting in the back room with Patricia.

Who was he kidding? He was never that lucky.

Miss Dell got up from the visitor’s chair across from Patricia’s desk and made her way to him. Her mouth said, “Hi, sugar.” Her body said fornication.

Either way, he was screwed. He took her offered hand. “How’re you doing, Miss Dell?”

“Good now, sugar.” She walked past, patted him on the shoulder, and said, “I’ll be out there when you’re ready to leave.”

Pelton said, “I guess I need to find somewhere else to sleep tonight.”

Blu could have decked him right then and there. Except he didn’t because he would have said the same thing if the roles had been reversed.

Patricia said, “Don’t worry about her.”

He said, “Thanks.”

To Patricia, Pelton said, “Don’t keep us in suspense. Show us the site.”

She smiled and turned her monitor so they could see.

Blu and the kid looked at the display. And both read the title aloud, “Executive Services, Limited.”

“Catchy, isn’t it?” Patricia looked like she was enjoying it.

Blu asked, “How’d you find it?”

She crossed her legs. “I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who can hook you up with a guy who knows how to get people whacked.”

“That easy?” Blu said.

“That easy.” She smiled.

Pelton said, “I want to send them a message.”

Patricia said, “You know that it will have to be from you or your site page, right?”

He smiled. “I want it to be from me.”

There was a notepad in front of Patricia. Pelton slid it to himself, picked up a pen, twisted the cap off, and wrote something down. When he finished, he handed the note to his aunt.

Patricia read, “I’m the one who shot Rudyard. I didn’t kill Abner. I think it was the one who hired the brothers to kill Skip. You could be next. I want to talk.” She fanned the paper. “Really?”

“You’ve got a better idea?” he asked.

Blu considered it. “I think it’s perfect.”

Patricia raised her eyebrows.

Blu continued. “Straight to the point. No B.S. Lets whoever is reading it know that he’s serious.”

“Except there could be a third brother, or a sister, or a cousin who will be more than happy to set up a meet so he can blow your head off.” She was talking to her nephew.

“I’ll take that risk,” Pelton said. “There’s no angle in it for them.”

“You killed Rudyard. Abner was going to kill you. These guys don’t think in straight lines, Brack.”

He replied, “Neither do I.”

Blu said, “Log in and send it. What can it hurt?”

Patricia shook her head. “You are two peas in a pod. I’m surprised you hadn’t found each other before now.”

Pelton logged on, went to the page, and sent the message.

The three of them chatted a few minutes and then—surprise, surprise—a new message icon appeared, indicating there was a reply.

It read: “Folly Beach Pier, tomorrow, 10 a.m.”