“What are you saying here? That it’s a lost cause?”
His voice softened. “No, hon, I’m not saying that at all.”
The endearment made my heart skip.
He sighed. “Look, I’m willing to dig into this, but what are you gonna do if we come up empty? Where’s that gonna leave our so-called ‘friendship’?” He nodded at my coat. “Will you still be sporting that hood? And what about those venetian blinds at your office? You can’t yank them down forever.”
I hadn’t thought that far ahead. What if our efforts proved fruitless? The very idea terrified me. Thankfully, I found a reprieve when we approached the O’Dell’s well-tended neighborhood.
Floodlights accentuated the billboard-sized Highgrove Meadows sign. Written in flowing script, the words were burned into a huge block of polished cherry wood. The manicured shrubs surrounding the marquee were attractively arranged and carpeted with snow-speckled red mulch.
“So this is it,” he said, his face stony.
“You’ve never been here?”
“Naw.” His attention was riveted on the stylish brick-faced homes lining either side of the street. “She told me where it was last week. I just hadn’t gotten around to visiting.” He gave me the address, then asked, “How old is this development?”
“Two years,” I answered, grateful for the change in subject. “They’re opening a new section next spring.”
“About the houses, what kind of space we talking?”
I pointed at a Tudor to our left. A lighted nativity scene graced the lawn. “That’s the Montreal, Highgrove’s smallest model. It’s around 2,400 square feet.” A white-brick colonial pulled his attention away. “Stunning isn’t it?” I said. “I sold it last year. It’s the Houston. One of the largest at 3,100.”
“You remember what each of these models cost?” he asked
“Yes, why?”
“I wanna know how much Icky paid.” Trace slid a pointed look in my direction. “I think he’s back in the life. Drugs.” He rested his head on the seat. “When he picked me up at Gainstown, first thing I noticed was his teeth.”
I frowned. “Okay, now you’ve lost me.”
“If you’d’ve seen him four years ago, you’d understand. His mouth was a war zone. Now his teeth are capped. That kind of work doesn’t come cheap. New choppers. New truck. New house. Saw him at Rascal’s the other day sporting a friggen Rolex. We had drinks together. Looked strung out to me.”
We approached Beverly’s street. “I’d have to see what model they’re in before I can give you a price, but these homes start in the mid four hundreds.”
He whistled. “What’s the high end?”
“Five-fifteen,” I said, squinting at house numbers.
We pulled into the cul-de-sac where the O’Dell’s stunning Dutch Colonial stood out in relief. As I crept into the driveway, Trace stared up at the house, slack-jawed. “Holy shit,” he said. “No friggen way.” He flicked a glance at me. “How much?”
Oh, God. The Tuscany.
One of the priciest models.
“Five hundred and ten thousand,” I sputtered, then repaired, “but with a forty-year mortgage or an interest only payment option, anything’s possible. You know, creative financing?”
“Puhleeze. They don’t make enough to afford a crib like this. Icky can’t be pulling more than twenty K, and that’s being generous. You got him the job. Am I close?”
I gave a reluctant nod. “Twenty-one-five.”
“Bev would be at about thirty-five K—forty tops. That puts them at a little over sixty thou. It’s drug money.”
I killed the engine and propped an arm over the steering wheel, staring past the snowflakes pelting the window. A dim glow of Christmas lights lit the dark yard. “I don’t believe it. I can’t. Not with Beverly being so…so religious. Just last month I saw her and two other ladies handing out church flyers outside of Walgreens.”
His eyes turned to stone as he fussed with his seatbelt. “Oh, yeah, she does her share of Bible-thumpin’, but she has the same issues my mama had. Pleasing her man trumps everything.” He shook his head. “You’d never know it, but my sister’s got a 130 IQ. Yeah, she’s real smart. But she’s dumb as hell when it comes to Icky.”
Trace threw his door open. He cut around the hood and helped me out. He was a collection of contrasts. Though he’d been gentle when he led me with care up the walkway, his face was iron-hard. His hand felt rough, yet protective. He seemed aware of my presence, but consumed by his own thoughts. The fine lines in his forehead had deepened. He was somewhere else, someone else, which made me very worried about him.
When the porch lights flooded the lawn, I gave little thought to who might see us. I was too focused on Trace, and what he might encounter in that house.
The front door swung open and his sister appeared in a short jungle-print robe with matching low-heeled mules. Raccoon eyes, red-rimmed and puffy stared out from a bloodless face. Pink rollers lopped against her head as her gaze batted from Trace to me.
Beverly hugged herself tight. She sent me a curt nod, then glared at her brother. The cigarette jutting from her lips seesawed when she spoke. “Thought you was comin’ alone.”
Trace’s eagle eyes were narrowed on the brightly lit hallway beyond Beverly. “You wanna tell me what’s up?”
Beverly snatched the cigarette from her mouth. She flung a restless glance over her shoulder and gripped the door. “I shouldn’t have called you, okay? Go on home. It’s fine now.” When we cleared the stairs, she gestured wide with her cigarette hand. Smoke and ashes ghosted her movements. “Go on,” she ordered. “Patrick’s just havin’ a bad—”
CRASH!
Trace forged past us and followed the sound.
“Oh, hell’s bells,” Beverly sputtered, tearing after him.
I wasn’t far behind, but froze once I entered the kitchen. Broken glass littered the floor. Patrick was sitting at the center island, drink in hand: a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey to his left, a full ashtray to his right. Orange bristles covered his jaw, and bags, like mini flour sacks, underscored his tired eyes. When I’d first met him, he’d been polite and groomed. This Patrick was a scruffy mess of stringy red hair, angry eyes, and rumpled clothes.
I’d never met this man.
TRACE
____________________________
“Look what the wind blew in,” Icky taunted.
I ignored him and glanced around. The huge kitchen was loaded with fancy stainless steel appliances. Hunter green counter tops. Granite. Maple cabinetry. A center island with a swan-neck sink. Pots and pans hung from a copper ceiling rack. The living room was decorated just as nice. This whole setup smacked of tall money, but the broken china scattered across the green ceramic tile marred the pretty picture.
I looked at Icky. “What happened in here?”
“None of your business.” Icky guzzled his drink and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. To Bev he barked, “You call him?”
“I was afraid. I didn’t want the police to show up.”
“So you thought your little brother could put me in line?” Icky poured another drink. “Yeah, right. His pussy-ass won’t even go down in Gary’s basement.” He glanced at me and laughed. “Fucking coward.”
Bev pleaded, “Patrick, put the bottle down.”
“Patrick, put the bottle down,” Icky mimicked in falsetto.
“He’s on antidepressants,” Bev said with a sob. “Now he’s mixing ‘em with liquor. He lost—”
“Shut the hell up,” Icky roared.
Bev tried again. “His boss caught ‘im—”
Icky smacked the counter top, his eyes wild and raging. “I said shut the hell up!”