Beautiful, Dirty, Rich Page 9

  “Have you eaten here before?” the woman asked, looking up at Abby.

  Abby would’ve thought that a woman like that could look at a woman like her, size her up the same way Abby had been sizing her up, and know the answer to that question without even asking.

  “Afraid I haven’t,” Abby smiled, sheepishly.

  The longer she sat here, the longer she realized that she had made a mistake in coming. Abby had no business talking to this woman. And a situation like this could only lead to the kind of trouble Abby didn’t need. The Gatewoods were good to her. Mrs. Gatewood was the sweetest woman she’d ever worked for and the last thing she needed to do was to jeopardize the best job she’d ever had. Abby was just about to tell her that.

  “The filet mignon is delicious,” the woman said, looking up at her. “But if you prefer seafood, I’d recommend the sea bass.”

  “I shouldn’t have come,” Abby blurted out, sorry for having wasted this woman’s time. “I really just…”

  “I thought I explained everything thoroughly over the phone, Mrs. Parker,” the woman said, coolly.

  Abby nodded. “And this is my fault. I was too hasty in agreeing to this. I shouldn’t don’t need to get involved.”

  “You said that Mrs. Gatewood kept a box hidden under her bed?”

  Abby had said that. She’d said a lot of things, all of it too much.

  “She keeps it locked?”

  “Her most private things are in that box. No one has any right to invade her privacy,” Abby said, adamantly.

  As polished and sophisticated as this woman was, Abby decided right then and there that she wasn’t going to be a pushover with this woman. She’d expected that. She’d come here thinking that she had Abby right where she wanted her and could make her do things that she had changed her mind about doing.

  The woman studied Abby long and hard, before finally reaching inside her purse, pulling out an envelope and sliding it across the table.

  Abby didn’t have to look inside it to know what was in it. But she wasn’t going to touch it. If she did, she’d be tempted, and she’d made her mind up already.

  “You could cover an awful lot of bad checks with that,” the woman said.

  How she’d found out about Abby floating checks was something Abby had been trying not to think about. Her husband had been out of work for months, and Abby had been robbing Peter to pay Paul, trying to keep the lights on, and food on the table. She had thousands out there in pay day loans, and two of her children desperately wanted to go to college. But that was her mess to deal with, and Mrs. Gatewood shouldn’t have to pay for Abby’s mess.

  She met the woman’s gaze and held it. “What you’re asking me to do, ain’t right.”

  The woman leaned back in her seat. “All I’m asking you to do is to look inside and come back and tell me what you saw.”

  “I don’t want to hurt that woman,” Abby said, desperately.

  “If you don’t tell her, and I don’t tell her, then how is she going to know?”

  Olivia would know. The way she took inventory of the contents of that box nearly every day … of course she’d know if somebody else touched it.

  “Why?” Abby asked. “Why do you want me to do this?”

  The woman’s expression never changed. “I need to know what’s in that box. It’s a simple enough request, and I’m offering a lot of money for that information. Money that you need to help take care of your family. But I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  The woman reached across the table and started to pick up her envelope. Abby had written more checks than her money could cover. Her car was a missed payment away from being repossessed. She’d gotten a notice the other day warning her that if the water bill wasn’t paid by Friday they’d turn it off.

  “Promise me you won’t use anything in that box to hurt Mrs. Gatewood.”

  The woman paused, and then smiled. “I have no intention of bringing harm to Olivia Gatewood in any way, Abby.”

  Abby had kept her end of the bargain. She’d described every item in Olivia’s secret box, and she took her time getting to the best part, the only thing in that box that mattered was the last thing she’d mentioned.

  “In the bottom, underneath everything else,” she explained slowly over the phone, “were two birth certificates.”

  “One for each of her children,” Lonnie naturally concluded.

  “Both for Jordan,” Abby finally admitted after a long pause.

  “Two birth certificates? One’s a copy?”

  “One’s different.”

  Lonnie waited for the woman to elaborate, but obviously she wasn’t going to. Not without some coaching. “Come on, Abby. You’ve crossed the line already.” It was almost a threat. “You can’t turn back now. What’s the difference between the two documents?”

  Abby sighed deeply before finally responding. “The birth-father’s name.”

  * * *

  Lonnie often wondered if he knew? Even if he did, Jordan would take a secret like that to the grave with him before he’d let it get out. And if he didn’t, maybe … he should.

  Go Up to the Devil

  “Mr. Jones.”

  Solomon looked up at Jordan Gatewood standing over him and his dinner date. Reluctantly, he stood up, and shook the man’s hand.

  “Mr. Gatewood.”

  Was it a coincidence that he and Jordan Gatewood happened to be at the same restaurant, or was he just plain lucky?

  The man stood a good three to four inches taller than Solomon. He was a big dude, looking every bit the football player he’d been twenty-five years ago in college. They’d never met face-to-face, but Jordan knew his name. Solomon found it profound, to say the least.

  Jordan glanced at the woman sitting at the table.

  “Mya, this is Jordan Gatewood,” Solomon said, introducing the two of them. “Mya Richards,” he said to Jordan.

  “Nice to meet you,” Mya said.

  Jordan ignored her and turned his attention back to Solomon.

  “You negotiated the terms and conditions of Desi Green’s contract with the publisher.” It wasn’t a question.

  He waited for Solomon to respond.

  “I’m sure it was just business.”

  “Of course it was just business,” Solomon finally said.

  “My family and I have been through our fair share of heartache and scrutiny, Mr. Jones, which I’m sure you’re aware of.”

  “I am,” he said, tersely.

  “My concern has always been for the women in my family, my mother and my sister. I’ve worked hard to try and protect them from the fallout from my father’s death. It hasn’t always been easy, but I’ve done the best I could,” he explained coolly.

  Solomon wasn’t fooled by the calm demeanor of Gatewood. Never trust an opponent, whether fighting in the ring or in the courtroom or even here, standing over a dinner table. That was his mantra. “Believe me. I understand, and I empathize.”

  A dangerous darkness filled Jordan’s eyes. “Then empathize with this. Desi Green is not to mention my name, or my family’s name in that goddamned book of hers,” he threatened.

  “I have no idea what she’s going to put in her book, and it’s none of my business,” Solomon said, defensively.

  “Now, it is your business.” He glared at him. “That bitch is like a fuckin’ rat in my attic that I can’t get rid of,” he said threateningly. “She took apart my family, and then got out of prison and took our dignity.”

  He was referring to the money.

  “Dumb move on her part. She should’ve counted her blessings, all twenty million of them and faded away. The fact that anybody would pay her money to talk about how she shot and killed a man is the real crime. But I can’t stop them from making the offer.”

  “No. You can’t.”

  The longer Jordan talked, the more angry Solomon found himself becoming. The arrogant bastard sounded like he owned the whole damn wor
ld and everyone in it. The air surrounding Gatewood became stagnant and cold. And all of a sudden Solomon realized that Gatewood didn’t do coincidences. He’d found out that Solomon was here and decided to show up.

  Jordan glared at him. “Desi’s on the wrong playing field and she’s out of her league. So far, she’s been lucky and the ball’s bounced in her favor, but it’s just luck and it won’t last forever.”

  Solomon rolled his eyes at Gatewood’s tired metaphor. “Desi served her time, Mr. Gatewood. The system set her free. Free is the operative word here.”

  “As long as she and I breathe the same air, neither one of us will ever be free. If you care about Desi, and it seems that you do, then you’ll give her my message. If the name Gatewood comes up in that book, she will regret it. And prison will be like a country club compared to what could happen if she’s not careful.”

  Solomon glared at the man. “There’s no law against telling her side of her own story.”

  “There is when it bumps into mine. You give her my message.” Jordan pushed past Solomon and left the restaurant.

  Another Round

  Tom Billings drank too much. His wife, Lola, had forbidden him to drink in the house, so he drank at Ed’s, a small bar uptown. They knew him at Ed’s. Ed Kowalski, the owner, had been a close and personal friend of his before he died a few years back. His daughter, Sabrina, ran the place now.

  “You know the rules, Bree,” he said, turning up the last of his glass to finish what was left of his beer. He burped and sat the glass on the bar counter. “I shouldn’t have to ask.”

  Sabrina, or Bree, came over without saying a word, smiled, and filled his glass again.

  Tom had retired seven years ago and he still couldn’t find anything to do with himself. The mayor hadn’t given him a choice in the matter.

  “You’re sixty-five, Tom. Time for you to go,” he’d told him. “We can have a ceremony if you’d like. You can invite your family and friends. It would be real nice.”

  “If you don’t mind, Art,” Tom sighed, dismally. “Why don’t you just give me that cheap-ass gold watch here, and I can go on home.”

  He’d tried doing other things since he’d retired. Tom had started up a small handyman business. He’d even had business cards printed up and a logo painted on the side of his truck. That lasted for all of about six months, before he got the hint that he didn’t work fast enough or cheap enough for people around here. Next, he decided to work on restoring that old Caprice he’d had sitting in the garage for twenty years that he’d been promising he’d work on once he had the time. He worked on that for about three months before he got bored with it, and left it sitting up on blocks in pieces with Lola threatening to have it hauled off to the junkyard.

  He was seventy-two now. His body wasn’t what it used to be, but he was proud to say that his mind was as sharp as ever, and he was seriously considering putting it to good use, doing what he knew how to do best, and start some kind of private investigation business.

  “Hello,” Bree said to the man sliding onto the bar stool next to Tom. “What can I get you?”

  “Scotch on the rocks, please.”

  Tom had never seen him before. He looked rather young. Tom guessed him to be in his thirties. He had on an expensive-looking button-down, and a pair of fancy jeans. He knew they were fancy because they weren’t Levi’s or Wrangler. As far as Tom was concerned, everything else was considered “designer.”

  “You new to Blink?” Tom asked, feeling the effects of the six beers he’d had already.

  The man nodded. “Yes. As a matter of fact, I am.”

  Tom extended his hand. “Tom Billings,” he introduced himself.

  “Dan Freeman,” he replied.

  He carefully studied the man’s features without trying. Tom was observant to a fault. “You just passing through or got family here?” he probed, casually.

  Old habits died hard. He’d be the first person to admit to that. Seven years after retiring, operating in cop mode was still second nature. Tom was a sponge, soaking up everything about everyone. It’s what made him so good at remembering names and putting them with faces.

  “I’m here on business, actually.”

  Tom looked surprised. “Business?” He chuckled. “What kind of business would bring you to a place like Blink, Texas?”

  Bree sat the man’s drink down in front of him. He took a sip before answering. “I’m a reporter,” he finally admitted.

  Tom sighed irritably. He hated reporters. Hell, everybody in Blink hated reporters. During the Gatewood murder trial, the city was filled with their rude and obnoxious asses, shoving microphones in people’s faces and then making up answers when they didn’t get the ones they wanted.

  Tom grunted, and gulped down his drink.

  The man shrugged. “From that response, I take it that you don’t like reporters?”

  “I really don’t,” he said, nonchalantly.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Corpus.”

  “Well, I hate to tell you this, but you’ve wasted a trip.” Of course, Tom knew why the man was here. Desi Green’s name drew reporters to Blink, like shit drew flies. “She doesn’t live here anymore.”

  The man turned to Tom. “Who?”

  “You know who I’m talking about. That woman can’t wipe her ass without some reporter wanting to write about it. Desi Green moved out of Blink when she got her inheritance. So, like I said, you’ve wasted your gas coming up here.”

  “I don’t know anything about any Desi Green, Tom. I’m here chasing a lead on a story bubbling up in South Texas.”

  Tom stared at him to see if he was lying. “What lead? What story?”

  “A lead on a trafficking story involving illegally transporting non-U.S. citizens from Mexico into this country and then selling them off to the highest bidder as slaves.” He stared hard at Tom. “I’ve been working on it for months, and my investigation has led me here.”

  The sound of the world crashing down all around him was deafeningly quiet. Tom’s throat suddenly went dry. His palms broke out in a sweat, and his heart beat hard enough to shake him in his seat. But anything he felt inside was invisible on the outside. Tom didn’t flinch.

  “It seems that there is a very large and intricate human trafficking network responsible for sneaking people into this country with the promise of new jobs and education. But once these people cross the border, they become property. They’re set up in safe houses, hidden from society. Families are separated. The men are shipped off to orchard farms as pickers, some of the women are sold off as domestics, while other women and children are sold into sex rings.”

  Tom swallowed. “And your investigation led you here?” He didn’t like the way this Dan Freeman was looking at him.

  “Go figure,” Dan said, unemotionally. “Of all places.”

  “Why here?” he eventually managed to ask. Blink, Texas, was too specific a place. Most people had never heard of it and couldn’t tell you where to find it on a map. So, how would this reporter find it? And how’d he find Tom?

  “Before she was picked up for prostitution and deported, a young lady named Alicia told a tearful and fascinating story to authorities about how her parents sent her here, illegally, on the promise that her sponsors in this country would enroll her in an American university where she could learn to become a doctor. They paid a thousand dollars of their hard-earned money to get her across the border.”

  Tom didn’t remember an Alicia.

  “She never made it to college. Instead, she was beaten, raped, and put out on the streets to work.”

  Tom swallowed. “Poor kid,” he muttered.

  “Yeah, well, as it turned out, Alicia was a smart kid with a photographic memory, and she memorized the license plate number of the truck that she and other girls were ordered into once they crossed the border.”

  Tom took another long gulp of his beer.

  “She mus
t’ve been pretty convincing because authorities traced that plate number to a rental agency just outside of town here. Whoever rented that truck, though, was pretty smart. He used the I.D. of a man who’d been dead for years. The man had died of a heart attack in jail.”

  Tom scavenged up enough courage to look the man in the face. His heart pounded so hard, it surprised him that no one else in the room could feel it. Lies came quickly to him when he was a younger man. Now, he had to look a little harder inside himself to find them.

  “I know just about everybody in town,” he said. “And I can’t imagine anybody here would have anything to do with kidnapping.”

  The cold blue of that reporter’s eyes sliced right through Tom. “If I’ve learned anything in my line of work, I’ve learned that people are capable of just about anything. Nothing surprises me anymore where human nature is concerned. Absolutely nothing.”

  Tom turned his attention back to his beer, finished it off, and waved to Bree to close out his tab. He put money down on the counter, and then stood up to leave. “I, uh … wish you luck with your investigation,” he said as he was leaving.

  “No need,” Freeman said. “I’m pretty damn good at what I do. Luck is inconsequential.”

  Tom wanted to blame his weak knees on the beer, but he’d be lying to himself. He’d spent too many years trying to be all things, to cover all his bases, justifying every decision he’d ever made and calling it righteous. Ultimately, God decided what was right and what was wrong. Tom had made it work for him as long as he could, obliviously God had finally stepped in to take over.

  In My Father’s House

  “Your son’s catch of that seventy-eight-yard winning touchdown pass was nothing short of amazing, Mr. Gatewood. How’s it make you feel to know that he won the game for the team, your alma mater?”

  Jordan had received another e-mail from an anonymous source again. He watched the clip of an interview of his father that happened shortly after his team had won the Cotton Bowl. Played in real time, the interview of Julian looked normal enough. But whoever sent the video had slowed the film down to a frame-by-frame shot between the time that the reporter shoved that microphone under Julian’s nose and when he started his answer. In those few moments, Jordan saw, the apprehension and disappointment in Julian’s eyes that spoke volumes.