Blu Heat Read online

  Instead, the chief said, “Well, gee, Brack. I’ve got several reports of gunfire in your establishment. I’ve got two dead guys in your establishment. And I’ve got you holding that hand cannon in your establishment when my officers arrive. Not to mention this guy.” He pointed at Blu again.

  The barkeep said, “I told you, I don’t know who he is.”

  The chief and another officer lifted Blu off the floor. “I’m Chief Bates. Who are you? Brack doesn’t seem to know. But he normally doesn’t tell me everything, anyway.”

  It was Blu’s turn to smile. “Name’s Blu Carraway. I’m a PI”

  “Got any identification on you?”

  “In my back pocket. I’d offer to get it, but I’m a bit tied up at the moment.”

  Bates said, “Great. All I need is another smart-mouth. Your bar must breed them, Brack.”

  Blu felt his wallet being removed from his back pocket.

  Flipping through it, Bates said, “Mr. Carraway, this seems to support what you said. We’re going to run your name. Anything you want to tell me before I find out?”

  There was a lot Blu could say. But his previous clients wouldn’t approve of the disclosure. They had enough money to scrub files clean, no matter whose database they were in. He gave Chief Bates another smile. “Like I said, I’m a licensed investigator. I’m probably not Mr. Clean, but I’m not Pig Pen, either.”

  “Snoopy references?” Bates looked at the barkeep. “There’s two guys shot to hell here and I’m getting Snoopy references?”

  The barkeep said, “Even I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Shut up, Brack,” Bates said.

  “You want me to shut up or tell you what I know?”

  Bates turned to two officers standing by. “Escort Mr. Carraway to the upper deck. Let him enjoy the view while I have a word with Mr. Pelton.”

  Chapter Four

  Brack watched the officers lead the private investigator named Blu Carraway up the stairs. When they were out of earshot, he turned to the chief. “The dead guy on the back deck called himself Skip. That PI said he knew him.”

  Bates asked, “How’d he end up dead?”

  “I serve him a beer and a shot of Jack and he goes out on the deck to smoke. I go back to cleaning my bar and these two guys come in. They look around, see me, see Skip, and start blasting. Look at my bar. It’s a mess.”

  And it was. Broken glass. Pooled liquid on the floor. Bullet holes. If he had originally planned on working at the bar today instead of going with his employees on the harbor cruise, his dog would have been here with him and might have gotten hurt.

  “You said two shooters? I only see one on the floor.”

  Brack looked away, ashamed. “I missed the other.”

  “I see. And this Carraway guy isn’t the other?”

  “No. I got a good look at them. They both had dead eyes.”

  The chief put a hand on Brack’s shoulder. “Dead eyes?”

  He stared directly at Bates. “They brought death with them.”

  “Come upstairs. I’m going to talk to that PI”

  Like the chief had suggested, Blu stood at the railing and looked out over the Atlantic Ocean. The view from the bar’s upper deck was spectacular. The sun was warm but not hot like in the summer. In this moment, he realized he didn’t take enough time to enjoy his surroundings.

  The chief and the barkeep came up the stairs and Blu had the feeling it was his time to answer questions. The barkeep went over to the two officers who’d escorted Blu up and were now sitting on stools by an outdoor service bar twenty feet away.

  Bates approached Blu. “Mr. Carraway, I’ve got Brack’s story. Or at least as much as he’s telling me. What’s yours?”

  Blu’s hands were still tied behind his back. This did not lend the situation to be cooperative. And it was a waste of time. If that cannon-toting barkeep was right, there was another killer running around and Blu needed to track him down. “The guy lying on the back deck is Skip Romeo. He was a friend from Desert Storm. We were in the same unit.”

  “What kind of unit are we talking about here?”

  “Rangers.”

  “No kidding.” The chief’s response held a ring of respect.

  “Skip called me yesterday. Said he had a job and to meet him here to discuss it. I come in, see the bar shot to hell. That guy over there you uncuffed pointed his cannon at me.”

  “And?”

  Blu shrugged, which pinched the skin under the zip ties of his bound hands and caused him to wince. “And nothing. That’s all I know.”

  Bates said, “I doubt it, but it’s a start.”

  Blu didn’t say anything else. This guy wasn’t stupid, but he wasn’t asking the right questions, either.

  When the interviews had started, the chief had given the impression that he did not appreciate a gunfight on his island. Blu could relate; he wouldn’t want one on his island either.

  An officer sitting at one of the tables underneath an umbrella called Bates over. Blu watched as the officer pointed at the screen of a laptop. He watched the chief scan the screen, concern lines growing across his face. Bates took his eyes off the screen and looked to where the barkeep named Brack stood.

  Brack leaned against the thatch-roofed tiki bar on the upper deck and looked out over the ocean, smoking a cigar.

  Chief Bates walked to him. The worried look on his face when he first arrived had somehow turned solemn.

  Brack said, “How about a beer?”

  The chief nodded.

  Brack pulled out a Dos Equis and handed the beer to Bates along with a lime slice. He squeezed the lime in the beer and took a long pull. On the job.

  Brack said, “What’s up?”

  After a second long pull, he set the bottle down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Bates cleared his throat. “I just got the word on your friend downstairs.”

  “Which one?”

  It was a fair question. Brack wasn’t sure which one of the stiffs the chief referred to.

  The chief said, “The shooter.”

  Oh. That one. “Yeah?”

  “We ran his prints. His name is Rudyard Hollander and he and his brother are killers for hire. The name tripped some FBI. flag.”

  “I’m guessing his brother is the one who got away.”

  Bates finished his beer and set it on the bar. “That would be my guess as well.”

  Brack took another drag from his cigar. “So I suppose you’re thinking that his brother would like to come back and pay me a visit for killing Rudyard. Who names their kid Rudyard, anyway? Better yet, what’s his brother’s name?”

  “Abner. He and Rudyard don’t leave witnesses. It’s their M.O.”

  Brack said, “I’m also guessing they didn’t plan on someone shooting back.”

  Bates nodded. “Something like that.”

  “You want another beer?”

  He looked at Brack. “You need to think about what your next play is here.”

  “You mean after you investigate the deaths of Skip and Rudyard?”

  “No,” he said. “I mean starting right now. Take your dog and get out of town. That guy over there? The PI? He’s an ex-Army Ranger.”

  Brack said, “Not bad.”

  “Not bad? Lemme tell you something. I couldn’t find much on him. Just the basics. Drivers license, voter registration. That’s it. Does that sound reasonable to you? A middle-aged ex-soldier PI with nothing in the system? All you do is run a bar, and when I say run I’m being generous, and I get more flags than the Olympics when your name comes up. Yet this guy flies under the radar?”

  Brack popped the top of another beer and handed it to the Chief, who normally only drank off the clock. “Maybe he’s just smarter.”

  “Than you? Not hard to be,” he said. “Except ever
yone’s got a learning curve. This guy comes out the gate an Einstein? I don’t think so.”

  Brack took another drag from his cigar and exhaled a cloud of twenty-dollar Dominican. “So what do you think? Someone went in and deleted every stupid thing our Mr. Blu Carraway, Private Eye, ever did?”

  The chief lifted the bottle, gave Brack a mock toast, and took a long pull of the new beer. Setting the bottle on a coaster on the bar, he said, “That’s exactly what I think. And that means my problems just got bigger.”

  “A gunfight. Two dead bodies. All of it in my bar. I didn’t think your problems could get any worse.” Brack gave him a smile.

  Bates looked at him. “I’m glad you’re getting a kick out of this. Up until now, you’d been smart enough not to take a dump in your own backyard.”

  That one stung. “I had no control over any of this, except shooting back. But if I hadn’t, you’d be investigating my death with Skip’s instead of Rudyard’s. Maybe that would be better for you.”

  The chief held his gaze, and then looked away. “I’m sorry, Brack. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Brack said, “You’re forgetting something.”

  “What’s that?”

  He grinned around his stogie and took it out of his mouth. “I’m involved.”

  “You can saddle me with being a heartless SOB, but no one could ever accuse me of forgetting that you were involved.”

  “What I mean, Chief, is that I can help you.”

  “No offense, Brack. But I am ordering you to sit this one out.” Bates took another pull on his beer.

  Brack said, “Ordering me? You think that worked when Charleston P.D. told me to step aside?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “That’s right,” Brack said. “It didn’t. And it won’t work here. Who knows? Maybe I can solve this.”

  “I think you’ll have more than me to worry about.”

  “You mean that Carraway guy over there? The Ranger? Please.”

  “No other information available. That’s what his file says. This guy’s got connections at the highest levels. I’m not just scared of you, I’m scared for you. And I’m scared of you and Carraway tearing up my island.”

  “It’s my home, too.”

  The chief turned and took in the Atlantic Ocean. “And don’t you forget it.”

  Chapter Five

  After the police were finished with Blu, he drove home and parked. Home was a small island inhabited by Blu and a scraggly herd of Carolina Marsh Tackeys, a breed of horse native to South Carolina. The crushed-shell drive crunched underfoot as he made his way to his hundred-year-old home. Mosquitoes buzzed around him, but most neglected to bite, as if bored with the taste.

  His two “watchdogs” greeted him before he got to the door, the term used loosely here. Like dogs, these were four-legged creatures, but as horses they weighed closer to a thousand pounds apiece. When Blu’s great-great grandfather settled the makeshift island over a century ago, the small herd of scraggly wild lowcountry horses came with the deal. That or they’d shown up one day and decided not to leave, even after Hurricane Hugo decimated darned near everything except the small house Blu now lived in.

  While the rest of the herd stayed on the far side of the island most days, only running past the house at night, these two stood facing each other at the front steps to the home like sentries, except they weren’t smart enough for the role. Named Dink and Doofus, the only thing they guarded was their appetites. Anyone with a fresh carrot or apple would only be hassled long enough to be relieved of said produce. After that, the horses were said person’s best friend for life.

  Maybe they weren’t all that dumb after all.

  Blu extracted two organic red delicious apples from a paper bag he carried and gave them up. This entrance fee was going to bankrupt him, but it was the least of his worries at the moment.

  He patted Doofus’s dirty snow coat.

  Dink gave his head a shake as if trying to untangle his matted mane. The last time Blu had tried to comb the knots out, the horse gave a shriek and stayed on the far side of the island with the rest of the herd for a week. Maybe there was something to breaking out the comb again and saving the apple cost for a week or so. The thought of planting a fruit tree on the island seemed like a better idea every two-apple day.

  As the horses chomped on their treats, Blu thought about what had happened at the bar, and while he was troubled about Skip being gunned down, a smile tickled his face. The Isle of Palms chief was pissed off his search came up with nothing on him. It really did pay to have friends in high places, even if it didn’t always pay enough.

  That bar owner—what was his name...Brack Pelton? That guy had some stones. Shot the killer’s leg and then took him out when he hit the ground. It might have been better if he had gotten the other guy, too. Instead, there was this loose cannon running around.

  The police weren’t convinced Blu’s involvement ended with Skip. He could see it in the chief’s eyes. He’d be back in Blu’s face about the whole thing. And Blu couldn’t really afford to have them digging too deep into his past. More like his clients couldn’t afford it. Money bought a lot, but sometimes the truth had a nasty habit of coming out at the worst times.

  He had to get this under control. Skip and the loose cannon were two leads. And that was two more than he normally started with. The police would surely have Skip’s address by now and be rummaging through his things.

  That left the loose cannon. Blu had a feeling the loose cannon now had some unfinished business with the bar owner. He made a call to a previous client, a woman named Andeline. Up until the crash of 2008, Andeline had run a high end brothel for the top one-percenters in the city. And then she went to prison for it. But, she kept her mouth shut, got out on a technicality, and opened a high end restaurant. Because Andeline moved in many circles, she knew more about the sins of the city’s elite than most. It might not be a straight line to blackmail, but Blu knew a call from Andeline to certain powerful individuals was always answered, and a request from her was usually fulfilled one way or another. He was just glad she considered him, if not a friend, someone she was willing to help. After all, he was the one who’d found the technicality that got her out. Through her and her high-level contacts, Blu gained the names of the shooters—Abner and Rudyard Hollander, two old-school killers.

  Someone paid a lot of money for the hit but Andeline’s sources didn’t know why. Blu tried a few more sources, but no one knew who the client was. When he thought about the situation, Blu realized he didn’t have to wait long. Abner, the one still alive, would be back. After all, that beach barkeep took out his brother. And Blu had a hunch Pelton would be too stubborn to leave town like the chief would want him to and let the police handle it. He seemed more like one of those “do it yourself” types. It would probably bite him one of these days. Blu had seen more than one man who thought he could handle anything go down in a blaze of stubborn.

  Chapter Six

  Brack made it home a few hours later than he’d planned. He parked his truck in the sand drive of the Isle of Palms shack that, like the Pirate’s Cove bar, he’d inherited from his uncle. When he opened the front door, Shelby, his rescue mixed-breed, darted past him and hit the bushes. His urgency told Brack he’d left him inside too long. Shelby spent an unusually long time sniffing the yard, another action that told Brack he wasn’t happy about being forgotten about. Brack felt his head droop from the guilt. It drooped further after a not-so-fun call to his bar manager, Paige. She listened quietly to him explain how he’d gotten into another gunfight, this time in their bar, and then said she’d arrange for the repairs and do damage control with the media and ended the call. Normally she would have blasted him then and there. The fact that she didn’t could only mean one thing—she was really upset.

  The next morning, after a night of not very much sleep, Brack knew he n
eeded a release. He and Shelby ate a small breakfast and then Brack got out the leash he used when they went jogging.

  Shelby spotted the leash and danced around, letting him know this was the right course of action to mend yesterday’s tardiness fence.

  But the thirty-minute jog around the island followed by an outside shower cool-off for Shelby and inside shower for Brack did not clear the fog from the shootout, although it did seem to pacify his dog for the moment.

  Brack knew what he had to do next.

  He made a phone call. The same call he had sworn he would never make again.

  It was answered on the second ring. “Brack! Is Shelby okay?”

  “Hello, Trish. Yes, he’s fine.” And so am I, thanks for asking, he thought.

  Trish was Brack’s lawyer’s wife. She was also his go-to dog sitter when things got tense and he needed to make sure his dog was safe and well-cared for.

  She said, “I heard what happened. You bring Shelby over right this instant, hear?”

  The lady was relentless. And she had him by the short hairs. Shelby, his dog, was a very loyal companion. To the point that he wouldn’t even eat for anyone but Brack and Trish.

  And Trish knew it.

  She also knew that Shelby loved her at least as much as he loved Brack. Maybe more. The fear Brack had was that too much exposure to Trish would have Shelby changing masters. Having to leave Shelby with her for an extended stretch only added to the dilemma.

  Brack got off on the adrenaline rush of being in the action. Life or death situations jacked him up just like being on point in Afghanistan. And, God, he missed his daily fix of the best speedball this side of Benzedrine.

  What he didn’t like was the reality check of his life today. He had a bar full of employees, most of them single mothers, depending on him to fly straight so they could continue to be employed and provide for their children. And he had Shelby, the dog who had saved him from himself when he first got back from Afghanistan. Shelby gave him a reason to get up every morning and live his life. Shelby was his best friend, his true companion, and a good distraction since Darcy left for Atlanta.