“Shut up,” Bullock said.
He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a slender item, black in color, about six, seven inches long, pressed a button on it I couldn’t see, and suddenly this item was twice as long, and half of it was very shiny. And then he began, slowly, to walk toward me.
“I think,” he said, waving the switchblade very slowly, “that you’re holding out on me.”
I took a step back toward the garage door. “No,” I said. “I’m not. If I knew where those drugs were, I’d go get them for you now. I have no idea why they aren’t in that car.”
Bullock kept approaching, the knife kept waving. I thought, although I couldn’t be sure, that I could see small traces of blood near the blade’s base. I had a pretty good idea whose blood that might be.
I pressed myself up against the garage door, Bullock only inches from me now. He brought the knife close to my neck.
I thought I felt the gun sag just a bit against my ankle.
“That’s a very kind offer,” he said. “Makes me think you might already have an idea where those drugs might be.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t. I swear on every one of your Barbies, I don’t know.”
His eyes danced. Was my comment meant to convey sincerity, or was I mocking him, he wondered. And I wondered, Why is it, despite my best efforts, I keep saying and doing things that make me seem like an asshole?
Blondie said, “It doesn’t make much sense for him to have taken the drugs, boss. I mean, we were following the car for quite a while tonight, and would he be dumb enough to let his daughter drive it around if he knew there was drugs in it, or if he’d known there used to be drugs in it?”
Blondie was my new best friend.
“So what are you saying?” Bullock said.
“I’m saying that the drugs must never have been in the car. At least not since he bought it, or got it off that other guy who bought it at the auction.”
“You think that private detective knew, and he got the drugs out of the car?” Bullock asked.
“That’s crazy,” I offered. “Once we left the auction, I took the car. It’s been with me from the moment we drove it out of the compound.”
Bullock thought about that. “I don’t know. Maybe we should go talk to him, this Mr. Jones.” He smiled at me. “I understand he ran into a little difficulty, but that he’s still among the living. Maybe he’d be up to a few questions.”
“I’m telling you,” I said, “I’ve had the car the whole time.”
Bullock considered that. “Then that means the drugs were taken out of the car before it went up for auction. But we know the cops never found them, because they were never entered into evidence.”
“Which means someone else knew what was in the car, and got to it before we had a chance,” said Blondie.
Bullock’s head went up and down, very slowly. “I think we’re going to need a little more help with this,” he said, and then took in a deep breath and shouted so loud it made my ears ring, “Trimble!”
What?
There seemed no mistaking what Bullock had said. He hadn’t exactly whispered it.
And then the side door to the garage opened, and Detective Steve Trimble stepped in. He strolled over to where Bullock and I were standing.
“You called,” he said to Bullock.
I had a feeling my situation had gone from bad to much, much worse.
32
“IT’S GOT TO BE EDDIE MAYHEW,” Trimble said.
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Bullock said. “Mayhew, that son of a bitch, and after all we’ve done for him.”
I thought back. The man I’d interviewed, for my feature on the government auction.
“Don’t we pay him enough, that he shouldn’t double-cross us?” Bullock asked.
“He knew you were interested in the car, right?” Trimble asked.
Bullock nodded. “So if he knew we were interested, he had to suspect why, and he got into that car before it went up on the block.”
“And sold the stuff himself.”
“I’m betting the Jamaicans,” Bullock said.
“What an absolute moron,” Trimble said. “First, crossing you; second, dealing with the Jamaicans. They’re crazy. They can’t be trusted.”
“Pay him a visit,” Bullock said. “He either coughs up the stuff, or the money he got for selling it to someone else.”
“Even if he sold it, he won’t have got for it what you would have,” the police detective said.
“Either way, bring him back here so that I might have a word with him,” Bullock said. “And you know what, why don’t you take your new friend along with you.” He nodded in my direction. “Only a minute ago he offered to do whatever he could to help us get our goods back. As long as the girl’s here, I don’t think he’s going to give you much trouble.”
Trimble shrugged. “Sure,” he said, and turned to me. “I love company.”
“You know where Eddie lives?” Bullock asked.