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Voss
Vince, the kitten I should’ve let go by now, climbs up my pant leg, when I enter the apartment. I offload a bag filled with some dinner options, a couple bottles of wine, and a fifth of bourbon onto the counter. “C’mon, man, give me a minute to walk in the door.”
My phone rings, and I answer the much-anticipated call from Jackson. “What do you got?”
“The van belongs to a Harvey Bennington. I’m forwarding his address to you. The guy has a couple of minor charges on his record, but nothing more than some pot possession and a sexual harassment complaint filed a few years back. The woman with him was likely Bethany Bennington, his wife. She works at the diner. Got picked up for prostitution at the age of twenty-five, and was admitted to an outpatient drug rehab center.”
“The sexual harassment accusation. Where was this?”
“Nevada. Looks like Harvey lived there for a couple years, before moving to Chicago. One of his coworkers claimed he cornered her in the women’s bathroom, trying to get her phone number.”
“No other complaints? Nothing in the Chicago area?”
“None that I can see.”
I doubt my uncle would have taken up with any accomplices, since he always thought of others as inferior to his intelligence. A Bonnie & Clyde duo just seems too messy, too sloppy, for someone as meticulous as he was. “All right, thanks for the information. And by the way, if you get a call from a woman named Nola, drop the creepy coworker act. Just be normal.”
“What creepy coworker act?”
“The one where you tell them I drink tea with the old ladies at the local nursing home, and that you strive to be like me when you’re forty.”
“Too much?”
“I’m thirty-five, asshole. And I fucking hate tea. Do you know how much tea I’ve had to drink, thanks to you?”
“I’ll go easy on the Boy Scout shit.”
“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
Clicking off the call, I pry Vince from my leg, where he’s been hanging out the whole time, and scratch behind his ears. “You know, for a little shit, you sure like to leave your marks.”
I pour a glass of bourbon and deposit Vince onto the arm of the couch on the way to my bedroom. Once there, I catch sight of Nola through the window, in her kitchen, hair pulled back, towel tucked into her jeans beneath that flannel shirt. I take a sip of my drink, swallowing back the burn as it slides down my throat. My mind slips into visuals of sliding that towel over her mouth, gathering it in a tight fist at the back of her head, like a set of reins. Before I even realize it, I’m grinding my teeth while those thoughts somehow mingle with the puzzles already consuming my mind.
Perhaps the link between Harvey Bennington and my uncle can be made much faster than trying to piece it together myself. Might just take a little charm, something I’ve tried to keep flipped off around Nola, to avoid any unwanted chemistry between us. Chances are, she knows Bethany pretty well, though, which may prove helpful in tracking down Carl.
* * *
Bottle of wine in hand, I knock on the back door of the house, ears piqued to the music bleeding through. Rap, from the sound of the bass and rhythm of the lyrics.
No answer.
Another knock.
Nothing.
I turn the knob that’s surprisingly not locked, and step inside, recognizing the song as one of Eminem’s with an undertone of a female voice trying to keep up. Padding quietly down the hall, I listen out, and round the corner to find Nola with her back to me, half dancing, half rapping, as she stands at the stove, stirring what I have to believe is spaghetti sauce from the smell of it.
Bottle dangling from my hand, I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe, and bite back the laugh itching to break free at the sight of her.
In a matter of seconds, she’s into it, shaking her ass as she rattles off a string of lyrics with the articulation of a woman high on a shot of Novocain. Mumbling through half of them.
Running my tongue over my teeth fails to curb the sudden need to bite the shit out of something, as I watch her roll her hips to the music.
Ladle in hand, she spins around, and slams to a halt mid-twirl with a squeal. Sauce drips onto the floor, just before the ladle falls out of her hand.
“Oh, my God! You scared the shit out of me!” she says, clutching at her chest.
