Unable to sleep, I sat at the kitchen table, sipping my coffee and wondering why I was different from most men.
Herb entered the kitchen, paused, and gave me a confused look. “What in the hell are you doing up at the ass crack of dawn on a Saturday morning?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Surprising, considering how late you came in last night.”
“I went for a ride.”
“To where? Miami? Go to see your hooligan friends?”
“Tampa. Rode up there, got some tacos at an all-night stand, and rode back.”
“Two hundred miles for a taco?” He shuffled to the coffeepot and poured a cup. “That makes perfect sense.”
“Did to me.”
“Everything all right?”
“Not especially.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not especially.”
He sat down. “You know, early in our marriage, Midge and I had a parrot. Damned thing could only say one thing. Hello. It said it over, and over, and over. After about ten years, it died. It was supposed to live thirty. I told the missus it died from boredom, because all it did was repeat itself. Keep saying ‘not especially’ for a few more years, and I’ll predict an untimely death.”
“Go to hell, old man.”
He chuckled. “I’m headed that direction. Just give me time.”
I laughed. “Sorry if I woke you when I got home.”
“I heard you come in, but I fell right back to sleep. You’ve got distinctive footsteps. As soon as I hear ’em, I relax.”
It was four thirty in the morning when I got home. Being up all night wasn’t constructive, but I had to do something to keep my mind off Teddi.
“I need to figure out something constructive to do with my day,” I said.
“You’ve already got something to do.”
“Do I?”
“Vinnie found out about your coworker gal’s ex-boyfriend.” He sipped his coffee. “He’s in Bonita Springs, five minutes away.”
I appreciated the old man’s efforts, but I had my doubts that Herb’s card-playing buddy found the right person between card games and free cups of coffee at the clubhouse.
I finished my coffee and stood. “I doubt he’s got the right guy.”
“I don’t give a damn if you believe me or not,” Herb snarled. “But if Vinnie said it’s so, it’s so.”
I sauntered to the coffeepot. “So Vinnie’s a detective now?”
“Better detective than you,” he insisted. “That’s for damned sure.”
I poured a fresh cup and returned to the table. “How does he know it’s him?”
“Well, if you’d shut up long enough for me to finish a sentence, I’ll show you.”
Herb shuffled to the back of the house and returned with his phone. He handed it to me. “Open up the text message thing. There’s a picture in there somewhere. I know the son of a bitch is there. I just don’t know how to get to it.”
I swiped my thumb across the screen, surprised that the old man didn’t have a password. I tapped my finger against the text message icon. Two text message threads opened. The first, from Verizon, included offers for a new phone that began two hours prior and dated back years. The other was a message from an out-of-state number that must have been Vinnie’s. It had two photos attached to it and an address in Bonita Springs. The photos were of Kate and the same man.
He wasn’t what I expected. Not really. A scruffy-looking guy with a deep tan and a sparse, unkempt beard, he looked like he should be living under a bridge.
The photos were taken at two different times in Kate’s life, as her hair was colored a little differently in each of the photos.
“How do I know this isn’t her brother?” I asked.
“It’s on his Facebooks. Vin said there’s messages on there about them doing stuff together.” He gestured toward the phone. “In that one, they were at the Mercato. Vin said it was some sort of celebration. Grand opening of an Italian joint or something.”
“Josh Jackson, huh?”
“That’s what he said.” He wagged his wrinkled finger at the phone. “It’s right there in the message. I saw it late in the evening, yesterday, while you were fucking around in Tampa Bay eating tacos. You can call that phone number, and Vinnie can guide you to that kid’s Facebooks.”
“Book,” I said. “Book. It’s not plural. Facebook. Not books.”
“Well la-tee-dah. Fine. Facebook. I don’t give a shit what it’s called. Scribble down that phone number and call Vinnie. Or send him one of those messages.” He scowled. “He’s all up-to-date on that shit.”
I pulled my phone from my pocket and logged into Facebook. A quick search for “Josh Jackson in Bonita Beach, Florida” produced the guy’s profile. After a few minutes of scrolling through pictures of him with other women, I reached the point in his timeline where he and Kate were obviously together.
He wasn’t her brother, that much I was sure of.
The photos—at least some of them—were seven months old, which coincided with Kate’s comment of the relationship ending six months prior.
Seeking revenge on the man who hit Kate would be a perfect way for me to rid myself of my frustrations. I turned off my phone and peered across the table. “Looks like Vinnie’s right.”
“Well, hell.” He chuckled a dry laugh. “That didn’t take long. You a computer hacker in a former life?”
“All I needed was a name.”
“You can just go to someone’s Facebook and look at everything? Just like that?”
“More or less.”
His wiry brows pinched together. “That’s dumber’n fuck.”
I laughed. “Why?”
“Be like taking the family photo album to the clubhouse and just leaving it there for everyone to peruse through. That stuff’s personal, and it ought to stay that way. Isn’t anyone’s business what I’m doing or who I’m screwing. Putting everything out there for the world to see doesn’t do anything but open a man up to criticism. Keeps denial from being a plausible option, too.” He motioned to my phone. “Just like that dumbass. If his pictures weren’t all out there for the world to see, he could deny it. Kind of tough now, ain’t it?”
“Sure is.”
“So, what are we going to do?” he asked.
“We aren’t going to do anything. I’m going to pay him a visit.” I glanced at my watch. It was six a.m. I looked at Herb with apologetic eyes. “I’ll probably head that direction right now.”
“Bullshit,” he snapped back. “Vinnie and I are going too. You go rolling up to his place on that raggedy-assed Harley all covered in tattoos, and the jig’ll be up for sure. We all go up there in Vin’s Cadillac, and he’s gonna wonder what the hell we want. I guarantee you he’ll open the door for two old men and an idiot biker.”
I hated to admit it, but Herb was right. I was in top physical condition and covered in tattoos. The layman’s perception of me would be that I was a thug. If I knocked on his door alone, he wouldn’t answer.