Deadly Charm (24 page)

“Hello,” I said, trying to hide my enthusiasm. I was supposed to be playing hard to get.

“Hello,” he said. I could tell he was trying to play it cool, too. “My name is Jazz Brown, and I'm a homicide detective. May I speak to Jane?”

I tried to keep from laughing. “Jane?”

“Yes, please.”

I wasn't quite sure how to answer him. Several possibilities existed. I settled on “Which one?”

He paused. I could imagine him grinning with that brilliant smile of his. “How many are there?” he asked.

“Three that I know of.”

“Do tell.”

I reclined on the pillow. This was going to be fun. “There's psychologist Jane.”

“She sounds
smart
.”

“Yeah,” I quipped. “She's overwhelmed with phone calls from Mensa. But I find her boring and prosaic.”

“Tell me about the other Janes.”

“Well there's the sexy come-hither Jane.”

“Now she sounds intriguing. Can I speak to her?”

“I'm afraid she is
unavailable
.”

He laughed. “Score one for the Jane who answered the phone.”

“That leaves only one more Jane,” I said.

“That you know of. Which one is she?”

“Full-time wife and mother Jane.”

He sighed. “I think I like that one best. But you missed one.”

“I did?”

“Yes.”

I scanned my mind's archives, riffling through all our Jane discussions. I couldn't think of a single other one. “You've got me, detective. Which Jane would you like to speak to?”

“My partner, private investigator Jane.”

I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. “This is she speaking.”

A boisterous round of laughter burst out of him, so infectious that I laughed along with him. It felt so good to be happy with Jazz, even if it was for a few minutes of silly conversation. “I'm calling to see if you've got anything, PI Jane.”

“I've got a lot, Jazz.”

“Are we still talking about the case?”

“Get your mind out of the gutter. I want to tell you what I discovered at the funeral. I also had lunch today with the adults in Thunder's camp. I made some interesting observations.”

“Jane?” I could hear the apprehension in his voice.

I didn't know what he'd say. I didn't feel ready to resume our marital drama. It felt so much safer to just deal with the case.

Safer?

I sighed. “What is it, Jazz?”

“I think we really need to talk more about the case. I'm serious now.”

“Okay.”

“May I please pick you up and take you out for coffee?”

I didn't want to answer too soon. I didn't feel ready to be with him, even though I yearned to. But time was ticking away, and we needed to get enough on Nikki so the police would take another look at her.

When I'd left Louella at the hospital, she was alternating between incoherent babbling and hysteria. Most likely she'd be there at least three days, until they scheduled a hearing for her, where her doctors would decide if she could be released. I had no idea how long the Thunders planned to stay at the Rock House house now. As it was, I'd caught a
break when Ezekiel decided to bury his son in a family plot in a Detroit cemetery. I hoped they'd be around a little longer.

Jazz must have taken my hesitation for lack of interest. “I just want to talk about the case, Jane.”

“How long are you going to call me Jane?”

He hesitated. “I miss my Bell very much. But you're a lot easier to talk to right now. Bell and I keep bumping heads. Once I told her that I wouldn't push her to do anything she wasn't ready for, but you know what, Jane?”

“What?”

“I did push her. I pushed her right away from me. And I can't lose my Bell. I'd die for that woman.” He chuckled softly. “I can't live
with
her, but I'd die
for
her.”

“I think she'd rather you live with her.”

He snorted. “Not if you saw her reaction when I moved in. So what do you say, Jane? Can we talk about the case? I'll even let you have a small latte.”

“
Let
me?”

“You
are
pregnant, private investigator Jane.”

“If you put it that way. I'll see you in a half hour, detective.”

“I'll see you in fifteen minutes, Jane.”

I was waiting at the door with my coat on fifteen minutes later.

Score one for Jazz.

I
FELT LIKE AN OVERPROTECTED TEENAGER
having to explain to my dad that I'd be a good girl when I went out on a date with the bad boy. Rocky didn't look convinced.

He stood by the door with me, arms crossed, tapping one Birkenstock-clad foot on the floor.

“I won't be more than an hour or two.”

“Babe, I thought I told you to play hard to get.”

I couldn't very well let him know Jazz and I were plotting to take down the evil wife of his godfather.

“He needs some forensic psychologist insight into a case he's working on.” That happened to be true. Fortunately, Rocky bought it. “I promise I'll be good.”

His puppy eyes regarded me warily.

“And I won't go home with him.”

“Babe.”

“Really, Rock. I'm not in a hurry to go there without counseling, spiritual direction, a guru, an angelic visitation, burning bushes, disembodied hands writing on the wall…”

I'd opened the door to be on the lookout for Jazz. When his car pulled up, Rocky peeked his head out the door with
me. “Rocky, you're not going to say anything to him, are you?”

“I sure am.”

“But, Rocky…”

“What's your job, babe?”

I grumbled. “Play hard to get.”

“Excellent!” he said. He sounded just like Mike Myers in
Wayne's World
.

Jazz swaggered to the door. Heavens to Betsy, I could eat him up like a bag of M&M's. I unsuccessfully tried not to grin. Suddenly I felt as girlish as a teenager, which Rocky happened to be treating me like.

I'd let my hair down, and the braids hung in soft black waves to my shoulders. I'd lost the dropped-waist dress and had put on a wine-colored velvet shift, which I'd absently packed with no real intention of wearing. I borrowed an embroidered shawl from Elisa, a fabulous piece that matched her artsy personality.

Jazz shook Rocky's hand. If I hadn't believed in miracles before, I'd changed my mind. They did the complicated soul handshake. I didn't even know Rocky could shake like that. He's white! I decided complicated handshakes must be some primal urge men as a sex shared.

Jazz gave me a quick glance—head to toe—and a half smile, and I knew my appearance pleased him.

He didn't reach for my hand. Greeted me with a nod. “Jane.”

“Hello, detective.”

Rocky looked at me, confused. “Are you sure you didn't change your name to Jane?”

“Just for him,” I said.

“Is that some kind of married thing I should know about?”

Jazz raised an eyebrow. “The last thing you want to do is get marriage tips from either of us.”

“Actually,” I said, “I can give great marriage tips in my office as a practicing psychologist. I just don't seem to be able to implement those positive behavioral choices in my own life.”

Rocky turned to Jazz. “I expect you to have her back by dinnertime.”

“Yes, sir,” Jazz said.

“And don't try anything sneaky, like pretending you've run out of gas or something.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

“This is supposed to be a business meeting. I expect you to conduct yourselves with the utmost professionalism and—”

Jazz interrupted him. “Rocky, we're going to talk a little business, and then I'll promptly bring her back. Don't say any more, because I can hurt you.”

Rocky's face reddened. “Right.” He still didn't look ready to surrender me. He paused. “This is, like, so trippy, isn't it?”

I could tell Jazz still wanted to throttle him. “It's trippy. May we go now?”

Rocky stood back. Sighed. “Be good, young lady.”

“I will, Rocky,” I said.

Jazz extended his arm, and I went to him. He placed his hand at the small of my back and led me to the Crown Vic.

Like so many other times when he touched me, my feet didn't touch the ground.

 

I thought he'd take me to Starbucks or Seattle's Best, but leave it to Jazz to take me somewhere off the beaten path. He'd found a coffee shop called Espresso Royale. It had more local color and better parking, and best of all, we didn't have to brave the crowds of slick Ann Arborites barking orders at baristas they'd deemed too slow in delivering their grande Caffè Mochas.

I sat across from him, trying not to stare at his beauty. Of course, several other women in the place didn't share my reticence. I half expected one of them to walk up and slip him her phone number. He disappointed them all. He only had eyes for me.

“So, what have you got?” he asked after we'd sipped what amounted to a cup of hot milk for a while.

“Jazz, what do you think about the possibility that Nikki's babies really died of SIDS?”

“My mom is Alpha Kappa Alpha. Her sorority sponsored a workshop on SIDS in the African-American community. She came back fired up about saving babies. One thing she mentioned is that our babies have a higher incidence of SIDS deaths.”

“That's true; just like African Americans have higher incidence of certain diseases: cancer, high blood pressure, et cetera. But what are the chances, statistically, that she'd have two babies die of SIDS?”

“It could happen.”

“You're right. In rare occasions, lightning really does strike twice. However, Nikki seems to leave a trail of bodies behind her wherever she goes.”

“Do tell, Jane.”

“I never got to tell you this, but at the funeral, Nikki's former
friend told me that Nikki had lost two babies to SIDS, oddly enough, right after she'd had enough of her current boyfriend and after her previous boyfriend had mysteriously died. An alleged suicide. Inconclusive.”

“Not good, Jane.”

“And Ezekiel Thunder's wife died shortly after Nikki and Thunder had their affair. He said she got sick and sort of wasted away. Joy, who was good friends with her, didn't think so.”

“Go on.”

“Thunder also told me he'd gotten Nikki pregnant, and that, like David, he lost his infant. I thought about that Bible story and finally looked it up. Are you familiar with it?”

“Very. Remember, until we found out Kate's baby wasn't mine, I thought I had my own ‘dead baby as punishment' story.”

“And you know I've got mine. Well, at least I thought it was punishment at the time.” I shuddered to think of the horrible tale of David and Bathsheba's loss, told in 2 Samuel. “The prophet Nathan told David that he'd given his enemies great occasion to blaspheme the Lord, and his child by Uriah's wife would surely die.”

Jazz shook his head. “It's kind of a trip that he called her Uriah's wife. By then, Uriah was already dead and she'd become David's wife.”

“It was a pretty fearful judgment. I admit I don't understand those kinds of God things.”

Jazz reach across the table and took my hand. “I grew up doing church two different ways. One way tried to make God fit into man's ideas, the other accepted God as a mystery. You can't make mystery manageable—at least not the God kind.”

I looked down at the table. He lifted my chin.

“Bell, David's sin is not our concern, neither are the sins we committed a long time ago and have long since repented of and been forgiven for. Dr. McLogan said our babies are perfect. And we're not going to worry about them. We might be dumb, but we got married,
then
made those babies…” A shadow crossed his face. “Because we love each other. No matter what. We haven't given up on each other, have we?”

“No, Jazz. We haven't.” I straightened my back. Squared my shoulders. “But don't call me Bell.” I winked at him. “I'm Jane.”

I'd never tire of seeing him smile at me. “So, Jane,” he said, “in the Bible story, the baby was born, then died a little bit later. Right?”

“Exactly. David's baby got sick and died in seven days.”

“How did Thunder's baby die?”

“That's just it. He didn't say. At the time I thought he may have been speaking metaphorically. I figured the baby could have been stillborn or she could have aborted it—any number of things. SIDS didn't readily come to mind.”

I went on. “David's baby got sick. But what if Thunder's first baby with Nikki didn't? How could someone murder a baby and make it seem like the child had been sick?”

“I think we're on the same page, Bell. I was thinking about how Nikki's rousing speech at Zeekie's funeral garnered her instant celebrity status of sorts. And how anytime a woman is pregnant or has lost a baby, she gets all of this attention.”

“Exactly!”

“That's like that weird mental illness. What's it called? They showed it in
The Sixth Sense
.”

“Munchausen syndrome by proxy.”

“What is up with
that
?” His eyes sparkled. He loved it when I did my psychologist thing, that is, except for when I used my skills to torture him.

“Many professionals view MSP as a form of child abuse. The parent's MO is pretty much to make the kid sick so they can get the attention of doctors, neighbors, and concerned coworkers. It's like, ‘Wow. Look at what a great mom Psychotica is. She's so dedicated to that sickly child. Poor Psychotica.'”

Jazz rubbed his chin. “That's freaky weird. And what do you say about all this, Jane?”

He's so good-looking, I hardly noticed I'd slanted my body so Jazzward that I had to rest my forearms on the table. A curtain of braids swept down my shoulder, and I took great pleasure in whisking them back like I'd turned into one of Charlie's Angels. I could tell by how he narrowed his eyes and parted his lips a bit that he took great pleasure in the gesture.

“Did I tell you how good you look today, Jane?”

I tapped my index finger to my temple. “Hmmmm. I can't recall. Perhaps you should do it again.”

“You look gorgeous today, Jane. Now hurry up and ask me your question before I take you home and get us both in trouble.”

I hesitated. On purpose.

He cracked up. Licked his lips and made me want to never ask that question. But I had to play hard to get.

“The question…” I said, with a big-time pause…

He slouched in his seat and scowled at me. “Tease.”

“The question is,
Who
do women kill?”

Jazz didn't hesitate. “They tend to pick victims who are close to them. Husbands. Children. Strays they pick up whose social security checks they cash while the missing person rots underneath their rose bushes.”

“Exactly! Now, let's isolate the victims.
How
do women—mothers—kill their own children?”

He effortlessly rattled off the answers. “They abandon newborn babies in garbage bags, they drop, shake, beat, poison, suffocate—”

“And drown.”

A thoughtful look softened his features. So, you're thinking Nikki has this Munchausen syndrome by proxy?”

“Maybe I've been around you long enough for you to rub off on me, but…”

Jazz took a sip of his honey steamer. We'd both ordered them—he to stand in solidarity with me and to help me act like I wasn't drinking a cup of hot milk. “Uh-oh,” he said. “Don't tell me I've corrupted your good manners.”

I considered that. Shoot. In some ways, he had. “In
this
instance, through all the stories you told me, not to mention the warnings you frequently give me, you've actually given me a different perspective of murderers.”

“Yeah. The world is no joke. There are a lot of nutjobs out there.”

“That's precisely what I mean, detective. Maybe a few months ago I would have seen a woman with Munchausen's and thought she was some poor soul who'd been horribly abused or neglected in childhood and lacked the appropriate skills to empathize with others.”

“Yeah, blah, blah, blah, yakety smackety.”

I laughed. “I found out Friday that Rocky's parents completely emotionally neglected him, but he's one of the most empathetic people I've ever met.”

Jazz grudgingly agreed.

“And Nikki Thunder is, according to every report I've gotten—with the exception of her husband's—completely attention seeking and narcissistic, with no concern for anyone
but
Nikki Thunder…”

“You used the ‘N' word. So, besides being a narcissist, with a capital ‘N,' you think she's got this Munchausen's thing?”

“I don't think she's got Munchausen's at all.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do tell, Jane?”

“I think she's the ‘P' word and the ‘S' word.”

He leaned across the table and gave me a delicious grin. “You're a lot of fun, Jane.”

“You think so, detective?”

“Tell me what the ‘P' and the ‘S' words are.”

“Lieutenant Brown, it's my professional opinion that Nikki Thunder is a psychopath and a serial killer.”

 

That whole serial killer thing killed our flirtatious, playful mood. Jazz retreated inward, saying little while he sipped his steamer. I didn't try to fill the quiet with idle chatter. We'd long grown comfortable with silence. If only we could become comfortable with more than just silence.

When we got back to Jazz's car, he kept up his good man
ners. He opened the door for me, seated me, and didn't try to flirt with me. He took me back to the Rock House well before the dinner hour. Walked me to the door.

I almost wished I'd saved my assessment for later. I enjoyed being Jane for him. I enjoyed having overpriced milk and honey with him. Shoot. I enjoyed
him
, and I didn't know how to extend our evening and not disappoint Rocky or renege on the promise I'd made him.

As if Jazz read my mind, he drew closer to me. Hemmed me against the front door of the house. His scent filled me, with no hint of alcohol, only a faint trace of cigar smoke and Irish Spring soap. He bent to kiss me, and I put my index finger on his lips.