Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (28 page)

“
Yes, sir. 
I’
ll be there
.
”

“
Prick
,”
the captain says under his breath.

“
I know who the prick
is
n’
t
,”
I say, letting on I think w
e’
ve disconnected from our call.

“
Wha
t’
d you say, Hawks
?
”

“
Oh, Captain Meyers, you still there?  I did
n’
t kno
w
—” 

Exiting onto Columbia Parkway, I loop back around and get back on Interstate 471 South and head back toward Newport.  Somethin
g’
s pinging my brain, turning the Popey
e’
s fried chicken and biscuits I just wolfed down into acid reflux.  Did Captain Meyers just order me to meet DeeDee at the crime scene?  Why would he do that? 
I’
m lead on this case.  Double-
D’
s my rook.  So wha
t’
s she doing there before I am?   

Hell fire.  What are those two up to? 

Pissed off, feeling blind sided by Meyers and my rookie, I hatch a quick plan for damage control and call DeeDee.
 “
You busy tomorrow night
?
” 

“
Aidan
,”
DeeDee says, ignoring my question
,“
Where are
y’
all?  W
e’
ve got another of Megal
o’
s vics down her
e
—”

“
Where the hell are
you
?
”

“I’
m down here at Oma
r’
s righ
t
”
—
she make
s‘
righ
t
’ sounds lik
e‘
ra
t
’—
“
darn now.  Captain Meyers and I are waiting.  Now,
y’
all just hike your precious butt right on down here and join us
.
”

Captain Meyers and I are waiting on you?
 
Come join us?

I loosen my grip on my cell phone: do
n’
t want to crush it, not with so much riding on this call.  I count to ten and relax.
 “
Then yo
u’
re free for dinner tomorrow night?  My apartment
?”
I ask, locked on.  Those two together at my homicide scene make about as much sense as Ted Bundy selling lingerie at Victori
a’
s Secret.
 “
You still there
?”
I ask. 

Silence. 

It was a mistake to invite DeeDee to my apartment.  I know this as soon as the invit
e’
s out of my mouth.  But
I’
ve got to find out what my rook and Captain Meyers are up to.  The only way to do that is to sweat DeeDee down tomorrow night.  When I have her between my sheets, sh
e’
ll be vulnerable, willing to talk. 

“
Are you asking me on a
date
?”
DeeDee says, finally.
 “
Are you asking me out
?
”

“
Wel
l—I’
m asking you
in
,”
I say.  Avoiding answering her direct question, I rattle off my second floor apartmen
t’
s address at the Hawk
s
’ Opera House in downtown Cincinnati before disconnecting.  A minute later my cell phone rings again.  I
t’
s gotta be Captain Meyers.

“
Sorry, but you called me a prick, Captain
,”
I bark, anticipating his unhappiness with my last remark
,“
so when I sai
d‘
we know who is
n’
t one
,
’ I just meant yo
u’
re not one, even if you say I am
.
”

“
Uh, are yo
u—
available
?”
a familiar surly voice growls. 

Damn.  I
t’
s not Captain Meyers.  I
t’
s Bite Doc.
 “
What the hell do you want
?
”

“I’
ve found something
I’
d like you to look at right away
.
”

“
Ca
n’
t it wait
?
”
 I’
m still fuming over Captain Meyers calling me a prick and thinking he could get away with it.  Worse, the bastar
d’
s at my crime scene with my rook.

“I’
ve been setting up the photos of Angie Mille
r’
s bite wounds using the Hollow Volume Overlay
,”
Bite Doc says
,“
and as I told you earlie
r
—”

Oh, for Go
d’
s sake.  Like I need this?  I endure Bite Do
c’
s absent-minded pause, gunning the Buick and speeding toward Newport and my latest crime scene.
 “
Doc,
I’
ve got another vic in the alley behind Oma
r’
s.  Could you just tell me what the hell yo
u’
ve got
?
”

“I’
ve identified an anomaly in your per
p’
s dentition, an
d
—”

Uninformed layperson homicide detective that I am, I wait for Bite Do
c’
s speech to catch up with his colossal brain.
 “
Yes
?
”

“
—I’
ve found something that will help you identify him
.
”

“
Him?  As in fucking . . . Megalo Don?  That him
?
”

“
Yes
.
”

I brake.  Several thousand people a day use the Big Mac.  Traffi
c’
s light at this hour, but i
t’
s only a matter of time until someone smacks me in the ass and shoves me and my Buick into the river. 
I’
ve got to decide.  Go to the scene of Megalo Do
n’
s latest homicide?  Or turn around and fly to Verbote Dental?

I need to be in both places at once, but ca
n’
t. 

I jam the Buick into reverse and spin into a three-point turn in the middle of the Big Mac, and then shifting from reverse to low drive, I gun it and shift back into drive. 

Sirens blaring, I plow northbound in the southbound lane.  Dogging the Buick back across the river toward Cincinnati, I rationalize my choice.

Should I be doing this or not? 

“
What the hell
?
”
 I’
m too into it now to turn around.  Soon as I look at whatever Bite Do
c’
s got,
I’
ll shoot back across the Ohio to Newport and pry my homicide scene from DeeDee Law
s
’ greedy manicured hands.  I want nothing more than to fly to the crime scene, and not just because i
t’
s police protocol.  From experience, I know I need to get there before the rookies like DeeDee destroy evidence.  But Bite Doc said h
e’
s got something that can help identify Megalo, and
I’
ve gotta know what it is.  Wha
t’
s more important?  Going to a crime scene and looking at
a“
fresh one
,”
as Meyers ironically calls our vic, or seeing what Bite Doc has that might save another young gir
l’
s life?

Speeding toward Verbote Dental, I make one more call.

“
Hey
,”
I say, when Rakesh Gupta answers.
 “
Wher
e’
s your client
?
”

“I’
ve got several
,”
he says, arrogance oozing from his calm voice.  This man is a machine,
I’
ve no doubt.  I do
n’
t like him, but I give him credit.  He wo
n’
t be pushed.

“
Theodore fucking McCloskey, tha
t’
s who.  Wher
e’
s he
?
”

“
I defend him.  I do
n’
t babysit him
.
”

That response ought to be a red flag, but
I’
ve worked with lawyers and, honestly, this one does
n’
t sound any worse than the rest, just a little more detached, colder, if possible.  I make a mental note to check Gupt
a’
s credentials, his background, once this case is closed. 

“
He better have a fucking alibi
,”
I say, trying to rattle Gupt
a’
s imperturbable chain.

H
e’
s silent a few seconds too long, but eventually says
,“
All my clients have alibis
.
”

Oh, I just love lawyer humor. 

“
Ha!  Yo
u’
re funny
,”
I laugh.
 “
Round up that bastar
d—
now!  I want to interview him again
.
”

“
H
e’
s . . . indisposed
,”
Gupta says.

Chapter 26

I’
d just started backing up the basemen
t’
s steps, deciding I did
n’
t want to know anything about Stok
e’
s private life, when someone grabbed my arm. 
I’
d screamed, thinking I was being attacked.  Feeling those hands clamped on my arm in this narrow stairwell, dimmed by shadows and cloying with the stench of burned meat, or whatever that horrid smell is, I start fighting.

“
Let me go
!”
I yell, kicking and screaming. 

“
Blaze, wha
t’
re you doing here
?
”

“
Stoke?  Oh my God, you scared the holy crap out of me
.
”
 
Relieved, I offer the first excuse I can think of.
 “
S-somethin
g’
s happened to Ang
,”
I say, pulling free from his grasp.  Taking deep gulps, feeling air returning to my lungs, I go on the attack.
 “
Did you make Oma
r’
s deposit
?
”

“
You have to ask
?”
Stoke says.
 “
What does that say about our friendship
?
”

Not a whole lot, I think, turning and facing him.  H
e’
s wearing his black silk shirt, hi
s“
Goodwill fav
,”
but as far as I can see in the stairwel
l’
s shadowy light, it only heightens the dark circles beneath his eyes.  Sadly, that ugliest of all rags, his butt-ugly red and orange scarf, hangs around his neck.

“
Stoke, wha
t’
s with you, sneaking up on me like that?  You scared me to death
.
”

I scramble for my backpack, which crashed to the step
s
’ bottom when he grabbed me from behind.  When I do, Stoke whizzes past me and blocks my path down the steps. 

“
Ho
w’
d you get in here
?”
he demands.
 “
Wh
y’
d you come
?
”

I know he and Ang were
n’
t besties, but his not asking wha
t’
s happened to her is callous, and it pisses me off.  I squint into the stairwel
l’
s darkness, troubled by the spoiled raw hamburger smell molesting my nostrils.  As a kid, I developed a sensor for lowlife smells: sweat and body odor, stale feces and piss, rotting teeth and bad breath.  Blood.  This smell sends my sensor screaming off the charts.  I
t’
s different, rawer than the usual pungent crack-house aroma.  My eyes adjusting, I finally get a good look at Stok
e’
s face.

“
What happened
?
”
 
I reach to touch a spot where several cuts curve like parallel cat scratches around his jaw.
 “
Did you cut yourself
?
”

“
Ho
w’
d you get here
?”
he demands again, slapping away my hand, ignoring my question.

Standing a few steps above him, I plant my feet on a step and fight the urge to bust him one good.  This is my friend, and h
e’
s clearly upset
I’
m paying him a surprise visit.  So . . . why?

“
Detective Hawks drove me.  I asked him to bring me
.
”

His brown eyes blacken with rage.  For a second I think h
e’
s going to yell at me.
 “
Do
n’
t be upset, Stoke, please.  I
t’
s been a bad day.  He interviewed me about Ang
,”
I say, and then unload, telling Stoke about Angie being murdered, about the bite marks on her shoulder.

“
Why did he question you?  Does he think
you
did it
?
”

“
Because, Stoke,
I’
m a dancer, like Ang, and because Aida
n—
I mean, Detective Hawk
s—
thinks I might know something
.
”

“
Yo
u’
re hot for him
,”
he says, an angry statement, not a question.  

Even if Stoke had
n’
t caught my slip when I used Aida
n’
s first name, my attractio
n’
s not hard for anyone, including me, to figure out.
 “
Yes
,”
I say, enjoying pissing off Stoke and recalling the taste of Aida
n’
s lips when
I’
d kissed him.
 “
Just so yo
u’
ll know, Stoke, I do
n’
t like it when people slap me, not even my hand.  It brings back seriously bad childhood memories
.
”

“
Hmmm
,”
he says
,“
you do
n’
t strike me as being particularly good on childhood memory
.
”

“
Wha
t’
s that supposed to mean
?
” 

“
Nothing
,”
he says.

Ignoring Stok
e’
s weird state, I sniff the air.  When another wave of nasty fumes corkscrews into my nostrils like a cadaverous finger, I almost gag.
 “
This place stinks.  You got a body down here
?”
I say, trying to lighten Stok
e’
s dark mood.

He stands stock still, his hand clenching a can of Mountain Dew.
 “
What do you mean?  What are you asking?  Exactly
?
” 

“
I was joking, Stoke.  Ease up
.
”
 
Sometimes you think you know your friends, but you do
n’
t.  You really do
n’
t. 

“
You got a black sense of humo
r
—”

He cackles, swigging his Dew.  Just like that, snap-of-the-fingers quick, h
e’
s back to being the Stoke I know, my Robin Hood.  My protector.  Friend.

“
—
but I like it.  Hey, my plac
e’
s a wreck, Alaina, or
I’
d invite you in. 
I’
m too embarrassed for you to see it
.
” 

He glug-glugs Dew, his Ada
m’
s apple busy but not as busy as his gaz
e—
always roaming my bod
y—
and then he crushes the empty Dew can and tosses it on the steps. 

“
Stoke, dammit, wha
t’
d I say about littering
?
” 

Sighing, I pick it up and stuff it into my backpack, on top of Stok
e’
s other garbage, including his Twizzler package. 

“
I grew up
a‘
DU
H
’ ki
d
”
—
I use air quotes around my ter
m“
DUH
,”
which reversed stands for HU
D
—
“
okay?  So even if you have got a body down here
,”
I smile so this time he knows for sure
I’
m joking
,“
I do
n’
t care.  I did
n’
t come here to crash.  I need your help finding An
g’
s killer
.
”

He nods, thoughtful, but holds his position on the steps, still blocking my pathway.

“
Are
n’
t you going to invite me in?  I mean, seriousl
y
—”

“
Nah
,”
he says
,“
are
n’
t you going to be late for work
?
”

“
Detective Hawks says I should
n’
t go in to work tonight.  He says whoever killed Ang is hanging around Oma
r’
s, looking for his next victim
.
”

I instantly regret my remark.  Stok
e’
s white face again darkens with rage.
 “
Uh, you need to stop drinking Mountain Dew
,”
I say, but because
I’
m a Colby and ca
n’
t help myself, and because
I’
ve promised Angie, I push the issue.
 “
Come on, Stoke, let me in so we can get busy.  I need your help
.
”  

“
No
!
”
 
He blocks me with an outstretched arm, catching me as I hop down another step. 

I’
ve never seen this side of him.  He looks scary, kind o
f—
off.  Watching a strange new smile slide onto his lips but never reach his eyes, I want to back up the steps, but do
n’
t. 
I’
m a Colby.  Colbys do
n’
t run from trouble.  We stupidly fly at it.
 “
Stoke, yo
u’
re not this upset about a messy apartment, are you
?
” 

“
Yo
u’
re right
,”
he says, stepping backward down the steps.
 “
Tell you what, why do
n’
t you let me do a quick cleanup.  You stay here. 
I’
ll get a couple of bags of garbage out of the way, and then you can come in
.
”

I need to start picking better friends.  As angry as he seemed a second ago, h
e’
s now all smiles, or at least as all smiles as Stoke can be.
 “
No, Stoke
,”
I say, adamant.
 “
I told you I do
n’
t care what your place looks like.  This is
n’
t about your stupid apartment.  I
t’
s about finding An
g’
s killer
.
”

I take another step down and give him a gentle shove.
 “
Outta my way, Robin Hood.  My frien
d’
s been murdered.  I need your help
.
”

“
Stop it, Blaze
.
” 

Stoke pushes back hard, giving me a shove backward.  I bounce against the stairwell and then off the wall, falling head first down the steps.  Landing on my butt, a pain shooting up my left ankle, I yell
,“
You punkass bastard
!
” 

Stok
e’
s jumped up a few steps and now standing above me, holding his scarf with both hands.  I reach for it, thinking h
e’
s offering to help me up, but then I stop when I see the murderous look he shoots me. 
Is he going to lasso me with that ugly rag?
 

The only thing stronger than my love of dancing is my desire to keep breathing.  Where I grew up, I developed a street fighte
r’
s finely honed survival instinct.  Fighting was the engine that drove our household.  Some families watch TV together or share McDonald
s
’ happy meals.  Us Colbys?  We fight.  I learned from the best, watching Berta Colby and her boyfriends go at it.  When I was
n’
t outrunning a stray bullet or a fist, I was on the floor pounding Robi
n’
s face.  We fought constantly because my hypocrite mom, who fought like a man herself, taught Robin women were supposed to be docile.  So he always tried to boss me.  Did
n’
t work.