Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (30 page)

And what about my jump-the-line video?  Ho
w’
ve I let my life get so out of control that I have
n’
t even thought about making my tryout video for the Rockette
s
’ competition?
 “
I positively hate you
,”
I repeat
,“
but yo
u’
re all
I’
ve got.  I need your help.

“
By the way
,”
I add
,“
I do
n’
t give a damn about making the video, not now.  All I want to do is find An
g’
s murderer.  Can we at least work together on that
?
”

His scowl is my answer. 

“
Okay
,”
I say and then shrug.
 “
If tha
t’
s the way you feel
.
”

Dancing halfway down the front porch steps, I turn and gaze up at him, then stare at the forlorn daffodils, their heads bent and covered in cigarette butts and dirt from the street.  Something about them reminds me of my own plight. 
I’
m alone.  When I need someone, anyone,
I’
m always alone. 

Just like that, the feeling of isolation kicks me back to my childhood.  The past opens up like the door of a lio
n’
s cage to that nigh
t—
the
night, when I needed a friend.  But had none.

As always when this happens, I start sweating.  The past gazes out of its cage at me, threatening to devour me.  I
t’
s been sixteen years, but I remember them taking my dad, zipped in a black plastic bag and stuffed into the back of an ambulance.  I remember what happened, the flickering lights from the coal oil lamp in our trailer.  I remember the fight.  The fire.  Gunshots.

* * *

Mom and Dad are yelling. 
I’
m locked in the bathroom closet with Robin.  He and I are hunkered behind a basket of dirty laundry.  I can smell the sour clothing, most of it putrid from Mo
m’
s vomit and thick with the scent of cigarette smoke mixed with the perfume she wears when she goes on he
r“
dates
.
”

“
For once, think of your daughter instead of your habit, Berta
,”
Daddy yells.

I tighten my arms around Robin and we rock, waiting as we always do for their fight to be over, uncertain of the aftermath but looking forward to one simple outcome: Berta Colby passing out and all this being over.

“
I am thinking of her
,”
she screams at Daddy.
 “I’
m always thinking of her. But I ca
n’
t stop my life for her
,”
my mom yells, and then starts crying.
 “
Goddammit, I ca
n’
t
.
”

I feel terrible hearing my mom sobbing, begging my dad to understand.

And the
n—
crash!  H
e’
s hitting Mommy.

I hug Robin tighter.

“
You whore!  We need money to pay for her surgeries, not your goddamm dope
.
”

Another crash, and then the smell, fumes from the kerosene lamp seeping into our hiding spot, mine and Robi
n’
s.
 “
Shhh
!”
I say, when he whimpers, warning him even when we start to choke not to make noise.  I do
n’
t want them angrier than they already are.

I wish Daddy would
n’
t yell at my mom about me.  Wish he would
n’
t hit her.  This is all my fault.  I pull my ugly deformed foot tighter behind the laundry basket.  Robin scrunches tight against me: I feel him shivering like a cold puppy. 

Boom!  The noise rocks the trailer.  I press hands to my ears, but I ca
n’
t shut out the sound or the feeling that the walls are exploding against me and Robin. 

Boom!  Another explosion. 

Robin and I get up and stand huddled behind the dirty laundry basket, trying to hide from the smoke, the heat.  W
e’
re in trouble, but I do
n’
t dare move us out of our hiding spot. I
t’
s all my fault.  Mine, mine, mine.  I hate my ugly foot!

I’
m hugging Robin when the Mom pulls u
s—
still trembling and chokin
g—
from the closet.

* * *

I lived through that night by clinging to Robin.  I held his hand when the firefighters came and sprayed water on the lump of burning tar that was once our trailer.  I held his hand when the LEOs questioned us.  Just as Berta coached me to do, I told them that my daddy had been hitting my mommy before the two shotgun explosions, that she was defending herself. 

Was he, though?  Or had I imagined it? 

I still ca
n’
t recall what happened, only fuzzy details from that night.  All I know is
I’
m still struggling to accept my family, to figure out where I fit i
n—
if I fit i
n—
as a Goshen Colby, Bert
a’
s daughter.  One day,
I’
m going to talk to her about that night:
I’
m going to ask her for the truth.

But despite my mo
m’
s and my differences, sh
e’
s taught me how to deal with the world, how to handle pushy men, or the devil himself, if he happens to be standing on these crumbling steps with me.  I gaze up at Stoke.

“
You know what?  Screw the Rockettes.  Screw my dreams of making a stupid tryout video.  I
t’
s just a contest, Stoke!  Do
n’
t you
get
what
I’
m trying to tell you?  Stoke, my frien
d’
s been murdered
.
” 

Grabbing both ends of his hideous scarf, I curl it around his neck and use the ends to pull his face down to mine, close like
I’
m going to kiss him.  Instead, I give the scarf a vicious twist, tightening it around his neck with one hand and grabbing a handful of Stok
e’
s crotch with the other.

“
B-Blaze, what the
f—?
”
 
His face turns gray, but he does
n’
t move.  He ca
n’
t. 

“I’
m gonna find An
g’
s killer
,”
I tell him, my lips close to his
,“
and when I d
o
”
—
I squeeze har
d
—
“I’
m gonna chew his nuts right off
!
”

I think h
e’
s getting my message. 

I let go of his crotch, let the scarf drift from my grasp.

“
So go get in your damn Coke truck and drive it to my place if yo
u’
re too much of a pussy to brave the walk.  Go ahead.  I do
n’
t care.  But
I’
m not riding in a stolen vehicle. 
I’
m not participating in any more of your fucked up criminal antics.  So do
n’
t try taking me to jail with you.  One day
I’
m planning on becoming a cop.  I want my record
clean
.
”

“
What happened to your boyfriend, the sexy, exciting Detective Hawks
?”
he says, his tone mocking, his mood swinging back to the sarcastic, dark side.  Stok
e’
s not used to me laying it on the line, not like this. 
I’
ve shocked him good. 

“
How come your knight in taxpayer
s
’ armor is
n’
t here to offer you a little ride home
?”
he continues taunting.
 “
Where is your handsome boy now?  Thought you said he was coming back to pick you up
.
”

I love it.  Stoke feels like he has to mock Aida
n’
s and my nonexistent relationship to get back at me.  For the first time in our friendship,
I’
ve set him straight, shown him my boundaries.  It feels good to get things off my chest, to let Stoke know
I’
m not afraid, that
I’
m the one making decisions for Alaina Colby from this point forward, not him. 

Inhaling the evenin
g’
s crisp spring air, I hoist my backpack to my shoulder, shoot my friend a daredevil look, and start walking.

“
I
t’
s dark, Alaina
,”
he taunts.
 “
This is a really bad neighborhood. 
C’
mon, why do
n’
t you let me drive you to your apartment
?
”

“
Yeah,
so
i
t’
s dark.  Yo
u’
re afraid of the dark
?”
I say, mocking.  Picking out another burned-out crack house rising from the gloom a block ahead, I point myself toward it and trudge forward. 

“
Remember what happened to Angie
,”
he yells after me.
 “
I do
n’
t want the same thing happening to you.  You better rethink this
.
”

His words strike my back like bullets.  They bore into me, leaving fragments of pain and anger at Stok
e’
s final attempt to manipulate me by pointing out the threat posed by this neighborhood, by the thugs following me.  I stop midstride and search for a bus stop. 

None. 

Damn. 

But
I do
n’
t turn back to Stoke.  I will not ride in that stolen Coke truck. 

Focusing on the dirty red bricks of the crack house up ahead, I keep walking. 
Screw Stoke Farrel. 
I’
ll samba my way back to my apartment, if I ca
n’
t catch a bus.  In my head, Lizz Holli
s
’ imaginary
Bon Chiki Bon
begins playing.  So far, dancin
g’
s got me through every obstacle tha
t’
s ever presented itself. 

Behind me, I hear the thugs.  From the sound of their footsteps, the
y’
re picking up speed.

“
Heavenly Father
,”
I say, invoking Brick Verbot
e’
s Mormon God
,“
I know I ca
n’
t dance my way out of this, but if you help me outta here alive I promise
I’
ll do better. 
I’
ll start believing in you again. 
I’
ll even quit cursing
.
”

Chapter 28

It took more time getting here than I figured.  In the dim overhead light of Bite Do
c’
s porch light, I glance at my watch.  Ma
n’
s so weird, I expect him to jump out and yell
,“
Boo
!
”

H
e’
s not answering, though, and
I’
m about ready to bust down the door.  I should already be over in Newport in that alley behind Oma
r’
s, managing the crime scene, keeping DeeDee from screwing it up.  Yelling and pounding on Bite Do
c’
s front door, I fight a vine strangling me like a meter maid I once tried to let down eas
y—
but could
n’
t.

“
Doc!  You in there
?
”

I
t’
s past midnigh
t—
tomorrow alread
y—
and here I stand like a fool.  Pissed, wishing Bite Doc would get his ass moving, I pound some more.  Bite Do
c’
s either not showing or h
e’
s inside, dead asleep.  Maybe I oughta beat it back to the murder scene, where I shoul
d’
ve gone to begin with, when I first got Captain Meye
r’
s call. 

I turn to leave, but the door flies open at my back.

“
Damn
!
”
 
I jump, a briar from the dead rose bush snagging my jaw.  Bite Doc, a scalpel clutched in his upraised fist, looks ready to fillet me.
 “
Careful, Doc, you could hurt someone with that
.
”

Looking perturbed
I’
m late, he gives me a frosty gaze.
 “
Why did
n’
t you come to the back door like everyone else
?
”

I shove past him into the reception area.  To hell with him.
 “
You invited me, Doc, and
I’
m in a helluva hurry
,
”
 
What I do
n’
t say is
,“I’
m NPD, so
I’
ll come to whatever door I like
.
”

I feel around in the dark and flip the light switch.  Nothing.
 “
What th
e—?
”

“
I, uh . . . do
n’
t quite know if ther
e’
s light in here
,”
Bite Doc says. 

In the receptio
n’
s pea-green murk, his face reminds me of a trol
l’
s, hair stuck like white fuzz to his wrinkled forehead, his eyes unusually glazed.  The look makes me wonder if h
e’
d use that scalpel on m
e
—

“
Better get some light bulbs, Doc. Yo
u’
re a prime target for a robbery
.
” 

On second thought, wh
o’
d rob this creepy place?

“
I was working.  I did not hear you knocking
.
”
 
Then off he strides toward the door leading from the reception to a hallway and toward his lab. 

“
Still working at midnight?  I thought I was the only fool that did that
.
”

When he does
n’
t answer, I follow the hulking man through the receptio
n’
s deep gloom and then back the gray carpeted hallway. 

The la
b’
s fluorescent lights do nothing to reduce the creep factor of Verbot
e’
s place at this hour.
 “
Sorry to interrupt and run
,”
I say, although I distinctly recall being invited
,“
but I got another vic to go see over in Newport.  Wha
t’
ve you got for me
?
”

Anyone else woul
d’
ve asked
,“
Another murder?  What vic
?
”
 
Not Bite Doc. 
I’
ve arrested a few nut job geniuses like him.  They take in only what they choose inside their brilliant brains.  Make you feel like yo
u’
re talking to yourself and, usually, answering. 

Weirdest damn bastar
d
—

I follow him to a desk the size of a Lexington horse barn.  Unlike his immaculate stainless steel table, the desk stops short of organized chaos.  On top sits several computer towers popular in decades past, some beige, some black, and all blinking blue and red and glaring at me with high-tech menace better suited to a B-grade science fiction movie. 

Even I recognize the computer outfit h
e’
s firing up would make a museum piece.
 “
Doc, do these things work
?
” 

Bite Doc grabs a chair and sits with an imperial flourish of his lab coat.  Ignoring me, he strokes the mouse.  It rests on, of all things, a mouse pad with a picture of Liza Minelli.  Pondering what he sees in the leggy dancer, I watch the dark screen clear and images fade in. 

I’
ve arrived here expecting no miracles, but tonight
I’
m demanding proof.  No amount of Bite Do
c’
s scientific hocus pocus will deter me, not this time.
 “
Wha
t’
re we going to look at, Doc
?
”

“
Computer-generated images of your per
p’
s bite marks using Hollow Volume Overlay
.
”

I scowl.

“
Perhaps I should let you guide the presentation?  You ask the questions
,”
he says
,“I’
ll answer
.
”

I lower my gaze, absorbing the implied insult to my intelligence. 
I’
d arrest him right now if I had time, arrogant bastard.  I think better of it, though. 
I’
ve sacrificed precious time from a homicide scene to traipse over here, but
I’
ve got nothing on Bite Doc.  Ther
e’
s always my other suspect, Theodore McCloskey, although I think the chances of that marshmallow-bellied bastard plotting serial murders are slim.

I
t’
s time to put the proverbial shoe up Bite Do
c’
s ass.
 “
Doc
,”
I say, glancing at the computer, watching with growing irritation while two familiar images play onscreen
,“I’
ve already got photos of Meer
a’
s and Angie Mille
r’
s bite wounds.  We looked at them this mornin
g—
together.  Seeing them again on your computer is
n’
t going to identify my perp
.
” 

“
Sheesh
,”
he says, and then shakes his big leonine head.  His judgmental frown and boorish look of stubborn resistance tell me
I’
ve just broken a cardinal rule of interviewing:
I’
ve insulted the man who knew something important and was willing to share it, the key word being
was
.  Now he just sits there across from me, glaring.

Impasse. 

I soften my tone.
 “
Sorry, Doc, I do
n’
t mean to be rude, but
I’
m in a hurry
.
”
 
Did
n’
t you hear me say
I’
ve got another murder
?
 
“
Can we bypass all the circuitous explanation?  Can you just tell me what yo
u’
ve got
?
”

Nada.  Nothing.  Zip.  Frustrated, I watch his long white fingers, dexterous digits strong as an Oranguta
n’
s, noodle the mouse, sneaking a caress of Liz
a’
s face. 

Have those hands murdered?

I’
m still waiting on the results of my BCI background check on Bite Doc.  Maybe tha
t’
ll answer a few questions.

“
From the suck marks on your victim
s
’ shoulders,
I’
ve created impressions
.
”
 
He stops to see if
I’
m following. 

“
Uh-huh
,”
I say, forcing a smile, trying to act patient. 
Hurry up, dammit!
 

He goes into detail, anyway, explaining how h
e’
s poured this rubbery gunk into the bite wounds, about how h
e’
s let it gel to make impressions of Angie Mille
r’
s and Meer
a’
s bite wounds, and how the gun
k’
s picked up the ridges and flaws in the per
p’
s teeth, taken from the impressions of the bite wounds. 

“
Then I photographed the impressions and moved my photos into Photoshop
,”
Bite Doc continues explaining. 

I want to strangle him, but noting my glare he at last noodles the mouse more quickly.

“
In both Meer
a’
s and Angie Mille
r’
s case, you will see in a moment that the bite wound patterns match
,”
he says.

Eyes glued to the screen, I watch the split images merge.  The two photos that were previously separate, when once overlain appear as one, and capture my full attention.
 “
I see
,”
I say.  I do see, too, and for several seconds I say nothing, just stare at the images.  I
t’
s the damndest thing.  Ridges on the two vic
s
’ overlain bite wounds now appear with certain points highlighted.  The
y’
re identical and match perfectly. 

Bite Doc nudges the mouse.  Another image appears.  Mouth, frontal view.  Looks like
I’
m looking head-on at an X-ray of someon
e’
s gaping mouth.  Like Angie Miller surely must have done when she understood her fate the last few minutes of her life, I open my mouth wide and stare.
 “
Doc, is that an image of my per
p’
s teeth
?
”

“
No, tha
t’
s an image of
my
teeth
.
”

My gaze slides sideways at him.
 “
Why do I want to look at an image of your teeth
?
” 

But I do
n’
t have to ask.  Clever bastard.  H
e’
s setting me up for another of those teachable moments, like when he explained suck marks, ecchymotioca.  Only this time,
I’
m not biting.  I cross my arms and stand, preparing to leave.
 “
Look, Doc,
I’
d like to look at your teeth, but I got another homicide over in Newpor
t
—” 

One he does
n’
t seem the least bit interested in.

“
Patience, Detective Hawks
.
”
 
A sly look lights his face.  Bite Doc clicks the mouse.  Another image appears.  This on
e’
s different.  Good thing, too. 
I’
m ready to commit murder.

“
Hellfire
,”
I say, leaning close
,“
Is
that
my per
p’
s teeth
?
”

“
Yes
,”
he says, engrosse
d—
and as ecstati
c—
as I am.
 “
Tha
t’
s our boy
.
”