Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (45 page)

Do
n’
t say a word to any cops.  Do
n’
t say one damn word.  It can be used against Robin.

“
I have no idea how it got in there
,”
I say.  Done cooperating, I cross my arms.
 “
If you think I put it in there, arrest me
.
”

“
Do
n’
t worry, if we think yo
u’
re involved, w
e’
ll find you
.
”

I hate the way she emphasizes
we,
this walking female billboard for
Playboy
.  Sh
e’
s got everything.  Looks.  Boobs.  A great job.  Did I say boobs?  Oh, yeah, and she oozes self confidence.  Plus sh
e’
s got access to Aidan, which feels unfair: the next chance
I’
ll get to see him is at Robi
n’
s arraignment for murder.

“
Here, yo
u’
re going to need this
.
”
 
She socks my backpack into my arms, shoving it hard against my chest.
 “
Now . . . get out
,”
she orders
,“
before I charge you with obstructing official business
.
”

I shrug her hand off my shoulder and race back into my bedroom, Officer Barbie on my heels.  She can run, but
I’
m doing one more thing here, even if means getting shot.

“
Stop
!
”

When I hear her yell, I brake to a full stop.

“
Hands up
,”
she says.  Gun drawn, sh
e’
s on her phone calling for backup.

“
Hey, look,
I’
m not gonna resis
t
—”

“
Put your fucking hands up
!
”

“
Al
right
.
”
 
I ca
n’
t help Robin if
I’
m in jail.  Hands shooting above my head, I hear loud voices, men yelling, footsteps running down the hallway outside my apartment. 

“
If you do
n’
t leave
,”
she says
,“I’
m going t
o
—”

“
What?  Shoot me for taking a pair of ballet slippers?  How would you explain that to Detective Hawks?

“I’
m leaving
,”
I say, one hand raised above my head, the other holding my backpack.
 “
But I need clothes for work
,”
I add, deferential, since sh
e’
s got that stubby-nosed gun pointed at me.
 “
Do you mind if I get some things from my dresser
?
”

“
Do
n’
t do anything foolish
,”
she says, like
I’
m a complete idiot.
 “
Any sudden movement from you, and
I’
ll shoot
.
”

“
This is all I need
,”
I say, stuffing jeans and underwear into my backpack, and then grabbing my ballet slippers, hanging by their ribbons from the mirror.

“
Tim
e’
s up
,”
she snorts, watching me pack. 

I bet sh
e’
s wondering why
I’
m not packing a suitcase filled with lipstick or some such crap, the way she would, instead of my raggedy ballet slippers.

“I’
ll be sure to give Detective Hawks your message
,”
she says, getting in a final dig.
 “
Do
n’
t go far.  W
e’
ll want to get your statement
.
”

“
Yeah
,”
I say
,“
he enjoys sweating me down
.
”
 
I smile, watching her burn.
 “
H
e’
ll also want to talk about that shoulder in my freezer
,”
I add.
 “
H
e’
s a nibbler, too, you know
.
”

Joking aside, I think about Angie and whoeve
r’
s shoulde
r’
s in my fridge.  At some point,
I’
m going to have to talk to Aidan about what I know, what I suspect about my brother.  None of this has made any sense to me, until now.  I screwed up by talking to Officer Barbie, destroying Robi
n’
s alibi, but she gave me something in exchange just now, something I needed to know.

“
Whatever you say, officer
,”
I say, shoving past her. 

At my apartment door, I turn and take a last sad look.  I
t’
s not much, but this is home.  Or it was.  When Robin disappeared on Monday, things started falling apart and have
n’
t stopped.
 “
When will I be able to return
?
”

I do
n’
t like her, but ther
e’
s no denying sh
e’
s pretty.  Sh
e’
s super model tall, and her bones form an elegant scaffold for her Heidi Klum face. 
Now, wh
o’
s jealous, Alaina? 
Aidan could
n’
t admire m
y“
dainty ladie
s
”
—
his pet term for the
m—
enough.
 “
The
y’
re beautiful
,”
h
e’
d kept telling me, at least when he was
n’
t worshiping them with kisses. 

I’
ve never seen breasts as beautiful as yours.  The
y’
re so lovely, s
o
—

Junk.  His words were all hookup junk.  Bullshit.

Officer Barbie shoots me a vicious smile.  Pretty women know when the
y’
re being appraised by competitors, and sh
e’
s got every reason to hate me.  I just gave her the biggest one of all, taunting her about sleeping with Aidan.  I jealously figure she has, too.

“
How should I know when you can come back to this . . . dump
,”
she sneers.

What would she say if she saw my mo
m’
s trailer?  What would Aidan say?  The thought makes me cringe.

“
This is a crime scene
,”
she repeats, running her scathing gaze up and down my body.
 “
And by the way, where someone like
you
decides to go hang out is
n’
t my problem
.
” 

Someone like
me
?
 “
Right, it is
n’
t your problem.  I
t’
s mine, and
I’
m going to fix it.  Are you arresting me
?
”

“
I wish to hell I could
,”
she says.

“
Then fuck you
,”
I say, leaving her standing in the entry hall of my apartment. 

Someone like you.
 

Sh
e’
s not up to the job of handling someone lik
e—
me. 

Earlier I migh
t’
ve tried slicing her pretty face with my shiv, but
I’
ve grown in ways I never coul
d’
ve imagined. 
I’
ve foun
d—
and los
t—
the one person who coul
d’
ve made me bend my mo
m’
s unbreakable rule about sleeping with cops. 
I’
ve also forgiven my mom for behavior she really ca
n’
t help.  Even better,
I’
ve stopped blaming her for my own failings.  Yes, I feel emotionally raw, but I also feel energized with a new sense of power.  I
t’
s weird.  Exhilarating.

Cutting down the hallway, careful to avoid the cops, I run up the basement steps to the first floor landing inside my apartment building.  The cops who put it there are gone, but the yellow and black tape identifying the buildin
g’
s entire back entry as a crime scene stretches from banisters on each side of the steps. 

I bust through the tape, leaving it, and whatever hang-ups I had about being Alaina Colby, the Goshen Gimp, my mo
m’s“
Crip
,”
hanging in ribbons behind me.

This is the new Alaina Colby, who owns the world. 
I’
m ready for any challenge.  

Outside, I sneak to my buildin
g’
s front, where I stop and do a quick scan.  Cops roam the perimeter.  The
y’
re wearing white latex gloves and crawling all over the Coca-Cola truck.  One of them jumps out of its cab and hands off something to another.  My breath catching, I watch  one of them kneel and tag Robi
n’
s overnight bag. 

Why did
n’
t I look in that Coke truck?  Ho
w’
d Robi
n’
s overnight bag get in there?

I stare, my heart pounding.  For several arrested heartbeats, I fight an impulse to zoom past the kneeling cop and grab the bag and run with it, but that would only make matters worse, maybe even get me shot. 

Okay, Alaina, le
t’
s come up with a plan to help Robin. 

And out of desperation, I do.  I
t’
s not going to be easy carrying out my plan.  As my mom said, Robi
n’
s in a world of crap, but nothing in my lif
e’
s been easy, except trusting Aidan Haw
k’
s and falling like a silly fool into his arms.   

Sneaking away from the cops, I sprint for the privet hedge separating my apartment building from the one next door.  Laughing at myself, at how stupid
I’
ve been to ignore my mo
m’
s advice, I crawl through. 

Yep.  I fell for Detective Hawk
s
’ line of bull.  No one to blame but myself.  I shoulda listened to my mom.  No sleepi
n
’ with LEOs.  Aidan is my enemy, my brothe
r’
s enemy, but no matter what Detective Aidan Hawks thinks he knows about Robin, I know better.  My brother is no serial killer.

I’
m flying solo from now on. 

With my heart set on proving Aidan Hawks and his LEO cronies wrong, I cut across the parking lot and hit the sidewalk a few yards down the street from my apartment building.

Chapter 40

Hiking down the sidewalk, I watch cars glide past.  Like pre-dawn shadows, they skulk past me, metallic deer lost in their city forest of concrete, fog and the cit
y’
s dim light.  I hunker inside my hoodie, hoping none of the cars belong to cops, or to him. 

Is it Aidan?  Has he come looking for me?

A passing cruiser makes me jumpy, but I relax, watching it pass, heading toward my apartment building.  Putting distance between me and Aidan Hawks, I watch lights coming on in businesses lining Clifto
n’
s sidewalks.  Their muted glow shines from shop windows, poking holes in the foggy dawn.  Careful to avoid the light they cast, I hug the shadows. 

Farther down the street, I spy a man shuffling around inside the Clifton donut shop.  I recognize Jimmy Mineheart, one of the many homeless the bakery sho
p’
s owner feeds.  Any other day,
I’
d stop in and talk to Jimmy and Cal, the sho
p’
s owner, but this morning, I forego my sugar fix and hurry past.

Wishing
I’
d copped Aida
n’
s windbreaker, instead of giving it to Officer Barbie, I recall with heartbreaking clarity how Aidan had adored my now shivering body.
 “
I
t’
s a temple.  I can tell you care for it
.
” 

Well, no.  Actually, I treat it like shit
. 

I swore off ice cream and donuts, anything with sugar, plus pizza, the minute he said it.  Now
I’
ve sworn off him.

The gas station on the corner looks open, so I run inside and buy a large black coffee, and then hurry back out to the sidewalk.  Trying to look inconspicuous, I walk slowly toward campus, unable to stop thinking about Aidan, or the black plastic garbage bag in my freezer. 

Whose shoulder is it?  Wha
t’
s the gir
l’
s name? 

When Officer Barbie first told me about the gir
l’
s shoulder, I was too stunned to think.  Wh
y’
d she tell me?  To be mean, I guess.  Walking and swigging gas station coffee, I kick around some concerns. 
I’
d rather wear Stok
e’
s floods than talk to him, but
I’
m going to have to talk to Aidan soon.  The dead girls, all of the
m—
and Robi
n—
deserve that much from me, and Officer Barbi
e’
s after my statement, so
I’
m gonna have to talk.

I have my own ideas about who murdered Ang.  And about who might have murdered the dead girl whose shoulder rests in my fridge.  I think about the Twizzler pack I grabbed and stuffed in my backpack.  I
t’
s evidence.  Probably got DNA on it.  But ther
e’
s the issue of chain-of-custody.  Chain of custody is like a kid whose every minute at a daycare center must be accounted for by an authorized employee.  I
t’
s the same with evidence.  The chain of custody must be preserved.  The name of every cop who handles it must be logge
d—
and the reason why.  Since I took the Twizzler pack, i
t’
s still evidence, but i
t’
s not admissible in court.  I know this from my criminology class.  Same deal with the Mountain Dew can I grabbed from the steps where Stoke threw it.

But while i
t’
s not admissible, since no chain of custody has been preserved, I can still use it to catch a murderer.

When
I’
ve done all the thinking I can do, I polish my plan, and then I call Stoke. 

“
Stoke, hey, i
t’
s me
.
” 

I tell him everything that just happened, except about Aidan and me.  It would please Stoke too much to hear Aidan used me to get info on Robin.
 “
I need a place to stay until the cops get done collecting evidence from my apartment
,”
I say, keeping my fingers crossed.

“
Yeah, sure
,”
he says.
 “
Come over
.
”

I was expecting him to resist, to not let me into his apartment, like before, but h
e’
s okay with it now.  So wha
t’
s changed?

I can guess, and i
t’
s not good.  In fact, i
t’
s horrifying, and I feel even more scared about what
I’
m planning.  But I have zero choice. 
I’
ve got to save my brother.

“
You can stay here
,”
Stoke says.

“
Yo
u’
ve cleaned your apartment
?
”
 
I joke, hoping I sound okay, and then I swallow coffee to calm myself.
 “
You sure you wo
n’
t be embarrassed
?
”

Or that you wo
n’
t try again to rape me on your stairwell?

“I’
ve cleaned it up.  I
t’
s spotless, Blaze.  No blood, no bodies
,”
he jokes.
 “
Not a smidgen of trace evidence
.
”

“
Heh-heh
,”
I say, fighting cold chills.  H
e’
s lying.  I do
n’
t know Stoke Farrel, a fact he drove home when he mauled me on his stairwell to prevent me from going inside his apartment.  H
e’
s definitely hiding something.

“
Come over any time, Blaze
,”
he says.
 “I’
ll always make room for you
.
”

“
Thanks
,”
I say, fighting back another cold chill.
 “
But I have one more favor to ask
.
”

“
Yeah, sure. Anything
.
”

I fight to sound like
I’
m teasing.
 “
You know how I love to dance
?
”

“
Yeah
?
”
 
Stok
e’
s voice grows husky, overly intrigue
d—
lurid.  Other than Robin and Angie,
I’
ve only told Stoke about my foot, about being born a cripple.  Since the moment I confided, h
e’
s gone out of his way to be my friend.  Now I know the reason why, and I want to scream
,“
Yo
u’
re a fucking sicko psychopath with a foot fetish, and
I’
m coming for you
.
”

But I force myself to sound sweet.
 “
You know how the only person who cares what happens to me i
s—
you
?
”

I swallow.  This is tougher than baring my chest in Oma
r’
s and dancing topless for guys like Tater McCloskey. 
I’
ve a second major in dance, not theatre, so my acting sucks.  Even without the change in tone in Stok
e’
s voice, I feel violated.  I hear his interest pick up, his usually shrill voice go baritone, guttural with lust. 

“
I do
n’
t have anyone to help me make my jump-the-line video
,”
I continue, working to sound vulnerable.
 “
Can you pick up some video equipment from school and bring it to your apartment so we can use it later tonight
?
”
 
When he does
n’
t say anything, I add
,“
The campus communication center opens at nine.  You can pick up the equipment there
.
” 

“
Blaze, what about our crim quiz?  And were
n’
t you gonna fill in at Oma
r’
s for Angie again, same as you were last night
?
”  

No, no, no.  I ca
n’
t let him back down.
 “
Yeah?  So
,”
I tease.  H
e’
s buying time.  Why?
 “
Come on, Stoke.  I really need to make that video.  The deadlin
e’
s coming up.  If I do
n’
t get it done, I wo
n’
t be eligible to re-enter the competition again until next year
.
” 

Stoke can easily check this on the Rockette
s
’ Web site.  H
e’
s quiet, taking his time, thinking over what
I’
ve just said.  Inside, I shiver.  Most likely, his thoughts would cause me never to want to dance again, but I press on.  I can imagine only one way that black plastic garbage bag got in my fridge.  And Robin did
n’
t put it there.  He has
n’
t been home since Monday.  Even if he had, I know my brother.  He would
n’
t harm Angie Miller, or anyone else. 

I   recall what Aidan said. 
A snitch called in information to Newport this morning.  A witness saw your brother hanging around the alley behind Oma
r’
s when Angie Mille
r’
s body was dumped. 
Did
n’
t DeeDee also say someone called in the tip about the shoulder in my fridge?

Hmmm.  Hmmm.  Hmmm.
  Same as with whoever put the gir
l’
s shoulder in my fridge, ther
e’
s only one person who coul
d’
ve snitched out Robin. 
I’
m talking to him, to Stoke Farrel, aka Megalo Don. 

Creepy. 
I’
ve known for some time ther
e’
s something strange about Stoke.  He thinks h
e’
s smarter than anyone, thinks h
e’
s smarter than I am.  H
e’
s not.  Like I told him when he cut on me for missing my crim quiz, I know what trace evidence is.  I have
n’
t spent all of this time studying criminology for nothing.  H
e’
s under-estimated me in one huge, fatal way. 
I’
m a crip, like Berta says, but
I’
m no mental midget.  I
t’
s been years since that summer when Stoke and I played together as kids.  W
e’
ve grown up, and h
e’
s changed so much I did
n’
t at first recognize him.  In fact, it looks as if h
e’
s had plastic surgery, or maybe changed his jaw structure.  I do
n’
t know what h
e’
d done, but at last I recognize him.  I
t’
s also no accident we met my criminology class, I now realize.  Stoke took the class no doubt knowing I was signed up.  I recall the way I thought h
e’
d been following me when
I’
d gotten off the bus to go to work at Verbote Deantal.  H
e’
s been stalking me.

I’
ve also recalled the reason my mom stoppeded letting me play with Stoke, who back then was calle
d“
Bubby
.
”
 
The reason was Julianna Short. 
Julianna.
  Who no doubt to this day limps because of what Bubb
y—
little boy no one would believe capable of such cruelt
y—
did to her.

“
Stoke, are you still there? 
I’
m gonna be late for my nine
o’
clock
,”
I lie, having no intention of going to class.  I need an excuse to get inside his apartment and figure out who Stoke Farrel really is, to find evidence.  Ha!  I laugh, recalling how h
e’
d chided me. 
If yo
u’
d come to class yo
u’
d know what trace evidence is.