Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (9 page)

The remark had
n’
t gone over well. 

Do I dislike my boss?  No, h
e’
s a good administrato
r—
as they go.  H
e’
s a good cop. 

“
I do
n’
t give a ra
t’
s ass
,”
I say, finally
,“
but if you want my opinion, he worries more about tracking data, about solve rates, and about NP
D’
s image, than he does finding killers and protecting and serving
.
”

“
Wow.  Do
n’
t hold back
,”
DeeDee says.

“
Not to worry
.
”
 
I rake my gaze across her and watch her squirm.
 “
Holding back in anythin
g’
s not my style
.
”

Tha
t’
s a lie.  Recalling the most recent vi
c’
s body dumped like garbage behind Oma
r’
s pisses me off, same as it does Captain Meyers.  But I hold back telling DeeDee what I thin
k’
s the real problem eating at the captain.  I
t’
s not that the vics have been brutally murdered.  I
t’
s the fact Sixth and Monmout
h’
s a few blocks from Newpor
t’
s city building, thanks to Irene Blackmoore.  She leveled the neon-signed, black-windowed nude bars in old Sin City, clearing space for the new town hall.  So the only two rat holes left, the Brass Ass and Oma
r’
s, are in city hal
l’
s back yard. 

I want to tell DeeDee
,“
Does
n’
t look good, does it?  Bodies piling up back there faster than last wee
k’
s garbage
?
”
 
But I hold back, aware
I’
ve more problems than one man needs.  Yet another problem giving me heartburn, and one more reason I do
n’
t share what I know with DeeDee, is the way Captain Meyers sucks up to Mayor Darlene Laws, DeeDe
e’
s mother.  Rumor has it h
e’
s doing Darlene.  Maybe my ego wo
n’
t let me admit it, but I doubt it.  I know from experience that Darlene demands sexual anarchists in bed, not impotent derelicts like Captain Meyers. 

Popping a grape between lush pink lips, DeeDee gives up her game of fifty questions and uses her butter knife to trace something on the photo.
 “
Mmm
,”
she says, as I watch intently
,“
h
e’
s a serial biter and gosh dar
n—
Ai
d—
are we looking at a signature here, or
what
?
”

“
Good
,”
I say, uneasy because I agree.  My roo
k’
s turning out to be more than merely perceptiv
e—
and more than a fluffy Barbie doll.  Sure, bite wounds are clearly visible in the photo.  But it would take a solid background in criminology, a deeper level of forensic knowledge than I at first believed DeeDee has, to discern a serial bite
r’
s signature in the middle of the vi
c’
s mushed-up shoulder. 

I grudgingly give my rook more credit.
 “
The vi
c’
s neck and shoulders are literally gnawed off, as you can see
,”
I explain, agreeing with her.
 “
The bite wounds are so deep her
e
”
—
I point to the right shoulde
r
—
“
h
e’
s reached bone in multiple spots
.
”

“
Why, yes
.
”
 
She glues her gaze to the photo.  I sit back and watch her use the butter knife like a Ninja.
 “
He sure does love to bite
,”
she says, pointing to deep punctures.
 “
But Aid, look here.  H
e’
s left this spot of flesh nearly intact, except for this pattern right . . . damn . . . here
.
”
 
She emphasizes her point by spearing the vi
c’
s mottled shoulder in the photograph.
 “
I
t’
s like he wants us to be able to identify his signature, do
n’
t
y’
all think
?
”

I smile.  Did she just say
damn
?  Did Miz Sweetness and Light, who does
n’
t like cursing, just fucking cuss?

She swings her gaze up to meet mine, her face so close I can kiss her.  I get a whiff of her perfume. 
Joy de Jean Patou
?
 
Expensive.  Nice shit.  Heady.  I relax. 
Not to worry, Aidan.  Yo
u’
re safe from her wiles.
  I like the trampier scents, the earthier smell of wet glistening sweat on a woma
n’
s bare thigh
s
—

Fighting a bolt of lust shooting uninvited up my thigh to my groin, I buckle down with my rook.
 “
The per
p’
s definitely making a statement
,”
I agree, pleased by DeeDe
e’
s take on the vi
c’
s bite wounds.
 “
He wants us to ID him.  H
e’
s taunting us, playing with us.  And I think yo
u’
re right
,”
I admit, again grudgingly.
 “
H
e’
s displaying his signature
.
”

“
Why, yes, Aid, h
e’
s mighty proud of those vicious bite wounds, is
n’
t he?  I
t’
s like he sees himself as some kind of artist with human flesh
.
” 

I stare hard. 
I’
ve trained several rookies, but this on
e’
s a puzzle, a mixture of camp and chi
c—
and co
p—
like
I’
ve never seen.
 
“
W
e’
re talking a chewed-up human being here, and you view our per
p’
s handiwork a
s‘
artistry
?
’”

She frowns.
 “
Well, it is, is
n’
t it
?
”

“
How . . .  cold you are
,”
I say, and then I give her a high-five and my first real atta-girl smile.
 “
Rookie Laws,
I’
m thinking yo
u’
ll make a good cop
.
”
 
I stop her big wide-mouthed grin with a cautionary lift of my hand.
 “
But do
n’
t let that go to your head
,”
I warn.
 “I’
m a bastard to work with
.
”

“I’
ve heard
,”
she says, working hard to stop that sunny smile.
 “I’
ve heard
.
”

* * *

Ignoring our food we examine the bite-wound patterns, potentially the per
p’
s signature, as Rookie Laws correctly believes. 

“
But tell me, Aid
,”
she begs
,“
what the
hell
, precisely, is this here pattern
?
” 

Once again, sh
e’
s stooped to using my own foul-mouthe
d“
pi
g”
vernacula
r—
the cursing.  This time, I file her slip away in a mental drawer unde
r“
two-face
d”
an
d“
deceitful liar
,”
qualities every good cop needs.  I like her better every time she swears, yet her pretending she does
n’
t is one more reason for me to be on a bullshit BOLO around my rook.  This on
e’
s slipperier than bat shit, and
I’
ve every reason to worry about her based on my physical reaction.

“
I do
n’
t know what the hell it is
,”
I say
,“
not . . . precisely
.
” 

I ca
n’
t give DeeDee an answer.  Not yet.  But my little voice keeps warning:
move carefully.  Sh
e’
s smart like a fox, not the dumb southern belle sh
e’
s playing.
  Hiding my concern, I agree with a sureness I do
n’
t quite feel, although
I’
m certain I can later find a way to support it.
 “
But I think yo
u’
re right.  Tha
t’
s his signature, narcissistic bastard.  I
t’
s the reason we call him Megalo Don
.
” 

She shoots me a pouty frown, fake as a tin badge.  But my own primal attraction to her plastic blonde allure helps me admi
t—
helps me know deep in my skul
l—
Captain Meyers has found a way to get even with me for sleeping with Darlene. 
Yep.  The captai
n’
s planted a bomb in my path.  I
t’
s DeeDee Laws. 
I’
m sure sh
e’
s after the Megalo Don collar, and Captain Meyers is after my badge.  I
t’
s a classic squeeze-play. 

And how have I started off mentoring my rookie, trying to defuse this ticking time bomb?

Like a teenager smitten by a glimpse of DeeDe
e’
s double D-cup canons,
I’
ve just pulled her into the investigation by allowing her to define Megal
o’
s signature a
s“
artistry with human flesh
,”
and then complimented her to boot. 

“
You know who I mean
?”
I say, fighting to interpret her perplexed look, to combat my own frustration.
 “
Megalo Don.  We named him after the shar
k
—”

“
Aid
,”
she interrupts, anger seeping to the surface at last and tainting her syrupy southern belle drawl
,“I’
m a rookie, so
I’
m appreciative of being under your ah, your, a
h—
tutelage.  But Mama sent me to Smith. 
C’
mon, do
n’
t
y’
all think I know about . . . sharks
?
”  

I get her point.  How could I miss the fact she went to Smith?  Sh
e’
s smart. 
I’
d have guessed Wellesley: her personnel folder says sh
e’
s a candidate for the FBI academy.  But tha
t’
s not what keeps sending danger signals to my brain.  I
t’
s the fact DeeDee inserts Mama Laws into this and every conversation we have. 
Does she know about me and Darlene?  Has the captain told her?  Are the two of them colluding to get me tossed out of NPD?  What happens when she finds out
I’
ve slept with her mother?

“Y’
all need to give me some credit, Aidan Gerard Hawks.  I
know
Megalodo
n’
s a shark that went extinct a few years back
.
”