Look Before You Jump (18 page)

“Talk of the precinct this morning,
sweetheart.”

Don’t you hate it when someone takes what is
supposed to be a term of endearment and turns it into something
derisive? Me too. Kinda reminds me of eating snails – slimy and a
bit tough to swallow.

“Wondered if I could talk to you about it,
since Zeke introduced us and all.”

That earned me an irreverent snort. “Most
people wouldn’t call that an introduction.”

“Seeing as you used my one phone call to
contact him instead of throwing me in jail, I’d say it could be
construed as such.”

Duncan shook his head and continued abusing
the keyboard, pecking the keys like a woodpecker after a worm.
“This is homicide, sweetheart. You need to go one floor down for
breaking and entering.”

“More like assault and battery,” I
mumbled.

The pecking stopped while wide eyes gave me
the once over. “I thought you weren’t home.”

“I wasn’t,” I reassured. “But the wanton
destruction makes this personal. Like an assault on my person.”

An eye roll was all I got for my efforts.
“Like I said, one floor down.”

“So why were you threatening me with breaking
and entering the other night if all you do is homicide?”

“Because you were breaking and entering on my
homicide case,” Duncan retorted, “which I could still charge you
with, by the way.”

Okay, new tactic. “Zeke thinks what happened
last night with my apartment, your case, and something he’s working
on might be connected.”

“And Ranger Taylor couldn’t be bothered to
come downtown himself? He had to send his little lusty liaison who
thinks she’s the next Nancy Drew?”

“I am not,” I squealed.

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

What was it with all the Nancy Drew
references? First Zeke and now Detective Duncan – and I thought
only girls read those books while boys gravitated toward the Hardy
Boys.

My high pitch garnered a few head turns. I
lowered my voice. “Okay, fine. But you saw the certain Mexican
official’s name tied to Amy Vernet, yes?”

“I did.”

“Well on my jaunt with Zeke to the capitol, I
discovered said official is officially, yet unofficially, Amy’s
father.”

Now I had the detective’s attention. “Juarez
really is her father?”

I nodded.

Duncan’s brow furrowed deeper than a prairie
dog’s hole. “But what do you mean by officially yet
unofficially?”

I smiled. Asking me questions? Now he was
intrigued – which meant I had the detective right where I wanted
him. “The original record, which according to Madam Bitchy in vital
statistics is no longer the original somehow, was changed to remove
his name for reasons unknown. Now the amended is classified as the
original, though I still don’t get how the original is no longer
considered the original.”

“Odd.”

Did he mean the original conundrum of Juarez
as Amy’s father, or could that possibly be some sort of slam
against me?

Don’t answer that.

Duncan continued, “Removing a name from a
birth record would require a court order.”

“Which someone obviously got.”

With a flourish befitting a matador, I pulled
out of my purse yesterday’s acquired envelope – from what turned
out to be a very expensive day – and plopped it onto Duncan’s desk.
He stared up at me with an element of, dare I say, almost
respect.

Almost.

“Does Zeke keep you around for all his
legwork?” Duncan asked with a smirk.

The obvious double-entendre deserved a
scathing comeback – maybe something about a third leg – until my
mind about gave me whiplash as it skirted back to last night’s
elevator lip lock. And the wall press. Though the resultant events
put a screeching halt to the tangled two-step with Zeke, I was
definitely way overdue for some legwork. When did Nick say he’d be
home? Oh Nick, Nick. Wherefore art thou, Nick?

Then again, Radioman was in town, available
and obviously willing.

Focus, Vicki!

“Zeke took me along because he can’t be tied
to Amy’s case, even though we both have a strong personal interest
in Bobby’s innocence.”

“And that right there is why both of you need
to stay out of it and leave this case to me.”

“W-What?” I stuttered. “Why?”

“You’re both personally vested in and
committed to Vernet’s innocence,” Duncan returned.

“But he
is
innocent.”

“Personal feelings cloud the facts,
sweetheart.”

And I thought we’d made real progress after
the events of the other night. Forget it. Duncan just landed right
back on my bad vibe list.

“Then I’ll just have to find Amy’s killer on
my own.”

“Go home, Nancy Drew, and leave the
investigating to the professionals.”

The detective opened a desk drawer and made
to file away Amy’s birth records. The records I’d suffered so much
humiliation to get. Records that cost me more of my hard-earned
money. Documents that left me with little sleep the past three days
and had left my apartment all shattered and tattered.

Oh hell-to-the-no with a capital H.

In one fluid movement, I snatched the
envelope from Duncan’s hand, leapt from the desk, and sauntered
across the precinct as fast as my legs would carry me.

“Hey, bring that back here, sweetheart.”

“Make me.”

“I can have you arrested for absconding with
information in an official police investigation.”

“I never said I’d give it to you,” I said,
pressing the elevator button. “Besides, I paid for this and have a
receipt to prove it.”

“I’ll get a court order!” Duncan yelled.

“Go ahead. Take it down to Austin like I did.
I’ll even give you the name of the lady to see in vital
statistics.”

I chuckled as the elevator door closed.
Lady
was a definite stretch for Madam Bitchy.

“Where do you want these?”

Janine held up a couple of books that
appeared to have escaped my apartment’s bombing. I stopped sweeping
glass long enough to wipe the sweat from my eyes and focus
attention away from the mess – the never-ending mess.

I sighed. “Put ‘em in the bedroom closet with
what’s left of my clothes.”

As Janine scuttled away to do my bidding, I
sank into the window seat and took stock. After two hours of
sorting, shoveling, sweeping, and stowing we’d still only made a
miniscule dent in the debris field.

Between the two of us, we’d spent the first
thirty minutes simply trying to decide where to begin and the next
thirty minutes picking through my strewn-about wardrobe and hanging
what we could in the closet for later inspection. Since the damage
in there was minimal, we’d dubbed it the ‘safe zone’ a place to put
anything deemed worthy of keeping. What it contained was achingly
miniscule compared to what it had held BB – Before Bombing. If it
wasn’t shredded it was embedded with glass particles and debris no
amount of washing or dry cleaning would ever make wearable
again.

By the ninety minute mark, we’d succeeded in
carving out pathways connecting the rooms so walking wasn’t so
hazardous, discovering a package of precious Oreos ground like dust
into the carpet. That made me hotter than a menopausal middle-aged
woman, until Janine offered to donate a package to the
Victuals
for Vicki
fund. Then we moved the destroyed mattress against
the wall near the apartment entry, discovered the box springs
untouched – hallelujah – and returned a few unbroken dresser
drawers to their rightful home. With some nails,
industrial-strength hot glue, and a lot of prayer, a few additional
drawers might be restored to useful status again.

Or not.

The bottom of the second hour had us in the
bathroom desperately sweeping up glass from the shattered mirror,
vanity light globes, and the old sliding glass shower doors. Hey, a
girl can only hold it so long before nature stops calling and
pounds on the bladder, screaming at the top of her lungs.

And yes, nature is always referred to in the
feminine. Ever hear of Mother Nature? I rest my case.

After going over and over the tiled floor
with a broom and dustpan and getting little but the larger chunks,
Janine stepped in with the super-sized shop vac and sucked up those
microscopic shards faster than a tornado on a Tuesday. With the
glassed-in shower doors gone, maybe Jimmy-the-Super would remove
the tacky brass framing so I could install a tension rod and
curtain.

Jimmy. Humph. I wasn’t sure I wanted that man
in my apartment, considering he was suspect one on my list of
destructors. No sign of forced entry meant someone was either a
really good lock picker or they entered with a key. Maybe that
someone was also responsible for accessing the rooftop door and
throwing Amy into the parking lot below? The red blinking neon
signs pointed to my super.

Guess what I would be buying and installing
on my door as an early birthday present?

The only thing that didn’t make sense was
what Jimmy gained by killing Amy. With the tattoos covering an
assortment of muscle big enough to pulverize a tank – or an
apartment – the how wasn’t even an issue. Maybe he was simply the
muscle in a drug gang war and ordered to kill her. Made sense. But
then who was pulling Jimmy’s strings?

A muffled knock at my front door. No way!
Please don’t let it be Jimmy. Please don’t let it be Jimmy.

A peek through the peep hole sent my fear
into overdrive. I unlocked the door then inched it open, hoping to
avoid the worst.

“Uh…hi, Mom.”

The scent of nail polish hovered in the air
around her. Fresh hair color and blunt ends swung from a new cut.
Yep, Mom had been at the salon, which meant she’d probably just
dropped off
her
best friend after a day of beauty. Which
meant only one thing.

“Hello, dear. I was just talking with Mrs.
De’Laruse and…good heavens!” Mom pressed the door open and pushed
past me. “What in God’s good name have you done to your apartment,
Victoria?”

Janine came racing into the living room all
bug-eyed and looking like she’d just been bushwhacked. At some
point, my best friend had broken our cardinal rule and told her
mother where she was headed. Her mother had then talked to my
mother. Word between our families spreads like a wildfire during a
West Texas drought. I offered Janine my best stare down before
readdressing my mother.

“Just doing a little spring cleaning, Mom.
Care to join us?”

“It’s summer,” Mom deadpanned, staring at the
mounds of stuffing that had once padded my couch and chairs.

“Way to state the obvious,” I muttered.

“Was this why you left in such a rush?” Mom
directed to Janine.

Janine blanched. “Well I…um…didn’t want…”

Since the time our mothers did diaper duty,
my best friend never could handle being put on the spot, especially
when cornered by either her mother or mine. When we were teens and
had stayed out late or snuck into a party where we weren’t allowed
– for which I take full blame – all my mom had to do was give
Janine the
look
. Poor girl would practically pee her pants
and spill faster than water down a waterslide. For years I’d tried
to teach her a good poker face – alas, to no avail. Instead she
just seemed constipated.

“Relax, Mom,” I intervened. “My apartment was
broken into last night, is all.”

“How can you say
relax
and
break-in
all in the same sentence?” Her eyes widened when
she took in the wreak that used to be the dining table she’d
bought. “Your lovely dinette. The chairs.”

You know that saying about never coming
between a momma bear and her cub? When my mom’s green eyes glinted
and flashed like lightning before a hailstorm, I understood it
right quick. You ever see a momma bear in action when her cub has
been threatened? Made
me
about pee my pants – and I’m the
cub in this particular drama.

Mom whipped out her cell phone faster than
the credit card on a shopping spree.

***

Next to Mrs De’Laruse, Reginald von Braun was
probably my mother’s dearest friend. ‘Course, that might have more
to do with the fact my mother provides ample support of his
interior decorating business. For as long as I can remember, every
three years he completely overhauled my parents’ home, not to
mention the annual rounds of Easter, Independence Day, fall – we
didn’t dare call it Halloween – and Christmas décor with
accompanying soirees. The only thing he was never allowed to touch
was the Christmas tree, as Mom liked to save that bit of decorating
as a family tradition.

She may as well have let him participate
there too. With Reginald on speed dial and at the house for one
reason or another, it was safe to say he was as close to family as
I’d ever known. Hell, I liked him better than my own father.

So it was perfectly reasonable to tear up a
bit when Reginald’s dark, round face peeked around my door before
throwing it wide open with his usual panache.

“Victoria,
mein liebchen
!” Reginald
cried as he wrapped his gangly arms around my waist and buried my
face in his hairy chest, before kissing both cheeks then holding me
at arm’s length. “Naughty, naughty, naughty to leave Reginald for
so long.”

“It’s good to see you, Reggie,” I replied,
taking in the peach and hot pink flamenco shirt ruffles fluttering
with his boundless energy. Only Reggie could make the combination
work.

I’m also the only person in the Dallas/Fort
Worth metroplex capable of getting away with shortening his name.
It might have a little to do with the fact it was easier for a
two-year-old to say. But as I got older and wiser, it grew clear
the German accent was fake. Which meant the name was likely fake.
It might also have something to do with Zeke’s discovery that
Reginald’s real name was Reggie Brown – and he had a juvie record –
all of which I kept mum.