Dead Girl Walking: Absolutely addictive mystery and suspense (Jessie Novak Book 1)

by Roberta Gately

  He pulled her onto his lap. “Thought you might need it. You seemed tense tonight.”

  She hadn’t thought he’d noticed, but he was more perceptive apparently than most men. Still, she didn’t feel like talking about Bert or Hart, or even Sam. She shrugged.

  He ran his fingers through her hair. “It was that detective, wasn’t it?”

  “No, not really.” But she was a lousy liar after a few drinks, and she watched as he shook his head.

  “Just tell me,” he said, his eyes pleading. “I don’t want anyone, or anything, to bother you.”

  And she gave in, but not to everything. “Sam said I should be careful with you. That you’re a cowboy, and he doesn’t trust you. I guess he was trying to convince me that I shouldn’t trust you either.” She’d just begun to lean in for a kiss when he stiffened and pushed her away.

  “What the hell?” he said, his eyes flashing, the once-deep blue of them suddenly cold with anger.

  “Geez,” Jessie muttered, the last remnants of her buzz fading away. “Why are you so upset? I’m with you, so I obviously do trust you. And I like cowboys, so I don’t see any problems, do you?”

  “Yeah, I do. I’m no cowboy. I worked my butt off to get on the job. It’s all I ever wanted. I joined the Army right out of high school ’cause I knew a kid from Charlestown would never get on the force without that. I even did a tour in Iraq.” He took a swig of beer. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m no cowboy. I’m a good cop, a good loyal cop.”

  “You are,” she whispered, running her fingers along his hand.

  His muscles seemed to relax and he planted a silky kiss on her lips before backing away once more. “I’m going to tuck you in and head home. You can get your run in and I can get some overtime in the morning. Okay?”

  She grinned playfully and headed to her bedroom, pulling off her scrubs as she went.

  “Oh, God,” he muttered. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

  She shook her head and placed her palm against his chest, wiggling her fingers through the buttons on his shirt, allowing the heat of him to seep into her hand and from there to her very center. Nick moaned and peeled off his own clothes before slipping into bed beside her.

  Sleep eluded both of them, but for the best possible reasons. When Jessie finally curled herself into the curve of Nick’s body, she knew he was the one for her.

  No matter what Sam had to say about it.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A headache the next morning was the only reminder that Jessie had overdone it, and with any luck, a good run and a couple of ibuprofen would take care of that. She guzzled water and orange juice and slipped out the door and down the stairs. She was just pulling the entry door open when Rufus opened his door.

  “Hey, Jessie, how are you?”

  “I’m good,” she said, closing the door against the rush of cold air. “And you?”

  He nodded. “For an old man, I’m good. But I was wondering—did you get your lock fixed?”

  “To tell you the truth, I forgot all about that. But it seems to be fixed, or maybe it’s me. Either way, I haven’t had any problems in the last few days. So, I guess I’m good. I’m almost afraid that saying it out loud will jinx me.” But she couldn’t help wondering why her lock troubles had seemed to stop so suddenly. She shook off the thought. “Thanks for asking, Rufus.”

  “Get that lock checked anyway. Or, get a new lock. Better safe than sorry.”

  She leaned in to hug him. “I will,” she said, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. She pulled open the door and turned back. “Hey, want to have lunch? Maybe go to the L Street Diner?”

  His light brown eyes, normally fogged over with the haze of early cataracts, lit up. “I’d love that, but I have leftover turkey and potatoes. How about we share that? Have a delayed Thanksgiving lunch?”

  Jessie nodded and headed out, blaming the cold for the tears that nipped at her eyes. She ran her usual loop and managed to block out Bert, Sam and Rob Hart. When she turned for home, she stopped at the corner store for coffee, and couldn’t help but notice the Christmas wreath on the door. Maybe this year, she’d do something to decorate, see if Nick wanted to help her out, maybe put up a tree together. She needed to get her real life back. That would be a good first step.

  “Well, there ya are,” Patrick greeted her as she entered, his brogue as soothing as his smile. “Muffin?” he asked as he handed her her usual coffee—black, no sugar.

  “Not today. I’m having a delayed Thanksgiving lunch.”

  “That’s lovely. You had to work the holiday, then? See, you are an angel. The newspapers had it right.”

  Newspapers? Her eyes nervously scanned the headlines. Hart was gone from the front page, and Bert hadn’t made it there either. The poor guy’s death hadn’t even caused a ripple. “Thank God, those stories are history.” She passed him two dollars and raised her cup in salute, turning to wave as the little bell over the door jingled.

  She walked home, the brisk air clearing away the last bits of her semi-hangover. At home, she tidied up, showered, pulled on jeans and a sweater and headed out to buy a pie, and maybe another treat or two. She couldn’t show up to lunch empty-handed.

  Her dad had always said that when invited anywhere, she should arrive with arms so full, she’d have to ring the doorbell with her elbows. And everyone liked pie, right? At this time of year, it was practically required eating. At the supermarket, she chose a fresh-baked apple pie and when the caramel topping of a pecan pie caught her eye, she grabbed that one as well. Warm, crusty rolls enticed her next, and then everyone’s childhood favorite—a box of Whitman’s Sampler chocolates. She smiled as the cashier scanned her items. Aside from Patrick, who really only knew her for her coffee preference, Rufus was her first friend in Southie, a place where friendships weren’t forged over fences and green lawns, where you had to earn your friends one at a time—and that suited her just fine.

  She rang his bell with her elbow, a full smile draping her lips when he pulled open the door, his metal baseball bat still at the ready by the entry. “Welcome,” he said, ushering her inside his apartment. Jessie passed the packages to him and stopped. It was a little larger than her own, but the rooms, the hallway, and almost every bit of space in her line of sight was filled with stuff. Three piles of newspapers, one almost as tall as she was, narrowed the entryway. To follow Rufus, she had to turn sideways and inch her way through. The walls were covered with fading, peeling bits of wallpaper. The floors were hidden under layers and layers of she didn’t know what. Boxes, some filled with clothes, others with old catalogues, still another with old cans and jars, were pushed tight along the wall. The scent of food, long past its expiration date, and cat litter hung in the air. Her eyes stung and her throat burned. She coughed and found herself in a kitchen. This room, though still cluttered, was at least cleaner, the air less pungent. A washing machine hummed in the corner. A stack of dishes dried on the counter.

  Rufus pulled out a chair and shooed a sleeping cat away. “Have a seat. Lunch is almost ready. You’re my first guest in a while, and as you can see, I haven’t had time to clean.” He swept his arm up, motioning around the room.

  “Let me help,” she said. “I can clear a few things away for you.”

  “Not today,” he said. “Another time, I’ll welcome your help, but I’ll need to go through everything first. Some of that stuff I’ve saved for a reason. Today, we’ll share a meal and get to know each other.”

  She realized, then, that though he was thin, he wasn’t quite as frail as she’d assumed. His heavy flannel shirt hugged his shoulders; his belt was pulled tight on the second hole. He brushed back a strand of thinning white hair from his forehead, the skin there crisscrossed with blue veins. “Haven’t had time for a haircut or a shave either.” He winked. “There was a time I looked pretty good, but once Mary died, well, things changed. I’ve just turned seventy-one. It doesn’t matter so much how I look these days. No young girls,
or old ones, are ringing my doorbell. Well, present company excluded.” He winked again.

  “I think you look fine,” Jessie answered, catching his eye as he set the platter down, turkey and potatoes spilling from the sides. He sat heavily, his knees creaking louder than the chair.

  The turkey was the rubbery deli slices they served at the hospital, the potatoes from a box, but all served so lovingly, with a glass of milk, that Jessie shoveled it in. “Delicious,” she said through a mouthful of potatoes. “Did you make this?”

  “No,” he answered, a sly smile on his lips. “Truth be told, it’s from the Senior Center. They sent all of us home with plenty of leftovers. Glad you like it. Of course, my Mary would have done better. She could cook like nobody’s business.” He sank a little further in his seat, his eyes glazing over just enough to let her know his mind was on his dear Mary.

  “Tell me about her,” she said, and he did. They’d had no children but Mary was a kindergarten teacher, so they lived vicariously through her students. After Mary died, that connection was lost. “I used to drive a bus, but they don’t want old men driving, and I understand that. I don’t drive at all these days. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

  “Well, I drive. I can take you where you need to go.”

  He nodded. “That’d be nice, Jessie. I appreciate that.”

  She imagined that if her father were still alive, he’d be as kind and sweet as Rufus, but the reality was he’d been a gruff and angry man, a quiet rage seeping from his pores. He didn’t share much about her mother, only that she’d abandoned them both. There were no pictures, no mementoes; it was as though she never existed, so different from here in Rufus’s apartment where his wife seemed to be everywhere—in the faded kitchen curtains, the plastic flowers by the sink, the worn linoleum on the floor. This was a home where love still lived. Jessie sighed. She’d been a latchkey kid, her childhood home as empty as a tomb.

  “Pie?” she asked, hoping to clear her head of old memories. She stood and began to clear the table.

  He raised a brow. “I never met a man who could turn down a piece of pie.” He chose apple. “Those pecans look good, but I’m not sure my old teeth can stand up to them.” He smiled, revealing a few missing teeth.

  Jessie munched on a large slice of pecan pie, before finally pushing away from the table. “I’m stuffed. I’ll clean up.”

  “I’ll help,” Rufus said, his hands on the table to help propel himself up.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Jessie placed her hand on his shoulder and gently nudged him back into his seat. “You know the rule—whoever cooks does not have to clean. Today, it’s my job.”

  She cleared the table, washed the dishes, wiped down the counters and swept the floor.

  “There,” she said, setting the broom in the corner and pushing her hair back from her face. “Thank you for my Thanksgiving lunch, Rufus. This year, I’m thankful for you.” She kissed him on the forehead.

  “Oh, you dear girl,” he said. “You are an angel.”

  She loathed that word these days; it reminded her of Hart, Sam and Bert, and all of that freaking misery that she needed to put behind her. She opened her mouth to reply when her phone buzzed with a text, and she retrieved it from her pocket to have a look.

  WATCH THE NEWS TONIGHT! I made the big time!