On the door of apartment 312, he saw the little flower wreath he’d given Steffi three Christmases ago. She was a feminine young woman, despite the sharp mind and determined personality. He had known when he saw the little wreath that she would love the girly do-dad, and it had been on her door ever since.
When it started to fade from the pounding sunlight, she’d brighten it with pastel paints and delicate brushes so that it still looked fresh as the day she’d received it. She took good care of the things and people she loved.
He sighed, knocked and waited. Then he heard the huff through the door. Oh man, she isn’t going to make this easy. She really knew how to make him suffer. He found himself taking a step backward as he heard the knob turn.
“What are you doing here, Press?” She asked, absolutely refusing to allow him to see how glad she was to see him.
He wondered if she had any idea how truly beautiful she was, even standing there in a tee shirt and ragged shorts, a pencil tucked behind her ear. With her glossy black hair tied back in a long tail that trailed down her back, those long, long legs ending with narrow bare feet and toes painted a delicate pink—she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. Preston Andrews had seen quite a few pretty girls, but this one was his beloved sister; the one he’d desperately missed.
“Steffi.” He took a deep breath. “May I come in?”
“I’m still not speaking to you, Preston. I really think you should go,” she said, starting to turn to close the door in his face and knowing full well he wouldn’t let her get by with it.
“Boy, you aren’t going to cut me any slack are you,” he said, bracing the door against the palm of his outstretched hand.
Steffi folded her arms in front of her, just under the full breasts he now noticed were not confined by a bra. He turned away, as much to hide his blush as to prevent himself from seeing any more. “Geez, Steffi! Go put on a bra. I’ll wait here if you want.”
He knew she could see his discomfort and felt the color rising in his cheeks. She apparently couldn’t help feeling just a little smug—then, he saw her expression change to guilt.
“Oh, damn you, Press. Come on in!” She stepped back and, when he came in, she closed the door behind him.
“Steffi, please! Go put something on,” he turned away from her again when her body reacted to the breeze from the fan in the small living room.
“My gosh! You’d think you’d never seen a pair of breasts before, Press.” There was a smug smile on her face as she went into the bathroom with a slight bounce to her step and closed the door. A few minutes later she came back into the living room—bra in place. “Now, what the heck are you doing here? It must be important to get you to come into the lioness’s den, especially at this hour.”
“Steffi, sit down.”
“Sit…Press,” she reeled on him, her heart hammering in her chest. “Are Mom and Dad alright? Has something happened to them? Damn it, Press! What’s happened?”
He took her trembling hand and guided her to the well-used sofa. Once they were seated, he broke the news. “Steffi, we found a body early this morning.” He saw her body stiffen as she braced herself. “It’s Macy Roberts, Steffi. She was murdered last night.”
The color drained from Steffi’s face and tears started streaming down those gorgeous cheeks. He felt his heart twist. “I’m so sorry, Steffi. I didn’t want you hearing about it on the news or from someone else. We just notified Moira about an hour ago.”
“Who…who killed her, Press?” Steffi sobbed.
“We don’t know yet. But, I promise you, Steffi, I will find out and, when I do, he’ll pay dearly.
She was wiping her eyes with the long tail of her tee shirt. Press pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to her. “I’m so sorry, Steffi,” he whispered.
Unable to continue with the punishment she’d been dealing to him, she reached for him and they hugged so hard that Press was afraid he might hurt her.
Pulling back, he looked into her deep blue eyes. “I’m sorry for everything, Steffi.”
“So am I, Press. I know this is hard on you, too. Even though you hadn’t seen Macy in several years, it has to be hard to find someone you know…like that.” She wiped her swollen eyes again. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“Someone shot her. It was very quick, Steffi. She didn’t suffer.”
“Isn’t that what they always tell the family and friends…‘he or she didn’t suffer’? How does anyone know, really?”
“Steffi, I don’t want you to have that picture in your head.” Press was hugging her again. How he’d missed his sister. “I swear to you, she didn’t suffer—it was very quick.”
“Press,” she pulled back from him and looked into his deceptively icy blue eyes. “You have a warm, loving heart, and I can see you’re in pain, too—more for me than for Macy, I suspect. Press, haven’t you learned yet that you cannot protect me from life? I’m all grown up, Press. Can’t you just treat me like an adult?”
Press, you are walking a tightrope here! Recognizing that this was what got him into trouble many months ago, he had to make an effort to give her what she needed. “I know you’re an adult now, Steffi. But, don’t ever forget that you are my baby sister—even when you’re eighty—you’ll still be my baby sister. But I promise I’ll put more effort into treating you like the adult you really are.” He smiled, but his heart was twisting in his chest.
“I know what that cost you, Press.” She reached over and kissed him on the cheek. “Now, tell me what happened to Macy—and does Jennifer know yet?”
* * *
An emotionally drained and exhausted Preston Andrews climbed back into the unmarked car. He sat back and just took a deep breath to pull himself together, unaware of the stare from his partner.
“Tough, huh?” Trace asked.
Jolted into the here-and-now, Press felt his pulse jump. Determined to pull himself together, he turned the key. “Yeah, you could say it was tough.”
“Where to now?”
“Motor Pool—I’m on a mission, Trace!”
Press saw Trace settle in his seat and grin. Neither envied the Motor Pool one little bit! It was going to be an interesting morning.
14
VBPD Headquarters
Day 1
7:00 AM
As they drove downtown, Press thought about the things he’d learned about his new partner this morning.
The kid had been a cop for less time than Press had been in Homicide, was an excellent shot, had studied hard and gotten a degree at a very young age. He came from a modest family that recognized the potential Trace’s IQ could offer him. They hadn’t approved of his desire to be a cop—he and Trace had that in common!
Press knew Trace had been much liked by his supervisors on patrol who had highly recommended him to Chief Sullivan for promotion to detective. Sullivan had obviously agreed, and when there had been an opening, Lieutenant Wallace brought Trace into the detective squad. The kid had aced the test.
His previous partner, Pat Finnegan, had retired the month before. Much to Press’s amazement, the Chief had personally asked him to take on Trace as his partner. Of course, the Chief knew this was an offer Press would not—could not—refuse. Once the Chief had Press’s agreement, he took the “suggestion” to Lieutenant Wallace. Like it or not—Press had had a new partner!
Press found he did like the kid and had decided—somewhere during their conversation at the breakfast table—that he was a keeper.
As they approached the entrance to the garage at Motor Pool, Press’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. When he shut off the car it shook, spewed smoke and died a long, slow, ugly death.
Press slowly and deliberately climbed out of the car. With Trace silently following behind, Press headed straight for the head of Motor Pool—Sergeant Pete “Dipshit” Perkins. They could hear the snickering sprinkled around the garage, but none were brave enough to show their faces.
“Perkins!”
“You see that thing called an unmarked car over there, Perkins,” Press asked with his jaw so tight he thought it might pop.
“I see it—heard it, too,” Perkins calmly responded. A nasty grin spread on his face as he wiped his greasy hands on an even greasier rag.
Despite his upbringing, Press was hard put to remain nonviolent. He mentally pictured wiping that grin off Dipshit’s face.
“It’s staying here, Perkins. You can fix it, you can junk it! Hell—you can shoot it if you want to, but do not—I repeat—do not make the mistake of reassigning it. Not to me or any other cop, until it runs like a top—if that is even possible!”
The snickering around the huge garage went silent. Suddenly, everyone seemed to have a great deal to do and got busy doing it.
“You smart-assed peckerwood!” Perkins spewed. “Where do you get off talking to me like that? Let alone giving me orders!” Perkins, about five-foot-eight-inches tall, boxy at about two-hundred-fifty pounds—more than an ample amount of that centered at his waistline—now stood nose-to-nose to Press. The entire Motor Pool was as quiet as the morgue.
“I’ll tell you where I get off, Perkins! Any cop caught in pursuit of some perp is going to lose if driving that disaster-looking-for-a-place-to-die! That puts civilian safety at risk. It also puts any cop inside that car in danger of getting killed.”
“Therefore,” Press said, as he grabbed Perkins by the shirt and pulled him in close, “since you made a point of assigning this piece-of-crap-car to me, I have to believe that you wish me and my partner some harm—and I take that very personally.” He shoved Perkins away and released his grip on the man’s shirt.
“Add to all of the ‘above’,” Press added air-quotes, “you can lose your job for pulling something like this!”
Press lowered his voice to eliminate being overheard by the entire crew. “Now, unless you want our personal business spewed out like the smoke coming from that wreck, you will see to it that I get a decent unmarked assigned and the keys to me before the hour is out. If not, the Lieutenant and eventually the Chief are going to hear more than this car’s worth to you, Perkins. Do you understand me?”
Everyone in the garage was now watching—most had witnessed run-ins between Press and Perkins before, and they’d pretty much expected things to blow sky-high sooner or later. No one knew what brewed between the two and each was hoping that, in the heat of the moment, one of them might spit it out. Wagers had been made.
Perkins was over a barrel unless he wanted the whole department to know his personal business—which Press knew he definitely did not. Perkins backed down.
“I hear you, Andrews—and as I wouldn’t want to bring any harm to your new sidekick here, I’ll see to it that you get a new ride.”
He stepped just an inch closer to Press’s face and dropped his volume and put more grit into his voice, “But let’s be clear on something else, Andrews. We have a problem, and it doesn’t end here!”
“No, it doesn’t, but it doesn’t belong on the job, Perkins.”
Press turned and walked away with Trace turning and following quickly. “What was that all about?” Trace asked.
“This isn’t the time or place. Let’s get to work!” Press growled and headed down the street towards HQ. Press was just plain pissed, and he had no intention of talking about it right now. He needed to calm down and think about whether or not he really wanted to share this with his new partner. He’d kept it to himself all this time, so why change things now?
They spent the next half-hour reviewing notes—had just decided that their next move should be talking to Jennifer Wyatt—when a mechanic from Motor Pool dropped off the keys to their new unmarked. The uncomfortable young cop said it was parked out in front of HQ.
When the mechanic left the room, Press turned to his partner with a smile on his face. “Well, Trace, let’s go see whether or not Dipshit values his life.” Press winked at his partner.
Trace grabbed his notepad, jammed it into his jacket pocket and followed Press at a quick pace.
“Press, sounds to me like this Perkins is pretty upset with you. Maybe you should just go to the Lieutenant and spill whatever it is anyway. The guy could cause you trouble at the wrong time and somebody could get hurt—like you told him. I understand the code, but…I mean if the guy’s dangerous, he deserves what he gets. Right?”
Press stopped just outside the front door and turned to Trace. “Look, Trace. I’m not certain that I want to share this problem about Perkins. It’s something kept between the two of us for some time now. Maybe it’s better left that way—at least for now. If he tries anything…well, I may have to go to Wallace.” When he saw agreement from his partner, he said, “Let’s just find the damned car.”
He matched the license number on the key’s tag to the dark blue Ford Taurus just to their left. He hit the “unlock” button on the key ring and noticed that, while he heard the locks click, the sound effect and blinking of the headlights were disabled. Better to keep the bad guys from knowing when you were getting in and out of your unmarked car—day or night!
“Well, well! Not bad.” Taking a deep breath, he climbed into the driver’s seat, buckled up and turned the key while Trace went around to the passenger side and climbed in. “Now, let’s see how she runs!”
* * *
As they headed down Ocean Blvd., Press explained to him the old ties to the victim and her family’s to his—all of which were so old and distant that he had no problem with any conflicts of interest. He knew he would still have to have a discussion with the Lieutenant.
“I have a sister, younger by ten years—Stephanie—we call her Steffi. She’s the same age as our vic. They were friends of friends and often the foursome got together for…you know, girlie stuff—shopping, movies, boy-talk—the usual teenage girl things. I often walked her down to the Roberts’ house and spent time driving the girls here or there during the summer, since I was older.”
“Yeah, I’m familiar with big brother responsibilities. I’ve got a sister a few years younger, too,” Trace admitted.
“That’s where we went this morning. I had to see Steffi and tell her about Macy. Damn! That’s something I hope I never have to do again.”
“Were they still close?” Trace asked.
“Not really. She was closer to Jennifer Wyatt. They’re going to be leaning on each other. She’s promised not to call Jennifer until we notify her.”
“Steffi and I have had our own problems,” Press cringed. “Steffi was attending a dance at the University. I’d had some qualms about the guy she went with, so I followed the two of them that night.”
“You didn’t!” Trace shook his head confirming Press’s huge mistake.
“Yeah—that was just my first mistake. I was…um…staking out the guy’s car when I saw him put a move on Steffi. Well, what’s a brother to do? The young jerk was making a pass and I intercepted and scared the living hell out of the kid.”
“Thing was, Steffi already had things well in hand—martial arts classes from the time she was nine. After I made an idiot out of myself, I drove Steffi straight home.” He caught himself grinning and then grimacing at the memory.
“Ouch! I’ve got a kid sister, too, and I have to tell you that they can be downright terrifying, especially when they’re emotional.”
“Tell me about it. It was over a year ago and she still wasn’t talking to me unless our parents were around—until today. They knew something was up, but neither of us was talking.”
“Yeah, you were probably good for another two or three years of silence—not always a bad thing.” Trace turned and looked out his window as Press started laughing.
Then the laughter stopped. “Macy’s death has me forgiven—for now. Telling her was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.”
The two were silent as they arrived at the beachfront home of Jennifer Wyatt’s family. Another impressive
property from old money, the Wyatt home had well-kept landscaping on the street side. No telling how much earth they trucked in all those years ago to get the soil good enough for all that green. Even thirty years ago—and all the water and tending over the last thirty years to keep it this lush and green—this landscaping had to be worth a fortune.
“Then there’s this…,” Press sighed, dreading the next few minutes.
“I’ve never been in so many mansions in one day,” Trace said as he looked at the house in awe.
“Stick with me, kid!” Press laughed. “Stick with me!”
15
Virginia Beach
Day 1
8:30 AM
Press’s money and that of his parents had always just been a matter of fact—not something that he felt entitled him to any special treatment.
His parents had brought him up well, he knew. He was taught good manners from the very beginning. His father taught him to respect women; his mother to appreciate them. He’d had the best schools, had his college degree in two years; his masters by the time he was twenty-two.
However, along with the privileges, his parents had expected him to do something in life to pay back for what his life offered him. They just had not agreed on what that path should be. They’d wanted him to go into the Diplomatic Corps, politics—something, anything prestigious. But, young Preston Andrews was a determined kid—he’d wanted to be a cop since he was eight.
He didn’t use his money as a weapon or a wedge to get his way—it was just there, if and when he needed it. One thing his background did for him was to give him an inside track on how the very wealthy thought; what their true values were; how they handled certain situations. It had prepared him for Moira Roberts that morning, but he wasn’t certain anything was going to prepare him for this next interview.
Press rang the front doorbell and another prim, proper maid answered the door. “Master Preston! Good morning. It’s good to see you,” she said sweetly.
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