“No.”
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t—”
“No.” She said, louder.
“Fantastic.” I pulled the keys from my pocket, unlocked her cuffs and tossed them across the room, sending them clamoring against the chipped tile.
She didn’t flinch.
I turned my back to her and walked to the chair on the opposite end of the conference table.
“Would you like some coffee?” I settled into the chair. “Water? Cigarette?”
A quick shake of her head told me no, so I hit the call button on the phone and asked for two waters, two coffees, and a pack of cigarettes.
Her eyelids fluttered in the closest thing to an eye roll without actually being an eye roll. I let the minute linger like lead weight while we waited for the drinks and pack of COPD. The door opened. I kept my eyes on her as Officer Darby set two coffees, a pack of Virginia Slims—Virginia Slims—followed by two waters on the table. Based on the way mine tumbled to the floor, the rookie also had his eyes only on hers.
This woman.
“Whoops. Sorry.” He grabbed the water from the floor and set it in front of me. “Uh, you know you can’t smoke in—”
“Thanks.”
“… Anything else?”
“Get some ibuprofen from Tanya.”
“Okay.”
Sunny lifted her hands onto the table. Composed, controlled. Odd. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. I watched every flicker of her eye, every move of muscle as we sat silently in the room.
The door clicked open again and a small bottle was placed on the table—carefully this time.
“Anything else?” Darby asked.
“Go get that donut Colson just heated up.”
“I don’t think… he didn’t—”
I shot him a look.
He retreated.
I leaned forward on my elbows, closing a few of the inches between us. Sunny looked away and begun rubbing her thumb over her clasped hands as we waited for Darby to return. It was a tick. Sunny didn’t like people in her space. Good to know, and it was a weakness I could definitely exploit. Especially with a smokeshow like her.
The door opened and a glistening, pink iced donut with rainbow sprinkles was placed at the center of the table. I made a mental note to chastise Colson on the way out.
“That it?” Darby asked.
“Yep.”
I waited until the door clicked closed, then picked up the bottle of pills. I shook two out, pushed them in front of her.
“Take the ibuprofen.”
“No. Thank you.” The last two words an obvious effort.
“Take it. It will help with the swelling.”
“My arm’s fine.”
“Agreed. I’m talking about your ribs. Ever had bruised ribs before?”
Something flickered behind her eyes. It was my first red flag.
“Hurts like a bitch,” I continued. “’Scuse the language. Take the pills and eat the donut if you’d like. I’ll wait.”
“I’m gluten free.”
I paused, leaned back. “What’s the thing about gluten, Miss Harper?”
Her lips parted, considering her answer. Then, with a heaved breath, she rolled her eyes and grabbed the two pills on the table. “Fine. I’ll take the pills.”
“You’ll thank me in the morning. Now, let’s get down to business. It’s my understanding you’ve waived your right to have an attorney present, correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“It’s not smart.”
She stared back.
“Why? Why waive the right?”
“Because I have the utmost faith in Berry Springs PD’s ability to determine innocence.”
I grunted. “I don’t. Let’s begin, then.” I hit the red button on the recorder and recited all the mandatory bullshit, reminding her of her rights, then got into the questions.
“Can you please state your full name for the record?”
“Sunny Anise Harper.” Her voice still held that controlled confidence but less of the punch. A rasp that I hadn’t heard earlier suggested the beginning of an adrenaline crash from killing someone. I knew that feeling all too well myself.
“Age?”
“Twenty-eight.”
I cringed. A baby. Compared to me, anyway.
“Tell me what happened tonight, Miss Harper.”
“I was attacked.”
“Are you saying what happened was done in self-defense?” I needed that one on the record. A hundred bucks would buy my beer for the month.
“Yes,” she said.
“Do you know your attacker?”
“No.”
“Not a friend? An acquaintance? A boyfriend?”
“I’ve never seen the guy before in my life.”
“Okay. Tell me exactly what happened.”
Her shoulders squared and she licked her lips, drawing my attention to the swollen split at the end. Did I do that?
She began. “I was out for a jog—”
“At midnight?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why jog at midnight?”
“Why not?”
“Security. Safety. … Common sense.”
“Would you say the same to a man?”
“I’d say it to Imi Lichtenfeld himself. Answer the question. Why were you jogging in the city park at midnight?”
“I’d just gotten off work.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a dog trainer.”
This time, I blinked. Of all the jobs I expected this woman to have, a dog trainer was not one of them. Supermodel, actress, WWE ring girl, jazzercise instructor, Playboy bunny, mime…
“You train dogs for a living?”
“Yes.” Her tone a bit attitudinal. This telling me two things: Sunny took pride in her job, and also, it wasn’t the first time she’d defended her choice in occupation.
“What kind of dogs?”
“The furry ones.”
“Ah. So for comedy acts, then?”
Her lip twitched. “I train security dogs.”
Now that made sense. That fit her personality.
“How’d you get into that line of work?”
Her shoulder lifted, gaze shifted.
“Why didn’t you have one of these security dogs with you on your midnight jog?”
“Because I don’t like to take them on long trips in the car.”
“So you’d left town today?”
“Yes.”
“Where to?”
“A kennel in Missouri.”
“You breed?”
Her brow cocked.
“Dogs.” I said quickly. “You breed the dogs?”
“No.”
“Why were you going to a kennel then?”
“To purchase a few to train. I’m a dog trainer,” she reminded me, impatiently. “I get dogs, train them, then sell them.”
“This still doesn’t explain why you decided to go on a jog in the park at midnight.”
“Have you ever been in a car for eleven hours in one day?”
“I’ve been in a car for twenty-four hours in one day.”
“Then you understand the need to stretch your legs.”
My gaze dropped to her legs before quickly shifting back up.
“I prefer the public trails. I’ve jogged that trail more times than I can count, day and night.” She continued. “The concrete’s easier on me. The lights.”
“The security the light provides?”
She nodded.
“Your gun isn’t enough?”
She sat up straighter, her chin lifting, this telling me her job wasn’t the only thing she’d defended before.
“I carry it when I don’t have one of my dogs with me.”
“You got a license?”
“Yep, and a hell of an aim.”
I thought about the bullet to the eyeball.
�
�You carry it all the time?”
“Mostly.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Meaty gun. Where’d you get it?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Who taught you to use it?”
“Why do you assume I need to be taught?”
“Meaty gun.”
“A gun is a gun. I’m not the only one who carries one on their hip.”
“Not when they’re jogging.”
She didn’t respond to this.
“A can of mace, a shiv, coin knife, zip blade knife. Those are normal self-defense jogging weapons. I’ve been in this business a long time, Sunny Harper, and never once have I met someone who jogs with a loaded gun, especially with that kind of firepower. A 380 is the most common type of concealed carry weapon. Not good enough for you, though. A nine millimeter pistol suggests more thought. More reasons behind the carry.”
“Who says?”
“I say.”
“That’s your opinion.”
“Tell me about the attack.”
She squinted with anger, not fear, then began.
“I was about a mile in when something caught my eye.”
“Where?”
“In the woods. To my left.”
“What caught your eye?”
“Someone. Movement.”
“So your attacker came out of the woods?”
“Yes.”
“Which direction were you running?”
“South, a mile from the parking lot at the trailhead.”
I made a mental note to check the area at sun up. “Continue.”
“Thanks. I stopped running and that’s when I was attacked.”
“Why’d you stop running?”
“Because I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.”
It made sense, but went against most people’s instinct. If a jogger thought they saw someone lurking in the woods during an after-dark jog, nine out of ten runners would pick up speed and haul ass back to their car. Not this one. This one stood her ground. This one was willing to get into a physical altercation rather than run scared. Sunny was the one percent and I got the feeling it wasn’t the first time she’d been odd man out.
“So you stopped, then what?”
“He jumped out of the woods and attacked me from behind.”
“Did you see his face?”
“No. Not, initially. It was dark. He attacked me between light posts. The city needs to put up more lights.”
“Agreed. So you didn’t actually see him jump out of the woods?”
“No.”
“What is your first memory of that moment?”
“That it was a man.”
“You knew your attacker was a male?”
“Yes. Based on the size, weight, movement. The smell.”
“The smell?”
“Yes.”
“You can tell if someone is a man or a woman based on smell?”
“You’re clearly not a woman.”
“And you’re clearly not a bloodhound.”
“That’s correct, I do not have three hundred million scent receptors like a bloodhound, but I do have more hormones than men—most, anyway—which gives me a superior sense of smell compared to my male counterparts. Men have a scent, trust me on this.”
I wondered what my own had been when I’d tackled her.
“Okay. Fine. What did your attacker smell like, then?”
“A man.”
“So, tacos and Old Spice?”
She didn’t laugh at this.
“At what point did you see his face?”
“After the attack. After…” She looked down.
“After he was dead on the ground.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t recognize him?”
“No.”
“Not at all? Even a little bit?”
“No.”
“Continue. He grabbed you from behind…”
“I…” She bit her lip, the first show of nerves since she’d started the story. “I fought back. I fought him back.” There was strength behind the words. Pride.
“When did you pull your gun?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Where do you keep it on you?”
“I slide the holster along a hidden pocket at the small of my back.”
“What else did you have in these hidden pockets?”
“My car key and my gun, that’s it.”
“No knife?”
“No.”
“No four-inch switchblade knife?”
“No.”
“Do you recall seeing a switchblade during the attack?”
“No.”
“Okay. So during the tussle you managed to pull out the gun, get your attacker in a bear hug and shoot him through the eye?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I didn’t kill him.”
I paused, squinted, and leaned forward. “You didn’t kill the man you were standing over while holding a gun?”
“No.”
“No?”
“… No.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know.”
10
Jagg
What. The. Fuck?
Did I mention my gut instincts were never wrong? I knew something was off from the get go, but this case already had more curve balls than a urology clinic. I didn’t even know what to call the woman anymore. A suspect? A witness? A victim?
“What do you mean, you don’t know who killed the man that was dead as a doornail, lying at your feet?”
She cringed at my crass choice of words. I didn’t care. I didn’t like curve balls. Or urology clinics for that matter.
“Someone else came up while my attacker and I were fighting. Tried to pull him off me. I was thrown to the ground, two shots rang out, and the next thing I know, my attacker was at my feet. Dead as a doornail as you so eloquently put it. And the other person was gone.”
I stared at her, processing this insane new information.
“You mean to tell me that there is a third person involved in this attack?”
“Yes.”
“And that person is the one who killed your attacker?”
“Yes.”
“Not you. To reiterate, Miss Harper, you are saying that you did not kill your attacker?”
“Yes. That’s correct.”
“You had a gun in your hand, Sunny, pointing at your attacker’s head when our witness walked up. How do you explain that?”
“I dropped the gun sometime during the fight. I picked it up after I was pushed to the ground. I kept the gun down, the aim not intended at his head—or at the old man pointing his at mine, for that matter.”
“Did the mystery person use your gun to shoot your attacker, or do you think he used his own gun?”
“There’s no way mine was used. It was on the ground next to me when I heard the shots.”
So there was also a gun missing from the scene now. I scrubbed my hands over my face. Damn, I needed a drink.
“Okay, so you’re pushed down, your attacker is shot by this mystery third person, the mystery person flees, then you grab your gun from the ground, stand up—”
“And see an old man pointing a pistol to my head, telling me that if I move, he’ll kill me.”
“Did you notice a vehicle pull up while you were being attacked?”
“No.”
“What about headlights on the trees? The sound of a truck? Anything?”
“No.”
A moment slid by while my mind raced with a dozen incoherent possibilities.
“Did you see this third person?”
“No. Nothing. I was engaged with the attacker and I remember seeing something in my peripheral. The third person, I guess. Then, I was shoved to the ground.”
“Do you know if this third person was a man or a woman?”
“No.”
“Didn’t catch the scent?�
��
“No. Smartass.”
My brow cocked. Good for her. I was being a dick. I respected her standing up to me. Not many people did. Especially women.
“I need to make sure I am one-thousand percent clear. There is someone else involved in this attack. You are saying three people. You, your attacker, and a mystery person who pulled the trigger of a gun that is not yours.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“It doesn’t align with the witness account.”
“Well, it’s the truth.”
“So is guilt after shooting a dude through the eye.”
“You think I’m making this up so I won’t have to be responsible for a man’s death?”
I shrugged.
Pissed now, her controlled armor began to chip. With narrowed eyes and a twitching jaw, she pinned me to my seat with a look as cold as ice.
“I understand that blaming me for my attacker’s death is the easiest way to go detective. Call it self-defense, call me a liar, and forget about the third person. Close the case and get back to your pink sprinkle-donuts. I get it, but I’d appreciate a little more respect than the snide remarks you consider professional.”
“Had that bottled up, didn’t you, Miss Harper?”
“Call me Sunny. Easier on your vocabulary.”
Alright. So we had a spitfire on our hands.
“Let’s recap here, then, Sunny. After a long day driving to visit a kennel in Missouri—where you don’t breed, you buy—you decided to take a jog in the park on your way home. Stretch your legs. Midway through your jog, you noticed a man in the woods, who attacked you when you stopped running. Mid-attack, another person came to your rescue, shot your attacker, killing him, then ran away, leaving you holding a gun over the dead body. Am I leaving anything out?”
“No.”
“So you’re confirming that there are two victims here, then.”
“Two?”
“The man who was just unloaded at the morgue, and you.”
“I’m not a victim.”
“I suggest you reconsider that for the sake of this incident.”
“I defended myself.” Venom shot from her eyes. “I am not a victim.”
That instinct in my gut? Damn thing tingled. There was more to this story, I was sure of it.
“Let’s go back to your attacker. Did he say anything to you?”
“No.”
“Not even mutter something during the attack?”
“No.”
“Think, Sunny.”
“No. Nothing was said.”
Jagger (Steele Shadows Investigations) Page 8
