I replayed Sunny’s description of the attack in my head. There was no question someone could hide along the trail, so that part added up. But why was the pastor’s kid hanging out at the park at midnight? Why attack a lone jogger? Why Sunny? Or, had he followed her? Did the pastor’s son have something against Sunny? And who the hell was this third person? It couldn’t have been an accomplice of Julian Griggs, because why would his accomplice shoot him in the face?
Assuming Sunny’s story was true, of course.
The crime scene photos from her attack in Dallas flashed through my head. Holes in the walls. Bruises on her face. Clumps of her hair along the blood-speckled sink.
My grip tightened around her. She pressed deeper against the squeeze, and that same damn protectiveness that I felt when seeing the photos for the first time came over me again. Intense. Raw. Visceral. What I imagine a father feeling over his daughter.
Or, a husband over his wife.
Another breeze, another puff of hair across my neck. I looked down at the beautiful curls, my gaze skirting from each strand wondering which ones had been ripped from her head. Wondering how long it had taken for the hair to grow back. Wondering if she’d been embarrassed. If she’d felt shame? Wore hats? Or maybe she cut it all off so she didn’t have to look at it.
Each strand had grown back. Healed. Long, beautiful. Resilient. Strong.
Like Sunny.
Sunny with her stygian, wild locks of armor.
I stepped into the north parking lot and stopped cold. I could almost hear the guitar riff in the background as I stared at the only vehicle in the parking lot—a freaking gleaming, glistening, sparkling, cherry red 1972 Chevy Cheyenne with white running stripes down the side.
Holy. Dream car.
No freaking way did this badass beast belong to a woman named Sunny. I almost popped a boner. I’m not even kidding.
“Please tell me that’s your truck,” I said, not caring if I woke her.
Her head lifted from my chest. “It runs. I promise.”
“Runs through my blood like a goddamn shot of espresso. She. Is. Beautiful.” I whistled.
“Thanks.” I felt her smile.
My jaw literally slacked as I crossed the lot. I was madly, head-over-heels in love. With the truck.
“Keys?”
“In my pants.”
“In that case…” I released one of my hands.
She slapped my wrist and looked up at me with a mixture of humor and did-you-seriously-just-say-that?
My thoughts exactly.
“Alright, I’m going to set you down now—”
“Without digging in my pants?”
I cocked my head, eyeing the truck. “Weeeeell…”
She rolled her eyes. “Set me down.”
“You ready?”
She nodded against my chest, that lax weight suddenly tense again.
“Here we go.” Bending at the knees, I slowly lowered her to the ground. Once I was sure she was steady, I let go.
She didn’t make eye contact. Despite the woman’s badass exterior, she was embarrassed that I carried her. It was a fleeting moment of insecurity confirming the layers and layers that made up Sunny Harper.
She pulled a key—an actual key, not a key fob—from one of the hundred hidden pockets in her pants. Modern marvels those things are.
She unlocked the truck. I pulled open the door and offered my hand. She declined and climbed into the cab, which, also, ironically, had a tropical smell of sorts. The interior was upholstered in shiny leather, cherry red, like the paint.
Like those lips.
“All in?” I asked.
“In.”
Standing between the door and the driver’s seat, I placed my palms on the top of the truck. “Long drive to your house?”
“No.”
We stared at each other a moment before I stepped back.
“Stay safe, Miss Harper. Call me if you need anything.”
I started to close the door, but she strong-armed it.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her eyes never reaching mine.
I dipped my chin, stepped back, and tried to ignore the ball squeezing my stomach as two badass taillights faded into the darkness.
13
Jagg
“Where’s my daughter?”
Halfway up the station steps, I paused and looked over my shoulder. A pudgy, short man in a golf cap, a blinding neon-blue paisley golf shirt, and corduroy pants—despite the heat—slammed the door to a black Porsche. I glanced at my wristwatch—4:34 a.m.
I was so close to being home.
So damn close.
I looked back at the station doors, willing them to slide open and someone—any-freaking-one else—to walk out the door and deal with whatever the hell this asshole had going on.
“You,” he said.
I cocked a brow. Not in the fucking mood. Especially for a rich, sports-car driving prick. I was imagining my fist connecting with Porsche-guy’s nose when—
“Where’s my daughter?” He demanded.
Daughter, Porsche, money…
It had to be Arlo Harper. Sunny’s millionaire real estate mogul father.
I turned fully to him as he stomped his stubby, gnome-legs across the parking lot. My first thought was how someone who looked like Sunny came from this man’s DNA. She looked nothing like him, and based on the six-figure sports car, Rolex around his wrist, black wingtips (not loafers and definitely no tassels)—at four in the freaking morning—looks weren’t the only thing they didn’t have in common. As if the woman didn’t intrigue me enough.
“I won’t ask again, Mr.—”
“Detective. I just escorted your daughter to her truck, where she just left the park.”
“What?”
What?
“I thought she was here.” Arlo said, a line of confusion running down his forehead.
“No. She just left.”
My confusion now matched his.
He closed his eyes and blew out a breath. “That girl.”
I blinked, surprised that his first comment wasn’t asking if she was okay. I was also surprised at the whiff of soap coming off his skin. He’d taken time to shower before coming to the station to check on his beloved daughter.
“Where was she going?” He asked.
“Can’t tell you that, sir.”
“What the hell do you mean you can’t tell me that?”
“Because I don’t know where she was going.”
“Well,” he grumbled. “I want to talk to whoever’s in charge of the case.”
I took an inward deep breath. I wanted home.
“You’re looking at him.”
“Oh. You’re…” The man scanned me from head to toe like I was a college dropout applying for a loan.
“Detective Max Jagger.”
“Arlo Harper. Harper Construction.”
Okay. That did it. The man attached his company to his introduction and I officially couldn’t stand him.
“Sunny Harper’s father.” He continued, ‘father’ being the lesser of the two titles, apparently. “I want to know what happened tonight.”
“I’m sure Sunny gave you all the details when she called you.”
“I haven’t talked to her.”
Wait. What?
“How did you hear about the incident, then?” I asked.
“Hazel De Ville called me.”
“Hazel De Ville, from Mystic Maven’s?” The same art shop where Seagrave had been found with six bullets in the chest? What were the freaking odds here?
“Yes. She called, saying old man Erickson called her looking for my contact info.”
“How do you know Erickson?”
“Bought some land from me years ago. Good man.”
“How do you know Hazel?”
“We’ve been friends for decades. She supplies the art for a few local apartment complexes I own.”
“Sunny didn’t call you from the station? I ass
umed she contacted you with the call she was offered.”
“You assumed wrong.”
So Arlo was an asshole and Sunny had daddy issues.
“I thought you lived in Dallas?”
“I do. I’m here on business. Got a project going on south of town. A new resort going up. Is this a game of twenty questions, Detective?”
Just then—
“Mr. Harper.”
I turned to see none other than Chief McCord’s puffed chest striding out the front door.
Fucking fuck fuck.
Chief Fuck-face breezed past me as if I weren’t even there. The two men, friendly apparently, shook hands and I couldn’t help but notice the resemblance. Two gruff bastards pushing sixty, desperately clinging onto their thinning hair while replacing dreams of six-pack abs with Budweiser and Netflix. Both single, a while based on the lack of tan lines on Harper’s left finger. One, plenty in the bank, the other, plenty in his ex-wife’s banks. Yep. Two peas in a mid-life-crisis pod.
Arlo addressed the chief. “I want to know everything that happened here tonight, and then I want it cleared up immediately. I don’t need this shit tarnishing the Harper name.”
You have got to be fucking kidding me was all I could think.
“I understand, sir,” the chief replied quickly, his lips perched for Arlo’s ass. Hairy, I’d bet my life on it, by the way. Really hairy.
“Why wasn’t I called immediately, McCord?”
It was the first time McCord graced me with a look—a disapproving sidelong glance before focusing back on Pudgeo.
“Come on in, Arlo. We just put some fresh coffee on.”
Fresh. Ha.
“Jagger.” The chief conveniently left out my title as he turned to me. “You can head on home for the night.”
I ignored him and turned to Arlo. “I’d like to speak with you sometime today, if you don’t mind, Mr. Harper of Harper’s Construction.”
“I’ll handle it, Jagger,” The chief growled.
“Mr. Harper, your daughter waived her right for an attorney this evening. Do you know why?”
“Not surprised. She’s had enough experience with those blood suckers, although I’m sure you know all about that by now.” His gaze narrowed. “And I’ve done a lot to keep the incident in Dallas under wraps and I expect the same discretion here.”
Incident.
“Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt your daughter?”
“No, but I wouldn’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“She and I aren’t close.”
“What about anyone who maybe wanted to get to you?”
“Are you saying my daughter was attacked because of me?”
“Detective—” McCord snapped.
“Ah, good morning boys…” In his ever-perfect timing, Colson rushed down the steps.
He focused on me, his eyes laced with warning.
“Detective, you’ve got a call. Tanya’s forwarding it to your cell phone. I’ll update Mr. Harper on the evening’s events. Feel free to head home.”
My ringing cell phone cut off the words on the tip of my tongue that surely would have gotten my badge pulled right then and there. Grinding my teeth, I handed my card to chubs.
“Call me if you think of anything that could be helpful in understanding why your daughter was attacked tonight. I’ll be in touch with you later today.”
He slid the card into his pocket as the chief pulled him up the steps.
As I watched Colson, McCord and Arlo disappear into the station, I added another to-do to my morning. To figure out what the hell was going on between Sunny and her dad.
14
Jagg
The night had faded into a crystal clear morning without a cloud in the sky. A thin fog swayed above wilted grass, the evening’s cooler temperatures burning away with what the radio just told me was already eighty percent humidity. Could’ve guessed that, though, because even with the wind whipping around my Jeep, my ass was sweating against the leather seat. I really needed to get the AC fixed. Ass sweat at seven-thirty in the morning never lended itself to a good day. The summer air was thick and cloying. Another three-figure day on its way.
And a full moon coming.
I pulled into the town’s square, already a bustle of activity. Donna Jo was watering flowers outside her hair salon, Tad was wiping down the rocking chairs in front of his tool shop. A wave of bicyclists passed by, getting in a quick workout during the coolest part of the day. A few cowboys on horseback trotted past, going to and from their business. Subarus topped with kayaks on their way to Otter Lake. And then, there was Donny’s Diner, not a parking spot open, not a booth unfilled.
Not a single person talking about anything other than the Slaying in the Park.
I had no doubt word had already gotten out about the evening’s events and it was only a matter of time before the citizens of Berry Springs found out the victim was the pastor’s son. I had a feeling they wouldn’t care too much about the other victim. Survivors had a way of being forgotten faster than the dead. It was something that always bothered me.
I ground my teeth as I drove by the diner. Cowboy hats topped the red booths. The legendary waitress, Ms. Booth, who knew everyone and their dogs, leaned over a table, filling coffee and spreading the gossip. Two people waited in line at the front door.
I made a mental note to stop in later that morning and get the bead on what the gossips were saying. I’d solved more than a few cases just by sitting in the corner booth for an hour. Amazing what people said when they thought no one was listening.
I stopped at the only stoplight in town, in the center of the square, where a Wrangler-wearing Stetson was nailing something into a tree next to the fountain. I squinted, leaned forward.
City council meeting 6pm tonight -
CANCEL Moon Magic Festival!
Keep our town safe!
My eyes rolled into the back of my head. They were at it again. The cowboys versus the hippies in yet another undoubtedly hot debate about canceling the annual festival. Every year, half the courthouse filled with cowboy hats, the other half beads and braids arguing about free speech. The cowboys didn’t want Berry Springs to be a part of anything that suggested promotion of witchcraft. The hippies told them to go fuck themselves. Every year, the meeting ended with a call to the cops and no resolution.
The tagline ‘Keep our town safe,’ suggested this year was going to be different. Two homicides leading up to the festival might just give the cowboys enough ammunition to get the thing shut down. Fear is a powerful thing.
Regardless what came out of the meeting, one thing was for sure—it would be the shitshow of all shitshows and I wanted to stay as far away from it as possible.
I hung a right off Main Street onto a narrow road lined with quaint shops, restaurants, bars, and bakeries that catered to the tourists. The shops were ornate buildings, nestled between the trees that lined the road. The cul-d-sac ended at the edge of the woods that surrounded the city park. The street was the most recognizable area in Berry Springs, second only to Donny’s Diner. The locals had dubbed it, “Tourist Row.”
It also happened to be the location of Seagrave’s murder and the Cedonia Scroll heist.
I rolled to a stop next to an old, weathered sign that read Mystic Maven’s. I didn’t bother locking my Jeep as I slammed the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. I dipped my chin at the pair of Goldendoodles walking their owner.
“Mornin’ Detective.”
“Morning, Ms. Addington.”
I quickly pivoted onto the pebbled pathway that cut between the buildings to avoid small talk that would start with “I heard…”
I yanked at the collar of my T-shirt, cursing the sweat already beginning to bead. Damn humidity. In response to Colson’s advice to “button-up,” I’d gone above and beyond my usual uniform and chosen my thinnest grey T-shirt with pit-stains, ripped khaki tactical pants, and my most scuffed pair of ATAC boots. He’d be prou
d.
I slowed, scanning the ground, the edge of the buildings, the rooftops. Although I’d been to the spot countless times since the shooting, my gut told me I was missing something. To look deeper. And I always listened to my gut, aside from when it told me to get some rest.
It had only been three hours since I’d left the station, and as you may have guessed, I didn’t take Colson’s advice to get a solid night’s sleep. I’d gone home, reviewed case notes over a double whiskey, caught the scores on ESPN, followed by an ice-cold shower to bring me back to life. The sun was beginning to come up when I forced myself to lay down on the couch sometime after five-thirty. I might have slept, although I’m not sure. It was that weird state of either dreaming or thinking. Finally, I got up at six-thirty and started the coffee.
A mosquito the size of a taxi buzzed around my face as I kneeled down. Blood-stained rocks still colored the ditch where Lieutenant Jack Seagrave took his last breath, although fewer than the day before. Probably some sick teenagers wanting a piece of memorabilia from a cop killing. I picked up one of the rocks and turned it over between my fingers, my mind racing.
How did it connect? The Black Bandit, the cursed scrolls, the blue sedan, the Voodoo Tree? Sunny Harper?
Lieutenant Seagrave had been shot six times.
Six.
I’d seen plenty of gunshot wounds over the course of my life, the majority were one, maybe two hits. Rarely had I seen six.
One or two suggested desperation, fear of getting caught, or a simple, quick kill. More than two suggested emotions. That it was personal. That it was no coincidence.
I had Darby pull the list of cases Seagrave had worked during the last year of his life, and, as suspected, that list would take days to comb through.
Could it have been a revenge killing?
But who?
The Black Bandit. Everything looped back to the Black Bandit, I was sure of it.
I ran my fingers through my hair and sat back on my haunches.
Jagger (Steele Shadows Investigations) Page 11
