A Hope City Duet

by Kris Michaels

  “Gino’s case is a done deal. Let’s see if Kowolski and Edmans will take the drive-by shooting. That way we can focus on Treyson.”

  “Exactly my plans.” Lieutenant Davidson’s voice boomed from the break room door, spinning them both.

  “Give me the case file on Gino. I’ll meet with Vice when they have their end done. Ski and Edmans are waiting for a brief on the drive-by in The Desert. Whitt, the only case you're working until the Feds get off their asses and send for you is Treyson. What time is your meeting with Mrs. Treyson?” Davidson turned and looked directly at him as he spoke.

  “3:30. We’ve got his phone, receipts and business cards that we are going to run down until then.” His Lieutenant was a tough fucker and protective as hell of his people.

  “Did you clear the use of the information on the phone?"

  “I did, but I’m getting a warrant to cover our asses.”

  “Keep me informed. I’m giving you what cover I can, but you’ve got to know, your old man is spread and nailed to a cross on this one. The big boys and the press want blood, the killer’s or your old man’s, it doesn’t matter to them; so, let’s do everyone a favor and not let the Commissioner be the sacrificial lamb.” His Lieutenant’s glower landed on them. Ninety-five percent of the cops in this city loved his old man. The other five percent were crooked motherfuckers who preferred the 'good ole boy' system his father had obliterated. Davidson fell firmly on the ‘I love your old man’ side.

  “Will do.” He nodded his affirmation. He and Jordan silently watched Davidson leave the breakroom. “Fuck me.”

  “It would seem your old man has literally put his career in your hands.”

  His father had alluded as much this morning but hearing it from his Lieutenant and his partner drove the message home with emphasis. A sinking feeling grabbed his gut and held him down as if it was anchored to the weight of the world. “Yeah.”

  3

  "The man had one hell of a caffeine addiction." Jordan motioned to the coffee shop where one of the many receipts in Samuel's wallet came from.

  "Coffee ain't illegal, and seriously, he has just as many dry-cleaning receipts," He grumbled as he put the car into park.

  "A clean and pressed caffeine freak," his partner murmured.

  "Come on, let's see what they remember." Brock unfolded from the Crown Vic they drove while on duty. He glanced over at the small coffee shop. "What's the time stamp on this one?"

  "Ahh… 8:30 a.m."

  He flicked his cell phone, waking the home screen, so he could check the time. The morning crew might still be there. They waited for traffic and then crossed the street. The little bell on the door tinkled above them when they opened the door.

  Jordan always made first contact with witnesses, so he drifted to the left to look at the pastries as his partner engaged the young woman behind the counter. He listened to the entire conversation, and tried his damnedest not to glower or hover—Jordan’s descriptions, not his.

  "I'm sorry, I don't remember the order, but we are always slammed that time of day."

  "That's okay, Autumn. Maybe a photo of the guy would help?" Jordan smiled at the young woman, and he could have sworn the girl sighed. His partner produced a photo they'd cropped from an on-line magazine. The picture featured Samuel with a relaxed happy smile.

  "Oh, that's Sam. He's in here a couple times a week with Ava. They are regulars. Always together, you don't see one without the other. I must have missed them yesterday, but it was a zoo in here."

  "Do you know where Ava or Sam live?"

  "Ummm… no. But Ava works over at that store..." The girl held up a finger and turned toward the kitchen and yelled, "What store does Ava work at?"

  A disembodied female yell came back through the open door. "Ava who?"

  "Ava, tall, long brown hair, killer clothes… ah, extra-large, non-fat, steamed with cinnamon, no sugar, one Splenda."

  The disembodied voice answered, "Oh, yeah. The Black Crane, I think."

  Autumn turned around and giggled. He rolled his eyes, but Jordan smiled down at the girl. "That's right, she works at the Black Crane. Very expensive stuff in there."

  Jordan glanced at him. "Are you going to get some of those pastries or just drool?"

  "You paying?"

  "What day is it?" Jordan glanced at his watch.

  "Wednesday, you pay."

  The girl behind the counter laughed. "Umm… it's Thursday."

  Damn, was it Thursday already? He’d lost a day somewhere. "Thursday." He acknowledged the correct date and smiled at her. Her eyes rounded, and she blushed from the chest up.

  "Thursday. You buy." Jordan slapped him on the back and pointed to a decadent looking cinnamon roll. "Mine."

  "Two of those, please, and two of your largest black coffees but leave room for cream and sugar.” He’d already found the condiment bar where they could doctor their coffee.

  They parked in the parking lot in front of the Black Crane, a high-end retail shop housed in a converted warehouse in the newly gentrified area of the Inner Harbor. He’d driven through this area a couple months ago, six months at the most, and the store hadn’t been in operation then, so it had just recently opened its doors. He didn’t get over this way much. Most of his days were spent in the bowels of the Southern District. He sniggered to himself watching the well-dressed patrons teeter in on extremely high heels. The one man he saw enter the store wore a suit that probably cost more than his truck. Strike probably. Insert definitely. His truck was older than dirt, but it ran well.

  He shoved the last of his cinnamon roll into his mouth and chased it down with a big swig of coffee. Crumpling the bag and using it as a napkin to remove the remnants of cream cheese frosting from his fingers, he pointed at a fancy European vehicle that drove into the lot. “That damn thing cost more than we both make in a year.”

  Jordan made a polite noise of acknowledgement. He swallowed his food before he spoke, “There is a lot of new money coming into Hope City.”

  “So it would seem. Shall we go see Miss Ava?”

  Jordan grabbed a napkin from the glove box and wiped his fingers, drank the last of his coffee and opened his car door.

  Something wasn't lining up in his head. He waited for Jordan to look at him before he said, “Seems a little strange, doesn’t it?” Jordan waited for him to come around the vehicle before they started across the parking lot.

  "What's that?"

  “What is a multimillionaire doing with someone who works at a clothing store? Hell, what is a multimillionaire doing with someone who works, period? And let’s take this one step further. What is a married multimillionaire doing with a young woman who works at a clothing store?” Brock opened the door and let Jordan go in first.

  The air inside the store held a distinct citrus note. The lemony aroma drifted on the same air as the soft classical music playing through the sound system. He snorted when he saw a waiter wearing a tux with tails carrying a silver tray with champagne and glasses piled on top. "Holy fuck. I thought this was a clothing store.”

  Jordan gave him a look that told him to shut the fuck up. He laughed anyway.

  “It is. Only the clothes here aren’t on racks.” Jordan motioned to the far corner. A stream of reed-thin women paraded past a conversation group. An old, plump, woman at the center of the couch raised a single finger. The model stopped, turned, struck a pose, and then turned again before she exited. “I think she just purchased that outfit.” Jordan grabbed his bicep and dragged him away… probably so he didn't say something they'd both regret.

  “Dude, I don’t think they sell Levi’s in here.” He trailed his partner as he semi-stared at a god-awful, puffy, silver contraption one woman was wearing.

  Jordan laughed at him when he almost tripped over a low couch. "I can’t take you anywhere."

  "Obviously not," he mumbled and gave up trying to determine what the woman was wearing. Instead, he focused on where they were going. The rich wood tones and
jewel color fabrics reminded him of a throne room. Not that he’d ever seen a throne room, but he’d bet royalty would be comfortable in this store.

  They approached a low counter where a gentleman in a suit sat, studiously ignoring them. He glanced at Jordan as he reached in his jacket, whipped out his credentials, and shoved a face full of his badge at the man. “We’ll talk to your manager, now.”

  The man withdrew several inches, raised his nose, and scrunched his face, as if he smelled a horrible stench, then his eyes dropped to his identification. He pushed his chair away and stood, pulling delicately on his jacket before he flicked away some invisible lint. “I am the manager.”

  He glanced at Jordan who shrugged. That was his go-ahead to take over the interview move. Fine by him. “You have an employee by the name of Ava. We need to speak to her.”

  The man’s eyebrows raised to his hairline. “Ava? She’s with a customer at this time. Can you come back?”

  He leveled an ice-cold stare at the smaller man. “Now, or I’ll put you in cuffs and take you downtown for interfering with a murder investigation.” Not that he would ever do that, but the threat was worth the response. The little man almost shit his britches.

  The man reached down to the lapel of his jacket and pushed a button on the small mic affixed to it. “Miss Dall, you are required at my location immediately. Miss Simms, please take over for Miss Dall.” The man flicked his eyes toward him. “She’ll be on her way momentarily. May I show you to a secluded area?”

  The man’s eyes ran over Jordan before he flicked another disdainful glance in his direction. As much as he’d like a private location to talk to Miss Ava Dall, he got the feeling the manager wanted them hidden from his wealthy clientele.

  The sharp click of stiletto heels on hardwood floors drew his attention to the young woman heading their way. He could tell in an instant she wasn’t pleased to be taken away from her customers. She slowed when she noticed them; her attitude changed from irritation to curiosity. “How can I help you, Mr. Thorpe?” Ava Dall spoke to her manager but looked at them. Her intelligent eyes swept over them and landed on the bulges under their jackets. She cocked her head and waited.

  “Miss Dall, please take these police officers away from the middle of the store and answer their questions. I will be giving Mrs. Davidson's commission to Miss Sims.” The little man sniffed as if a fetid odor permeated his presence.

  Ava narrowed her eyes at the man and nodded. She turned her pissed off expression to them, and tipped her head toward the back of the store. When they reached the farthest conversation group, Miss Dall sat in one of the massive wing-backed chairs. “What does the Hope City Police Department need from me?”

  “Ma’am, you were with Samuel Treyson yesterday morning?” Jordan reached in his pocket for his notebook.

  “Yes.” She looked from Jordan to him again, her brow furrowed. “Why? What’s wrong? Is Sam okay?”

  “Ma’am, we regret to inform you that Samuel Treyson is dead.”

  When Jordan broke the news, he watched the woman’s reaction carefully.

  Her eyes immediately dilated. She gasped, and her mouth went slack. Her hands clutched to her chest and tears filled her eyes. “Oh my God, how? When? It was that car, wasn't it? I told him he was driving it too fast. Why wouldn't he listen! Has anyone told his wife or the others?”

  Whoa, he did not see that coming. Leaning forward he cleared his throat. “Others?”

  The woman nodded rapidly. Her tear-filled words were fast and difficult to understand. “I’m Tuesday and Thursday. Chloe is Monday and Wednesday. His wife is Friday, and Garrett has Saturday and Sunday.”

  “Wait… What do you mean you have certain nights, and they have certain nights?” Jordan interjected the question. Obviously, his partner was just as lost as he was.

  She blinked at him as if he was stupid. Nodding her head, she spoke slowly, still crying and hiccupping, but trying to explain, “Sam sleeps with me on Tuesday and Thursday; he sleeps with Chloe on Mondays and Wednesday. On Friday night, he has to do the social obligation things his wife requires. I don’t know if he has sex with her or not, and G-Garrett fulfills his needs on Saturday and Sunday.” She burst into full on sobs.

  “Mr. Treyson was bisexual?” Jordan was writing furiously as he asked.

  “Yes.” Ava dropped her head into her hands and sobbed before her head popped back up. “I need to be there when you tell Chloe. She’s going to be devastated. Out of all of us, she’s least capable of dealing with this.” Black trails of mascara ran in streaks down the woman's cheeks.

  He raised a finger stopping her words. “Wait, you all knew about each other?”

  Ava nodded her head again, sucking back heartbroken sobs, trying to speak through her weeping. “Of course, we’ve been in this relationship for almost four years. We talk to each other because there are times when we have to juggle dates because of important events we want Sam to be at, or when we go on vacation together.”

  “So last night he should have been with Chloe?”

  She nodded, soft sobs coming from behind her hands. He glanced at Jordan, who was still scribbling furiously in his notebook. Looked like they were tag teaming this witness.

  The gray matter between his ears probably needed to reboot because, for some reason, he wasn’t grasping the totality of the situation. Was he? It would appear that probably the richest man in Hope City was in a polyamorous relationship with three people and his wife.

  “He takes all of you on vacation together with his wife?” Brock reached over and snagged a sterling silver rectangle that enclosed a two-dollar box of tissue and handed it to the woman.

  She gratefully grabbed several puffs of tissue from the heavy silver box and swabbed at her tears. She shook her head and blew her nose before she spoke, “No, just the three of us and Sam would go on vacation. His wife went on her own vacation with her lover. They had an open relationship, but they maintained a traditional front for the public.” She lurched upright. “Oh my God, you’re not going to let the media know about this, right? You can’t do that. It would ruin his reputation. His father would... It wouldn't be good. Not for us and not for Miriam.” She grasped at Jordan’s arm.

  He made sure to clarify, "Miriam Treyson, Samuel's wife?"

  "Yes. Sam's father is a real jerk. If he found out, we'd all end up dead."

  "Isn't that a little dramatic?" Jordan smiled at the woman.

  She stared at him. Rivers of black mascara pooled under her eyes before they streaked and smudged across her once perfect makeup. She shook her head. "Maybe. But you don't know the horror stories Sam has told us about growing up with that man. If half of what Sam relayed was true, that man would do anything to protect his reputation. Anything."

  Jordan nodded and patted her hand. “I assure you everything you tell us will be kept in the strictest confidence. This is an ongoing murder investigation; we aren't very forthcoming with information.”

  “Wait, what? Murder?” The woman’s shriek echoed in the vastness of the store. Her eyes could have passed for teacup saucers and she paled, losing all color from her face. She turned her head to stare at him. “Somebody murdered Sam?” She shook her head and held up a hand as if the motion would stop his partner’s words. “No, that’s impossible. Sam is the kindest, sweetest man on the face of the earth. He wouldn’t hurt a bug. I mean, seriously. He made me get the spiders out of the bathtub and set them loose outside! He wouldn’t hurt a soul. Why would anyone kill Sam? I thought you meant he died in a traffic accident or something. No. No. No, you… you must have this wrong.”

  She broke down then, and the sobs were heart-wrenching. Jordan and he exchanged silent looks as they waited for her to control herself. He mouthed the word father and cocked an eyebrow.

  Jordan nodded before he soothed, “Ms. Dall, we are going to need specifics. Names, addresses, telephone numbers, everything you have on Chloe and Garrett.”

  “Of course. My purse is in the back. It
has my phone which has their addresses and their telephone numbers. I haven’t memorized a telephone number in years.” She mopped at her face, but the tissues were proving ineffective at keeping up.

  “That’s all right, ma’am. I’ll go back with you if that’s okay.” Jordan stood and offered her his arm.

  Chivalrous and caring, that’s how Jordan operated. Of course, he was making sure the woman didn't run out the back door. He watched his partner and one of Samuel Treyson’s lovers as they left the showroom before he lowered his observation to the tip of his boot. Samuel Treyson was part of a polyamorous relationship. Long-term. His mind flooded with motivations for the crime. Jealous wife, jealous lover, a lover's jealous lover, blackmail, furious father? All plausible and all those suspicions would stay on hold until the evidence led them to those conclusions. Prediction, when used by homicide cops during an investigation, never turned out well.

  Hell, right now they had more questions than they had answers. The answers they did have just led to more questions. He leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees as he waited for Jordan and Ms. Dall. Talking to Mrs. Treyson would be interesting, to say the least. His cell phone vibrated in his jacket. He reached for it, glanced at the face, and read Lieutenant Davidson’s text. Fucking fantastic. The Feds had pulled their heads out of their asses. Jordan was being called up to the big leagues, and it looked like he was getting a new partner. Fuck.

  4

  Kallie Redman sat facing the diner door and stirred her coffee as she watched the precinct house across the street. Her new home, as it were.

  A waiter buzzed up to the table. "Are you ready to order?"

  In truth, her stomach was not in the mood to wrap itself around anything substantial, but she hadn't eaten all day… nerves were a bitch. All she needed was to go across the street and faint. That would be awkward, especially since she was almost twice the size of a normal female. Timber. Splat. Yeah, she didn't need that on top of all the other baggage she was pulling behind her.