Darcy Walker - Season Two, Episode 1

by A. J. Lape

  I stepped in front of Dylan, trying to shield him from harm. “If someone is to be suspended, suspend me. I sharked York. He didn’t take the L well, developed diarrhea of the mouth, and Dylan defended my sometimes questionable honor.”

  Mcguire pinched the space between his eyes, probably wishing he could find one of those intergalactic wormholes and rewind time. “I can’t suspend you, Darcy.”

  “Exactly why I made the suggestion,” I mumbled. “Perhaps a group hug?”

  Unfortunately, I had no shame.

  Behind me, Hootie and Thor laughed. Dylan maneuvered himself in front of me, and Willow moved next to the bouncer. Willow was a master at PR. Top tier college sports had a lot of booby traps to wade through. People approached Dylan all the time for endorsements and promises that were illegal. Willow often traveled with him because she was quick at fielding the requests and shutting people down with a million-dollar twinkle if they threatened Dylan’s career. She hooked her hand through the bouncer goon’s beefy arm, subconsciously willing him to not throw Dylan out or worse yet, ban him permanently from the club. The bouncer might be good on any other night, but flash Willow’s star wattage, and the man couldn’t recite his ABCs.

  Mcguire’s eyes darted back and forth between Dylan and York. “Listen, this stops here, you hear me?!” he bellowed. “Nothing is continued in the parking lot. Nothing is continued at some other location.” When York mouthed off once more—wiping his bloody nose on his arm while telling Mcguire he had no say in his life—Mcguire reminded York that he did, adding the caveat he expected him at a private meeting the next morning with him, the offensive line coach, and the head coach. Again, York proved his brain wasn’t firing right when he continued the protest.

  Mcguire stalked forward and picked up the glass bottle York had attempted to use on Dylan. “This is why there’s a meeting, Kirby. Fists are one thing…broken bottles are another. On top of what you insinuated in your interview, you’ve just landed yourself in—”

  “—the Douchebag Hall of Fame,” I stupidly muttered out loud. Finn pinched me.

  “—massively hot water,” Mcguire continued. “Dumb move, man, but it looks like you specialize in dumb because Taylor was only playing with you.”

  York pushed his sweaty locks out of his face, spitting blood on the floor. “He didn’t play with me.”

  Thor inched toward him, his face morphing into an angry red. For once, his scary dwarfed Dylan’s. “Oh, yeah?” he said, ignoring Mcguire’s words for him to back off. “Then that must be why you were on the floor, making nice with the little tweety birds circling your head. You should’ve never pulled up on Darcy once you suspected she and Taylor were involved, but it’s not surprising. You want everything he has, and you were even dumb enough to say it in your interview this morning. Insecure much?”

  York swallowed, and I spotted a split second of fear in his face. Kirby York was like any other player in college sports and furthermore, the NFL. Fear and paranoia invaded your thoughts on a regular basis with you debating whether you were relevant enough for longevity in the field. Other than that, a player chasing longevity had to wonder how the public theater viewed him. Smart players learned to control the narrative. And York? Sure, I’d sharked the guy, but one look in his eyes, and I could tell he lived on that crossroads of sanity.

  “Taylor threw the first punch, Coach,” he snarled.

  “And he and I will most certainly talk about that in private,” Mcguire hissed.

  Mcguire was blond and as large as Optimus Prime. He barreled his chest right up next to Dylan, his blue eyes flashing hot. “This ends here, Taylor. Understood?” he said with some force.

  Dylan slid his amber eyes to Mcguire’s, causing every girl in the place who’d ever had a crush on him to sigh. Not only did he give good face, but he could technically protect a girl in a bar fight. Primo in the boyfriend department. “I was pretty sure I ended it five minutes ago, Coach,” Dylan said, “but if it makes you feel better by me verbalizing it, then yes…it ends here.”

  “You’re such a dick,” York hissed.

  Dylan’s eyes traveled back to me, a silent message to York I was under his protection. “I’ve been called worse,” he said in response, “but since—”

  “You’re going to name call,” Thor interrupted, “you’re a cheat. You cheap shot, you whine when things don’t go your way, and instead of figuring out how to defuse Taylor, you start holding. Well, how’d that work out for you on the field? Holding him didn’t stop his charge, asshole, and it never will. We’ll remember you and your broken bottle, and my memory is so long I should be a damn elephant. You can count on that.”

  York’s mouth stalled out after Thor’s words. I didn’t know if that meant it was over, or if it meant “battle engaged.”

  Chapter 7

  DOWN, NOSE. DOWN.

  The April night was sweet with spring, but the smell of death and fear sliced through the aroma like a swinging samurai sword. Dylan and I had been loading into his car outside the club. I’d dropped my keys. When I bent down to pick them up, I spotted a pair of blue sneakers on someone who was lying down between two cars, three rows over. Thinking it was someone extra intoxicated who hadn’t made it to his automobile, Dylan and I made our way to the shoes. Thing was, a mere inebriated person didn’t have a red ring around his neck where someone had strangled him with what appeared to be a thin wire. The blood oozing from it had congealed into a dark, goopy red. If the neck wound wasn’t enough, his arms and legs were twisted into one of those greater-than, less-than signs, going in opposite directions. Had his back been broken? Hips? Why would his legs be in that condition if the thin wire had been the proverbial deathblow?

  “Poor guy didn’t know whether he was coming or going,” I mumbled.

  Dylan crossed himself, letting out a pained exhale. “Mother Mary,” he whispered. “I don’t get it. You’re here just for one weekend, and you find another dead body. God, should I pray over him?”

  Dylan glanced to the heavens like the Almighty would answer.

  “I think it’s too late for that. Are you panicking?” I said, sliding my eyes up to his. “I get the feeling you’re panicking, and there’s no place for that in my organization.”

  “I think I’m just in shock. What the hell. I mean, dayum.”

  He crossed himself again.

  The vic was mid-thirties with short, black hair in a military cut. Wearing a white T-shirt and faded jeans, whatever was done to him appeared as if it might’ve been done in a surprise attack because he had no defensive wounds other than on his fingers where he’d clawed at the weapon around his neck.

  Dylan clutched onto the loop in my jeans, knowing I wanted my hands on the body more than I wanted a plate of brownies. Dead bodies and I had a metaphysical connection. We were drawn to one another. No matter where I went, even a coast away, here we were once more.

  Squatting down, my eyes narrowed as they traveled underneath the cars and then to their side doors, trying to figure out if he’d been transported in one of the autos and killed once he left its doors.

  Besides the wire around his neck, some object left his legs in that condition. If his murderer had mangled his legs onsite, then the cars around him would show some collateral damage. Right? The Altima and Suburban on either side of him have no blood spatter or dents from an unexpected fight and/or additional weapon. Wouldn’t there be some incidental blood spatter somewhere? And were his legs broken after the fact? Before?

  “All those things sound logical, Darc,” Dylan agreed.

  I hadn’t realized I’d said them aloud.

  After a few seconds of why-does-this-always-happen-to-my-girlfriend, Dylan dialed 911 and local law enforcement showed—along with a detective from my past, Detective Monroe Battle.

  “We meet again,” he said in shock.

  I thought it strange too. Dylan was more formal, pumping Detective Battle’s hand and giving a brief rundown of why we were at Mudder and how we�
�d come to see the shoes of the victim. I, however, didn’t beat around the bush. “What in God’s name are you doing in Gainesville?” I inquired. “Did you get fired?” I then dumbly giggled.

  Battle’s grin glinted with amusement. “Got married…transferred.”

  “Found someone stupid enough to marry a detective?” I asked. Dylan shifted and mumbled next to me, but I couldn’t make out the gibberish.

  Battle wiped his hand down his face, pulling on his goatee. “I’m thinking she regrets it already, so I bring home flowers weekly.”

  “You might want to add on a fruit basket,” I joked, “or at least an unlimited spending account at the mall.”

  I’d met Monroe Battle during summer break right before junior year in high school. While chasing a kidnapping story, I traveled to a seedy part of Orlando and ran into some of O-Town’s mob—actually witnessing a man have his finger lobbed off. Just another day, you know? While trying to sneak back into the Taylors’ Orlando home, I’d set off the alarm, and Detective Battle was nearby and answered the call. At that time, I told him everything I’d uncovered about the missing little boy, and at the end of the day, I solved the case before he did. Battle pretty much was a visual rewind of the last time I’d seen him. In jeans and a Miami Marlins white T-shirt, the black man was mid-fifties with ebony hair spattered with gray at the temples. Right then, though, he’d slimmed down sufficiently. My guess was the wife had him on a better diet.

  Battle snapped on rubber gloves and crouched down by the body. I tracked his vision. At first it was on the vic but then went to the adjacent cars and the pavement beneath him.

  “Wasn’t killed here,” I said.

  “I don’t think so either,” he said, his black eyes narrowing. “Besides the wire, some other object maimed his legs. You can’t swing a weapon between two cars without hitting a car door or busting out a window. No blood anywhere either, other than on the vic’s hands, and that could’ve been done at the scene of the murder. Perhaps he fought more than expected when the wire was placed around his neck...” he said, trailing off.

  “And a second assailant took a swing at his legs to take him to the ground?” I questioned.

  He raised his shoulders, expressing doubt. “Possible, or maybe the perp took out his legs first and then took him to the ground to finish him off. Gang violence…maybe. I’ll have to put out some feelers and see what fish come to the top.”

  Many times law enforcement formed relationships with street level criminals to uncover the main sharks. Battle had done that in Orlando. Apparently, he’d continued the practice in Gainesville. He would ask the low-level criminals what they were hearing on the street. Perhaps let them get by with their petty crimes, so he could bring down the biggest fish he could get them to snitch on.

  The vic was in the first stages of rigor mortis by the stiffness in his body. Rigor set in two to six hours after death, starting at the eyelids, neck, and jaw areas. Those were already stiffening up, so he hadn’t been deceased long. But why dump him here? Was it a quick stop because his murderer got spooked for some reason and had to ditch the body? A message to someone nearby? Was the vic’s car in the parking lot? Battle and the CSI with him gingerly went through the vic’s pockets, but there was no form of identification found to fill in those blanks.

  With a sigh, Battle stood up, glancing at his watch. I couldn’t imagine Battle working the nightshift, not with his credentials. My guess was he was on a case he couldn’t quite let go, or it’s possible his wife was on the graveyard shift too? “One thing you can always count on, Walker,” he said, “is that some people have big mouths. You just have to find the right set of lips to speed things along.”

  The moment the last period was placed on our witness accounts, his attention landed back on me. “So Lincoln told me in a recent email you enter the LAPD Academy soon.”

  He and Lincoln had kept up their relationship—something I hadn’t known.

  “Try Monday morning,” Dylan mumbled. Battle fished around in his back pocket and pulled out two wrinkled business cards, giving one to me and the other to Dylan. “Here. Take this in case you ever find yourself in a jam. Consider this your get-out-of-jail-free card. My personal number.”

  I placed mine in my back pocket. “We don’t have to part so soon, Detective. I can hang out and help if you need an extra set of eyes,” I said because Lord knew I felt it was my case.

  The corners of Battle’s mouth turned up, showcasing a deep set of dimples. “It’s all good, Walker,” he said, 86ing the offer. “I’ll call if I can think of anything. Just concentrate on getting through the academy. You’re going to be a great detective someday.”

  Maybe I just needed to turn the page. Upside was Battle was one heck of a detective; downside was I tended to operate under that finders/keepers thing. I’d found our John Doe first, and whether the victim was good or bad, I wanted to piece the last parts of his life together and make his assailant pay. But (A) Battle had the home field advantage; and (B) I wasn’t allowed to touch dead people while in the academy. I found it ironic I’d already uncovered one dead body and had another semi-confession on my hands from Clyde Sargent—and people were telling me to let others solve the cases. If I was open and honest, it ticked me off. But in a rare moment of acquiescence, I told myself, Down, nose, down, and did as requested.

  Chapter 8

  FLAG ON THE PLAY BY DYLAN TAYLOR.

  Serendipity Country Club is in Orlando, Florida, and the location of the Taylors’ summer home. After each game, the family would make the trek south and spend one or two nights, flying back to Cincinnati—or in my case, Los Angeles—for the Monday morning grind. My grind was my official first day of the academy. Physically, I was somewhat ready, running four miles every day. Emotionally? I wasn’t sure. Could I hack it? Would I barely be a blip on the radar? I was struck with the knowledge while those in traditional college were winding down their careers, my friend, Jon Bradshaw, and I were just beginning. A feeling settled in the pit of my stomach that Dylan and I just might be victims of bad timing—right person, wrong time. Especially if his pro career, which he undoubtedly would earn, landed him on one coast with me on another.

  My fears said we were already going in another different direction—waiting, begging, and praying for an intersection.

  Morning light filtered through the blinds of my room, and I snuggled underneath a navy silk sheet, pontificating the meaning of life. Where my normal method of operation would be to shove the thought down or run the nerves off in a 5K, there was no opportunity to ruminate because someone latched onto my foot, yanking me off the bed by my heel. My body bounced a few times—at least my brain said it did—but I was too tired to complain.

  I landed on a faux bearskin rug that wasn’t there the last time I visited.

  There were a gazillion people in the house, but when I heard the deep baritone voice I loved, I realized there was no need to widen the pool of suspects.

  Flag on the play by Dylan Taylor.

  “How’s the sweetest girl in the world?” he murmured.

  “Missing you,” I said, gazing longingly up into his toffee-colored eyes. “Why don’t you show me some love, baby?”

  Dylan did not have sweet lovin’ on his mind—instead, he went for some pretty aggressive foreplay. He flipped me to my stomach then placed one knee in my back, tugging my arm backward in his own version of “say uncle.”

  We somersaulted end-over-end, striking a bedside table, causing the laptop I’d placed on it earlier to teeter. As it wobbled in slow-motion, Dylan hitched one leg around my waist as he rotated us to catch it with one hand.

  “Close call,” he gasped, sliding it backward to a more secure setting.

  “Not close enough,” I flirted. My fingers twined in his hair, tugging hard.

  Dylan’s eyes were full of love…and a fiery lust. Rolling on top of him, our lips crashed together, and I reminded him why we were still together after being apart for roughly three years. San
s shirt in an old, faded pair of jeans unsnapped at the top, he’d just showered, and Lordy, did the guy and his citrusy shower gel smell good. I kissed his lips and chest so thoroughly I left him glistening with sweat. Dylan had his hands low on my hips, his fingertips grinding into the waistband of my zebra-print boxer shorts.

  Threading his fingers through the hair at my nape, he intermittently massaged my temples while pulling at the strands. Sometimes, the pleasure/pain signals with Dylan became twisted, punctuated by years of need and want.

  “Darc, that feels good,” he murmured in a thick voice. “More of that…yeah…I missed you…faster…I mean, slower…slow down, sweetheart. Sloooooow it dowwwwnn…I can’t…”

  The moment I trailed down to his speed bump abs, he placed his hand out to the side and tapped two times, hitting the pause button. “Time out, Darc,” he wheezed.

  My eyes traveled upward from the trail of kisses I’d left on his torso. “Tapping out?” I whispered. My word, my eyes were crossing.

  “For the time being,” he said between spurts of breath.

  Rolling out to the side, I curled underneath his arm, waiting for our breathing to stabilize. Dylan had a thick, black leather bracelet around his left wrist, lying next to a worn black and white crocheted bracelet my little sister had made for him last Christmas. He’d never removed it.

  After a few minutes of pulling in O2, Dylan said, “You’re scared about the academy.”

  I was amazed how he could effortlessly bust into my thoughts. “Yeah,” I said, “and you won’t be there to hold my hand in the dark.”