Deadhead: Bedhead Book 3

by Kayt Miller

  “Huh? How?”

  She shrugs. “Something about the painting. It takes on all of Dorian Gray’s ugliness.”

  “What happens?”

  “Well, Dorian hides the painting, but he still visits it. In the end, he stabs the painting, and it kills him.”

  “What? It kills him? How?”

  “Well, by stabbing the painting, he’s stabbing himself.” She nods. “Blood even seeps from the painting.”

  I raise a brow. “Wow. That sounds like a great story. That’d make a great movie.”

  “They’ve made it into a movie. It’s old, though.”

  “Fascinating. Maybe we could find it somewhere and watch it.”

  “As long as we don’t have to watch The Great Gatsby, I’m all in.”

  “Maybe I’ll just read the book.” I give her a smirk.

  Daisy’s head hits the back of the sofa. “No. Please don’t. Trust me, Daisy Buchanan is the worst person in the world.”

  “Worse than Dorian Gray?”

  She purses her lips. “Well, no. But she’s pretty bad.”

  “Fine. Let’s see where that Dorian Gray movie is. If I have to get one of those online movie subscriptions, I will.”

  “Let’s check. Do you have a computer?”

  “Yep. Let me get it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Daisy

  In the end, we found a movie called Dorian Gray that was filmed in 2010.

  “Told you it was disturbing,” I say as the credits roll.

  “It was, but what a creative story.”

  I’ll give Oscar Wilde that. “Wilde was ahead of his time, really.”

  “Why would your grandfather name his child after a character like that?”

  I shrug. “I never met him, but I’m going to guess he did it for the same reason my dad named me after an F. Scott Fitzgerald character—he loved Oscar Wilde.”

  “Hmm.” Gage looks off like he’s thinking. “If I had a child, I think I’d name it something average. You know, like John.”

  I giggle, but I have to ask, “You want kids?”

  Smiling down at me, he nods. “I do. You?”

  “I wouldn’t mind. I’d want more than one, though. Being an only child sucks.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a brother, and he’s a pain in the ass, so there’s that.”

  “Why? What’s he do?” This is the first real personal information I’ve gotten from Gage. It’s nice.

  “He’s always getting into trouble.”

  My eyes grow round. “Like legal trouble or lady trouble?”

  Chuckling, he takes my hand and holds it. “Both.”

  “Wow. And you’re even a cop. Does he live around here?”

  “Nah. I’m from Missouri originally. He still lives there, in the town where we grew up.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “My dad died a few years ago. My mom’s still in the same town. They live next door to each other, actually.”

  “That’s nice for her. He can do things for her.”

  Scoffing, Gage explains, “It’s the other way around. I’m pretty sure she still does his laundry.”

  “No!” I slap Gage’s firm chest. “How old is he?”

  “Twenty-four.” He pauses. “No, twenty-five now.”

  “Close to my age. Old enough to do his own laundry.” I mean, seriously.

  Chuckling, he leans down and kisses me quickly. “You’re right.” Moving a rogue piece of hair out of my face, he adds, “I think she likes to do it. It makes her feel needed or something.”

  “She sounds nice.” I close in on him and give him a kiss. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

  “Thanks.” Gage kisses me again, this time a little deeper. “He was a good man.”

  “Like you?” We kiss again, a little longer this time.

  “Better.” I feel Gage’s fingers slide around my neck and into my hair. His tongue sweeps against my lip, so I open for him. It’s getting heated fast. Moving closer, I crawl over him until I’m straddling his lap.

  “You’re addictive, Mr. Golden.”

  Kissing down my neck, he whispers. “So are you, Miss Buchanan.” Sliding his hand beneath my shirt, he skims over my lacy bra. “Let’s go to bed.”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “Let’s.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Gage

  “There.” I point to the monitor on Dan’s desk. We’re watching the footage from the elevator in Kara Becker’s building. “He’s the only one who entered via the elevator during the estimated time of death.”

  “Yeah, but who is he? It’s impossible to tell thanks to the black trench coat and big hat. We can’t see shit,” grumbles Dan. “Was it raining that day?”

  I shake my head. “It was chilly but no rain.” I watch the footage again.

  Finch points. “Who wears that kind of coat these days? And that hat. It looks like something from an old black-and-white movie. What do they call those?”

  “A fedora,” Dan replies .

  “A fedora?” Finch sounds perplexed. “Seriously. Who wears a hat like that?” Snapping his fingers, he holds one up. “An old guy. That’s who.”

  Looking down at the screen, I see it’s stopped. “Play it again.”

  Dan starts the video again, and all three of us lean closer. “He’s got on dress shoes too.”

  “It’s grainy, but you can tell they’re shiny.”

  Finch mumbles something about old guys and shiny shoes, but I ignore it. The truth is, he’s right. Those are two things an older man would wear.

  “Shit.” I push up to full height. “You can’t see his face. Hell, you can’t even tell what color his hair is.”

  “I’d guess he’s at least six feet tall.”

  Dan glares at Finch. “How are you getting that? We’re looking at this guy from above.” Because the camera is mounted in the top corner of the elevator, our point of view is a little skewed.

  Finch shrugs and points to the top of our guy’s head. “I could go measure the elevator and see if I’m right.”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “Anything would help.” Dan states absently as he fiddles with the controls trying to make the picture clearer.

  We watch it one more time, but nothing jumps out to identify the mystery man.

  “So that was a whole lot of nothing,” I mutter angrily. “I had hopes for that.” I point at the screen. The one good thing it does is give Tayler Sorenson a better defense. If it came to it, she could show there were other possible suspects, which means there’s reasonable doubt.

  Turning to Finch, I ask, “Did you get in touch with Falco?”

  “Yeah. Finally.” He sighs. “He called me back last night.”

  “And?”

  “He claims he hadn’t seen our vic for several months. I asked him to come down today so we can print him and talk to him in person.”

  “Good.” I nod. Smart thinking, rookie. I want to get a look at this guy too. “What time’s he gonna be here?”

  “He didn’t say. I’ll follow up with him, though.”

  “Good.”

  “What about the grades, Dan?”

  The detective sighs. “ISU won’t release any information about Dr. Buchanan’s grades. They’re confidential, and I think we’d have a hard time convincing a judge for a warrant because our reason for wanting them is flimsy as fuck.”

  He’s right, and it’s probably nothing, anyway. I mean, Dr. Dorian Gray Buchanan is very well respected.

  “Hey… wait.” I reach for the folder we took on our trip to Stuart yesterday. Opening it, I search for the notes from Kara’s journal. “DG.” Looking at Dan, I ask, “Did you ever figure out who DG was?”

  “Nope.”

  “Dr. Buchanan’s name is Dorian Gray Buchanan.”

  “Wasn’t Dorian Gray a movie?” Finch asks.

  “It was a book by Oscar Wilde.” I nod. “And also a movie.”

  Dan shakes his head. “Wouldn’t
he be listed as DB if it was him?”

  My shoulders slump. “Probably.” Not giving up, I stand up to find the actual journal. When I can’t find it, I look at Dan. “Where’s the journal?”

  “Captain’s got it.”

  What? “Why?”

  Dan shrugs.

  I’m up and out of my chair in a second and in front of the captain’s door in five more. Knocking, I listen for him to tell me to enter. When he finally speaks, I open the door and step inside. “I need the journal.”

  “Why?”

  Wow, okay. “I’ve got a theory.”

  With a sigh, he opens his desk drawer and withdraws a pink leather-bound book. “Bring it back. Her father’s concerned Kara’s personal thoughts are going to get out there.”

  Ignoring him, I take hold of the journal and tug it from his hands.

  What is it with the captain and Kara’s father?

  Back in the conference room, I slide back into my seat, open her journal to page one, and read.

  Opening the door to my house, I’m tempted to pronounce, “Honey, I’m home,” but I don’t. I sniff the air, hoping she’s cooking again, but smell nothing new or delicious.

  Not only that. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

  “Daisy?” I say loud enough that if she’s in one of the bedrooms, she’d hear me. When I get no response, I walk past the kitchen and down the short hallway to the bedrooms and bath. Peeking into the spare room, I see it’s empty. The bathroom door is open, so I know she’s not in there. Pushing open the door to my bedroom, I hold my breath, hoping she’s already in my bed. Preferably naked. Sadly, that’s not the case. My bed is still made from this morning and empty.

  “Daisy?” I say again just for the hell of it.

  Then I remember the deck. She could be out there. Moving out of my bedroom, I walk through the kitchen to the back door. Opening it, I step onto my wooden deck that overlooks a decent-sized yard. “Daisy?”

  Still nothing.

  In the kitchen, I spot a note. I hold my breath again, worried it’s going to tell me she’s leaving—a goodbye note. Reaching out, I pick it up and slowly bring it close enough for me to read.

  Gage,

  I’m running errands. I’ll be home back later.

  Daisy

  Relief washes over me except for one thing. The way she crossed off “home” and replaced it with “back” bothers me. A lot. Why can’t this be her home too?

  Which reminds me. Captain Billings asked me point-blank today if I’d dealt with the Daisy issue. I merely nodded.

  “Good,” he said, then walked away.

  Yes, I lied to my commanding officer. But it can’t be helped.

  Changing into sweats and a tee, I grab a beer from the fridge and return to the deck. It’s a nice night. There’s a little chill in the air, but nothing that will bother me. Sitting in one of my lounge chairs, I sip and think about today—about the investigation.

  Bryant Falco finally showed up. With his father. And a lawyer.

  Strange. Why would he bother bringing a lawyer with him? Unless he’s got something to hide. But in the end, the interview was worthless. He claims he hasn’t seen Kara for months and that they weren’t dating, just sleeping together. He claims she was clingy and, with a nonchalant shrug, added, “She’s kind of a bitch.”

  She was. Kind of a bitch, I mean.

  When we asked him where he was at the time of the murder, his father interjected, “He was home, with us, visiting.”

  It’s not that I don’t believe him, but I don’t believe him. Finch is going to dig a little deeper into Bryant Falco. Hopefully he’ll find out if he was, in fact, back home in Des Moines. Even if he was, it’s only thirty-five minutes away. He could have driven to Ames and back before his father even knew he was gone.

  Which gives me an idea.

  Me: Did we see anyone matching Falco’s description entering the building that night?

  Dan: We weren’t looking for him, but now that we’ve seen him. I’ll look again.

  Me: Thanks.

  Dan: No problem. Now quit working and have a beer.

  Me: Yes, sir.

  Dan: Good. Life’s too fucking short. You take this job too seriously, trust me, you’ll wake up and what you considered your real life is gone.

  Wow, that’s the most the guy has ever said to me. And it was personal.

  Me: Got it. Thanks. **says as he takes a drink of beer**

  Dan: Ha. Good.

  Placing my phone on the arm of the lounger, I lean back and sip my beer, wondering where the hell my girl is. I’d call her, but she doesn’t have a phone.

  “Shit.” Now I’m going to worry.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Daisy

  I get home around nine, much later than I’d anticipated, but it can’t be helped. I had things to take care of today. Things that took time. “Hello?” I ask as I step into the house. “Gage?”

  “In here.”

  By that I assume he means the bedroom since he’s not in the living room or kitchen. With bags in hand, I stop in the spare bedroom and am about to set everything on the bed but notice the cat’s asleep right in the middle. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Does he really need a cat? He’s got me now.

  Giving the yellow creature my best evil eye, I set the bags on the floor. When I turn, I catch a glimpse of myself in the little mirror above the dresser. I feel a gasp is in order because I look like I’ve been caught in a wind tunnel. My hair’s a mess, my shirt’s wrinkled, and my leggings… well, they’re fine. I quickly search for my hairbrush to work out the knots and tangles. It hurts, but I get it done in no time.

  Stepping up to his bedroom door, I knock.

  “Why are you knocking?”

  I jump, startled, because I didn’t expect him to open the door. Placing my hand over my heart to get it to calm down, I laugh. “Wow. You scared me.”

  “Sorry.”

  It’s right then I notice Gage. Well, I notice what he’s wearing: a pair of dark gray sweatpants. Nothing else. The heat of a blush creeps up from my neck onto my cheeks. I know I shouldn’t be blushing because I’ve seen this man naked, but still….

  “You blushing, honey?”

  “No.” The lie makes my cheeks even warmer. “Yes.”

  Leaning down, Gage kisses me softly. “You’re pretty when you’re all pink.”

  Oh shit. Here it comes again.

  “Glad you’re home.” I hear emphasis in the last word. And I know why. When I wrote that note, it felt weird to call Gage’s house home, so I crossed it off. I probably should have rewritten the note, but I was in a rush.

  In an attempt to change the direction of this conversation, I smile up at him. “Me too.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “I had some business to take care of.”

  “Like?”

  “I got a new phone for one. I’ll be sure you have my new number later.” I also did some more shopping, looked at a couple apartments, and bought a car. A used one, but it’s reliable-ish and should last me long enough for me to get the rest of my stuff in place. But I don’t want to tell him all of that, so I just give him the obvious one. The one that’s parked out on the street in front of his house. “Also some shopping. I bought a used car.”

  “A used car?” He sounds surprised. “By yourself?”

  I’m not sure why, but his comment bugs me. “Yeah. By myself.”

  “Where’d you get it?” He sounds a tad judgmental.

  Déjà vu is hitting me. My dad questions me like this. “From a student.” Who was desperate for cash. I feel like we helped each other.

  Gage chuckles. “Daisy. Have you ever bought a car before?”

  “No.” Duh.

  “And you just decided to buy one today. By yourself?”

  “Yep.” I could tell him I did my research, but why bother?

  Turning, I step out of his bedroom into the spare room. I’m very close to packing up my stuff and leaving. I th
ink I was right in my note earlier. This isn’t my home—just like my apartment wasn’t my home.

  “Daisy?” He’s close. Probably standing in the doorway. “I’m sorry. I just thought about what I said to you and how I said it. I didn’t mean to sound like an asshole male.”

  “Well, you did.” I reach for one of my bags from earlier, trying to decide if I should empty it or fill it with the rest of my stuff.

  When his arms wrap around my waist, I flinch. “Gage. Not now.”

  “Honey.” He kisses my neck. “I’m sorry.”

  Sure he is.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  No shit.

  I feel his hands on my waist, urging me to face him. I go ahead and do it. When he sits on my bed, he pulls me closer. “I mean it. I know I sounded like a macho jackass just now. I didn’t mean to suggest that you didn’t know what you were doing.”

  “Uh-huh.” I still haven’t looked him in the eye.

  “Please look at me, honey.”

  I can’t.

  “Please?” he repeats.

  Damn it. I turn my head just enough to look at him with my left eye. “Happy?”

  “No. I won’t be happy until you accept my apology, and even then, I’ll feel like shit all night.”

  “You should.” I’m just going to say what I need to say. “I don’t need a guy telling me what to do, Gage. My dad’s done that forever. Hell, he still thinks he can do it. It’s my money, my car, and my decision.” My voice is getting stronger the more I say. “So, even if the car I bought is a piece of junk, it’s my piece of junk. I’ll live with it like I’ve lived with all my decisions. You got me?” I’m pretty much yelling now.

  “I do.” Gage nods several times. “I get you. I’m sorry.”