by Deanna King
She sat there thinking without answering. She was getting herself into uncharted territory. Even back then, no one had ever questioned her about Celeste, and she was uncomfortable.
“She didn’t have a boyfriend, that’s all.”
That answered the question that had been running through his mind about the condoms. No boyfriend—no sex—no need for condoms. Then why have condoms if she had no use for them?
“What can you tell me about her other than that?” Jack felt like he had driven all the way out here for nothing and he wanted something.
“Hmm, let’s see.” She put her finger on her lips and sort of patted them nodding her head and hmm’ing as she did so.
He was getting agitated. He shifted in his seat making sure not to restart the spring action under the thin cushion, and just about then, the front door swung open with a bang.
“Who in the fuck is parked in our driveway?”
He was a big man, well over six feet tall, topping in at close to six feet five. He was six one but sitting, and with this gargantuan standing at the door, he felt like a midget. The man was all of 300 to 350 pounds. He was dressed in a black leather biker vest and boots—big enough maybe, and he meant just maybe—to kick his ass. The snake tattoo wrapped around his neck was another intimidating feature. He stood and extended him his hand.
“I’m Detective Jack West, from the HPD. I’m here about a cold case from nearing thirty years ago.”
No handshake, just a stare was all he got from the very large bald-headed biker dude.
“I don’t know about no cold case, but I do know you’re parked in my drive and my buddies are bringing over a flatbed trailer, so you’re gonna hafta’ move your car.”
“And you are who, Jenna’s husband?” Jack prodded for a name.
He broke out into a deep belly laugh. “No, man, she wishes, though. We live together, you know, in sin and all that implies.” He winked.
“Nice to meet you, Not Jenna’s Husband,” Jack extended him his hand again.
He was laughing and grabbed Jack’s hand. “Name’s Max, Max Renner, but everyone calls me Sarge.”
He shook his hand. “Max, I’ll move my car then it won’t be in your way. Jenna, you keep thinking, and I’ll be right back.”
Sarge followed him out. “Head back in once your car is moved.” Sarge left, heading for the back of the house.
Back in the trailer, notebook in hand, he continued his line of questioning.
“This bouncer, Jed, what was his last name?”
“Logan.” She cringed, it had just popped out, and she hadn’t wanted to tell him that.
He took his notes—Jed Logan, bouncer at the Station.
“Did you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt her or would want her dead?”
“Uh-uh, uh, no, I didn’t.”
“Did you go to her funeral?” He wasn’t even sure why he asked her this, but an expression crossed her face that he didn’t ignore. She hesitated, her mouth opened then shut.
“Did you or not?” he repeated the question.
“No, I don’t do funerals, it’s creepy.”
“I know. Did the other girls in your ‘sisterhood’ attend her services?”
He was playing on her sisterhood remark, and he wondered if anyone was the dead woman’s friend.
“How should I know?” She huffed pulling her leg out from under her. She set her other foot on the floor and began rocking the chair faster in a nervous state.
“I know that girls talk and I figured if you were friends with the other girls they would’ve said something.”
She ignored his remark. “What else do you want to know?”
“You and Sarge, you’ve been together for a while?”
Now this was something she was comfortable discussing.
“Coming on about thirty years, give or take a few months here and there. I don’t care we aren’t married, cuz we’re common law married. So the courts figure we’re married.”
“So, thirty years, my, that’s a long time. So, Sarge must have known her too.”
Her mannerisms spoke volumes. She was fidgety and shifted in her seat. Jack sensed her hesitation to answer the question.
She stammered, “Uh, he, uh, he didn’t hang out with the girls, it was just me and him.”
“Had he ever met her?” Jack was not letting up.
“Yeah, a few times, but he wasn’t very acquainted with her. I was jealous, and he stayed away from other girls.” She cast her eyes to her bare feet, not meeting his stare. She was lying, but he let it go for now. She was holding back, her body language said it all.
“She was alone, no real friends, is that what you are saying?” he pushed.
“She had an old woman friend, some lady, she was a distant relation too that had money.” She paused, wishing the words were back in her mouth, unsaid, but she continued, “She was more of a loner. She didn’t make many friends.”
“You know the name of this distant relative?”
“Just her first name, it was Sara.” Jenna knew the woman was dead, and that he would not be able to talk to her, much less find a Sara with no last name.
Sara, how many Saras could there be in Houston, holy cow. This first name only business sucked.
“Okay, she didn’t have a boyfriend, and no family, poor girl must have been pretty lonely. I heard she was a pretty girl. Most pretty girls have friends, was she mean?”
“No, she didn’t act mean, and I suppose she was pretty in a scrawny kinda way. She was shy and timid, you know?”
“Hmm, I haven’t met too many timid and shy waitresses. How did she manage that? I mean, how did she make tips if she had a problem being shy?”
“Ahem.” She cleared her throat in a nervous gesture. “I mean, she was shy with men and the dating thing. She was an okay waitress, I guess.” Jenna crabbed-crawled her statement revising her answer to fit the question.
“No one ever missed her, I mean, once she went missing? She was a no-show at the boutique about a week before they found her body. I find that strange, don’t you, Jenna?”
“I am sorry she was killed, I am. That’s all I can tell you, Detective, I mean, I don’t know much more.”
Jenna stood up, walked to the front door, and opened it. “So, I got some stuff to be doing, are we done now?”
He thanked her and went out the door. He had a strong gut feeling that there was more to this story. Jenna Berrie was holding back and he might have to tackle her again…he just needed to find something to tackle her with.
He climbed into the dust-covered Charger and backed out of the long driveway. He hadn’t wanted to cut the interview with Jenna short, but it was in his best interest to leave before Max’s friends showed up. He had an idea they were just like him, and one of ‘em he’d be able to handle, but a dozen more, shit, that would be suicide. No sense in tempting fate—that was one of his many mottos as a cop; perhaps it was his only motto.
His timing had been near perfect, as he passed the old blue Ford hauling the flatbed trailer and gave them the standard finger wave as everyone did in Texas. Man, he was hoping they all thought he was a salesman. No need for them to know he was with the HPD. He figured they would ask who he was and maybe big ole Sarge would tell them to mind their own motherfucking business. His lips turned up in a big grin, he could hear him saying it now.
. . .
Her hands continued to tremble as she picked up a pack of cigarettes and tried to fish one out. She fumbled with the matches and tried to get one lit. He watched, then took the matches out of her hands, struc
k one, and helped her light her cigarette.
“Ain’t no way that you can be implicated, Jenna, so don’t worry.”
“But, Sarge, I know the real truth.” She dropped on the tatty couch, she took three long consecutive drags, and then crushed out her half-smoked cigarette. Her eyes began tearing up.
Sarge picked up the phone. A man answered on the fourth ring.
“The damn case has been reopened. HPD is working cold cases, and this one came up.”
The man on the other end exhaled a very long breath. “After all these years, are you kidding me?”
They talked for a few more minutes, and he hung up the phone.
“Who was that?”
“Sarge.”
She knew what that one name meant. She had been “dead” for nearly three decades; she didn’t want her murder solved, not now, not ever.
. . .
Somewhere about fifty miles west where large stately homes with well-groomed lawns sat and money dripped off roofs, a man poured a stiff drink. He sat at his large solid cherry wood desk, took a swig of the bourbon then set his glass on a coaster. He had no clue why he wanted to torture himself with this awful past, but he did.
The pictures were vivid; the color hadn’t faded much. Damn, he was in better shape back then. He had muscles, unlike the flab he called arms these days.
She had been the best whore he had ever encountered, why she consented to his whims he’d never know. He was a mean bastard back then, and he loved S&M. The blow and the booze, that had carried him to a place of no return, and in the end, he had to have help covering it up.
He heard HPD was working cold cases whenever they could, and he worried this one might come up. Never in his life did he hope that fresh cases kept this one unsolved case, unsolved. Here he was, hoping for murders. Didn’t Houston already have its share? Did more people have to die to keep him covered? Shit, he was a monster.
He picked up his glass and swallowed it in one gulp. It burned, but he didn’t care, it was the best bourbon money could buy.
CHAPTER NINE
Traffic sucked. He was sitting behind a senseless wreck; he had half a bottle of water, a bag of chips, and a Butterfinger. No caffeine meant he needed to eat the sugar. He unwrapped the candy bar, took a bite then punched in the number hoping Dawson was at the station.
“Luck, Homicide Division.”
Lucky sounded as beat as he was feeling right now.
“Howzit going, you ready to go home?”
“Flap Jack, I’m wasted from reading all this stuff. Reading makes me tired. Are you headed home?”
“Uh-huh, trying to get off the Loop and get on 45, there’s an accident blocking two lanes. Jiminy Christmas, man, all I have done is spin my wheels, but hey, I did just get started. How’s your read going?”
“It’s going is all I can say. This chick, Princess Lay-Ya hoo-ha ya - momma, JoAnn Cutter, was a friend to Houston PD. She had a rap sheet of course due to her profession, but she has some charges like…hold on, gonna get that page out…was fixin’ ta head out when you called.”
He felt bad for holding him at the station, but he’d be lucky, not just the nickname either. His call meant he’d miss some of the traffic that went with him on the way home. He knew Dawson lived somewhere between Beaumont Place and Mount Houston or in that general vicinity. No matter where you ended up on the Loop, you were bound to have an accident to deal with. Hell, he had one this morning to start his day off on the north Loop and here he was stuck in another one on the furthest end of the southeast part of the same damn Loop. It was crazy.
“Here, listen to this. Ms. JoAnn Cutter arrested for drug possession with intent to distribute, twice. The charges dropped and she got off scot-free. She knew someone who was a fixer I’d imagine. Her arrests for solicitation are numerous. This…I can’t call her a lady, cuz she ain’t one…this gal knew too many bad people, and it got her killed, dude, not missing. She’s dead-in-the-dirt killed. Whatdaya’ think, bones, right?”
“Didn’t you say she was a witness to another case? What was that about?”
“She was wit to a shooting. It was an attorney, no big law attorney, small potatoes, and someone he knew with him that night. Reports say they had been leaving the attorney’s office early in the morning, around three a.m., why they had been in the attorney’s office at that hour was another mystery. My missing person reported that she saw the whole thing, but then couldn’t describe the shooter or the car. You know, I am wondering if whoever it was got to her too. The shooter even took the time to get his spent shell casings, which meant he was taking his time. If he was so nonchalant about it, like a tortoise in a race, why couldn’t she give the cops back then a description?”
“Where was your wit, close by, what’s the deal?” He stepped on the breaks as traffic slowed again.
“Off Richmond, used to be a three-story brick office over there, bulldozed to the ground some while back. There’s a big tanning salon there now. She was at a bus stop on the opposite side of the street. Told them she was meeting a friend who worked at a place called the ‘Naked High Heel,’ a skin shop, topless bar back then. The Naked High Heel no longer exists. There are still plenty of skin shops on Richmond Avenue. New names, different girls; at least I hope there are different girls,” he sniggered. “Can’t imagine the same girls being there twenty-five years later, can you?”
Lucky let go of a deep belly laugh, picturing the women now, grannies with gray hair, scraggly and saggy skin in a G-string and no top—most men would have puked at the thought, but it made Lucky laugh.
Topless bars or any types of sexually oriented businesses were not Jack’s idea of fun. He opted out when any of his rather bawdy friends back in his youth wanted to hit the topless bars and get what they had called a “dance and a whiff.” Nope, it wasn’t his thing at all.
“In her statement, it says she told them that she had finished work, and her John had dropped her off. It was almost three a.m., and her roommate that worked at the Naked High Heel was meeting her. It was a Tuesday night, the streets weren’t busy. The uniforms canvassed the area. Back then, there was an old hotel and a small apartment complex with plenty of residents, but none of them were talking. Both of the buildings are gone. She was alone at that bus stop. There was another bus stop not more than a block away. Four people were waiting for a bus and no one saw or heard a thing. Guess they were all too afraid to talk.”
Lucky had a point. The apartment tenants should have heard the shots. He was sure someone did peek out a window. In certain neighborhoods, people didn’t snitch, out of fear: it was the same now, better to mind your own business and not get involved; nothing had changed. Jack had to admit her lifestyle wasn’t the safest.
“You know, Luck, you might be right, you may not be looking for a breather. I’m betting it’s bones. Who were the detectives on the case back then?”
“Gimme a second, let me take a look.” He thumbed through the papers. “Was, uh, Detectives Bullard and Simpson who worked the case.”
His gut tightened. They were the detectives on his cold case. Was that a coincidence? He decided not to mention it to Lucky. Heck, the detectives back then worked several cases at once so it might not mean a thing. Just because the same dicks were on multiple cases didn’t mean one had anything to do with the other. Lucky was talking, and he focused on what he was saying.
“…besides, I want to blow off the phone and head home to my beautiful wife and dinner.”
“Sure.” He disconnected the call.
There was an end in sight. A car and a small pickup had banged into each other. The tow trucks were all fighting to be hired. What had caused the accident was anyone’s guess, texting or
tired, on the phone not paying attention—they all fit. He worked traffic, an occasional event, or something of that nature when he had been a patrol cop. He appreciated the uniforms, they were always the biggest help for canvassing a large area or for backup, but he preferred homicide—always would.
. . .
He punched the snooze on his alarm, rolled over, closed his eyes, and wished he had time to sleep another few hours. Lord, he had stayed up too late, nursed a few too many beers and flipped through his copy of Cole’s murder book hoping something would jump out and either grab him or hit him square in the face. Neither the grabbing nor hitting or jumping occurred and he opted to catch up on some of his recorded shows that he was always terminally behind in watching. He didn’t fall into bed until 2:00 a.m.
Showering, shaving, and dressing took all of thirty minutes. He grabbed a large capped metal coffee container, filled it with half of the pot of coffee he had set to auto brew, grabbed the keys to the Charger, and headed out the door. He had wanted to beat any 8:00 a.m. traffic but missed his window since it was after 8:00.
He hopped on Highway 225, deciding to go to the station first. He’d buy rubber hip boots on his way out to the body dump site later.
No accident, fender-bender or otherwise, had slowed him, just congested traffic, and that was normal. He arrived at the station at 9:30. Dawson was already there, an empty Starbucks cup on his desk. He was working on a cup of break room coffee, and his head was in his case file. Jack saw that Lucky had been working on a bag of donuts.
He set his metal mug on the desk and booted up his computer.
“Already knee-deep?”
Dawson peered up as he fished into the bottom of the bag for the next-to-last donut. “You want one?” He shook the bag with one left.
“Naw, but thanks.”
He didn’t want any sugar this morning; otherwise, he never passed on a donut. He would get a breakfast burrito lunch or something on his way out later, but the coffee from last night and the few beers were sloshing around in his gut, and he wasn’t hungry.
