by Dale Mayer
Feeling much better, she now made her way downstairs, following the smell of fresh coffee. So Morgan hadn’t been up all that long. Or he’d been up for a hell of a long time and was already on his second pot.
The pot had just finished dripping. She poured herself a cup, found his sitting close by, and filled it too. Then she walked through the living room to the garage. She could hear music rolling through the air. Country music. She grinned. Like he needed to listen to songs about lost loves.
Her phone rang as she entered the garage.
Morgan was bent over the workbench drilling into a pipe. She placed his cup down, smiled up him as he looked up at her, and pulled out her phone. Roxy.
She sighed. “Hey Roxy.” Carrying the phone and the conversation back outside, she sat on the stairs to stare out the back yard. Morgan had a large green space surrounding a set of big ass trees.
“What the hell happened?” Roxy snapped. “What’s going on?”
“So much and not enough,” Jazz said. In a quiet voice, she brought her best friend and partner up to date.
Roxy gasped, and shock quickly turned to horror when she realized how close Jazz had come to getting seriously hurt again. Then Jazz told her about Morgan.
“He what? Why the hell would he do that?” she exploded. “His brother is such a user.”
“We all know that, but we don’t have the emotional garbage that comes with being siblings, and not when there are only the two of them left in the world. Besides, Morgan is a hard ass in every area but his brother.”
“Billy really is his weakness, isn’t he?” Roxy fell silent for a long moment. “Is it okay to hope that is him lying in the morgue? He’s done nothing but ruin your life for over a year now. It needs to be over.”
“I know. But I really don’t…” she lowered her voice, “want to go through what I went through already.”
“But neither can you walk away from Morgan, can you?” Roxy’s voice was gentle. Caring.
“Not if I can have that same relationship back again.”
She sighed. “Do you trust him?”
“In many ways, yes. In others, no. I’m also afraid. He left me once. What’s to stop him from doing it again?”
“Love. And the realization of what he’d done last time for his idiot brother.”
“So if Billy is dead and out of the picture, then maybe I trust him,” she said softly. “But having seen the damage Billy could do…”
“Morgan won’t fall that again.”
“No, but he shouldn’t have fallen for it the first time,” Jazz said bitterly.
“I agree, but in a way, I think Morgan is as much a victim here as you are. Billy knew how to get him. How to twist him, use him, and throw him away.”
“That doesn’t excuse what he did,” Jazz said flatly.
“No,” Roxy said gently, “It does make it more understandable.” She continued in a brisk tone, “And I have to admit I don’t hold that against him. What he did was stupid and hurtful, but…”
“I know.” Jazz groaned. “That’s why I’m still here at his house.”
“And in his bed…” Roxy asked with humor threading through her voice, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah, so nice to have that back…” Jazz laughed, knowing Roxy would understand.
“Damn, you are one lucky woman.”
Jazz’s gaze strayed to where Morgan stood, trying to pry something apart on his workbench. His biceps bulged and his t-shirt stretched across his chest. Damn, even covered in grease and dirt, he could melt her insides.
“Ah, Jazz? You there?” Roxy’s voice pulled her back to the present. “Jazz?”
“Yeah,” she cleared her throat and her mind that had filled with memories of that sexy body she knew so well. “I’m here.”
“Damn girl. What is he doing, modeling nude in front of you?” Her laughter made Jazz grin, but her own voice was low as she said, “He never had to do that for me, you know that. He’s dynamite in jeans or without.”
“Yeah, you two were always hot.”
“It was more than that… at least I thought it was.”
“It was. Trust that whatever you went through had a reason – if for no other than it was to make your stronger.”
Roxy and her damn metaphysical self-help stuff. She’d gotten into it a few years ago and unlike her other short-lived interests, this one had grabbed hold. Sometimes it even made sense. This time, there was no making sense of any of it.
“Just in case, Roxy, you take care. If you see Billy or hear from him, then let us know.”
She heard a vehicle drive up. She twisted so she could see the driveway and the cruiser that pulled up. “Gotta go Roxy, the cops are here.”
*
Morgan turned at the sound of a vehicle. Sure enough, it was the same officer, Constable Shaun something. Good, maybe he had some news. He dropped his tools on the workbench and turned to greet the man.
Seeing movement on the side, he watched Jazz walk over, her phone in one hand and coffee cup in the other. He smiled and held out a hand. She picked up her pace and grasped his hand. Together, they walked over to the policeman.
“Constable. I hope you have some news for us.”
“I do, but not necessarily good news. We haven’t found the bike, and there are no residents in the building with a bike registered to them.” He checked his notes. “And we caught up with the pizza delivery. Some kid paid him 20 bucks to put the picture in the box. The kid was here when the driver arrived.”
“So, spur of the moment thing?”
The cop nodded. “Probably planned to put it in the mailbox, but when the driver showed up…,”
“Crap,” Jazz said. “How can that be?”
“It doesn’t mean that they don’t live there. There are subleases happening all the time, friends visiting, etc. But as far as official means, there isn’t anything to point in one direction.”
Morgan watched as Jazz dropped his hand and walked several steps away. She stood dejected, hands on her hips, her head down.
“Is there anything we can do?”
The cop shook his head. “No. We’re doing it all. I do need you to give us a statement. If you’ve got time now…”
Morgan nodded. “Let’s go inside. We can get this done fast, I hope.”
“Ten minutes.”
Morgan ushered the cop ahead of her. “Let’s get this over with.”
Inside the kitchen, he poured coffee for the visitor and settled the three of them at the table. “What do you need from us?”
In a steady stream of questions, the constable led through the process of giving a statement. When they were done, the statements signed, he stood up and said, “Good enough. Stay in touch and stay safe.”
With that, he left.
Jazz walked out to the end of the driveway to see the cruiser leave. Morgan placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Come on in.”
“I’ll be fine. I just wanted to stand out here for a few moments. Breathe the fresh air.”
“I understand, but it’s not a good idea.”
She stared at him in confusion, then he saw the understanding hit her consciousness. And she nodded. With one last glance at the wide-open block, she turned and let him lead her back inside.
Chapter 7
Inside, Jazz sat back on the kitchen table. This wasn’t going to last for long. She was already starting to feel like she was a prisoner. How did that work? She was a prisoner and the asshole who was stalking them was free. She hated it.
But she was alive, and she planned on staying that way. What she couldn’t do was… nothing. She had to do something constructive to make her world get back to normal. She could do some research on her own, try to search out a tattoo artist that could have copied her design, but in truth, it could have been any number of artists. There hadn’t been any brilliance to it. By copying her design, there hadn’t been any personal voice to it. And that was too bad. She hated to copy anything.
There were enough original thoughts in this world to make her work hers.
Maybe this person had tried to be an artist and that hadn’t worked out so well. Maybe he’d tried to have his own business and that had failed. Maybe he was targeting her, not Morgan. Maybe he was targeting Morgan, not her.
Spying a notepad at the end of the table, she pulled it toward her and started writing a list of what she did know. Her house had been shot. She’d been shot. She itemized everything she could remember in an attempt to sort through the mess in her mind. Then on a separate page, she listed all the things that might have happened. Billy might have been murdered. But he could have just as easily orchestrated this whole mess.
She wouldn’t put any of this shit past him.
In fact… she studied her notes. She had to consider that. Hearing noises beside her, she turned to see Morgan making sandwiches. He turned and brought over a large plate, placing it in front of her. “Here, eat up.”
“Thank you.”
He peered down at her notes before he took a seat beside her, his own plate heaped full. “Did you sort out anything new?”
“No. Not necessarily.” She picked up a piece of her sandwich and stopped. “Did you consider that if Billy isn’t dead… that this is the type of thing he’d love to stir up?”
Morgan stared at her. His gaze was intent as it flicked from her scribbled notes and back to her face. “I guess it might be.”
He took a big bite, but it was obvious his mind was caught on the information. He chewed through a big bite and swallowed heavily. “Do you think it’s possible?”
She didn’t try to misunderstand. “It’s possible.” She didn’t elaborate.
“It wasn’t him on the bike.” Flat but confident.
She thought about what she knew about the biker and Billy and realized he was correct. The biker was too small to have been his brother. Both in height and frame. “Right. I hadn’t considered that.”
She took a big bite of her sandwich, her mind consumed with the last image she had of the biker.
In leathers and a helmet on, it was impossible to get any more detail than a general impression. And they needed more. She remembered the way he’d ridden, the moves he’d made. He had some experience, but maybe not tons. Still, that was no help.
“The cop didn’t say anything about the second tattoo picture.”
He stopped chewing and stared at her, then pulled out his phone. Quickly, he sent a text.
And got an answer back a few minutes later. “They haven’t found a match in any of the databases yet.”
She nodded but kept her thoughts to herself. “We didn’t keep a copy of it, did we?”
“No.” He shook his head as he ate. “I can ask him for a digital copy,” he said, quirking an eyebrow at her in question.
“Maybe you should.” She didn’t want to elaborate because she really had no idea where the need to see it again had come from. But if she had a digital of both of them… “Can I get a digital copy of the first one, too?”
Both eyebrows shot up. “I don’t know. I can ask.”
He started texting while she slowly worked on her sandwich. She wanted to throw up both images in one of her powerful image programs. She’d be able to see if they were from the same artist but didn’t know what else she might find. Definitely nothing if she couldn’t get them.
“He’ll send them both to me.”
“Good.” That also meant she needed to go to her shop. That or her house. The shop won out. She missed that part of her life. She couldn’t remember the last time she hadn’t showed up for several days and came up blank. She always went in. That damn place was a major part of her. And as she considered the problem, likely connected to the shooter.
“I want to go to the shop.”
He stared at her, his gaze narrowed in thought. He tapped his cell phone. “Because of the images?”
She nodded. “My better computer is at work. I want to see the images on my software program. And who knows, my shop is likely connected to these killings.”
After a long moment, he nodded. “You’re assuming this shooter killed both men?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, “But we’d have to consider it. If Billy is the first, then I’d say it was likely a one off and maybe this person blames us. But with there being two men and the shooter having images of both, well, it makes me think he’s the killer.”
“But different guns,” he reminded her.
“Yeah, like that makes any kind of difference,” she said. “If they have one, then chances are they will have or could easily access a second one.”
He nodded. “I think the cops would say that a shooter usually favors one gun, though.”
“I think they might have a favorite, but I doubt it stops them from using what they have or what someone else has available.”
“True enough.” His frown widened. “And I’ve certainly closets and cabinets full of many different firearms.”
“What about Billy? Did he have one?”
“Not that I ever saw. That’s another reason the suicide opinion didn’t make sense. He’d have had to have access. He also favored a pistol. A shotgun was never his style.”
Billy had a style with guns? She kept her mouth shut on that topic and continued to finish her sandwich. “Was he ever into drugs?”
Morgan nodded. “A long time ago. Nothing recent.”
“That you know about.”
“Right. I haven’t had much to do with him in the last few years. But the coroner did say there were no drugs in his system.”
“If that’s him in the morgue,” she stressed, feeling like she was constantly reminding him of that fact.
*
Morgan slowed and wiped his hands on the paper towel he’d brought with the sandwiches. “I know it might not be Billy, – but it feels like it’s Billy.”
She stared at him, her deep eyes assessing. Then gave a small nod. “Good enough. Until we know otherwise, we’ll assume that’s your brother.”
“The police are making the same assumption.”
“So they are backtracking his life, seeing his closest connections…”
He nodded. “All of that was in progress before I came to you.”
“Right.” She pushed her empty plate to the side. “And so far nothing? That seems very odd. A shotgun to the face, seems like both calculated and personal.”
“An easy way to slow down the identification process, plus a great way to show someone how you feel about them.”
Morgan hated to consider that a woman had done this, but as the police had said, it was very personal.
“What about past lovers?”
“He had a lot of them,” Morgan said. “Many were just a night or two. Nothing longer.”
“Except Perl, who works at the shop. She said she’d slept with him more than a few times.”
“For convenience, or because she wanted a relationship with him?” he asked in a dry tone. He’d run with plenty of women who were happy to see him when he blew through town. There’d been few women to capture his attention for longer than five minutes, and the only one to grab hold and lock on had been Jazz.
Figures he’d mess that up. He hadn’t had any experience with relationships in the normal definition of the word. But he wasn’t going to bring that point up. He’d come through with an ease that still made him scared he’d missed something, but he wanted to get enough of their original footing back together again so that he had that foundation beneath him. Then he’d bring up a few of the finer points. If it still mattered then.
Lord, he hoped not.
“So is there anything to gain by poking into Billy’s history ourselves?”
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“My assistant.”
Morgan assessed Jazz’s closed-down features. “What are you saying?”
“Just that she felt that he was sleeping with her but stuck on me.” Jazz shrugged. “Only It was never like that
.”
“So what was it like?” he asked, curious. Glad to hear that her voice showed no signs of lying. He’d heard her say so much before, but it was interesting to hear it from a position of acknowledging his brother was dead. As in he should be nicer. Remember his brother for the good parts.
“There was an avarice to him. As in he wanted to be an artist like me. Have Roxy’s bike. She’s been rebuilding her father’s first bike and scouting across the country for parts. He always took an interest in how far along she was in the project, but it was never with interest, there was almost something more.”
“More?”
“More,” she snapped, “As if he was waiting for her to finish the work so he could steal the damn thing.”
He sat back, stunned by her feelings. “You really didn’t like him, did you?”
“No,” she said. “In fact, he scared the shit out of me. As if he had no morals, no honor, as if he had no boundaries as to what he’d do.”
Shit. He could just barely see it, but the fine, never-ending stream of shudders had him hopping out of his chair and squatting beside her. Gently enfolding her in his arms, he whispered, “I’m sorry he bothered you so much. He’s dead now. So, let it go.”
She shot him a dark look that said he might think Billy was dead and gone but until she had real proof, she wouldn’t believe it.
Given her feelings for him, he could understand. He didn’t know how to make her see it his way, but inside he knew his brother was dead.
“There are two things that tie this together. Those two tattoos and…”
“Right. So let’s go to your shop and deal with both of those.”
Chapter 8
The chorus of cries and greetings warmed Jazz’s heart as they walked into the business she’d placed so much of her heart and soul into over the last eight years. What a learning curve. She was a better artist than a businesswoman, but she could deal with people. Roxy could deal with the numbers, although she was a complete pushover where customers were concerned. An equally good artist with a very different style, they found that between the two of them, they managed to satisfy the needs of almost everyone that entered their shop.
