Detective Jack Stratton Box Set

by Christopher Greyson

Replacement’s lip quivered.

  “Sorry.” He held both hands up. “I shouldn’t butt in.” He moved to the window and watched a lone car drive down the street.

  She shuffled over to the couch and sat down.

  He cleared his throat. Looked like once again he would be missing his usual appointment with his old friend the whiskey bottle. He sat back down at the desk.

  “Let’s review some details. How often did Michelle call?”

  “All the time, almost every day.”

  “When was the last one?”

  “Here. I wrote it up.” She jumped off the couch, grabbed the calendar off the desk, and flipped back two pages. “I talked to her on the eighteenth. She was supposed to come visit me on December twenty-first, Saturday. I called her Sunday, thinking that maybe she just decided to come a day later, but she never called back. By Monday morning, I freaked out and called the campus police and they said she’d transferred. I knew that was garbage, so I called the police.”

  “That same Monday?”

  “Yep. I went to the Fairfield Sheriff’s Department that afternoon, and after an hour of filling out the missing person report, the cop there said I couldn’t submit the report because I’m not her real sister. I said that was bull—and that he sucked. And I asked if I could talk to a real cop.”

  “Hold up. Which officer were you speaking with?”

  “I don’t know. Officer Jerk Bag. Some creep. He said I had to be related by blood, and I told him Michelle didn’t even have any blood relation living, so how was that going to work? He said he needed blood for the report, and I offered to show him some blood, and then they asked me to leave!” She looked genuinely surprised.

  “Anyway, then I brought Aunt Haddie to the police station, and this time at least they let her submit the report. Different cop this time. But they just kept blowing us off, telling us to wait. We didn’t know what else to do. So Aunt Haddie said to track you down.”

  She was hopping mad, which energized Jack again. He grabbed the notebook.

  “Okay. What do we know?” He scribbled DATE and ACTIONS on one page; on the next page he wrote FACTS. He pushed the notebook and pen to Replacement.

  “Can we use the computer? Hello, twenty-first century?” She made a face.

  “Humor me. I like to be able to carry it around.”

  Replacement lifted the laptop and mimed carrying it here and there.

  “Call me old-fashioned.”

  Replacement muttered under her breath, “Yeah, old.”

  The laptop case looked worn, no brand name on it. The lid was closed, but it looked powered up, and there was a cord connecting it directly to his own computer.

  “Yours?” he asked.

  “My baby.” Replacement patted the case.

  “Nice. But just use the notebook. Please. Write down all the dates from the calendar and what happened.”

  As Replacement grudgingly started writing, Jack went to the kitchen to get a drink. He came back with two glasses of water and set one down in front of her. When he saw what she had written, he laughed.

  “What?” Replacement looked up.

  “Your handwriting is perfect. I guess Aunt Haddie kept penmanship as a punishment?”

  “Yeah, it sucked,” Replacement said with half a laugh.

  Jack remembered having to transcribe page after page from books if he misbehaved. And if his handwriting didn’t meet Aunt Haddie’s strict standards, she’d tear it up and he had to do it all over again.

  He looked down at Replacement’s intricate script—almost as nice as his own—and laughed again. “Boy, you must have been a pretty rotten kid.”

  “Thanks. I heard you were an angel, too.” She shot him a frown. “She said if there was ever a kid who liked to do the opposite of what he was told, it was you.”

  “She was just trying to make you feel good. I was a choirboy.”

  Replacement gave him a knowing look. “Michelle backed her up.”

  Jack quickly changed the topic. “Okay. Let’s go over the facts,” he said. “One, Michelle is missing.”

  Replacement wrote that, and added the word Duh. “Two, the campus police and the roommate said she transferred. Three, Western Tech said she applied and was accepted, according to Neil Waters.” He waited while she caught up. “Put that name down, Neil Waters.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Four, Miss Piggy said Michelle took all her stuff,” Replacement growled.

  Replacement turned to a new page, wrote EVIDENCE at the top, and stopped. She didn’t look up. Her back was still stiff, and Jack knew she was smoldering over Michelle’s missing belongings. He admired the fact that in spite of her feelings she was pressing on.

  “She wouldn’t leave you and Aunt Haddie,” Jack continued. It wasn’t “evidence” that would hold up in court, but he didn’t care. He knew that fact was as real as a smoking gun. Replacement wrote, “Would not leave Aunt Haddie.”

  “How often did she come to visit?” Jack walked over to the window and looked out at the cars below.

  “She came by about twice a month.”

  Jack stared into the black night. Why walk away from a full scholarship? Why not tell Aunt Haddie?

  “Is it possible… Aunt Haddie forgot?”

  “No way!” Replacement was indignant. “She forgets some small stuff, but not important things. I don’t even think she really has Alzheimer’s. I think she’s just lonely and tired.”

  Great. Make me feel even more guilty.

  He walked back to the desk, nudged Replacement aside, and took her place in front of the computer. “Let’s back up a couple of steps.” He connected to the police’s computer system. “I’ll run the plate.”

  “Okay, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Replacement gave him the plate number, which Jack typed in with two fingers. Fairfield had entered a BOLO for the car so law enforcement would be on the lookout for it, but other than that, he found nothing.

  “She’s never even gotten a parking ticket.” Jack drummed his fingers on the desk. “Let’s see if anything was going on in the area.”

  Replacement got right in his face. “I’ll drive. You type like an old lady.”

  “I know the system. It’ll be faster if I—”

  “No. No.” Replacement shook her head and pushed herself into the chair beside him.

  “Hey.” She left him no choice, so he stood up, looking over her shoulder.

  “That’s much better. Where do you want to go?”

  “Start with recently reported crimes,” Jack said.

  With a few clicks, lines of information scrolled up the screen.

  “I can limit them to the past three months,” Replacement said.

  “Show me what you got.”

  She hit a couple of keys and the data scrolled again, but the list was still long.

  “You said Michelle stayed around the university. Let’s limit it to the area around the campus.”

  A couple of clicks and a new, much smaller list appeared. Jack scanned it. One reported car theft, two break-ins, drugs, and an assault. “Check that.” He pointed to the assault.

  Replacement read quickly through the report, giving him the bare bones. “Right before Halloween. Eighteen-year-old woman, African American, out jogging. Male suspect grabbed her around the neck and pulled her down, but victim began screaming and the man ran away. The man in this and the other incidents was described as a white male.” She turned to look at Jack. “What other incidents?”

  “Check the SAR.”

  Quick study though she was, Replacement was puzzled and had to pause, crinkling her nose as she scanned the monitor. Jack pointed to a section of the screen. “Suspicious Activity Reports. They can link different events that may or may not be related,” Jack explained. “It’ll show us if there’s anything it’s been paired with.”

  Replacement nodded, her fingers flew across the keyboard, and Suspicious Activity Reports appeared at the top of the screen. “Bingo. Look at this. Seria
l assaults. Two other reports in the group. A man approached one woman while she was getting into her car. She locked the doors and the suspect tried to open them. In the other one, an African American woman was walking home when a white male approached her. The girl ran to a house and the man fled. She was nineteen. What a scumbag.”

  She clicked the links to get descriptions of the suspect. In all three incidents, the description was the same: a white male in his late twenties, five foot seven, about a hundred thirty pounds. They all mentioned a tattoo. Two reports described it as an eagle holding a sword, on his right forearm; the third victim reported, “Eagle, right arm.”

  “I just saw that database,” Replacement said. She clicked and tapped, and the police tattoo database appeared. “Eagle—right arm. How can there be no results?” More typing, zero results; different word combinations, the outcome was always the same—nothing.

  “This database blows,” she said at last, pushing the mouse away.

  “Chill out. We’re just trying to look at all the angles now anyway.”

  “Well, so far this is our best angle, and we’ve got nothing. And I don’t feel like chilling out.”

  Jack walked back over to the window. They were just beginning. He was used to the painful rhythm of information gathering—nothing, nothing, nothing… then something, and you still had to figure out what it was.

  The guy shows an escalating pattern of violence. Three attacks. If Michelle ran into him…

  “Did you try entering some other type of bird? Hawk? Raptor?”

  “I tried everything. That system stinks. If I type in just eagle it has two matches. Two. I know more than two people with an eagle tattoo. Do you know another way to look it up?”

  Jack stared out the window at the little bar across the street, lost in another memory. Shortly after he moved to Darrington, he was on a bit of a bender at that bar. Marisa sat three seats down. Late twenties, tall—about five foot ten—and beautiful. A steady stream of guys paraded by, each of them hitting on her. She ignored them all. But Jack wasn’t looking at her because he couldn’t take his eyes off her fingers flying over her sketchpad, and he was mesmerized as the drawing emerged, a smiling girl running in a field.

  He barely remembered stumbling over to her side. He pointed to the picture and proclaimed to the entire bar, “This is art!” Then he staggered to the front door.

  She chased after him and caught up to him on the sidewalk. “Why did you say that?” She grabbed him by both shoulders and gave him a quick shake to sober him up. “About my picture. Why did you say that?”

  “What?” That’s when he looked down and really saw her for the first time. Her eyes were deep brown and matched her long auburn hair. Her dress accentuated her hourglass figure. Jack swallowed, his mouth opened slightly, and then he looked back up at her eyes.

  One of her eyebrows arched high, but the cutest smile was on her lips as she said, “You noticed my art before my body?”

  “That drawing… you’re a true artist! The way you hold that pencil.” He pinched his fingers together to mimic her sketching. “It was…” Still deeply drunk, Jack struggled to find the words, but he didn’t have to. Marisa grabbed him and kissed him. The kind of kiss a guy doesn’t forget, ever.

  Now he blinked, trying to drive those memories from his head. That chapter was very much closed. He wasn’t so sure Marisa would even talk to him now.

  “I know… I know a police tattoo expert who can help.” A lie wrapped in a truth—or was it the other way around? “They should be there tomorrow.”

  “Who? The people at the lab? On a Saturday?”

  Jack ignored the question. “It’s late. Let’s forget about the flyers and stuff till morning. You can stay here tonight.”

  Replacement grinned from ear to ear.

  “But I’m going alone tomorrow.”

  The smile vanished.

  9

  Inking

  The little store with the large sign reading “Vitagliano’s” was nestled between an art gallery and a handmade jewelry store, and might have been mistaken for an upscale coffee shop if it weren’t for the tattooed, pierced, and otherwise creatively adorned patrons sitting at the tall metal tables, draped in the comfy chairs, or milling about. They stared at Jack as he walked in, and their heads moved as one to watch him continue toward the back. They seemed to sense he was a cop, and their distrust was palpable. Vitagliano’s was a sanctuary for the misfits of Darrington.

  “Hey, boss!” a tall guy at the counter called out.

  Jack stopped and waited in front of the thick red velvet curtain, framed on either side by statues of female gladiators, that screened off the back rooms. He’d been here before.

  “What is it?” a woman called from behind the curtain, and it was pulled aside to reveal Marisa Vitagliano—owner, artist, and bouncer of Vitagliano’s tattoo parlor. Leather pants and a black tank top revealed a toned canvas covered in tattoos.

  Still drop-dead gorgeous. If anything, her beauty was more breathtaking because he hadn’t seen her in a while.

  Marisa was the type of woman every man’s mother warns him about. But Jack was like a little kid with fire. Even though you told him it was dangerous, the blaze was so pretty he had to touch it.

  The last time he saw her was a long summer weekend, locked away in a little bed-and-breakfast. They never came out of the room. When they were getting ready to go back to town, she’d said, “You have to decide.”

  “Decide? About what?”

  “Me. I can’t just be an accessory. I know me. Tu sei il bello mio.”

  He didn’t speak Italian, but he knew the phrase. You’re my beautiful one. She loved him.

  Jack knew he couldn’t give her what she needed. He reached deep down, and he wanted to, but he couldn’t.

  He waited too long, and finally she decided for both of them. “I’ll get a ride back to town,” she continued. “We can’t do this anymore.” There was no malice in her voice; it was still rich and kind. “If we keep going, you’ll hurt me and then…” She closed her eyes. “I’ll kill you.”

  Her voice was so smooth that at first he smiled, but he knew right away she meant every word.

  It had been almost six months since he’d last seen her—he’d forced himself to stay away. She had no idea how many times he’d driven by her apartment or started to dial the phone and then hung up. He didn’t want to be here now, but he had no choice. He needed her help.

  “Hey, angel,” Jack said.

  She didn’t return his smile, but her eyes widened. “Why are you here?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Another one?” She lowered her chin and raised an eyebrow.

  She’s keeping score. This is her turf. I hurt her. Showing up here, unannounced, is wrong.

  “I need your help… please?” He gave the slightest bow. He’d learned that in an interrogation class. Humble yourself and don’t puff yourself up. It went against his instincts, but it usually worked. After a moment, Marisa stepped to the side and gestured for him to follow her.

  Behind the curtain was a red-carpeted hallway with tattoo rooms along either side. In one, a man in his twenties was getting a large skull with torches for eyes etched onto what looked like the one remaining spot of uninked skin.

  In another room, a teenage girl was getting a tat just above her bum. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but her face was set and she squeezed her boyfriend’s hand as Tommy’s Girl neared completion.

  How long is it going to be before she’s crying at a doctor’s office, asking how to have the tattoo removed?

  Marisa was holding open a door at the end of the hallway. Jack was used to the tight leather pants, three-inch heels, and tight tank top that seemed vacuum-sealed to her busty frame—he saw only the look on her face, the question that seemed to haunt her: Why? Their eyes met, and she shook her head with a knowing smile.

  What can I say? Sorry? He inhaled, squared his shoulders, and marched through the door into
her office.

  “What’s the favor now?” No small talk, not even a pretense.

  “I need help with a tattoo.” She’d helped him while they were together a couple of times by identifying tats: once for a mugging and once for the John Doe. Now he pulled the computer-generated sketch from an envelope. “An eagle with a sword on his right forearm.”

  She took it without looking at him, but he noticed her back tensed, and she didn’t really look at the picture either.

  “I’m looking for my foster sister. She’s missing, and might have run into this guy. I don’t have much to go on.”

  Was she going to help him or not? He couldn’t tell if she was even listening.

  He was close to screaming or storming out. If she wasn’t going to forgive him, she could at least talk to him, or throw something at him, or something.

  He looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry. I need you—”

  He wasn’t able to finish the sentence. She grabbed him and pulled his body against hers; the picture fell to the table. One of her hands held the back of his head and the other pulled him in closer. They crashed together like two dancers, a fierce impact filled with delicate grace.

  He hesitated and then gave in. Grabbing her waist, he hoisted her onto the desk. A deep, lush moan, better described as a purr, escaped her lips. Jack’s hands traveled over her taut muscles as he kissed the base of her neck.

  Jack kept his eyes closed. He smelled her hair; felt her breath on his neck. He lay on top of her on the desk, one hand behind her head and the other on her waist, and breathed in her scent, and it stoked a growing fire within him. The rhythm of their movements quickly synchronized. Their mutual need was palpable, and their entwined bodies began to undulate as one.

  “Jack.” She whispered his name and softly kissed his ear.

  He opened one eye, and she stared back. He read invitation and desire in her eyes; then they softened, and he felt her vulnerability. She reached out to pull him close again. He leaned in to kiss her, but—

  I can’t do this. I can’t hurt her again.

  He slowly pulled back and slid off the table. Her eyes traveled the length of his body, and Jack swallowed hard.