Divorced, Desperate and Dead

by Christie Craig

  “Yes, he wasn’t even looking up when he hit me. I think he was texting or something.”

  “How good of a look did you get? Could you describe him?”

  She nodded. “That’s why I’m going to the police station. They’re going to have someone do a sketch.”

  “What did he look like?” he asked.

  “He was blond, fair skin, too fair. Like . . .”

  “Albino?”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “Shit. I think I know who it is. A kid. J.D. Andrews. I think it’s Andrews.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s a kid mixed up with the Black Bloods gang. A couple of months ago we arrested him and questioned him about selling drugs.” Cary did another two laps at the end of her bed. “Damn it, I need to get in touch with Danny.”

  “Danny?” she asked.

  “My partner.”

  A bell rang. He looked up and then back at her. “That’s not for me. It’s your door bell.”

  • • •

  Chloe woke up. A ringing filled her head. She looked around the room to make sure she was alone. Of course she was alone. She grabbed her pillow and hugged it and her heart commenced to pounding a little faster.

  The ring started again. He was right. It was her doorbell. No, he wasn’t right. There was no ‘he.’ He didn’t exist. He wasn’t real.

  He was just . . . her imaginary boyfriend.

  Cary Stevens was a figment of her imagination.

  Someone pressed her doorbell again and then again. Still feeling groggy, she looked at her clock. Six a.m. Who would be at her door at this time?

  She popped out of bed and went into her living room. A loud knock sounded at the door. Cupcake ran out of the kitchen and darted into the bedroom. She almost wanted to join her. Her gut said whoever was poking at her doorbell could not be bringing good news. Good news only arrived after eight.

  “Who is it?” she asked, moving a little closer to the door and hugging her pillow tighter.

  Chapter Seven

  “Police. Open the door. We need to talk to you.” Chloe didn’t unhook the chain, but she opened the door and peered through the crack.

  Two men dressed in jeans and unbuttoned shirts with T-shirts underneath stood on her apartment’s porch. One of them, a blonde, held out a badge. It looked real, so she opened it.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “It’s about the accident that occurred yesterday.”

  She nodded, and suddenly realized they were staring at her a little odd. Probably because she stood there in her nightshirt, hugging a pillow as if it was her only friend. “I’m sorry, I was asleep.”

  “We’re sorry for waking you,” the dark-haired man said. “I’m Detective Calder and this is Detective Henderson. We think your accident could be related to another case.”

  Henderson? The second name bounced around her head, hitting a lot of familiar brain cells. Brain cells that didn’t function very well until after coffee.

  She noted his blond hair and blue eyes and she heard Sheri’s voice. Dan Henderson. He’s the hot detective. Blond, good-looking.

  “Dan Henderson?” she asked.

  “Yes,” the blonde answered, looking at her as if he was trying to place her.

  “Is this a joke?” she asked. It would be just like Sheri to have him drop by.

  “No,” both men said in a non-joking manner.

  “Don’t you know Sheri Letterman?” Chloe asked.

  “Sheri?” Dan stood there as if confused. “Yes, I know Sheri. She does some PR and the website for a friend of ours, Kathy Hunter. She owns a florist shop.” Suddenly, his eyes widened. “You’re Chloe, the friend that she was telling me about?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “It’s really nice to meet you,” Dan said. “And I’d love to do dinner sometime, but that’s not why—”

  “No,” she blurted out.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  “I mean, I wasn’t saying I wanted to . . . Sheri was trying to . . . but I wasn’t . . . I just . . .” She closed her eyes, told herself to stop talking, and then opened them. “I’m sorry, I’m still half asleep.”

  Both of the men looked at her as if she was a few fries short of a Happy Meal. And maybe she was. She had an imaginary boyfriend.

  Well, maybe he wasn’t her boyfriend. Just an imaginary one-night stand. Oh, goodness, she really was still half asleep.

  “And we’re sorry about that,” said the dark-haired guy, appearing impatient to get the conversation going in another direction. “Look, the reason we’re here is about the accident.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m supposed to go down this morning and give a description to a Detective Harris. But . . .” She looked at the badge the dark-haired guy still held in his hand. “Didn’t that say Glencoe? This accident happened in Hoke’s Bluff.”

  “Yes,” said the blonde. “But there was a shooting of a Glencoe officer that involved a black Chevy truck on Saturday evening, and we’re thinking it could be the same guy.”

  I was in Glencoe. So they might not be looking at your case and mine as linked.

  Chloe tried to wrap her head around what Dan Henderson said, but it was hard. It couldn’t be.

  Impossible.

  Completely improbable.

  Farfetched.

  “An officer was shot?” she asked, her voice sounding like an off-key instrument.

  “Yes, my partner,” Detective Dan Henderson said.

  Damn it, I need to get in touch with Danny. Cary Stevens’ words from her dream played in her head. No, not really words. He was just a dream. So they weren’t really words. He hadn’t said them. He wasn’t real.

  “Who . . . what’s his name?”

  They looked at each other and then back at her as if she was about to sprout another head.

  Please don’t say Cary Stevens. Please don’t say it.

  “Detective Cary Stevens. Why?”

  Chloe dropped her pillow. “Shit,” she muttered without wanting to.

  “Excuse me?” Dan asked.

  “No. Not shit. I mean . . .” Oh, what did she mean?

  “Are you okay?” the dark-haired detective asked.

  She couldn’t tell them. They’d think she was nuttier than a five-pound box of peanut brittle. Hell, maybe she was.

  “You sure,” Dan asked, studying her. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “No ghost.” Oh, God, at least she hoped not. “Is Cary . . . ? I mean the cop who got shot, is he . . . okay?”

  “He’s in a coma,” the dark-haired detective answered, frowning.

  “I’m sorry.” She saw Cary in her mind, grinning and looking way too confident and comfortable in her bed. She remembered his kiss, so soft, and the look of honest empathy in his eyes. She remembered he’d agreed to share the worst story award.

  “Really sorry.” A knot of emotion filled her chest and made it hard to breathe.

  • • •

  Chloe called Amber, her assistant manager, and explained what had happened and asked her to open the bakery while she went to the police station to do the sketch. Since Chloe had already agreed to go to Hoke’s Bluff police department, the detectives agreed to just join her there.

  She drove her own car, and for the entire four miles, she had a long conversation with herself. One in which she told herself over and over that she wasn’t crazy. That there was a perfectly good explanation for all of this.

  And when she stumbled over one, she latched onto it like a hungry dog to a piece of beef jerky. Since Cary’s accident took place on Saturday, she’d obviously heard something about the shooting on the radio or heard someone mention it at the bakery, and that’s why her subconscious created this whole scenario.

  There was no Room Six, no Beatrice Bacon, or any Johnny Depp lookalike. For all she knew, this Cary Stevens could be old, fat, and bald.

  There. Now. Two deep breaths and she felt better. Why she hadn’t considered
this earlier was beyond her. It made perfect sense.

  Detectives Henderson and Calder pulled into the Hoke’s Bluff police station at the same time she did. Once inside, they were all escorted to a room where another detective and a composite artist met them. Before they got started, introductions were made and she heard the two detectives explain to the Hoke’s Bluff detective that they’d heard the call go out looking for a black Chevy truck. They also explained how two teen skateboarders, who’d found the unconscious officer in Glencoe, had seen a black Chevy driving away right before.

  Chloe kept seeing her vision of Cary Stevens lying unconscious in a hospital bed, and she fought the emotional pull. She didn’t know the officer in a coma, it wasn’t the man she’d dreamed up.

  As she started to describe the driver of the truck who hit her, Detective Henderson sat beside her, so close his shoulder brushed against hers. It wasn’t as if he was flirting, but all she kept thinking was how nice it had felt when her Johnny Depp lookalike had done that very same thing. And how with Dan Henderson she felt . . . nothing. And she could even give Sheri credit, the guy was hot. If one liked blond, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered guys with deep voices.

  Thirty minutes later, she sat beside the artist and had him change the eyes and nose on the suspect three times, but when he finished the last sketch and turned to show it to her, her breath caught.

  “That’s him.” A chill from seeing his face tap-danced up her spine. The artist picked up the sketch and showed the officers sitting on the opposite side of the table.

  “Shit,” she heard Detective Calder say when the artist held it out for their inspection.

  “What?” asked the Hoke’s Bluff detective.

  “Nothing,” he said. “I’m just glad we at least have a face.”

  Chloe wasn’t positive, but something told her he wasn’t being completely upfront. She recalled what her Johnny Depp lookalike had said. It’s J.D. Andrews. He’s a kid mixed up with the Black Blood gang. Another officer and I arrested him not too long ago.

  But that wouldn’t be possible. Would it? Oh, hell no!

  “Can we have a copy of that?” Detective Henderson asked.

  “Sure, but you’ll get back with us on any new info, right?” The Hoke’s Bluff detective must have sensed something amiss as well.

  “Of course,” Detective Calder said.

  As they walked out, Detective Henderson moved beside her, and followed her to her car. “Thanks for everything,” he said, offering another of his charming smiles, that for some reason didn’t work for her.

  “I didn’t do anything,” she said.

  “Oh, yes, you did.” His blue eyes twinkled. “Sherri’s right, you know. We need to go out. When things with my partner calm down, I’m gonna call you and we’ll have that dinner. I have your number.”

  “Oh, well, I . . .” Shit. How could she let him down easy? Several excuses she’d used over the past few months came to mind. Sorry, I gave up shaving my legs. I lost my appetite for sex. I’ve suddenly become allergic to orgasms. “I . . .”

  “I’m looking forward to it.” He winked at her.

  She opened her mouth to say something, anything to fix this, but his phone rang. He looked at the number. “It’s the hospital.” He answered it.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked in lieu of hello, his tone concerned.

  Had something happened to Cary Stevens? Her own chest gripped.

  “Thank God! Tell him that Turner and I will be up.” He hung up and smiled so big his blue eyes crinkled. “Cary woke up. He’s going to make it.”

  Her heart did a sigh of relief. She told herself she was happy for the real Cary, not her dream Cary. But the relief she felt was far from imaginary. “Great. I’m happy for him.”

  “And . . .” he said, grinning, “now that I know he’s okay, let’s make it this Friday night. I know a great restaurant.”

  Her mind started spinning. Before she could say anything, he said, “Great. I’ll call you.”

  Watching him practically jog to join the other detective, she mentally gave herself a swift kick in the ass for not nipping this thing in the bud. Frustrated, she jumped in her car, latched both hands on the steering wheel, then leaned forward and banged her head against the dang thing.

  Crap! “Sorry, I’m washing my hair,” she muttered, suddenly finding it easy to say what she should have said. “Got a date with my Bob.” Or how about the truth? “My fiancé killed himself, and since then I don’t trust my judgment and I’m too scared to get anywhere close to romance. Except when it comes to imaginary Johnny Depp lookalikes.”

  She hadn’t been afraid to get close to him. She’d let him crawl into her bed. Let him kiss her. And if she hadn’t woken up, she might have let him do a lot more.

  Oh, hell, she was so screwed up.

  • • •

  J.D. collected his money for the drug drops he’d done for Jax, then bought himself enough cocaine to forget what had happened, and help him figure out what he was gonna do now.

  Driving, feeling the need for a good high, but for some reason resisting, he drove to Hoke’s Bluff, down Walnut Street. He hadn’t even really meant to go there. He’d been on autopilot, but when he turned down Cypress Street, down the dead end street, he knew where he was heading. He stopped in front of his grandmother’s house.

  She wasn’t there, of course. Like everyone else in his life, she’d abandoned him.

  Only her abandonment hadn’t been on purpose. She’d died. When he watched them lower her body into the ground, he was watching the only person in his life who ever cared for his lily-white ass.

  Oh, she got pissed at him all the time. She didn’t approve of him smoking weed. She even threatened to throw his butt out. She didn’t. She loved him. Looking back, he regretted that he hadn’t done better for her. But he’d still loved her.

  The “For Sale” sign in the front yard told him the bank hadn’t sold the property yet. He pulled into the back and parked under the big oak tree on the grass. He sat there and stared at the house for a minute. He found his tiny pack of powder under the seat. Beside it was his gun. He pulled both things out and set them on his passenger seat, beside the Daily News.

  He looked down at the paper. Her picture was there. She was pretty. Probably too old for him, but pretty. He didn’t want to kill her.

  But did he have a choice?

  He picked up the paper and reread the story. It didn’t say anything about connecting the cop shooting to the woman’s accident.

  Maybe they wouldn’t put two and two together.

  He knew Jax wanted him to take care of the problem now. He recalled one of his grandmother’s sayings: You might not get what you want, but if you’re good, you’ll get what you need. It wouldn’t kill Jax to learn he didn’t always get what he wanted.

  But would trying to teach Jax a lesson end up getting him killed?

  Closing his eyes, he leaned his head on the steering wheel. How had his life gotten this bad?

  • • •

  The doctor studied Cary’s stitched up leg where he’d been shot. “That looks great.”

  “When can I go home?” Cary asked the doctor.

  “What?” his sister, Kelly, asked, shaking her head. “You just woke up from a coma and you’re wanting to go home?”

  Cary frowned. “Yeah, I woke up and now I should leave.” He hated hospitals. They reminded him of all the time he’d spent in one when he was fourteen and his mother’s cancer had progressed. He had hated seeing her in that bed, dying a little bit more every day.

  “We’re going to do another CT scan just to make sure we haven’t missed anything. Blood loss and trauma can lead to a victim being in a coma, but it’s odd that you were in a coma for as long as you were,” the doctor said. “But,” he looked from Kelly to Beth, “I think I can say he’s going to be fine.” Then his gaze went back to Cary. “If all the tests come back negative, you should be able to go in three or four days.”

 
“You’re joking?? Three or four days?”

  “You were shot and in a coma,” the doc said.

  “Exactly,” Kelly said. “And when he does leave, he should go home with one of us, right?” Her voice dared the doctor to say no. And when he didn’t answer right away, she added, “Don’t you think so?”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be a bad idea,” he answered as if under duress.

  Oh, yes it would. He hated being doted on, and his sisters were as expert on doting as they were matchmaking.

  “Just a few days.” The doc looked at Cary with empathy, then back to Kelly, and walked out. Cary wasn’t sure who the guy was more afraid of, Kelly or him.

  “That’s it, Peewee,” Kelly announced as soon as the door swished shut. “I’m calling your boss and telling him you are gonna retire from the force.”

  “Cary.”

  “What?” Kelly asked.

  “My name is Cary. I stopped going by Peewee in kindergarten!”

  His sister glared at him. “Great. I’ll make sure to use that name when I tell your boss you are quitting.”

  “I’m not quitting. And both of you need to go home and stop hovering. I’m fine. And I don’t need to go home with you when I leave here. I can take care of myself.” Cary looked away from Kelly—his older and dominant sister—who was on one side of his hospital bed to Beth, the more reasonable Calder family member, who stood on the other side.

  “You’re fine?” Kelly spouted, pulling his gaze back to her. “I’m telling you that you are not fine. I’m the only one in this room who has any medical experience.”

  “You’re a receptionist for a foot doctor,” he said. “And my doctor just said I was going to be fine.”

  “No, he said you should go home with me.”

  “After you practically threatened him if he didn’t.”

  “I did not threaten him.”