by Sheila Lowe
Jovanic glanced over at Ariceli, who was still standing at the sink, her full ripe lips pursed. The pungent aroma of her cigarette smoke curled into his nose and he allowed himself the luxury of enjoying it. For the past few years since quitting, he had satisfied his oral need with toothpicks. Not much of a substitute.
“How long have Mouser and Angel been dating?” he asked Ariceli, drawing her into the conversation.
Considering him through eyelids lowered to half mast, she shrugged. “A long time.”
“How long is that?”
“I dunno, maybe a couple years.”
“And they both live here with you?”
“She didn’t live here all that long.”
“Okay, how long has she lived with you?”
“A few months. She helped with the kids.”
Jovanic noted the young woman’s use of the past tense. It confirmed what he suspected: these people knew that Angel would not be helping with the kids any longer.
“Where is Angel?” Jovanic asked.
“She didn’t come back last night,” Ariceli countered.
“Is that unusual?”
“Uh, I guess.”
“Any idea where she might be?”
“Nope.”
“Are you worried about her?”
Ariceli tossed her head. “Who has time to worry? I been too busy running after the kids by myself all day.”
“When did you last see her?” Coleman asked.
Now it was his turn to get the evil eye turned on him. “Why?” Ariceli snapped. “What’s up anyway? She get herself in trouble?”
“How about you just answer the question, Ms. Lopez, and we’ll get out of your hair?” Coleman snapped back.
Seeing another teachable moment for the younger detective, Jovanic discreetly kicked his partner under the table. Being the hard ass worked better when dealing with extreme situations, like “Drop the gun or I’ll shoot you.” He had learned the hard way over the years that it was a greater strength to find a way to defuse a witness’s anger and turn him or her into someone willing to cooperate.
From the bedroom, the baby started screaming again. Ariceli turned to Morgan. “Bobby, go see what’s going on. Sounds like little Bobby’s poking the baby’s eye out or something.”
Without a word, Robert Morgan slid off his chair and disappeared from the room. The bedroom door slammed behind him. There was a yelp from an older child, and a moment later the baby quieted. Ariceli leered at Jovanic from under her lashes and blew him a kiss. “You know, you’re kinda hot in a grampa kinda way. Are you the good cop or the bad cop?”
Wincing—he wasn’t that old—Jovanic smiled back at her. “We take turns. So, while it’s my turn to be the good cop, why don’t you tell me when you last saw Angel.”
“I’d rather play bad cop with you. I be the bad girl, you can cuff me.” She pointed at Coleman. “It’d be different if babyface wasn’t here, huh, sweetie?”
When Jovanic failed to respond, she showed him the pink tip of her tongue. “Aw, you’re no fun. Angel left outta here last night around nine.”
“Did she leave by herself, or did someone pick her up? Or maybe Bobby took her somewhere?”
Ariceli began to look a little uneasy. “Why are you asking all these questions?”
“Is there some reason you don’t want to tell us?” Jovanic added a small show of force. “Maybe we should take this conversation to the station.”
“Hey, I didn’t do nothing wrong; you can’t make me go to the police station. I know my rights.”
She was right, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t bluff. “Since you seem to be the last person here who saw Angel, you’re a material witness. So, yes, we could make you go to the station.” He softened his tone. “But you’ve got the kids and Bobby needs to get to work. Come on, Ariceli, we’re not interested in making things hard on you, so why don’t you just tell us, who took Angel last night?”
She stubbed out her cigarette in the sink and ran water over the butt. “If I tell you that, will you leave us the hell alone?”
“Try me.”
She showed Jovanic a pout and hesitated. The silence drew out until at length, she made up her mind. “Big Carl from the studio came and got her.”
“What about Bobby? Did he go with them?”
“No! He was here, he was right here with me all night.” She glanced to the left, and Jovanic had the impression that she was lying.
“We’ll need you to write out a statement—what you’ve just told us.”
“What the hell? You said—”
“If you’d rather come to the station, you can come in tomorrow. Do you need a ride?”
“No, I don’t fucking need a ride.
Fine, I’ll write it, but you better get the hell out of here two seconds after I’m done!”
Chapter Fifteen
Annabelle ran until she was out of breath. She ran so fast as she rounded the downward curve of the street that she tripped and went down on one knee before she was able to catch herself. Before anyone could witness her embarrassment she jumped to her feet, throwing a furtive glance around to confirm that no one had seen her fall.
Examining the grazed skin on her kneecap and the blood dribbling down her bare shin, Annabelle considered herself lucky not to have landed on her face and split her lip or broken a tooth. It would have been a good excuse to cry, but she still couldn’t do it. The tears were squeezing against her eyeballs so hard it felt like they were going to pop out of her head. But she had practiced not allowing herself to cry for so long that even when she had a good reason—and Annabelle thought your friend getting murdered was a pretty good reason—the tears had dried up and refused to cooperate.
Her therapist, Dr. Gold, had explained that she had something called post traumatic stress. It was like when soldiers went to war and had to see and do terrible things. When they got home they sometime experienced flashbacks and thought they were still fighting in the war. Dr. Gold had worked with her for a few months because she kept getting really pissed off that she’d had no control over what had happened to her and the person she had witnessed getting murdered.
Sometimes it seemed like it all happened a really long time ago, like when her mother died. But other times it was as if it had only just happened. She hadn’t slept at all last night. Angel’s face kept floating in front of her eyes, even when she closed them. That helpless feeling billowed over her again and made her want to punch something.
Tyler’s Coffee House was at least another half-mile down the hill. Annabelle limped as fast as she could, feeling like crap for being so bitchy and yelling at Claudia. She knew Claudia was right. Ever since she had met up with Angel, it seemed like she had lost all the ground she’d gained. If she would let herself admit it, getting the sugar skull tattoo had been a way to hang on to that part of her she’d sworn to leave behind.
The rebel in her had not wanted to totally give up the old Annabelle, even though that girl had gotten her into some serious shit. Still, she must have changed some because when Crash offered her the shot of tequila, she had totally considered refusing it and telling him to just take her back home.
Annabelle pulled open Tyler’s front door and went straight to the restroom at the back of the café. Luckily it was unoccupied. The bleeding had already stopped, but her knee burned like someone held a lit match to it. She wet a paper towel in the sink and dabbed at the scrape, then washed the sticky trickle of blood off her leg and dropped the stained towel into the overflowing trash bin.
Stepping back into the crowded coffee house, her anxious gaze darted over the line of customers at the counter and the people seated against the side window plugged into their iPads and smartphones. The one she had come to meet had not yet arrived. She could have gone at
a slower pace and saved herself the road rash.
Taking her place at the end of the line, Annabelle pulled her phone out of her pocket. The touch of the slick pink plastic case made her shiver. She imagined Angel holding it, calling her the night Claudia had refused to wake her. Annabelle was convinced she had jinxed her friend. For punishment, she pinched her arm hard, using her fingernails for extra bite. The pain made her feel a little better and took her mind off her knee.
Aside from the time and date, her phone’s screen remained blank. No new messages or texts. Joel had gotten it back for her from the coroner’s investigator. Annabelle had heard Claudia tease him about the investigator being his old girlfriend, and that’s how come he had gotten the phone back for her so fast. She didn’t care why or how he had gotten it. Being without her phone had been excruciating, but now that she had it back, it felt like it wasn’t hers anymore. As she waited for the barista to make her drink, she mused on whether she could talk her dad into replacing it with a new phone.
She had just picked up her Vanilla Spice Latté when the front door opened and a young dude entered. Annabelle caught her breath. Dark golden tan, white-blonde hair falling over his forehead, dark glasses. He wore a sun-faded T-shirt, knee-length Hawaiian print surfer shorts and sandals. The quintessential Surfer Boy. He caught her eye across the café and she gave him a small wave. He nodded acknowledgment and threaded his way between the tables toward her.
Monroe Simon Morgan, AKA Mouser, said, “Let’s grab a seat in back.”
Fearing that there was a special place reserved in hell for girls whose hearts fluttered over their dead friend’s boyfriend, Annabelle got her drink and followed him. She couldn’t help it, he was that hot.
Luck was with them and Mouser snagged them a vacant spot against the wall. The painted surfboard mounted behind the black leather loveseat seemed an appropriate touch.
When he had called Annabelle, urgently asking to meet with her, she had invited him to Claudia’s, but he went all cloak and dagger, insisting on meeting her away from the house. Since she didn’t have wheels, the best she could come up with was Tyler’s.
He had warned her not to tell anyone where she was going, which was why she had tried to sneak out without Claudia knowing. She vowed to be extra nice when she got back home, and make up for being such a bitch.
Annabelle took a sip of her drink and set it on the low table in front of the loveseat, not knowing how to get the conversation started. “Sorry about Angel,” she mumbled.
“She shouldn’t have dissed Viper.” Mouser’s low voice trembled.
Up close, when he removed his shades, Annabelle could see that his eyes were red-rimmed. She hoped it was because it meant he had cared about Angel and not that he’d been blazing a bowl. She said, “Jamie said it was because of that guy—the one who got killed in that fire.”
His face darkened. “Jamie! That skank. It’s her fault Angel’s dead.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She’s jealous of Angel. She ratted her out to Viper. My brother said so.”
“He told you that?”
“Naw, I heard him telling his lady. My room is right next to theirs and the walls are like plastic wrap. I can hear him and Ariceli breathing.”
“Wait. You think Angel is dead—because of something Jamie said?” Annabelle felt a guilty thrill of relief as she mentally shifted the blame from herself over to Jamie.
“She’s the one who told Viper that Angel wasn’t doing what he told her to.”
“So he killed her?”
Mouser fidgeted uncomfortably. “Could you keep it down?”
“You’re saying he kills people?” Annabelle stage whispered.
“All I’m saying is, when Viper tells you to do something, you better friggin’ do it.”
“What—what did he do to her?” Claudia had been so freaked about it, she had refused to give Annabelle the details.
“My brother wouldn’t tell me what happened, but like I said, I heard him through the wall. He kept saying it made him sick and he didn’t want any part of it. That’s crazy.”
“Why’s it crazy?”
‘Cause, dude, Viper’s like, his idol. You’d think he was Bobby’s dad.”
“Don’t you have a dad?”
“Yeah, but he’s a lifer. I go see him once in a while, but he doesn’t like me seeing him in lockup. Bobby never goes. He hates the dude.”
Annabelle tried to bring him back on track. “So, now Bobby totally doesn’t like Viper anymore because of Angel?”
“I dunno. Just, he was, like, really upset.”
“The cops talked to Jamie. They made her go to the police station.”
Mouser stared at her. “If Viper hears that, she’s toast.”
“After the cops let her go, she went to stay with this lady lawyer. I don’t see how Viper can find that out.”
“Viper always finds out, trust me.”
“I’m pretty sure she didn’t tell them anything. Anyway, how’s he gonna find out, unless you tell him?”
“I oughta tell him; payback for ratting out Angel.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Why not?”
“Because if he kills her, it would be your fault.”
“I don’t care what happens to her. She deserves it.” After that gloomy pronouncement, Mouser fell silent and chewed on his lower lip until Annabelle began to feel uncomfortable. Then he said, “Angel told me how she met up with you on the boardwalk. She was real happy about seeing you again.”
“I was happy to see her, too. How’d you get my number?”
“Her phone was on my bed. Big Carl didn’t give her a chance to take it with her.” Mouser swiped a hand across his face. Apparently he didn’t have any trouble releasing his tears. He leaned down and grabbed the napkin under Annabelle’s drink, blew his nose on it. “This is totally fucked up. She was my chick, you know?”
“Yeah, it pretty much sucks.” Annabelle realized that Angel must have already had her phone in her pocket, ready to return to her. “You’ve gotta tell the cops what you just told me.”
“Angel told me you live with a cop. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
“I’m staying at his girlfriend’s house for the summer and he lives with her.”
“Close enough. You tell him. Just leave my name out of it.”
“No! You have to tell him yourself.”
Mouser stared at her in horror. “Dude, are you psycho? There’s no way I can talk to the cops myself.”
“You have to. When you tell someone something and then they tell someone else what you said, it’s called ‘hearsay.’ It’s like, someone says something and then you tell it to someone else. I’ve heard Joel talking about it. They can’t use it to arrest the dude.”
“Who’s Joel?”
“The cop who lives with my friend. He’s a detective. He could make Viper pay for what he did.”
Mouser shook his head with some force. “I’m not telling them jack shit. I don’t need Viper sending Big Carl after me or Bobby.”
“Then why are you even bothering to say anything?”
Mouser hesitated for a long moment, looking as though he was still trying to work out the answer for himself. “Bobby was saying Viper got all coked up and raging last night. He got Angel over there and beat her down like a fucking dog.” He stared at his hands, which were twisting the napkin into a ragged mess.
“What about your brother and Big Carl? Why didn’t they stop him?”
Ignoring Annabelle’s question, Mouser said, “I guess he fucked her up more than he meant to and she bit the big one. He told Bobby and Carl to ditch her in some trash can down at the beach.”
Annabelle stared at him, aghast. “A trash can?
Are you serious?” Claudia had withheld that piece of information from her. Did she think Annabelle was a child? Didn’t she deserve to know the truth? The omission made her face burn with rage. “You can’t fucking let him get away with that.”
“I don’t want him to get away with it, but I can’t go to the cops. What if he hurt my brother, or the kids?”
“Okay,” Annabelle said, though she was doubtful Mouser’s plan would work. “I’ll tell Joel for you. But I don’t think it’ll do any good. He’s gonna want to talk to you if you really know anything. Or maybe you’re just guessing about it?”
“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” Mouser’s voice had started to rise. He lowered it again to a hiss. “Even if I didn’t overhear what Bobby told Ariceli, everyone down at the studio knows Viper was pissed at Angel. Big Carl comes to get her. The next day she’s dead. What else do they need?”
“I think that’s what they call circum—um—circumstantial evidence,” Annabelle said, proud of herself for pulling the legal term out of the air. “They have to get something that proves Viper did it. Bobby should talk to Joel if he saw it happen.”
Mouser withered her with a look that said he thought she was a stupid dork. “You think Bobby wants to get fucked up or killed? You don’t get who this guy is, do you?”
She got it, crystal clear. But she couldn’t very well tell him she had faced a killer before. He would never believe her. “Who else knows?” she asked. “Someone who might not be scared to talk about it?”
Mouser considered her question, nodding, and Annabelle thought she had redeemed herself a little. “You know, there’s this guy been hanging around the studio. He’s a writer, says he’s writing an article about “the world of tattoo” or some shit. He’s been there for days and he’s always asking questions. I mean, nobody’s gonna tell him anything important, but you never know. Tell the cop to talk to him.”
“You don’t care if Viper goes after this guy?”
