Contents
Title
Copyright
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Author's Note
Coming Soon
Sneak Preview
Also By
Jack and Djinn
By
Jasinda Wilder
Copyright © 2014 by Jasinda Wilder
Jack & Djinn
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover art by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations. Cover art copyright © 2014 Sarah Hansen.
Djinn:
“Jinn or djinn (singular: jinnī, djinni, or genie; Arabic: الجن al-jinn, singular الجني al-jinnī) are supernatural creatures in Islamic mythology as well as pre-Islamic Arabian mythology. They are mentioned frequently in the Quran (the 72nd sura is titled Sūrat al-Jinn) and other Islamic texts and inhabit an unseen world in dimensions beyond the visible universe of humans. The Quran says that the jinn are made of a smokeless and "scorching fire", but are also physical in nature, being able to interfere physically with people and objects and likewise be acted upon. The jinn, humans and angels make up the three sapient creations of God. Like human beings, the jinn can be good, evil, or neutrally benevolent and hence have free will like humans and unlike angels. The jinn are the analogue of demons in Christian tradition, but the jinn are not angels and the Quran draws a clear distinction between the two creations.” ~ Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jinn)
Chapter 1
Carson
Present Day
A maintenance worker found the body—if it could even be called that—on the lowest level of the parking garage at MGM Grand Detroit. Completely immolated, the body was burned beyond recognition. All that remained was a charred pile of bones and teeth. Detective Carson Hale knelt beside the pitiful remains of what had once been a person, prodding a femur with the tip of his pen.
“Damn,” he said. “There’s just nothing left. I mean, nothing.” Carson stood up and wiped the pen on his pant leg, wishing he hadn’t just poked a dead body with it—he had a tendency to chew on his pens.
“I know,” the responding DPD officer answered. “What I can’t figure out is, what could have happened to do this to a body? I mean, I’m not even sure how we’ll get a positive I.D. on this person.”
“Not only that, but there’s no other evidence of fire. Look around. For it to get hot enough to do this to a body, there should be other evidence of the fire, right? But there’s nothing. No scorch marks on the floors, the walls, or even on the ceiling, which isn’t that high.”
“Maybe the body was torched? Like, with accelerant or something?” The officer was a young woman, only two years on the force, and seemed queasy looking at the remains.
“I don’t know, though. If that were the case, wouldn’t there at least be burn marks on the pavement here? Also, if a person is on fire, they panic, you know? It takes time for them to die, so they run around, knock into things. There should be smears on the wall where the victim slammed into it, but there’s nothing. It’s as if the victim was lit on fire where they stood and then instantly they were virtually vaporized into this little pile.”
“Okay, let’s forget the body for a second.” The officer glanced around at the taped-off crime scene. They were in a distant corner of the garage, a dead end where few cars ever parked. “What else do we know? Anything?”
“Well, for one thing, there’s that pool of blood over there.” Carson pointed to a spot a few feet away from the skeleton where the forensic team was taking samples. “It’s a big pool of blood, but I don’t think it’s from this guy here, though.”
They walked over, and the officer examined the blood more closely. It was partially dried and still tacky in places, likely several hours old, but not more than twenty-four. “You’re right about that. I agree that this blood is definitely from a second person.”
“And, number two, there’s the matter of the four shell casings and the 9mm pistol near the body. It almost looks as if the gun was dropped when the victim was torched. However that happened.” Carson pointed to a third area, nearer the burned skeleton. “We’re probably looking for a second body, based on the amount of blood that’s here. I’m guessing we have a double homicide. The pistol and the casings are near the burn victim, which makes me think he or she was the shooter.” Carson was conjecturing out loud, trying to piece together a scenario based on the few facts they had.
“I don’t know,” the officer objected. “If someone is shot four times, they won’t be setting anyone on fire. If you ask me, I think you’re looking for another body and a third person, the killer.”
“I agree,” Carson said. “Either way, the next step is to fingerprint the gun and the casings, and see where that leads us.”
The casino manager was standing nearby, giving his report to a patrol officer. Carson didn’t like the manager on sight. He was an older man, short and agitated, with a sharp nose, beady, shifting eyes, and nervous fingers. He avoided eye contact, and he shuffled his feet as if he’d like to run away. Ratty, Carson thought, Mr. Rat. The man even had a squeaky voice.
“I don’t know nothing,” Mr. Rat exclaimed. “I swear it. I wasn’t here ’til mebbe five o’clock this evening, and you’re telling me this all happened late last night or early this morning. The shifts’ve all changed since then. I can’t tell you nothing but who was on schedule last night and when they’ll be on again. But you gotta remember, we got dozens of waitresses, plus security and janitors. This place is huge, officer. You know that. We got a staff that runs in the hundreds. Getting any of ’em to tell you a straight story, even if they saw something, well, that’s gonna be quite a chore, not to mention tracking ’em all down. I’ll tell you what I can do is, I’ll put the word out to the staff that if anyone knows anything to tell me, and I’ll pass it along to you. The thing is, like any parking garage, that one’s open to the street, so anyone could’ve wandered in and my staff wouldn’t’ve seen nothing anyway.”
Carson hated to admit it, but Mr. Rat was right. There was simply no way they could spend the time hunting down all the people who might have seen something, especially when there was no evidence the victim or victims had ever been inside the casino in the first place. As he swung his muscular, six-foot-three frame into the unmarked Impala, Carson had a feeling that this was going to be a tricky case. Some were like that. You started out with very little to go on, and got no further. The boxes full of unsolved cold cases back at the precinct were proof of that.
There was something about the way the body was burned that kept turning over in Carson’s head. No matter which way he looked at it, he couldn’t make sense of it. Had the body been burned somewhere else and dumped in the garage? That made no sense whatsoever; the body had obviously fallen in situ. The way the bones w
ere arranged suggested the body had toppled over dead on the spot, some bones still touching where they had been joined by tissue. If the remains had been dumped, the bones would be a jumbled mess. Besides, why would someone dump a dead, burnt-to-a-crisp body in a casino parking garage? A gambling debt? That was one possibility, but until they had a positive I.D. on the body, it was mere conjecture.
The security cameras had a few images that might be connected to the crime, but there was no footage of the crime itself.
“I’m gonna need the surveillance tapes for the whole garage,” Carson said, “going back forty-eight hours. Officer Nagle, you can handle that. Go through the footage and see if you can find anything.”
He went back to the precinct and immediately went to the forensic lab. The pistol and the casings were dusted for fingerprints, the results from the FBI database coming back a couple of hours later: The prints belonged to Benjamin Wade, twenty-nine years old, two tours of duty in Afghanistan with the U.S. Marine Corps. No priors except for a few parking tickets and a speeding ticket. Wade rented an apartment in downtown Royal Oak. A day spent digging produced Wade’s military records and resulted in dental records matching the body found in the MGM Grand parking garage.
It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a start.
As soon as the positive I.D. on the body came back, Carson drove up to Wade’s apartment complex in Royal Oak and spoke to the apartment manager. The apartment manager claimed he’d only met Ben once, when he signed the lease. Out of all the residents, there was only one neighbor who had any pertinent information, Matthew Hackett. Matt was a retiree, a portly older man with yellow, nicotine-stained teeth and long, unkempt hair and a grizzled beard.
“Yeah, I know Ben a little,” Matt claimed in a rough grumble tinged with a thick Southern drawl. “Not well, but some. He’s nice enough to me, when I see him in the hallway. Spent two years fighting that war in Afghanistan, you know.”
“Does he have a girlfriend?” Carson asked. “Anyone who comes over on a regular basis?”
“Oh, yeah,” Matt answered, “Miriam, I think her name is. Nice girl. Mebbe five-five, real long brown hair, nearly down to her waist. Beautiful girl, that Miriam. Had a real nice set of—” Matt trailed off with his hands cupped in front of his chest. “Er. Yeah. She’s real pretty.”
“Do you know if she and Ben get along?” Carson asked.
“Most of the time, I guess. I hear ’em arguing a good bit, mostly him yelling at her. She don’t stay over, though—she usually leaves late at night. I don’t sleep much, you know.”
“So you watch your neighbors?” Carson asked.
“Well….” Matt shifted uncomfortably, flushing red. “I ain’t done nothing—I just watch her go, make sure she gets out to the street okay. I feel bad for her, a bit. Why she stays with Ben, I don’t know.”
This got Carson’s attention. “What does that mean, Mr. Hackett? Does Ben mistreat her?”
“Well…I—I’ve seen her leave with a black eye once or twice. These walls, they ain’t too thick, you know? So I hear things, but I ain’t tryin’ to listen in, you know?” The more agitated he got, the thicker his Southern drawl became. “So, yeah, I’ve heard him smack her a few times. Say, what’s this about, anyways? He finally went too far, is that it? Come to think of it, I ain’t seen him in a while.”
“We are currently investigating Mr. Wade’s death,” Carson said.
“He’s dead?” Matt was shocked. “How’d he die? You think Miriam did it?”
“I can’t divulge the details of the case, Mr. Hackett. Is there anything else you can tell me?”
Matt thought before answering. “Well, they both worked at the Taproom a couple miles down the street. I think Miriam lives right near the bar. I heard ’em talking about that a few times. Try the bar. You might find something useful there.”
“Okay, well, thank you for your time, Mr. Hackett,” Carson said, handing the older man his card. “If you think of anything else, call me.”
“I’m headin’ down to Florida tomorrow,” Matt said. “But I’ll think on it.”
After getting the key from the manager Carson checked Ben’s apartment and found it almost spartan. An expensive but faded leather couch and love seat, a huge flat-screen TV, no artwork or decorations of any kind, except a single picture of Ben’s Marine unit on a side table. There were a few bills lying on the dining room table, with a box of 9mm shells and spare clips next to them. Ben’s apartment seemed like it was somewhere he slept and that was about it. Other than the shells and clips, there was nothing else. The search had yielded little new evidence. But the real lead was the interview with Matt Hackett regarding Ben’s girlfriend, Miriam.
He needed to find Miriam, but the burning question was whether he would find her dead or alive.
Chapter 2
Miriam
One month earlier
Miriam watched Ben pour the tequila into the shaker, trying to gauge his mood. He seemed calm enough, but that didn’t always mean anything. She placed the last highball on the round black tray, hefted it to her shoulder, and moved out into the bustle of the bar. She navigated the crowd carefully, holding the tray above her head. The Taproom was bustling¸ full of drunks watching the Tigers game. She felt a hand grab her backside, and she halted in her tracks, cursing the jerk. He just leered, winked, and reached for her again, but Ben was there in an instant. He latched onto the guy’s arm with crushing force. Miriam winced in sympathy, knowing exactly how painful Ben’s grip was.
“Keep your filthy hands to yourself, asshole,” Ben growled, leaning down over the customer, a sweaty, round-faced man of about forty, wearing a green and yellow John Deere trucker hat and a flannel shirt. “If I see you touch my waitress again, I’ll throw you out on your ass, you understand me?”
“Yeah, sure. I getcha, pal,” the man said, trying to tug his hand free. Ben clamped down harder, until the man squirmed. With one last glare, Ben released him and sauntered back to the bar. Miriam delivered the rest of her drinks and went back to the service bar with her new orders.
“Thanks, Ben,” she said.
“Yeah. You okay, baby?” Ben snatched a ticket from the printer.
“He just copped a feel, no big deal.”
“It is a big deal. Not in my bar. Not my girlfriend.” He mixed the drinks and slid them to her. “If he does that again, tell me. I’ll beat the shit out of him.”
“Ben, you don’t have to do that. I’m fine.”
Ben glared at her. “Just tell me if he does it again.”
Great, Miriam thought. He’ll be in a bad mood for the rest of the night. A good mood with Ben was mercurial, coming and going like clouds drifting across the sun, but a bad mood would linger, and very little could lift him out of it. A bad mood for Ben meant a bad night for Miriam.
The rest of the night passed without incident, and closing time finally arrived. Ben bellowed out the last call and cashed out Miriam and the other servers. By the time they were done with their sidework—refilling salt and pepper shakers and the other condiments, and rolling silverware into napkins—Ben had shooed the last stubborn drinker out and was counting the cash register drawers to make the evening deposit. Ben shut off the lights, locked the doors, and exited out the back, the other waitresses scattering to their cars, leaving Ben and Miriam standing in a pool of flickering orange light coming off the fixture over the back door.
“You coming over?” Ben asked.
“I don’t know, Ben. I’m tired, and I work a double tomorrow.” Miriam hoped he would take the hint, but she knew better.
“Just come over for a little bit.” Ben grabbed her hand and rubbed her knuckles with his thumb in idle, annoying circles.
Miriam sighed. “Ben…I’m exhausted. I’ve been on my feet all day, and tomorrow is going to be worse.”
Ben’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve always got some excuse. You’re tired. You have a headache. You have a long day tomorrow.” His touch turned to a warning sq
ueeze, not enough to hurt her just yet, but with enough force to remind her who was in charge. “It’s almost like you don’t love me anymore. Like you’d rather be somewhere else.”
“Ben, you know that’s not it—”
“Somewhere else, or someone else? Is that it?” His voice was low and threatening, sharp with latent rage. “Is there someone else?”
“No, Ben. There’s no one else. No one but you, you know that.”
“Then come over. Prove it to me.”
Miriam didn’t have much choice. He was calm and in control right now despite his earlier dark mood, but if she resisted any more, his temper would turn. Bad things would happen. She sighed and let him lead her to his ancient, battered Chevy S-10. His hand rubbed her thigh the whole way back to his apartment, his palm moving in circles around the same spot until she wanted to bat his hand away in irritation. She didn’t, though, because that would piss him off.
He was kissing her neck as he unlocked his door, and by the time they got to his bedroom, he had her shirt off and her pants unbuttoned. She was tired and her feet hurt, and this was the last thing she wanted, but it was better to just let him do what he wanted. Safer.
Ben was as self-centered in bed as he was in everything else. As soon as he had her naked and in bed, he pushed into her and started thrusting hard and fast. Miriam squeezed her eyes shut, clenched her teeth, and waited for him to finish. Normally, he’d thrust and grunt for a few minutes, finish, and then flop to his side and fall asleep. She was just there, not really participating, and certainly not enjoying it. But he didn’t care.
This time was a little different, though. She felt him inside her, his hard body above her, his breath on her shoulder. She felt a loathing, a rife, dark disgust. For Ben, yes, but mostly for herself, for being too weak to get away from him. Tonight, her senses seemed hyper-attuned—she felt each individual thread of the sheets beneath her back, the hair on Ben’s chest tickling her, the day-old stubble on his chin rasping over the round of her shoulder, his legs pushing to give him leverage for his thrusting. She felt the dry, painful tug of his manhood inside her, the brief punch of his hips slamming into hers.
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