“That’s him?” the voice asks, deep and rich (a youngster?), but also very crisp and clear (definitely a youngster), with an accent I really couldn’t place.
“The very one,” came Peyton’s reply.
She kicked something out of the way that clattered annoyingly away from the rug and over the marble tile.
“I’ve heard a lot about him. Heck I used to look up to him. It’s sad. Like seeing Elvis shit his pants.”
“I can hear you,” I murmur, still testing my voice.
“Well, hallelujah!” she deadpans, earning a laugh from Peyton.
I want to flip them both the bird but my body is refusing to cooperate with me at this point so I settle for a low grunt.
“I’ll be waiting in the car, I have to radio out to HQ,” she informs, and I hear her retreating steps immediately afterwards.
“Well, that’s it kid, nothing more to see here,” I muse, finally sitting up to face Peyton. He hands me a cup of steaming coffee, black, and I almost cry in relief. I gulp it down, the first sip scalding me. I welcome the pain and the clarity that comes afterwards. “What are you doing here?” I ask, cradling my cup of joe, and my head as I stand up. He follows me out. I wait for the inevitable talk that usually follows mornings like these.
“This is why I didn’t want to involve you in the first place. The case is closed, you’ve been reinstated. Why are you still chasing shadows?”
I’ve heard varied versions of this same speech from everyone but Peyton. I assume he’s biding his time, but he doesn’t seem ready to say anything more as he surveys the house beside me.
“It’s Sunday!” I exclaim.
“You need to take a shower,” he says after a very long while, my coffee is almost finished by then. “Eleanor called Mary, who told me. I have to get you out of this place you big oaf, or my wife won’t let me watch the game in peace,” he adds, without looking up.
“I know,” I snap, feeling sour and blatantly refusing to look at him.
“Still nothing from Miss Jones,” he informs, I look up at this.
Peyton and I share a baleful look. I didn’t know he was still working her case. He registers my surprise and shrugs in response. This case is far from over. Sure, Angel admitted it (if you could accept what was written on the wall as a confession). Handwriting experts admitted his writing was a match, something about the curve of his ‘d’ and stroke of the ‘i’... I wasn’t really paying attention when the evidence was presented in court. And sure, he snuffed his own light before we got there. Then it turns out the guy found dead in Verity’s bathtub was actually running in with the wrong crowd. There was talk of a drug baron and a pimp, and any one of them could be the killer. The department had been tracking both interested parties and watching them closely, but I had a feeling Verity wasn’t as innocent as she claimed to be.
I’ve harbored that feeling for every one of the seven months since her disappearance. You don’t just up and leave unless you’re running from something, right? What is it, Verity Jones? What are you running from?
Chapter 3
Detective Joy
“Will you come to my game?” Nikki pipes up as her school building comes into view. I park the car and turn around to look at her.
“What game?” I ask, floored. Her face immediately scrunches up in disappointment. “What game?” I whisper to Rita, who just rolls her eyes before responding.
“Her peewee soccer game. She’s been going on and on about it, can’t get her to shut up about it.”
“You shut up!” Nikki screams all of a sudden, throwing her legs up to the car’s ceiling.
“Hey,” I warn, grabbing her legs so she’s righted. She folds her arms about her tiny frame, pouting. Her face is red and comical, but at least she’s calm now.
“Urgh! You’re such a big baby!” Rita throws offhandedly, typing furiously on her phone.
“Hey,” I chide, turning the engine back on and driving to the school’s entrance.
“You’re a big baby! Your face is a big baby shit face,” Nikki counters in such a loud voice, I’m tempted to hit the brakes again.
“Hey!” I warn, using my ‘daddy voice’. Thank God it still works. They both fall silent.
“Pip! We don’t use that language alright?” I correct, growling at her reflection in the rearview mirror.
“Yeah,” Rita punctuates, still typing.
“And you...” I start, but she interrupts me before I can get very far.
“I know the drill, sorry for saying what I said or whatever. Look I’m gonna be late for class. We have algebra first period.”
“Apologize like an actual human,” I tell her as sternly as I can manage.
“Fine. Sorry for what I said,” she gives in, putting her phone in her back and looking what I believe is her version of ‘meek’. I take it anyway.
“Now, you do the same, Pip.”
“I’m sorry I called you a shit face and a crapbag.”
“What?” both Rita and I blurt out, very obviously shocked.
“I said it in my mind. I said Crapbag Rita,” Nikki explains, the tips of her ears turning red at the incredulous look on both our faces.
“Nikki! Language!” I cry, still staring in disbelief.
“I wasn’t calling her a shit face again, I’m just saying...” she starts.
“Don’t say the word again!” I yell. The entire car goes dead silence for the second time this morning. Wow! Must be a record for this household.
“I’m sorry,” she gives in, hanging her head so that her hair falls over her face.
“Where is she getting this from?” I throw to Rita, eyeing her with barely concealed suspicion.
“Hey! Don’t look at me. I only know the mom-sanctioned swear words,” she defends, getting out of the car just as the school bell rings. It sounds like a fire alarm – nothing much has changed. “Bye dad,” she calls, halfway into the main entrance. It’s a new development, her calling me ‘dad’, but a welcome one. Another development is her wearing more colors now. No more black eyes. I guess her mother was right about the heavy make up and dressing all in black being a phase.
“But you’ll be at my game, right?” Nikki asks, grabbing my arm from the back seat. Her door is open, almost like she got out and remembered she’d forgotten something.
“Of course, Pip. Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I assure her, which earns a big kiss from her before she exits.
* * *
“Don’t you look chipper this morning, Detective,” Peyton greets, with a cup of coffee in one hand and a file in another. To my great displeasure, he hands me the file and takes a sip.
“What’s this?” I throw, keeping my voice as bored and uninterested as possible.
“A new case.”
“That’s how you welcome people back? Pitiful.”
“Next time we’ll place a bouquet on your table. Oh wait, we already did that, two freaking weeks ago when your actual leave ended but you refused to show up to work,” he counters, raising his voice theatrically. This earns us looks from the rest of the office, with some recognizing me and giving hasty ‘welcome backs’.
“Shit face,” I mutter under my breath. Wow! Where did that come from?
“What? Me? Shit face? I’m offended Joy, greatly so.”
“Welcome back, Detective Joy, you’ve been missed,” Paige announces, bounding up to meet both Peyton and me. So many months and she’s still as cheerful and bubbly.
“No I haven’t,” I retort, handing the file back to Peyton as we round my office.
“Of course you have! Are you taking the Delgado case? Please, please say yes, I want to work on the case so bad,” she defends, looking eagerly at the file in Peyton’s hand.
“Do you now?” I ask.
“With my soul,” she replies without even looking at me.
“I’m not working on it,” I draw out, getting into my office, hoping for some quiet. But apparently I can’t have even that little thing beca
use they both follow me inside.
“You’re not?” they ask in unison. Paige’s eyebrows disappear into her newly cut bangs. Actually, are they new? I have a vague recollection of seeing her with something similar before.
“I’m still on leave,” I answer simply.
“Joy...” Peyton starts, but I cut him short.
“I’ll take some of your smaller cases. Any burglary? Misplaced keys? Lost pets?”
They both go quiet for a while, staring me down, challenging me. I don’t look away: challenge accepted. Peyton hands the file over to Paige, who looks like she might just explode. With all the energy around her, I suspect she just might, as she leaves the office sharply.
“You’re in luck my good man. Shall we?” Peyton announces, holding the door open. I grunt, swallowing my choice words, deciding instead to just go with it.
He leads me to his office, smiling like a goofball all the way, but I ignore him. Upon entering his office, we find a small, wiry woman there. She looks visibly relieved upon our entry.
“Mrs. Jensen, hello, nice to meet you,” Peyton greets with a friendly wave.
“Hello,” I say, and she smiles in return.
Her name sounds vaguely familiar, where have I heard it?
“So, I was told you asked for me and my partner specifically,” Peyton delves in, without any preamble.
“Yes, it’s my son’s room,” she explains, stopping to bring out her phone.
“Your son’s room?”
“Yes, you see, after the memorial service, I didn’t pack his stuff, it makes me feel much better if it stays that way. I left his room exactly the way it has always been,” she explains slowly, gesticulating like a high school teacher.
“Well, what are you reporting then, Mrs. Jensen?” Peyton pushes, getting his note pad out and passing it to me. I begin taking notes dutifully.
“Well, our house was broken into but nothing was taken and nothing was touched, only Tony’s room was turned upside down. I don’t know what they were looking for.”
One name comes to mind as soon as I hear this. I stop writing the words down, my pen paused midway.
“And it’s not just me, the other families complained too.”
“Families? Families of who?” I interrupt, already knowing the answer.
“Families of the Memphis Four,” she replies in a small, scared voice.
Chapter 4
Detective Joy
They were named the Memphis Four. There had been a significant amount of time between the day Andre was found and Noah’s death, and it wasn’t until last year that the three homicides attributed to Angel Stuart were recorded so, for most people the case remained about the Memphis Four: Anthony Jensen, Martin Shwartz, Donnie Rover and Andre Stiles.
“So, you all kept in touch even after what had happened?” I ask, taking over the conversation, my curiosity suddenly piqued.
“It was part of what the grief councilor suggested. Loss binds people together in ways you can never imagine,” she explains still in that teacherly manner of hers, while Peyton listens intently. Both their behaviors are endearing and off-putting at the same time.
I understand what she means. How many times did Eleanor and I have to sit through those stupid classes that claimed to offer clarity and insight? In the end I was left feeling more confused and angry than I had been in the beginning so I blocked it all out. Stonewalling, they called it, but nothing brought me back. It was expensive letting go. Eventually it took a toll on my job – something I loved – and then my marriage – something I loved even more. It was healthier staying apart than being together. Every time I see Eleanor now, she looks better and better. The color returning to her cheeks and her eyes not looking bloodshot and red-rimmed as if she’d spent her entire day crying without any form of rest.
Looking at Mrs. Jensen now, maybe the grief counseling had worked for her. She looked to be in good health, and at least she looked happy.
“Joy? You got that?” Peyton asks out of the blue, drawing m back to the present.
“Hmmmmmn?”
“What Mrs. Jensen just said, did you get it?” he throws, cocking an eyebrow at me. When did that start, the cocking of eyebrows? Or is that something is missed along with the many other things I keep missing?
“Yes, so you spoke to the families and they all concluded similar instances happened right?” Peyton surreptitiously fills in while Mrs. Jenson keeps nodding in affirmation.
“But Laura...”
“Laura?”
“Yes, Laura, Andre’s sister, she said she’s been receiving calls at odd hours. You know, she didn’t like with her brother and after what happened she put his house on the market and left town. But Martin’s parents said their house had been broken into, nothing was taken though, but there had been signs of forced entry so...”
“Thank you very much for the information Mrs. Jensen, we’re on it.”
“‘On it’ meaning you’ll do something about this for sure?”
“I don’t really think there’s much to do about this. Call us if you hear someone in your house and we’ll come on down. In the meantime, lock all your doors; I’d advise you to put bolts on the inside to be safer. Are you staying there at the moment?”
“Oh, no, I’m staying with my sister Catharine outside of town. When I told her about everything that had been happening she was afraid that the next time the perpetrator came around she might find me and think I was in her way.”
She? Her?
“Excuse me, Mrs. Jensen, you said she?”
“Yes, she. Well you see, I had a small bowl of oils sitting at the entrance of the room, and I’m guessing whoever was in the house spilled it and tried to clean it up because there were smudge marks on the floor. But what was interesting was that she left a hand imprint on the wall that looked very small,” Mrs. Jensen painstakingly explains like she’s talking to two mentally challenged students.
“Small?” I push.
“Feminine,” she corrects, looking around like she might not be entirely sure anymore.
“Feminine?” I ask again.
“Let me finish. The print looked like a woman’s hand so I just assumed it was a she. Could have been a little boy, I don’t really know these things.” She sounds exasperated now. Her lips are pinched together in a show of frustration.
“Thank you very much for that, Mrs. Jensen. We’ll be coming over to do a quick sweep of your house if you don’t mind,”
Peyton looks up suddenly, throwing me a glance.
“Oh I don’t. Not at all,” she replies as Peyton ushers her out.
* * *
“Did you really have to tell the lady that you wanted to do a sweep of her house?” Peyton says, staring up at her apartment. We’re outside now, having done a thorough sweep of the place.
“Yes, yes it was very necessary.”
“I hope you found what you were looking for, Sherlock. The hand print’s a bust,” he fires back, shaking his head at me like he cannot believe it.
“I disagree,” I call out simply, going over my notes. There’s a clue here somewhere. There’s always a clue.
“Look, I know you’re looking for proof to put this on her, but an oily print doesn’t mean nothing,” he says, putting a hand on me. I shrug him of easily. “Look, I’m on your side here, I’m not the enemy, Joy,” he explains, holding his hand up in mock surrender. I ignore his theatrics. “Fine, I’ll ask Paige to come down and take a sample. Maybe there’s some DNA left she can draw up,” he concedes, bringing out his phone.
“Thank you.”
“Now it talks! Man-child,” he throws out and I struggle to stifle a laugh. “I’ve sent her a text, she’ll be here any time now,” he informs, holding out his phone as proof. “We still don’t have any sightings of the girl. You know this, right?”
“Yes, I am aware.”
“Just don’t get your hopes up, Joy, that’s all I’m saying,” he says in a small voice. We’ve been down this road
before. It’s all too familiar.
“How long did Paige say she’d take?” I ask, clearing my throat, and hopefully my thoughts.
“Let me give her a quick call then. I’ll let you know.”
Then, like a fleeting phantom, I spot her in the crowd below. Something’s off, her hair’s not the same color as before. Or maybe it is and I just haven’t noticed, I’m beginning to forget a lot of things these days. But when she turns around and I see her face, not just a sketchy side profile, I know in that instant that I didn’t make a mistake. That’s Verity Anne Jones. The same one that has been off the grid for God knows how many months.
Without thinking, I sprint down the stairs, taking them two, sometimes three or even four at a time. In the periphery of my memory I know I should have said something to Peyton but this need is more pressing so I let go of my guilt, choosing instead to run after her. There’s a sea of people between us. Flashing my badge around to clear some space will only alert her, or even spook her. The last thing I need is to scare her off during closing hour near a train station. I have to proceed with caution.
Chapter 5
Verity
I walk silently, gliding in and out of the crowd, my hands tucked deep in my pockets. The weight of the necklace I’m holding, hidden, bears on my whole body, weighing me down as I trudge along, going with he crowd. It’s the end of the workday, and as usual the 4:25 train is almost full. I’m not really interested in riding a packed train with sweaty strangers so I decide to sit this one out. Maybe buy some food at a drive-through before going home. I can sort my thoughts while I eat.
Deciding on this, I make to turn around when someone brushes past me, no apologies. Like me, her eyes stare ahead. I peer out at her, we’re so similar it’s bordering on eerie. Black knit cardigan and red hair with jeans, from behind she almost looks like me, but she’s taller. As I watch her, someone else brushes past me, walking so fast he’s almost running. Something drops from him as he passes. I bend down to pick it up and realize it’s a wallet. I open mouth to call out after him but he turns slightly and I see his side profile. A gasp starts and dies in my throat. I go stock still with fear. The only thought in my head is to run, which I do without hesitation.
Lead or Lipstick (Sword and Lead Book 2) Page 2
