by Skyla Madi
Any evidence collection in this slop proved nearly impossible. What the stream hadn't washed away, the rain had. Nothing left but the poor girl and her clothes. Harry caught a glimpse of her face as she was turned over. The sight of her slack jaw and muddy appearance etched into his memory. Some things never got easier to see and could never be forgotten, especially since Harry had a daughter of his own. The whirring sound of a winch started up. Slowly, the stretcher rose.
By the time Harry crawled back up the embankment, the young woman’s body had been loaded into the back of an ambulance. He thought about Mikey Hardin and how the guy’s ex-wife was also a blonde.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mikey
“Thanks for the ride, man,” Mikey told his best friend Brad.
“No prob. Do you want me to wait? See if it starts?”
“Why wouldn't it start?”
“Because it’s been parked out front of your psycho ex-wife’s house for the last forty-eight hours.”
Amazed neither his ex-wife nor the police had towed the car, Mikey laughed and got out of Brad’s Jeep. “Whatever, man. But yeah, stay.”
“That's what I thought,” Brad said, chuckling to himself.
The engine cranked over like it should. When Mikey looked over at Brad, he gave him the thumbs-up and looked relieved, like Cynthia may have wired a bomb to the ignition. With a honk, Brad pulled away from the curb.
Mikey killed the engine. He dreaded going over and ringing the front door bell of his ex's house. However, his desire to see his ten-year-old son won out. As he got out of the car, Brayden, shot out of the front door. “Hey, kid.” Mikey lifted Brayden into his arms and hugged him.
“Hi, Dad. Whatcha doing here?”
He knew his son was worried because he glanced up the street both ways as if he was expecting the police to come screaming up the block. He wondered if Brayden had been traumatized after the fiasco of his father being arrested. He shivered the idea away.
“I missed you,” Mikey told his son.
“I miss you too.”
Mikey set him down and walked back to the porch with his son. Only the screen door was closed. Mikey couldn't resist the urge to peer inside and was surprised when he didn’t see Cynthia lurking in the hallway like she usually did.
Cynthia's garage door trundled up, the wheels squealing along its track, adding to Mikey’s irritation. Cynthia’s car turned into the driveway. He cringed.
“Mom's home,” Brayden said with the enthusiasm of a dental patient.
“Why don't you go back inside? I'll see you next weekend.” Mikey placed his hand on his son's head and mussed his hair. Brayden nodded and retreated behind the screen door.
Mikey went and stood directly behind his ex-wife's car so she couldn't close the garage. He beckoned her with the crook of his finger. She peeked at him out of her rear view mirror. Her lips moved in the mirror and she swore before she exited her car.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked, glowering at her.
“I guess so. You're here, aren't you?”
Man, she was unbelievably snotty. He thought about squeezing her neck and snorted to himself. “How long did you leave my son home alone?” He placed his hands on his hips.
Cynthia stepped up close to him. Even though she invaded his space, he remained planted to the ground and didn’t budge. “He's our son, in case you forgot. And what I do with him on my time is my business, not yours. I don't tell you what you can and cannot do when he's with you.” She pushed a finger into his chest.
“I don't want you endangering him. Who knows what could happen while you're gone? You don't have a land-line. What if there’s an emergency? What then, huh?” He chose not to raise his voice because there was no reason for the neighbors to hear. Or Brayden.
“Don't tell me how to raise my son!”
“What happened to he's ours?” He started losing his patience. A little longer until he could get into his car and then he could lose it.
“You don't care about him. You never cared about him!” Her eyes darted across the street to the neighbor watering flowers, who was now looking over, and at someone walking their dog. Mikey caught a hint of a smug expression on Cynthia’s face when she turned back.
“What are you talking about? I'm the only one of us who does care,” he snarled.
“Then why did you leave us!? You cheated!”
Mikey nearly choked on that one. “Excuse me? You're crazy. I never cheated on you. What in the hell is wrong with you?”
“Then why did you leave? I'll tell you why. You never loved me! Your drinking always mattered more!”
“I'm not having this conversation with you.” He turned and walked away, shaking his head.
Mikey got into his car and slammed the door shut. He beat the steering wheel with his fist a couple of times. “Fuck! God, I hate that bitch.” He put the car in drive and peeled away from the curb, tires squealing.
CHAPTER SIX
Grace
Her hair refused to cooperate and Mikey was on his way over. Grace had agreed to go out with him, except now she was having difficulty justifying the date with the state of the mop on top of her head. Her hair was a disaster.
Time for a ponytail.
The doorbell rang.
Grace opened the door and hitched a breath. She'd forgotten how handsome he was.
Hello, Gorgeous.
“Please come in,” she managed to say.
“Hi,” Mr. Gorgeous said.
After he crossed the threshold, she turned to shut the door and mouthed, holy crap, behind his back.
“Did you say something?” he asked.
“Uh, no.” Grace prayed she hadn't said that out loud. She gazed up at his slate-blue eyes. “Um, I was thinking we could go to this one restaurant if—”
“I made reservations. A friend of mine owns a restaurant.”
“Oh, your friend owns a restaurant? That’s cool. What’s the name of it?” she asked, truly interested, but looked at the floor.
“Cocoa.”
Oh my God.
That was only her favorite restaurant. “Your friend owns Cocoa?” Her cheeks warmed. She liked this guy already, even if she had some doubts about him.
“I take it you approve.”
“Oh God yes. I love that place. Especially their desserts. Let’s go. I'm starved.” She snagged her purse off the back of the couch and ushered him out the door, forgetting about her stupid hair.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Harry
“What the hell is this now?” Harry said aloud. He closed the email account that collected tips from “do-gooder” citizens and other nut-jobs who thought they knew something about open investigations. Some of his peers lived by and pursued possible suspects based on the information. However, Harry loathed the primarily useless fodder.
The email he'd read had been signed “Scared,” and accused Mikey Hardin. Of what? Harry wasn't sure as there were no specifics. He shook his head and swore under his breath. He’d reconsidered his earlier thought at the roadside crime scene. It hadn’t set right with him. Hardin shared custody of his ten-year-old son with his ex-wife and owned a business, even if it was a tattoo parlor. However, he didn't exactly know the man well, apart from a couple of AA meetings from years ago he attended to remind himself why he no longer drank. During the sharing portion, the man never said anything that alarmed Harry or made him think Hardin would murder someone. He let out a long sigh and rubbed his jaw.
Putting his personal opinions aside, he flipped open the Hardin file and read the report again. Nothing made sense. He closed the file and grabbed the Jennifer Swanson murder file, reviewed the notes. She’d worked at Hector’s Coney Island and her car had been left in the parking lot after her last shift. The cook was interviewed and told police that the restaurant had been quiet that night. Harry sat up straighter the further he read, absently sipping his coffee. He spat the cold instant Folgers back into the disposable cup. A few new f
aces and some regulars had also come in that night. And one frequenter in particular—Mikey Hardin.
By the time Harry was done dissecting all the evidence that had been collected so far, all the photos were laid out on his desk and the papers were strewn about.
Amongst the mess a frame with his daughter’s picture stood out. There was no denying it he was relieved she wasn't a blonde and the furthest from a blonde with ebony hair. And God help anyone who would harm her.
He picked up his phone and dialed Mikey’s number to invite him down to the station in the morning for a talk over some bad tasting coffee. The call immediately went to voice mail. He left a message.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mikey
The easy banter on the way to the restaurant put any misgivings Mikey had about Grace to rest. She was much more down to earth than he remembered. He'd been somewhat edgy on the way to her house after the confrontation with Cynthia. Her insanity was exponentially worsening.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Mikey picked up his cell phone from the table. He silenced the “UNKNOWN” caller and set it face down.
“Did you have to get that? I mean, it’s okay if you need—”
“Unknown. I don't answer those.”
“Me either. If it’s that important they'll leave a—”
The phone chirped signifying a voice mail waited.
“Maybe you should—”
“Nope. I’d much rather listen to you.” His eyes lingered on her mouth. He’d wanted to kiss her ever since he’d picked her up for their date. Grace was lovely; black hair, hazel eyes, and full lips.
They stared at each other until the waiter came up to their table moments later. “Would you like to see our dessert menu?”
When Grace didn’t say anything right away Mikey started to ask for the bill. “No, just the—”
“Um, can I see the dessert menu, please?”
“Of course.” The waiter smiled and left the table.
Mikey grinned lopsidedly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you wanted anything.”
“I love their red velvet brownie. I know I don’t need it, but it’s a special night…”
“It’s my favorite too. That’s so funny. And you’re right, this is a special night. I don’t date a lot. I travel for work a few times a month. As I said before, every other weekend I have my son. So…”
“Your job sounds exciting.”
He chuckled. “It has its moments. Sometimes the clients are assholes, though.”
Grace threw her head back and laughed. “How do you mean? What do they say or…do?”
“Well, some want tattoos that aren’t possible or in locations that I won’t do.”
“Where?” she asked, her eyes shining in the candlelight.
Mikey blushed, thinking about how to explain where. “Um, think of the weirdest place and you’re probably right.”
Now he could see she was conjuring up some wild stuff. Her eyes lit up with an idea, although she hesitated.
“What are you thinking?”
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, getting ready to speak. The waiter showed up with the dessert menu.
Damn.
He’d been so looking forward to hearing what she’d come up with.
“I already know what I want,” Grace told the waiter. “The red velvet brownie. Mikey, do you want to split it or have one all to yourself?”
“I’m not a pig, we can share. They’re huge.”
“I know, right? I can never finish a whole one.” She handed the menu back to their waiter.
“Very well, thank you,” the waiter said before retreating.
“Okay. What did you come up with?” Mikey asked.
“Penis,” Grace gushed.
Now it was Mikey’s turn to throw his head back and laugh. “Actually, that’s not the weirdest. It’s more common than you might think.”
“No way!”
“People have asked for that and more. Like all the way around to their ass-crack more.”
“Ewww. Aren’t they embarrassed? Aren’t you embarrassed?”
“Not really,” Mikey laughed. “Only embarrassed when you asked me about it. It’s not a big deal.”
“So you don’t do tattoos there?”
“Nope.” He put his palms up and shook his head. “Once was enough and never again.”
“How many do you have?” She glanced at his arms. For an owner of a tattoo parlor and artist, he wasn’t covered from head to toe.
“Not that many. I like larger tattoos. Most of my back is covered with a single design. But they’re all over.
“Oooh. Of what?”
“I'll have to show you some time,” he winked.
The waiter returned with the dessert.
“Could I have another Chardonnay, please?” Grace asked, holding up her glass. The waiter whisked the long-stem away. “Thank you.” Grace glanced at Mikey’s half-full soda on the table. “I hope you don’t think I normally drink this much, I…I’m a little nervous.”
The waiter returned with her beverage.
“It’s okay,” Mikey said. “I wasn’t thinking you were an alcoholic. And I’m not a wine person.”
She raised her glass to her lips. “Why don’t you join me with a beer or something?”
“I’m driving. It’s not a good idea if I drink.”
CHAPTER NINE
Grace
Grace watched the blur of storefronts and pedestrians whiz by from Mikey’s passenger seat. Cocoa was located in the downtown area of South Webster. Their dinner had been excellent and the conversation flirty, but true to herself, her nerves took over and the car ride was silent. Her need for a different life, a more exciting life, wandered away and took shelter under a rock where it could stay comfortable, hiding behind Painfully-Lonely and Afraid-To-Take-Chances. She had a way of lying to herself about what made her happy and whole.
“Do you trust me?”
Mikey’s sudden question jolted her back to her present reality, riding in a car with a hot guy. She hoped he hadn’t seen her reaction.
She swallowed. “Um, yeah, sure. Why not?”
“Okay. That was very convincing.”
“Well…” God, what was wrong with her?
“It’s all right. We hardly know each other. I’ll take you home.” The defeat in his voice was unmistakable.
Grace flopped her head back on the head rest.
Great.
The first night of trying to alter the course of her life; fail. She panicked and said the first thing that popped into her brain. “Give me a reason to trust you.”
What? What did that even mean?
“Hmm.” He glanced at her. “Do you like motorcycles?”
Grace twisted her face up. “Oooh, kind of frightening. Why?” she asked tentatively.
“Thought you might like a ride. And this way, if we don’t die, you’ll have a reason to trust me.”
“Funny. But uhhh, I don’t know, maybe. I’ve never been on one before.” She sucked in a breath between her teeth. “Not sure I’d like it.”
“Tell you what, I’ll show it to you and see what you think. If not, I’ll take you home.”
“Okay, but I’m not sure I’ll get on it.”
“Fair enough.” Mikey drove another block and made a U-turn back to his house.
***
Grace had to admit, he looked sexy as hell straddling his bike. The gas tank had a shiny black finish while the rest of the mechanics were a matte black. The whole motorcycle was black.
“What kind is it?”
Mikey pointed to the metal emblem on the side of the tank.
Her face turned red. “Yeah, I guess I can read.”
“You really don’t know anything about bikes do you?”
“Why do you ask?”
He stared at her with that lopsided grin of his. “One thing before we ride. You lean into turns. The natural reflex is to lean the opposite way, but not on a motorcycle.”
/>
Mikey rose from the seat, put a key in the ignition, turned it, and did some other things Grace didn’t have a clue at, then kick-started the road monster. He’d said it was a street model with some letters or numbers after it. Truthfully, she hadn’t listened to what he’d said. Like it mattered anyway. She wasn’t going to get on it.
A helmet sat on a shelf behind her in the garage. When he pointed to it, she brought it over.
“Put it on!” he yelled over the idling engine. She shook her head, pretending not to hear him. “The strap adjusts.”
Grace counted on this being the worst experience ever. She placed the helmet on her head and fiddled with the chin strap, all thumbs. Her fingers didn’t want to cooperate, probably because this was going to be the last time they were attached to her hands.
Mikey watched her struggle and intervened. He fastened the strap. She ungracefully mounted the bike and sat behind him. His head rose above hers, even though his seat was positioned lower than hers. He reached behind, grasped her hands, and wrapped them around his waist. The engine roared and the death-machine lurched forward. Grace let out a whimper and clutched his torso higher up.
His body quivered as he chuckled. Mikey lifted his legs and pulled them in then they were off. He made a wide turn out of his driveway. Now what was she supposed to remember?
Crap. Lean into turns.
This proved more difficult to do. He was right; she wanted to lean the other way. To compensate she held Mikey closer and turned her head to the side. Maybe if she didn’t look ahead, she wouldn’t be so afraid of becoming roadkill.
