Jasmine (A Lt. Kate Gazzara Novel Book 1)

by Blair Howard

  “May we come in for a minute, sir?”

  He stepped aside and we walked into another world. These folks were “country.” The interior of the home was clean but cluttered. The bric-a-brac of maybe three generations filled every nook and cranny.

  Hoarders? It sure looks like it.

  “You wanna si’down?” he asked.

  I looked around.

  You’re joking, right?

  “Uh...”

  “Here,” he said, grabbing a pile of magazines from the seat of a dining chair. “Sit here. You can sit there,” he said to Tracy, pointing at another chair. “Shove the cat off. She won’t hurt you.”

  I sat down on the edge of the chair and looked up at him, “Is Mrs. Thomas home?”

  He hesitated, “Ye-es, but she’s in the back yard pickin’ tomatoes… What is it you want?”

  “I’d like to talk to you both, if you don’t mind.”

  He shook his head, muttering under his breath, and went out into what I assumed was the kitchen.

  “Hey, Arlis!” he yelled. “They’s two police officers here an’ they wanna talk about Jasmine! C’mon in!”

  Arlis Thomas was not at all what I expected. She was lovely: tall and slender, she looked half her husband’s age.

  “You’ve found her?” She was smiling as she sat down on the arm of the sofa next to her husband. “Oh, thank God. Is she okay? Where is she?”

  And here we go.

  I looked at Tracy. He looked away.

  “She is okay… isn’t she?” Her face had turned pale despite the deep suntan.

  “I don’t know.” I paused, then said, “Mrs. Thomas, Mr. Thomas. There’s no easy way to do this. We’ve found the body of a young girl—”

  “The one they’s talkin’ about on TV?” he interrupted me, grabbing his wife’s hand.

  She was slowly shaking her head, the tears already rolling down her face.

  “Yes, but we don’t know who she is, which is why—”

  “It’s her,” he interrupted again.

  “No-ooo,” she wailed. “It’s not her; it’s not; it can’t be.”

  Oh shit. Harry, where the hell are you when I need you? No! Stop it. You can do this.

  “It may not be her,” I said, knowing deep down that it was. Hell, the girl in the photos was the image of Arlis Thomas. “But we need your help to find out. Does Jasmine have any identifying marks, moles, birthmarks, scars?”

  She shook her head, “No. None.”

  “Yeah, she does,” Thomas said. “She has that scar on her knee from when she had that mini, mini… when she had that cartilage removed.”

  And right then my heart sank. It was her. I almost got up and told them goodbye, but I had to make sure.

  “On her knee?” I asked. “Which one.”

  “The left. It was her left knee.”

  I sighed inwardly. I brought the photo of the scar up on phone and held it out for him to look at.

  “Yeah, that looks like it, but that’s not her. This is a black woman. Our Jasmine is white, like us.”

  What the hell do I say to that? “Oh, that’s just the advanced putrefaction”?

  “This woman is white, Mr. Thomas. It’s… it’s a bad picture, hard to tell.”

  I put the phone back in its clip and turned to Tracy. “Go get the kit from the trunk, Detective.”

  “What?” Mrs. Thomas asked. “What kit? Cletus told you it isn’t her.”

  “Yes, he did, but I need to make sure. Would you mind if we took a look at her room?”

  She looked desperately at her husband, “But it isn’t her…” she whispered.

  “I know,” I said, “but it’s best to make sure. Which way…?”

  “I’ll show you. You wait here, Arlis.” Thomas rose wearily to his feet. I could tell: he knew.

  As we left the room, I said, “I’m also going to need prints from everyone living here. Is it just you, Mrs. Thomas, and Jasmine?”

  “No. We have two more kids, her older brother Michael and her sister Sophia. My brother Joe, he also lives with us.”

  I made note of the names on my iPad. “Your brother,” I asked, “is he here?”

  “No. He’s at work. The kids aren’t here, either.”

  “Where does your brother work? I’d like to talk to him, and get his prints for comparison, to make sure we know one from the other.”

  “He works at Henry’s Tire Shop on Rossville Boulevard.”

  “And your other two children; tell me about them, please.”

  He looked guardedly at me, “Why?”

  “For the same reason. I need to know how they interact with Jasmine, ask if they noticed anything different about her, any changes in her demeanor or routine. And we need their prints so we can eliminate them from fingerprint evidence.”

  “Michael is nineteen. He’s a student at Chattanooga Community College. He works a part-time job at KFC in Hixson. Sophia’s fifteen. She’s at the neighbor’s pool across the street with Jennifer, their kid. She just about lives over there during summer break.”

  I nodded, “So let’s take a look at Jasmine’s room, then I’ll get your prints, and Mrs. Thomas’.”

  We followed him up the stairs to the girl’s room. The door was already open. I stood for a moment looking into the room, trying to get a feel for the girl who had once occupied it. It was clean, tidy, with blue curtains at the window and a matching blue cover on the bed.

  I’d bet money that Arlis made them both herself.

  I stepped inside; Tracy followed and stepped around me,

  “Thank you, Mr. Thomas,” I said as I closed the door. “I’ll call if I need you.”

  He nodded and turned away. I took the small black plastic case from Tracy, laid it down on the bed carefully, so as not to disturb anything. I opened it and took out two pairs of latex gloves, one of which I handed to Tracy.

  “So,” I said, as I began to walk the room and then the adjoining bathroom. “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  I stopped, turned, and stared at him.

  Is he just plain dumb, or just acting like he is?

  “The Thomases, the girl, what do you think?”

  He shrugged, “I think it’s her.”

  I shook my head.

  No shit, Sherlock!

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s see what we can find. Don’t touch anything; not yet.” And I turned back to the bathroom.

  The kid was a neat freak, unless her mother had been tidying after her. The usual collection of makeup, hair spray, lotions, and so on was arranged on a small shelf. Several different brands of shampoo and conditioner stood in the shower, none of it expensive. A set of combs and brushes was laid out neatly on the vanity.

  I went back into the bedroom and grabbed my fingerprint kit out of the black case on the bed. It was a little something I’d put together myself: some magnetic powder, a magnetic wand, a roll of wide, clear sticky tape, some white backing cards, some ten-cards, and an ink pad.

  I returned to the bathroom, set the fingerprint kit down on the vanity, and opened it. Then I opened the cupboards under the vanity. I knew just what I was looking for, and there they were: two glass jars. One filled with Q-tips, the other with cotton balls.

  I placed both jars on the vanity and carefully dusted them with black magnetic powder.

  Oh yeah… that’s what I’m talking about!

  Both jars were liberally covered with latent prints, and I was willing to bet all of them belonged to Jasmine. I lifted the prints using the sticky tape and transferred them to backing cards. If we could find a match for just one of the prints Carol Oats lifted from the girl in the pipe, we’d know it was Jasmine. Just to be sure, though, I decided to look for a DNA sample. I found some hair on the hairbrush and a length of dental floss stuck to the bottom of the empty trash can, and that was all. Someone had cleaned the bathroom.

  I sealed my samples in paper evidence envelopes, signed and dated them, then stowed th
em in the case along with my fingerprint kit.

  The bedroom had also been tidied and cleaned; there wasn’t much to be seen of the girl’s character. The drawers in the dresser were filled with the usual mélange of women’s clothing, as was the closet: nothing out of the ordinary there. The nightstand—there was only one—at the left side of the bed had a small drawer with a cupboard below.

  The cupboard was filled with books, all young adult fiction. She was a reader.

  Unusual. Kids don’t read much these days.

  The drawer… well, it was almost empty.

  And that’s even more unusual. Where the hell is her stuff? There must be some. She’s seventeen for God’s sake; there should be personal stuff all over the place.

  I was looking for a journal, address book, even a notebook would have been something but… nothing. Only basic supplies in the desk, no photos of friends on the walls, no clutter of everyday life. The room could have belonged to anyone; it felt like it belonged to no one. I had the distinct feeling someone had cleaned out her room. Often, worried parents will do that, not wanting their kid to look bad to investigators.

  Hmmm. I need to talk to the parents.

  Tracy was leaning on the door frame, his arms folded, feet crossed at the ankles, watching me.

  “Anything to contribute, Detective?”

  He shook his head, smiling, “Nope!”

  Damn. Am I going to have to pull every little thought out of him?

  “So what are you thinking?”

  “About what?”

  “Are you serious?”

  This is not going to work.

  He shrugged; the smile stuck fast on his face.

  I shook my head, exasperated, “Let’s go talk to the parents.” I retrieved the black case from the bed and pushed past him.

  They were waiting for us in the living room.

  I sat down in front of them. Tracy did his door frame thing again.

  “It’s her,” Thomas said. “The girl in the pipe, it’s Jasmine.”

  “We don’t know that,” I said. “I—”

  “I know it. It’s her. She’s dead, an’ I know who done it.” He glared at me.

  You do?

  “We don’t know that it’s your daughter, Mr. Thomas. Maybe it is. We’ll know soon enough. I have some very good fingerprints. Now I need yours so we can eliminate them. If there’s a match with the dead girl, I’ll know before the end of the day. This will only take a minute.”

  I laid my kit on the table, opened it, and stood aside. “Detective Tracy?”

  “What?”

  “The prints. Would you do them for me, please?”

  I watched him as he reluctantly stepped forward and went to work.

  Not much of a self-starter.

  I asked Mrs. Thomas, “Can we get hold of Sophia? Ask her to come home?”

  She nodded and went to the phone.

  “While we’re waiting, Mr. Thomas, you said you know who killed her… if it is her. Who, and how do you know?”

  “Piece o’ shit lives at the end of the road. Russell Hawkins. He’s been stalkin’ her for more’n a year: calls all the time, sits in his car watchin’ her, waits for her at school, follows her around. It’s him, I’m tellin’ ya.”

  “Russell Hawkins?” I made a note of the name on my iPad.

  He nodded. “Yeah. I warned him off a hundred times, but I can’t be everywhere.”

  I asked him for Jasmine’s phone number, made a note of it, and then I turned to Tracy, “We need to get her phone records.”

  He nodded.

  I looked at Arlis Thomas, “Do you know anyone who would want to hurt Jasmine?”

  She was seated on the sofa next to her husband with her arms folded. She shook her head. “It’s not her. She’s with friends, or someone from work.”

  “What about this Russell Hawkins?”

  “Oh… I don’t know,” she said. “He asked her out, several times, but…”

  “He was stalkin’ her, dammit!” Thomas glared angrily at his wife. She shrugged, but didn’t answer.

  “That’s a serious allegation, Mr. Thomas.”

  “Yeah, I know, but it’s true. It’s been goin’ on for years. Every day, last year or so. Obsessed with her, is what he is. It’s him.”

  “Who is?”

  I turned to the door and saw a girl in a bikini, a towel wrapped around her shoulders. Sophia was pretty. No, she was beautiful, and she looked a lot older than her fifteen years.

  “Never you mind,” Arlis said. “These here are police officers. They want to talk to you.

  “What about? Is this about Jasmine? Have you found her? Where is she?”

  “No, we haven’t found her,” I said, “but we need…” and I did my best to explain the situation without upsetting her. It didn’t go too well, especially when I asked her to provide fingerprints.

  “What do you want them for?” She asked, finally holding out her right hand for Tracy to print her.

  “Just routine,” I said, “so we can—”

  “You found her, didn’t you? It’s that body they found at the quarry… Oh my God, Jasmine, she’s dead!”

  “No, no,” I said. “We don’t know that.”

  “But that’s why you’re here,” the girl was crying, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You think it’s her; you think it’s Jasmine!”

  Oh, shit… we need to get out of here.

  I knew from experience that sticking around would only make things worse for them. I watched as Tracy slipped the ten-cards into their protective covers and put them away.

  “Well,” I said. “That should do it, for now. We’ll be in touch. In the meantime, if you think of anything that might be of help, please give me a call.”

  I handed Thomas one of my cards. “That has my cell number on it. You can call me anytime. Any time at all.”

  “What about Hawkins?” he said. “You gonna talk to him or not? ‘Cause if you won’t, I sure as hell will.”

  Oh, double shit. That’s the last thing I need…

  I drew myself up to my full height and tried to look commanding. Being almost six feet tall has its advantages. “Yes, I will interview him. No, you will not, under any circumstances, talk to Mr. Hawkins yourself. Is that clear, Mr. Thomas?”

  He scowled, but nodded.

  “Good. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.” I jerked my head at Tracy. “Let’s go.”

  I walked out without looking to see if Tracy was following. Once in the cruiser, I slammed the door and turned in my seat to face him.

  “Okay, Detective Tracy. Let’s have it. What’s on your mind?”

  “Not a thing, Sergeant. Not a damn thing.”

  “Okay, then: we’re done. I don’t have to work with a partner I can’t get along with, and I won’t. You don’t talk, you make no effort to help, and you have no insight to offer. I might as well work alone. So,” I hit the starter, “we’ll go back to Headquarters. I’ll go see the chief, and you can go back to Narcotics.”

  I put the car in drive and headed for Bonny Oaks.

  “Now just a damn minute…”

  The words had barely left his lips when I slammed on the brakes. If he hadn’t been wearing his seat belt he would have hit the windshield.

  “Yes, detective?”

  “Look,” he said. “I understand you just lost your partner, but I don’t appreciate you taking it out on me.”

  “I’m not taking anything out on you. I just need for you to act like a professional police officer and pull your weight. I don’t want to have to tell you to do everything. Use your initiative. Open your mouth now and again.”

  I glanced sideways at him. He was staring at me. I shook my head. “What?”

  “You embarrassed the hell out of me in front of everyone this morning,” he said. “Why did you do that?”

  I laid it out for him, “You have a reputation.”

  “What? What have you heard?”

  “You really
want to know?”

  “Yeah, I really want to know.”

  “I’ve heard you’re a first-class asshole. You think women are idiots, good for only one thing. You’re a grab-ass, can’t keep your hands to yourself. That enough? I have plenty more.”

  He stared at me, his mouth half-open, but either he didn’t know what to say, or he did but didn’t dare say it.

  “Look, Tracy, I’ve worked damn hard to get where I am, and I don’t take any shit from anyone, especially my partner. I’ve never worked Narcotics; it must have been tough. But you’re here now, and this is a different kind of tough. That ‘screw you,’ hard-ass attitude of yours won’t cut it with me. And another thing: a joke now and then is fine, but I won’t tolerate any of your sexual innuendo or harassment. Not. Any. You got it?”

  His brow was a field of furrows, his eyes were narrowed, his lips clamped together.

  Uh oh! Here it comes.

  But it didn’t. Suddenly his features softened, and he looked at me with sad-puppy eyes worthy of a velvet painting.

  “You know, Sergeant, I think I do. It may take a while but I promise, I’ll work on it.” Then he folded his arms, laid his head back against the headrest, and closed his eyes, a slight smile on his lips.

  Son of a bitch. He’s trying to play me! Okay, buddy: game on.

  Chapter 4

  Henry’s Tire Shop was one of those nasty, oily little places that do more business in used tires than new; that and general shade-tree mechanic work.

  And if you trust them with your vehicle you deserve all you get.

  Henry himself was more biker than mechanic: tattooed arms and neck, weather-beaten face, and a leather vest with a Harley logo. He was lounging outside the office door in a beat up old leather recliner, a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other. He squinted up at me through bleary eyes.

  “Well, lookey here,” he said, lifting the hand with the smoke to shade his eyes. “If you ain’t a sight for sore eyes, I dunno what is. What can I do you for… Ah.” He had recognized the white unmarked car for what it was. “Cops. What d’ya want?”

  “I’d like to talk to Joe Thomas. Is he here?”

  “Hey, Joe,” he shouted. “Lady cop here wants you.”

  Joe Thomas was not at all like his brother. He was younger by at least ten years; I figured him to be about my age. Maybe a little older. Tall, close to six feet, long blond hair held back by a red and green do rag, arms tattooed from shoulder to wrist. He must have worked out, a lot. Even through the sweat-soaked t-shirt, the well-defined six pack and pecs rippled as he moved.