Death Before Decaf

by Caroline Fardig

  Ryder stood up, crossing his arms. He frowned. Uh-oh. “I see. Then what I don’t understand is, if you’re such good buddies, why last week you told Dave you were going to kill him.”

  Hopping up as well, Ron growled, “Are you a cop or something?”

  Ryder didn’t flinch. “No, like I said, I’m a friend of Dave’s. He was murdered, and I’m going to find the asshole who did it.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me.”

  “Then why the hell did you say you were going to kill him?”

  “That’s none of your damn business!”

  Getting in Ron’s face, Ryder shouted, “I just made it my business, pal!”

  I froze. Someone was going to get hurt here, or worse. We had to get out of here now. Somehow I found my voice. “Boys, can we take it down a notch, please? You two beating each other to a bloody pulp is not going to help us figure out who killed Dave.”

  Ron blinked first and backed away. He sighed, finally choking out, “I didn’t mean it when I said I’d kill him. It was a figure of speech. Dave found out his old cellmate was in on some scam, and he didn’t want the guy to go back to jail. I didn’t want Dave to get involved. That’s what we was arguing about. He had enough on his plate without messing with that two-time loser. But, you know Dave—he couldn’t let it go.”

  “Right. Dave did seem to want to help people. What did he do to try to help out his cellmate?” I asked.

  Ron replied, “Dave called him up and gave him what for about messing around with a shady deal. The scumbag denied being involved, but Dave didn’t believe him. Dave gave the guy a week to clean up his act or else. If he didn’t, Dave would turn everything he knew over to the cops.”

  “Did Dave ever get the chance to go to the cops?” asked Ryder.

  Shaking his head, Ron said, “No. Dave was a man of his word, and the week wasn’t up yet before he died. Even after his cellmate sent another one of their ex-con friends to rough him up, Dave stuck to his promise of one week.”

  That had to have been Johnny. Ryder flicked his eyes toward me, but didn’t say anything. Ryder must have put that together, too.

  I asked, “Was it Johnny Brewer who fought with Dave? The drummer from the shitty band that plays at The Dirty Duck?”

  Nodding thoughtfully, Ron replied, “Yeah, I’ve seen him play at The Dirty Duck before, and I think Dave called him ‘Johnny.’ ”

  “So then what happened?” asked Ryder.

  Ron continued, “I was there when the fight went down. The guy, Johnny, came after Dave and told him he had it all wrong about this deal, and said he better not be turning in anyone to the police if he wanted to keep breathing. Johnny punched Dave, and they started brawling. Dave was holding his own, but then he got clocked good, and I stepped in. I told that thug Johnny I knew all about what was going on, and if Dave didn’t go to the police, I would. Then I punched that little prick in the throat.”

  “Johnny’s a prick, all right,” I agreed. “Has he come looking for you?”

  “No…but I did get a couple of death threats over the phone.”

  “From Johnny?”

  “I dunno. Whoever it was used one of them voice changers. He told me to keep my damn mouth shut or else.”

  Ryder grimaced. “Do you think Dave’s cellmate and Johnny had something to do with Dave’s murder?”

  “If I was a betting man—”

  All of a sudden, we heard a loud, popping noise from outside. Ryder and Ron turned to look out the window. A moment later, there was another popping noise and the window shattered.

  Ryder yelled, “Get down!” and jumped on top of me, knocking me out of my chair and onto the floor. He held my head down on Ron’s filthy, smelly floor for what seemed like an eternity as bullets pelted the walls and through the busted window of Ron’s house.

  As soon as the noise stopped, Ryder hoisted himself off me and asked, “Are you hit?”

  “No,” I said shakily, not wanting to get up from the safety of the floor. I glanced toward where Ron was lying. Ron wasn’t moving. “Ryder!” I screamed, pointing to Ron.

  Ryder didn’t hear me, because he was already out the door. I heard a car start and zoom away. What the hell? Was he just leaving me here? With Ron?

  Ron! I crawled across his icky floor and checked his pulse. He was still alive, but he had two huge bullet holes in his chest. Grabbing a shirt from a nearby pile of clothes on the floor, I kneeled next to Ron, covering and putting pressure on his wounds. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialed 911.

  The next few minutes were a blur. The cops must have been in the neighborhood (shocker), because they got here in what seemed like seconds. They took over the first aid on Ron and ordered me to sit by the wall until backup arrived. The EMTs got there soon after that and carted Ron out to a waiting ambulance. One of the cops followed them outside.

  The other cop said, “I’m Officer Banks.” He helped me up off the floor. “Ma’am, did you make the 911 call?”

  “Yes,” I said, staring dazedly at my bloody hands and shirt.

  “Were you here when the shooting occurred?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was anyone else in the house with you?”

  “Yes, Ryder…” Shit. I realized I still didn’t know his last name. Or was I supposed to call him Seth? I didn’t have enough energy to worry about it. It was his problem now. “I’m sorry, I don’t know his last name.”

  “Did this Ryder do the shooting?”

  “No, it came from outside.”

  “And where is Ryder now?”

  “He took off right after the shooting stopped. I have no idea where he went.” Or why he left me, but I knew I wasn’t happy about it.

  A familiar voice called from across the room, “Ms. Langley, what have you done now?”

  I hung my head. It was Detective Cromwell. That was it. I was going to jail this time. “I didn’t do anything. I got shot at.”

  Cromwell said to Officer Banks, “I’ll take it from here.” He crossed the room to stand in front of me. “Two incidents in one week? I’m taking you to the station this time.”

  I really was going to jail. Trying my hardest not to tear up, I let Detective Cromwell lead me to his car and stuff me in the backseat. I concentrated on a spot on the back of the headrest on the way to the station and tried not to think about what was going to happen next.

  Detective Cromwell took me into a little room and immediately left. I had never been so alone and frightened. I couldn’t even look at myself, because I was covered in Ron’s blood, and the sight of it made me sick. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was somewhere else. It didn’t work.

  After a while, another man came in and collected a sample of the blood from my hands. He then examined and photographed my hands, arms, and torso. He didn’t say a word to me while he was working.

  Once he was finished, he looked at me apologetically and gave me a package of baby wipes. “You can clean yourself off now, if you want.”

  “Thanks,” I whispered.

  I wiped my hands and arms off as best I could, crying as I did it. Poor Ron. This whole thing seemed like a terrible, twisted dream.

  After what seemed like a lifetime, Detective Cromwell came in, uncaring as ever. “Whose blood is that?”

  “Thanks for asking if I was okay,” I said angrily through my tears.

  “You’re still breathing. I figured you weren’t too bad off if you weren’t in a body bag.” Did he just make a joke? Not funny. “Now answer my question. Whose blood?”

  “Ron Hatcher’s.”

  “Why is it all over you?”

  “I was applying pressure to his bullet wounds. Didn’t you talk to the cops on the scene?”

  “I wanted to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth. Who shot him?”

  “I don’t know. I was facedown on the floor, trying not to get shot myself. Do you know if Ron’s going to make it? He didn’t look so good the last time I saw him.”

  He nodd
ed. “He’s in surgery right now, but they think he’s going to be okay. The bullets missed his heart. Tell me more about this mysterious Ryder person you mentioned.”

  “He’s not mysterious. I just don’t happen to know his last name.” Or anything else about him, other than he’s good in bed. Now that I thought about it, that was rather slutty of me. What had my life become?

  “Why were you two at Hatcher’s house? Seems a little outside your neighborhood.”

  “It was a social call.”

  Cromwell looked at me sharply. “If you’re lying to me again—”

  “I didn’t lie the first time. I omitted.”

  “Well, stop omitting, then.”

  “Fine. We went to Ron’s house to ask him if he knew anything about Dave Hill’s murder.”

  “Why the hell would you go and do a fool thing like that?”

  I bristled. “Well, you don’t seem to be doing anything about it, so I thought someone should.”

  He glowered at me and asked, “Why do you care?”

  Exploding, I cried, “Because you told me I’m the prime suspect! I don’t want to go to jail! Especially since I’m innocent!”

  He sighed and regarded me for a moment. Then he smiled. “You’re not our prime suspect, dear.”

  “I’m not? Then why did you tell me—”

  “We’re building a case, and we didn’t want to show our hand. If everyone thought you seemed to be our best lead, the real killer would eventually make a mistake. Then we could move in.”

  “So I’m not going to get thrown in jail?”

  “No. Not unless you’ve done something I don’t know about.” Now Cromwell was acting more like a kindly old grandfather than the hard-boiled detective that he was.

  Brightening, I asked, “Can I go, then?”

  “After you tell me what you learned from Ron Hatcher.”

  “Nothing much, except he’s not your guy. We thought he was the murderer, originally.”

  “Is that why you decided to go to his house? Brilliant.”

  I ignored his little jab. “It turns out Ron and Dave were good friends, and Dave was helping Ron kick his gambling addiction. Ron was worried about some weird deal Dave was mixed up in with a former cellmate of his. Dave was giving his cellmate until the end of the week to stop whatever illegal thing he was doing, or Dave was going to go to the police. Ron thinks the cellmate may have had something to do with Dave’s death. Either him or Johnny Brewer.”

  “Johnny Brewer? What does that loser have to do with any of this?”

  “He was also in prison with Dave. Dave’s cellmate evidently had Johnny pay a visit to Dave to politely ask him to keep his mouth shut.” Johnny also had tried to do the same to me and had shanked Ryder, but I didn’t know if Ryder wanted that on the record, so I omitted again.

  Cromwell wiped a hand down his face and sighed. “Did you get a name on the cellmate?”

  “No. The shooting started before Ron could finish the story.”

  “And you didn’t see the shooter?”

  “No. I heard a couple of shots, and then Ryder had me on the floor.”

  “I’m going to need to talk to this Ryder.”

  “I’ll tell him that if I ever see him again.”

  Chapter 18

  Cromwell finally finished with me, so I had him call Pete to come and get me. I didn’t want to make the call myself, because I’d have to tell Pete the whole story over the phone and then rehash it once he got here. He was not going to be happy about this. I was waiting on a bench in the entryway when he rushed through the door.

  Pete took one look at me and his eyes bulged. Dropping to his knees in front of me, he grabbed my shoulders and asked, “Jules, are you hurt? Is that your blood?”

  The anguished look on his face was enough to send me into tears. I shook my head and whispered, “No. I’m fine.”

  Hugging me tightly and stroking my hair, he asked, “What the hell happened? You scared the shit out of me. Again. The staff said you took off with Ryder and didn’t come back, then I get a call from the police saying you’ve been taken in.”

  “I’m sorry. We were only supposed to go talk to Ron Hatcher and that’s it. Then things got out of control.”

  He broke our embrace to glare at me. “You went to talk to Ron Hatcher? Are you crazy? You think he’s the killer!”

  “He’s not, so it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

  “You didn’t know that at the time!”

  “Can you yell at me about this after I’ve had a shower?”

  “First, tell me whose blood that is. If it’s not Ryder’s, I’m going to kill him.”

  I sighed. “It’s Ron Hatcher’s. He kind of…got shot when we were at his house.”

  “WHAT?”

  Tired of being questioned, I spat back, “Hey! I told you whose blood it is, now you take me home for a shower, damn it!”

  He ran a hand through his hair. I could tell he was beside himself, and I hated that I was the cause. “Let’s go,” he muttered.

  As soon as we stepped foot outside, I saw a man start hurrying toward us. Oh, shit. It was Don Wolfe. I did not have the energy to tangle with him today. I contemplated running back inside, but that wouldn’t help, because he’d just wait for me. I had to deal with it now.

  Wolfe stepped in our way and snapped a picture of me. He drawled, “Hello, Juliet. You’re looking a little worse for wear.”

  “Hey, man, back off,” Pete warned sharply.

  Wolfe didn’t even glance his way. He was fixated on me. “What’s the matter, sweetcheeks? Your regular bouncer on break?” Pete steered me around Wolfe and down the steps, but Wolfe followed at our heels like a rabid dog. He continued, “A little birdie told me that you were smack in the middle of a gunfight this morning. I take it that blood’s not yours.”

  “She has no comment,” Pete barked. I held my tongue, but Redheaded She-Devil was begging to come out and play.

  Not about to give up, Wolfe sneered, “Well, I guess I’ll just have to fill in the story with my own facts. My buddy over at dispatch let me listen to your 911 call, by the way. It was so sad. You sounded like a scared little girl.” He made crying sounds like a baby. Watching him mock me made my blood boil. He laughed. “You gonna cry again for me, baby doll?”

  I shrugged Pete off my arm and whirled on Wolfe. “No, but I’m going to use your nuts as a Hacky Sack again.” Before Wolfe knew what was happening, I kneed him in the stones, and he collapsed to the ground. “Oh, clumsy me. I bumped into you again.”

  Grinning from ear to ear, Pete exclaimed, “Nice!” and high-fived me.

  When we got in his car, Pete asked, “Who was that guy? It didn’t seem like that was your first run-in with him.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Some nasty reporter. First he called me, asking a bunch of questions. I hung up on him, so he followed me and accosted me in a ladies’ restroom. That’s when I racked him the first time. Then he came into Java Jive and harassed half the staff. Now he’s got even more dirt on me. Fifty bucks says my picture is on the front page of the Nashville Gazette tomorrow.”

  “He’s the last thing you should be worrying about. Who cares if some scumbag reporter writes a bunch of lies about you?”

  “I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about him dragging Java Jive through the mud with me.”

  “It’ll be fine.” He put his hand on my knee. “Everything is going to be fine.”

  I put my hand over his and smiled. It really seemed like that could be true, especially since I was no longer a murder suspect. We rode in silence for a while.

  After a few minutes, Pete ventured, “So if Ryder took you to Ron Hatcher’s house, why didn’t he bring you home? Where is he?”

  Looking out the window, I answered, “I don’t know. He left.”

  “How did you get to the station?”

  “Back of a police car.”

  “Oh, Jules.”

  We arrived at my apartment, and I was, for the fi
rst time, happy to see it. I turned to Pete. “Thank you for coming to get me and bringing me home. I really appreciate it.” I started to get out of the car, but he grabbed my arm.

  “Not so fast, Langley. You said you’d tell me what happened after you showered. I’m coming up, and I’m not leaving until you’ve told me the whole sordid story from beginning to end.”

  “You can’t come in my apartment.”

  “That is such bullshit.” He let me go and followed me up the steps.

  I made a last-ditch effort to convince him not to come up. “I’m serious. It’s freaking horrendous.”

  “I promise not to judge.”

  “I’m not getting rid of you, am I?”

  “Never.”

  I sighed and opened the door. He walked in and looked around at the nothingness. I was mortified. “I’m going to take a shower now. The only place to sit is in the bedroom. And there’s no TV. And nothing in the fridge except orange juice and beer. Knock yourself out.”

  “Orange juice and beer, huh? You know, if you had some amaretto…”

  “Hardy har har. You’d just love to see me fall down in my own vomit again, wouldn’t you?”

  He laughed. “Yours was the most memorable twenty-first birthday party I’ve ever been to.”

  —

  My twenty-first birthday had been a blast, up until the vomiting incident. Pete and I and a bunch of our friends had gone out, hopping from bar to bar until the wee hours of the morning. At last call, Pete insisted that for my last drink of the night I have a Wisconsin Lunchbucket. No one had ever heard of it before, including the bartender. I’ve always wondered if Pete had made it up.

  That night, Pete explained, “You take equal parts orange juice and beer. Drop in a shot of amaretto and chug it.”

  “That’s not a drink,” said my roommate Nicole (who was still my friend at the time, since she kindly waited until a week after my birthday to sleep with my boyfriend Danny Wright).