by Randy Rawls
Thorns on Roses
By Randy Rawls
Published by L&L Dreamspell
London, Texas
Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com
Copyright 2011 by Randy Rawls
All Rights Reserved
Cover and Interior Design by L & L Dreamspell
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.
This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real people is a coincidence. Places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.
ISBN- 978-1-60318-376-5
Published by L & L Dreamspell
Produced in the United States of America
Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com
* * * *
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would love to acknowledge all the wonderful authors who have taught me how to write. However, the list would be longer than my book. I’m a firm believer in "learn from the experts." We are blessed to have so many talented authors to read today. Thank you, each and every one of you.
Then there are those who actually helped me put this book together. Their patience was tested many times as I rebelled about doing what was best for the story, before accepting that they were right. Here’s hoping I don’t miss anyone: Sylvia Dickey Smith, Earl Staggs, Gregg Brickman, Stephanie Levine, Vicki Landis, Ann Meier, Richard Hodes, Zelda Becht, Betty Housey, Roxanne Smolen, and Rosemary Letson. To each of you, a sincere, "Thank you." I know I was often not the easiest person to help.
And last, but far, far from least, Lisa Smith and Linda Houle of L&L Dreamspell. They read a manuscript and turned it into a book.
* * * *
THORNS ON ROSES, as with anything I write, is dedicated to my honey, Ronnie Bender; my daughter, Theresa (Tracy) Eilers; and my son, David Rawls. Each of you fills my life.
ONE
Tom Jeffries pulled into a parking space, killed the engine, and stared at the sign alongside the entrance to the building.
CITY MORGUE
ENTRY BY PERMISSION ONLY
A shudder passed through his body. He’d seen a lot of bad things in his life, but dead bodies topped the list. How anyone could choose a profession working around and with them was beyond his understanding. Okay, maybe a mortician. They were performing a necessary service for society—and they improved appearances, not…
He didn’t want to go in, didn’t want to be anywhere near the place. However, he had an invitation that left him no choice. Grimacing, he got out of the car and endured a blast of South Florida heat as he walked toward the building. At the front counter, he told the receptionist, “I’m meeting Detective Richards. Has he arrived yet?”
“Please sign in. I think he’s in the back. I’ll call.” She waited, then picked up the phone and punched a button. Turning the sign-in sheet toward her, she said, “Tell Detective Richards that Mr. Jeffries is here.” She hung up. “He’ll be right out.”
Jeffries sat in one of the chrome and plastic chairs for visitors and picked up the South Florida Sun-Sentinel. A sports story dominated the front page, something Jeffries, a transplanted Texan, never grew accustomed to. Unless it was Super Bowl or World Series, he expected national news on page one. He shivered as the coolness of the building crept into him, knowing the reason the thermostat was set low.
A moment later, a man came through the white double doors that led off the reception area. He had cop written all over him. Six-two, bull neck, tight shirt over a muscular chest, and the walk. He carried a sports coat over a shoulder, Sinatra style. “Mr. Jeffries, thanks for coming down. I’m Lieutenant Jim Richards, homicide. Come with me into the back. I’m hoping you can help.” He led Tom Jeffries through the doorway into a corridor. At the entrance to a side room, Richards pulled a surgical mask from a dispenser box. “You can use this to cover your mouth and nose. The heat and humidity didn’t do her any favors.” After a pause, he added, “Or maybe you’re a Vick’s guy.”
Jeffries cut his eyes at him, then took the mask as they entered a colder chamber with vaults along the center of the room. Light filtering through the blocks of glass in the wall fought a losing battle to illuminate the room. Bright overhead fluorescents flooded the area. “You want to tell me why you called me down here? I don’t usually do morgues until after breakfast.”
“With what I’m going to show you, you might decide to skip it…for several days.” He pulled out a drawer and flipped the sheet off a face. “Know her?”
Jeffries glanced and turned away, revulsion then anger surging through him. “Did you practice to be an ass, or does it just come naturally? Give a guy a warning, will you?”
“Big, tough PI. I thought you guys could handle anything.”
Richards did not smile.
Holding the mask over his mouth and nose, Jeffries returned his attention to the slab. A young female lay on it, draped except for her head and shoulders. Her bloated face pointed straight up as if positioned that way.
Jeffries gave her a long look and swallowed. “Who is she? What happened to her?”
“We haven’t ID’d her yet. If you mean what killed her, we’re not sure. I’ll wait for the autopsy. But you want to know what happened? Farther down, under the sheet, it’s not pretty. Some bastards had their fun with her.” Rage rose in his voice, and he paused, visibly getting himself under control. “I’m hoping you have a name. Do you remember her?”
Jeffries squinted, shivering, perhaps from the cold of the air conditioning, perhaps from what he viewed. He pressed the mask tighter, hesitated, then said, “Should I?”
“Apparently she knew you.”
Jeffries looked again and shook his head. “Sorry. Of course, she’s not in the best condition. What makes you say she knew me?”
“Over here.” Richards pointed as he walked to a stainless steel counter along the wall and picked up an evidence bag. “She had this between her fingers. Otherwise, she was naked with none of her clothing where we could find it.”
Examining the package, he saw his business card, Tom Jeffries, Private Investigator. “Interesting.”
“Check the back.”
Flipping the bag over, Tom saw the other side. If I can help, call me. It was signed Tom in his handwriting. “So?”
“That’s your best answer? Does everyone get a note like that?”
“Only those who will take them.” Jeffries pulled his wallet from his hip pocket. “Want one?” He took a card from the billfold and handed it to Richards. “As you said, check the back.”
“If I can help, call me,” Richards read. “You even signed it.”
“Personalizing is part of my trademark. I add the comment, then give them to anybody who’ll take one. I even leave them on tables in the food court at the mall.” He paused to allow Richards to digest his words. “What I mean, detective, is she could have gotten it anywhere.”
“Not from you?” Richards’ look was skeptical.
Tom shrugged. “I don’t remember giving her one. That’s the best answer I have for you.”
“But you could have given it to her, right?”
“I never enjoy repeating myself,” Tom said, his words as cold as the air conditioning.
“Okay,” Richards said, sighing. “I hoped you could speed things up, but maybe not. We’ll ID her, but it will take time and manpower, neither of which I have a surplus of.”
Jeffries looked toward the body. “How’d she die, and how’d she get in that condition?”
“Like I said,
we’re waiting for the autopsy, but those marks on her neck point to strangulation. There are bruises on her arms and the lower part of her legs that scream big, rough hands. My guess is she was held down while someone raped her. As for her condition, we found her stuffed in the trunk of an abandoned car.”
Jeffries stared. “You’re figuring what, four–five guys?”
“At least. Even then it would have been tough to hold her. She probably put up one hell of a fight, and it looks like she was in great shape.” He paused, a sad expression on his face. “It always seems worse when it happens to someone so young.”
“Yeah. What do you think—late teens?”
“That general range.” He pulled a picture from an envelope that lay on the counter. “Know anything about this?”
Jeffries examined the photo. It showed a single long-stemmed red rose. Just below the bud, one thorn stuck out, a drop of blood on its tip. “Haven’t seen it before. Where’d you get it?”
“It’s the tattoo on her right buttock, pretty fresh. Looks like she had it done within the past few days.” Richards tapped the container. “As you can see by the ruler, it’s about three inches long. More stem than rose. We’re picking up street talk about a new gang, Thorns on Roses. I’m wondering if this ties in.”
Jeffries’ forehead wrinkled. “You know more than I do.”
Richards stared at him. “For a PI, you don’t seem to get around much. You sure you don’t know her?”
Jeffries returned his stare. “We’ve been there already.”
Richards broke eye contact. “If you hear anything, let me know.”
“Sure. Want to go for breakfast? Your treat?”
* * * *
Richards had been on the force for twenty years. During that time, he’d seen bodies of all ages under all conditions. There was nothing funny about being a cop. His perpetual scowl didn’t exist because he practiced it. The job put it there.
He gave Jeffries a scornful look. “A comedian, you’re not. We’re finished here. You’re free to leave.”
They walked to the entranceway and shook hands. Richards reiterated, “You remember anything, you call. Here’s my card with no cute note on the back.”
Jeffries gave a wry smile. “You should try it. Might get you more business.”
“That, I don’t need.” Richards watched Jeffries walk to his car, a Chrysler convertible, and get in. Wise-ass PI. Haven’t met one yet that doesn’t think he owns the world—even the ones on the right side. I’m betting he knows more than he let on.
He flipped open his cell phone and hit speed dial. “Phil. Jim here. Remember the body we found last night? Well, I just had Tom Jeffries in here, and he says he doesn’t know her. Run a check on him. Pull his PI license for full name and anything else you need.”
“Can do. I took a quick look this morning. He works for Bernstein, Goldsmith, Espinosa, and Bernstein.”
“They’re the outfit that does both ambulance chasing and civil defense, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, you named them. Anything specific about Jeffries?”
“No, but my gut says he’s not on the level. Or maybe I just don’t like PI’s who wear Western hats and boots. Anyway, be thorough. We may be spending a lot of time with him.”
“Gotcha, chief. I’ll dig so deep I’ll find what he had for breakfast this morning.”
Richards smiled, his first of the day. “No breakfast. I got him out of bed.”
“Oh.” Phil paused. “I’ll get to work.”
Richards closed the phone, then stared at it, lost in thought. Phil Summers was the bravest, or most foolhardy, homicide detective he’d ever worked with. They had faced several situations when his courage carried the day. Yet, he ran at the sight of a dead body—unless he made it dead. Last night was typical. One look at the body and Phil lost his day’s rations in the bushes. That’s why he wasn’t present now. Richards had spared him another case of the heaves.
TWO
Jeffries walked away from the morgue, his mind buzzing. She wasn’t the first dead body he’d seen, far from it, but as with each of the others, he hoped it would be the last. And so young. What had she done to deserve death? Probably just a target for some lowlife who shouldn’t have been born. He re-evaluated his idea of dead bodies. The sight of one more would please him—the person who killed Mary Lou Smithson.
He climbed into his car, which had heated to bread-baking temperature, and started the engine. As it settled into a smooth hum, he lowered the windows, then cranked up the air conditioner. Living in paradise wasn’t perfect, but it beat the ice and snow of points north.
While the car exhaled some of its superheated air, he stared at the one-story stucco building. Like most South Florida construction, it was a soft pastel color—pinkish for this one. But that didn’t disguise its use. There was an aura that screamed death. What was it about morgues that announced their purpose? He’d been in many, both military and civilian. Each carried the same smells, too much disinfectant mixed with the sweetness of decay set in a frigid atmosphere. But the worst had been the one where he’d looked at another young woman’s body. A tear formed. “Sis, not much of a place to end up, is it? It’s a dump. You’d think the authorities for once might build something that shows respect for the customers. Of course, you saw a similar one—staring straight up from the slab.”
Frowning, he continued to examine the place. There weren’t many windows, and those few sported glass blocks. City government might say they were for hurricane protection, and perhaps they were, but they also stopped people from looking in. His eye went back to the sign.
Entry by Permission Only
Only weirdos would wish to peek or enter. But this was South Florida. The authorities had to consider every contingency.
After a moment, he closed his windows and put the air on recycle. “Sis, I hate to make this phone call.” As sweat dried on his forehead, he dialed.
“Charlie Rogers,” he said to the person who answered. When Rogers picked up, Jeffries said, “I found her, and it’s not good.” He paused, preparing himself.
“How bad?” Rogers asked.
“She’s dead. Apparently strangled. Must have happened not long after she disappeared.”
“Oh, God. How am I going to tell Lonnie? It’ll kill her.”
Tom thought he heard a sob in the words. “It gets worse. She’s in the morgue. They have no idea who she is. No ID on her.” He paused, then decided not to mention his business card or her condition. There’d be time for that later. “Whoever did it stuffed her in the trunk of a car. They’re looking for someone who can identify the body. Contact Detective Jim Richards in Coral Lakes.”
“Shit. Anything else?”
“Yeah. She has the rose tattoo, the one she described to Lonnie, the one she said her boyfriend had.”
* * * *
Tom Jeffries rested his head against the seat, soaking up chilled air from the dashboard vents. He hadn’t exactly lied to Richards. He didn’t give the business card to Mary Lou. Her mother had. Of course, it had been his idea.
Mary Lou was a rising senior in high school, seventeen going on thirty, or so she acted. Like so many her age, any answers she didn’t have were supplied by her friends. Adult knowledge was irrelevant. But it was those friends that concerned her parents, Charlie and Lonnie. All the baby fat was gone along with the freckles and awkwardness of her pre-teen years. She had grown into a beautiful young woman who looked older than seventeen. But no longer. In death, her youth and inexperience showed.
Tom stared at the palm trees surrounding the morgue on its perfectly manicured lawn. Flowering bushes grew in clumps with paving stones separating them from the grass. His mind continued to float, wanting to shut out the reality of what he’d seen.
During the summer, Mary Lou took a job as a cashier at Publix, the dominant supermarket chain in the area. They had an excellent program for employing teenagers during non-school periods, and Mary Lou was lucky to qualify for i
t. But it turned out to be her downfall. According to her father, she changed after meeting a young man who worked there stocking shelves. She broke curfew and only shrugged when asked where she’d been. Grounding her had little effect—she simply ignored it. Short of locking her in her room—and Charlie and Lonnie couldn’t bring themselves to do that—they could think of no solution. Besides, they suspected she would crawl out a window, leaving them in an untenable position. They were at a loss on what to do—except wait for her to grow through it. She was a good girl. She’d come around.
During a conversation about Mary Lou’s rebellion a few weeks previous, Tom gave Lonnie several of his business cards. “Give her one of these and tell her I mean what I wrote on the back. I’m available if she needs me. Like you, I can’t force any rules on her, but make sure she knows I mean any time, any place, in any way. All she needs to do is call, and I’ll come running—even if it’s only for a ride home.”
“What should I do with the rest of these?” Lonnie asked.
“Maybe drop a few in her purse, then leave the others laying around. I’m not saying they’ll have any effect, but you have nothing to lose.”
Mary Lou failed to come home last Saturday night. When Lonnie checked her closet, she noted no obvious items missing. There had been no word from her, but Charlie refused to notify the police. He didn’t want her tagged as a delinquent. He was sure she’d return or at least contact them. Maybe she’d call Tom. But she did not. Now she was dead and could never call.
Tom sighed, imagining the pain of his friend. Charlie must be second-guessing himself in every way possible. Tom knew non-reporting probably hadn’t mattered. Kids disappeared every day and, unless they did something to bring themselves to the attention of the authorities, they went invisible, especially in South Florida, a favorite destination with every kind of vice to attract runaways. The police had their hands full with high profile crimes—too many crimes, too few policemen, a common condition across the country. Runaways were a low priority. Now Mary Lou was a serious crime, and the cops were interested. So was Tom. Police had to play by the rules, those same rules that gave all the advantages to criminals. Tom didn’t.
