Hold On (The 'Burg Series Book 6)

by Kristen Ashley

  Garrett opened the storm and he and Mike went through, following Ellen into the living room.

  As he went, he took in as much as he could.

  The place was nice. Clean. Furnished a helluva lot better than Garrett’s condo.

  Pride there.

  Pride in taking care of a house that the owners were probably so upside down on, it’d take decades to get right side up.

  Pride in the travels the occupants had taken to Disney World, Atlantic City, the Sears Tower, and more, these declared through the snow globes, plastic banks, and other cheap souvenirs displayed throughout the home.

  Also pride in family. Framed pictures everywhere and more shoved into the edges of the frames or propped up against them. Pictures that held the image of the woman pacing the room. Some men. Other women. Relatives. Friends.

  And pictures with the woman sitting dead in a pool of her own blood in a compact car at the curb.

  Garrett took in the woman pacing. She was still in her pajamas. The family resemblance was unmistakable. Dark hair. Curves. Olive skin. Fine features. But definitely older, at least by a decade. Wendy Derian appeared to be in her late twenties; this woman was in her late thirties or even having hit her forties, and she took care of herself like she did her house.

  She didn’t stop pacing when they hit the room.

  She also didn’t stop muttering. “Knew it. Fuckin’ knew it. Knew it with that dickhead. That dickhead douchebag. That dickhead douchebag asshole loser. Fuckin’ knew it.”

  She might know whatever it was she was muttering about, but she had no clue Garrett and Mike had joined her and Ellen, that was how far she was in her head.

  And her anger.

  Which meant the grief hadn’t hit her yet.

  This was unusual. It had to have been over an hour since she called it in. Grief was mighty. It typically powered through the initial anger easily…and quickly.

  This was also good. It was difficult to get statements from sobbing, hysterical people.

  Angry people let it all hang out.

  Garrett looked to Mike to see Mike’s eyes on him.

  “Ms. Derian,” Ellen called. The woman jerked to a halt and turned narrowed, pissed off eyes on Ellen. “This is Lieutenant Garrett Merrick and Lieutenant Mike Haines of the Brownsburg Police Department. They’re here to ask a few questions about this morning.” Ellen turned to Garrett and Mike. “This is Marscha Derian.”

  “Thanks, Ellen,” Mike muttered.

  Garrett caught Marscha Derian’s dark brown eyes, held them, and communicated with his own.

  So when he said unemotionally, “We’re sorry for your loss,” even though it didn’t sound it, she might understand he meant it.

  “Yeah,” she spat. “Me too.”

  She didn’t understand he meant it. Nothing was penetrating her rage.

  “Would you like to sit down? Get a cup of coffee? If you don’t have a pot going, we can make one,” Mike offered.

  “No, ’cause, see, got three brothers, another sister, and my mom and dad, which means I got a shit-ton of calls to make today and I’m not lookin’ forward to any of ’em,” she bit out. “So I just wanna get this done and want you to get that shit,” she tossed a hand toward her front window, “outta here.”

  That shit.

  Nope, the grief hadn’t hit her yet.

  Either that or she and her sister weren’t the best of friends.

  Garrett and Mike exchanged another look, then both of them pulled out their notepads and pens.

  “Okay, then, Ms. Derian, we’ll get to it,” Garrett started, flipping his open. “Officer Fink says you called it in. Did you—”

  “Heard the gunshots but didn’t know what I was hearin’,” she cut him off to declare. “Never heard nothin’ like that. Was sleepin’, it woke me up, and I just laid there. Just fuckin’ laid there, wonderin’ what the fuck that was.” She shook her head. “Nothin’ happens around here anymore. Only got four neighbors left on this street, so things are quiet. Couldn’t figure out what that noise was. So I just laid there.”

  Garrett and Mike didn’t move even as her last declaration made her face change, her entire demeanor change.

  Anger leaking out.

  Shock coming in.

  This would be followed by the pain.

  “You here alone, Ms. Derian?” Garrett asked quietly.

  She shook her head sharply like she was shaking herself into shape, and she focused on Garrett. “Yeah.”

  “You give Ellen a name of someone she can call so you got someone you trust close?” Garrett asked.

  “I’m good,” she declared.

  Mike entered the conversation. “Please give Ellen a name of someone she can call so you got someone close.”

  Marscha Derian sucked her lower lip between her teeth and bit it.

  Then she looked at Ellen, who was hanging back, and gave her the name and number of someone to call.

  Ellen took notes, and the minute Marscha was done talking, she stepped out of the room.

  “You heard the gunshots,” Garrett prompted quietly.

  “Shoulda known,” Marscha declared.

  “Known what?” Mike asked.

  She looked to Mike. “Wendy, she likes the bad boys. Always did. Got suspended from high school twice because of shit her boyfriends were into. And yeah, I said boyfriendzzzzz.” She emphasized the z’s as well as her statement even though neither Garrett nor Mike questioned it. “Went from one loser to another. Not only never learned, they just got worse.”

  “Are you saying you’re aware that your sister was associating with someone you considered dangerous?” Mike asked.

  “Uh…yeah,” she answered with heavy sarcasm. “She was associatin’ with a lot of fuckwits that I considered dangerous. So did my brothers. My other sister. Our mom and dad. All her decent friends. And by associatin’, I mean suckin’ their dicks and takin’ their shit.”

  Christ.

  “Maybe we should get to the gunshots you heard. Then we’ll move on to the people Wendy spent time with,” Garrett suggested.

  “Nothin’ to say about those shots since I’m a goddamned idiot. Heard that shit. Just laid there. Just laid there while someone was shootin’ my sister outside my goddamned house.”

  “If you haven’t heard the sound of gunshots before, it isn’t unusual that you wouldn’t immediately know what they were,” Mike assured.

  “I shoulda known,” she retorted.

  “Because the company Wendy kept?” Mike pressed.

  “Because the company Wendy kept,” Marscha spat.

  “Outside the gunshots,” Garrett cut in. “Did you see anything? Hear anything?”

  She looked to him. “I heard bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Four times. I heard ’em all. They were loud. Woke up laid there. Then it hit me, got up, went to the window, looked outside. Saw Wendy’s car, the lights on, nothin’ else. She’d been out all night. Didn’t tell me where she was or when she was comin’ home. Just told me yesterday she was goin’ out and then she left. Saw her car and it finally hit me what those sounds were. Ran out there. Saw her sittin’ there, starin’. Car was on. She was in it. Just sittin’ there, bleedin’ and starin’.”

  Marscha Derian was now shaking.

  Garrett edged slightly closer, urging carefully, “Think you should sit down now, ma’am.”

  She needed no further encouragement. She shuffled back until her calves hit the couch and she plopped onto it.

  Garrett looked toward the entryway and saw Ellen there. She nodded.

  A friend was on the way.

  “We’re sorry to make you go through this,” Mike said. “But we have to get all this down.”

  Marscha was staring at the carpet. At Mike’s words, she slowly tipped her head back and looked at him.

  She was losing focus. The pain was pushing through. It was going to hit any second.

  They needed to get everything they could before she succumbed.

  “At this poin
t, what did you do?” Mike asked.

  “Stupid,” she whispered.

  “What was stupid?” Mike pressed.

  “I turned off her car,” Marscha answered.

  Fuck.

  “Did you touch anything else?” Garrett asked.

  Her head slowly swiveled his way and then she shook it.

  “Ran inside, called nine-one-one,” she told him.

  “You go back out?” Garrett queried.

  She shook her head again. “The operator kept me on the line. Told me to stay inside.”

  “Good,” Garrett muttered.

  Mike took over. “Is there someone in particular she was associating with that you have concerns about?”

  “That’d be a long list,” she shared. “Though, most recent, even though he’d ended things with her a week ago or whatever, is Jaden Cutler.”

  Again, Garrett’s spine shot straight, but this time his stomach also turned just as Mike’s gaze cut to him.

  It took a lot, he tried, but he didn’t succeed in keeping the harsh out of his voice when he turned back to Marscha and asked, “Jaden Cutler?”

  She was way too far gone to process the harsh in his voice.

  “Most recent dickhead douchebag asshole loser that Wendy associated with. Also the worst of the lot. Totally. And it was him that broke up with her. Kicked her ass out. She was livin’ with me but also livin’ in hope he’d take her back. Can you believe that shit?”

  “Outside of disliking him, do you have any reason to believe he was a danger to your sister?” Mike asked.

  “He’s just a danger,” she declared. “Mean as a snake when he’s in a bad mood. Up his own ass, thinkin’ he’s God’s gift when he is not. Man doesn’t work, but he’s got money. How is that? How do you not have a job and have money?” she asked.

  “I know several ways, Ms. Derian, but do you know this Jaden Cutler was involved in anything that might lead to what happened to Wendy this morning?” Mike pushed. “Did she say anything to you? Did you hear her say anything to anyone else, for instance, on the phone? Did Cutler say anything in your presence?”

  “No. But you got the experience I got with Wendy and her parade of losers, you just know.”

  She had nothing.

  Fuck.

  “Did Wendy ever talk to you about Cutler, his acquaintances, or the people they spent time with?” Garrett asked, hoping like fuck she’d mentioned Carlito Gutierrez.

  She hadn’t.

  “No,” Marscha stated and tossed out a hand in irritation. “This is all I was to my sister—a crash pad when she ditched one of her losers, or when one of her losers beat her up or cheated on her and she thought she’d teach him a lesson by takin’ off only to go back, or when one of them decided it was time to move on so they dumped her. She was dumped, she didn’t take a lot of time finding a replacement because, apparently, she couldn’t exist without a healthy dose of asshole in her life.”

  Garrett braced when she finished her litany and instantly looked to the front window.

  It was going hit.

  Now.

  “Guess she couldn’t,” Marscha whispered. “Couldn’t live without it. Couldn’t live with it.”

  It was then the tear fell. Just one, down her cheek to hit her pajama top.

  Then she dropped forward. Face in her knees, her back bucked in a way that looked painful, and her sob tore through the room with such force, it felt like a physical thing.

  They’d get no more and both Garrett and Mike had long since learned that when it hit, two cops hanging around, watching or attempting to ease a pain that had no relief other than time, was unwelcome and unwanted.

  Their job was to catch the bad guy.

  Garrett was already on the move.

  Mike was too.

  “You’ll stay with her?” Mike muttered to Ellen.

  “Yeah, Mike,” Ellen muttered back.

  “Favor, Ellen,” Garrett said. “She’s got any info on Wendy’s friends—names, numbers, anything—get those down. We’ll also need access to the rest of the family after Marscha gives them the news. Yeah?”

  Ellen nodded.

  They exited the house, but Garrett did it with his hand inside his jacket, going for his phone in his pocket.

  “Need two minutes,” he said to Mike as he moved off the front walk into the yard and not toward the vehicle at the curb, which was now surrounded by five cops, the ME, and Jake, their crime scene guy, who was taking pictures. There were also neighbors. They were hanging back on a sidewalk across the street, but they were there.

  “Bet you do,” Mike murmured, moving down the walk toward the scene.

  Mike, obviously, was in the know about Ryker, Ryan, and Jaden Cutler.

  Garrett stopped in Marscha Derian’s yard, engaged his phone, and slid his thumb on the screen, vaguely annoyed that today would not be the day he’d have time to get a new phone.

  But most of his attention was on what he was doing, not his phone.

  It was also not on the beginnings of a homicide investigation.

  He put the phone to his ear.

  She was busy getting her kid ready for school. The phone not close. Whenever he called, or even texted, if her phone was close, she answered right away.

  This time, it was answered after four rings.

  “Uh…boss, school doesn’t start for an hour,” Cher said in greeting, her voice warm and filled with humor. “Can’t confirm I dropped my kid off safely just yet.”

  “Get somewhere that is not close to your boy,” he ordered.

  “What?” she asked, no longer sounding warm and amused.

  “Get somewhere where Ethan can’t hear this discussion.”

  She didn’t reply and he knew she didn’t because she was doing as she was told.

  He also knew she was there when she asked, “Is everything okay?”

  “Wendy Derian was murdered this morning, shot three times.”

  Cher said nothing for a beat before she said softly, “I don’t know who that is, Merry.”

  “She’s Jaden Cutler’s recently ex- and very recently deceased girlfriend.”

  “I don’t know who that is either.”

  “Jaden Cutler is your neighbor, two doors down.”

  “Oh fuck,” she whispered.

  “Pack,” he grunted. “I’ll go to the grocery store. I’ll buy a fuckin’ skillet. But you and Ethan are in my condo until whatever the fuck is happening is done.”

  “Merry, I think—”

  Garrett cut his eyes to the Fiesta. “Dead in a pool of her own blood in a goddamned Ford Fiesta sitting at the curb in front of her sister’s house.”

  He actually felt her emotion through the phone—horror, a vague sadness for a woman she didn’t know, concern about Merry—before tentatively, “Did this…Cutler guy…have anything to do—”

  “Unknown.”

  Her voice was a lot less hesitant when she reminded him, “He’s just my neighbor, Merry.”

  “He’s a threat, Cher.”

  “I—”

  “You move in with me, or you move in with your mother, or you move in with Colt and Feb or Vi and Cal. Strike that, your mother’s off the list. It’s me, Colt, or Cal. Pick.”

  “Maybe you can come by the bar tonight and we can discuss—”

  “Me at the bar with you while Ethan and your mom are two doors down from this guy?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Pick, Cher,” he demanded.

  She still didn’t say anything.

  “Pick, baby,” he pushed.

  “You,” she whispered.

  Thank fuck.

  “Pack,” he ordered.

  “You’re bossy when you’re freaked out,” she muttered.

  “I’m bossy all the time,” he returned. “Pack.”

  “All right,” she said, but it came out as a grumble.

  Garrett drew in a deep breath.

  It didn’t release the feeling.

  The sou
r. The fear. The poison.

  “Don’t worry about the skillet. I’ll bring one,” she told him.

  He closed his eyes and dropped his head.

  The fucking skillet.

  That was what he needed.

  The sour. The fear. The poison. Gone.

  “I got shit to do right now. Get you a key. We’ll sort it out later,” he told her.

  “Okay, babe.”

  “Glad you picked me, Cherie.”

  “You think this is it?” she asked.

  He didn’t get it. “What’s it?”

  “The end of the suckage that seems to infest my life, this time even when I’m not making stupid decisions that fuck up said life and totally have nothing to do with it.”

  He lifted his head and put his hand to his hip. “Don’t know, sweetheart. Just know with this particular suckage, I’m gonna be there to make sure you get through.”

  She sighed. “Unfortunately, you’re right. I’m a dickhead magnet and I’m a life suckage magnet. This means, that asshole’s just my neighbor, but since I’m in close proximity, whatever his shit is would find some way to stick to me.”

  “Lucky you’re not gonna be in close proximity. You’re gonna be in a crappy-ass condo four miles away.”

  Some humor was back when she said, “Yeah, lucky.”

  “Got a homicide to investigate, brown eyes. Gotta let you go.”

  “Okay, honey. Do that shit quick and make my ’hood safe. The Mamas and the Papas are slated to come to dinner this weekend and I’m not sure they’ll dig your pad.”

  It was painful, but he had to do it.

  So he bit back the laughter that left a different ache in his gut.

  “Not a rule, but definitely frowned on to bust a gut laughin’ while standin’ in the yard of a grieving sister whose curb has become a murder scene,” he informed her.

  “Oops, sorry,” she muttered. “I’ll curtail my comic genius until a more appropriate time.”

  “How about startin’ that now?” he suggested, turning his back on the street so no one could see the smile he couldn’t beat back.

  “Right.”

  “Get Ethan safe to school,” he ordered.

  “Definitely. ’Bye, gorgeous.”

  “Later, brown eyes.”

  He disconnected, turned, and headed across the yard to his partner, his colleagues, and a dead woman in a compact car.