by Tracy Ellen
I tried to stifle my giggles at that image, but Crookie wasn’t fooled. He protested he was a seriously depressed man at the moment and his luck had been totally crappy. I promised him The Hammer would have to get through me to get near his bum.
I shoved Luke’s teasing, taunting envelope into my purse while I thought about Cheryl Crookston. After all my joking with the girls yesterday, somebody really had murdered her. I knew she was terrible, but who hated her enough to actually commit murder? Possibly it was someone I knew in Northfield; another unbelievably weird thought.
So that’s what Jack’s emergency call had been about last night when he took off abruptly from following our car. It gave new definition to even his very thick blue line between police and civilians.
I sighed, dispirited with Jack’s insistence on keeping me out of the loop. It was getting ridiculous. I truly get the cop angle, but it isn’t only me being a civilian that causes his attitude. I am a female, his little Angel, no less. Chief Jack’s male chauvinism is alive and well. It’s deeply ingrained, not only from his generation and upbringing, but also from the natural inclinations of his personality type. I could usually blow it off and laugh, he didn’t really affect me. This weekend, whatever his reasons, his issues were proving to be a major pain in my rectum.
Reggie swung around the corner carrying a long shotgun case in one hand, and a smaller, padded case that held his handguns in the other.
“I’m bringing three weapons total- a Ruger for you, my .357 and my 12 gauge shotgun. You’ll have the varmint gun if anything happens, but you can’t get into any trouble with the law in the mean…Whoa! What’s wrong?”
I stood and faced my brother. On a hunch, I pointed to my cell. “I heard the news about Cheryl Crookston.” Choosing my words carefully I added, “Not that Jack gave me any real information, I only know that she was found dead.”
When I saw the fleeting look of comprehension pass over Reg’s face before he glanced down to set the gun bags on the table, I knew my hunch was right. He had heard the news about Cheryl.
It’s demeaning to be protected and patronized because of my gender. It’s worse to realize I am never going to change Jack’s viewpoint. Possibly a female police officer would be allowed into the inner sanctum boys club, but even that’s doubtful if he has a choice. It is bitterly ironic a possible suspect like my brother gets the courtesy of a heads up because he’s the male in my family, but not me. The idiocy of Jack’s logic tickled my bizarre sense of humor, despite my disgust.
Reggie was busy loading .22 caliber rounds into two magazines for the Ruger. That also allowed him to avoid looking me in the eye.
I laughed. “What the hell, Reg. Why wasn’t I told when it’s obvious you’ve heard of her death?”
Reggie held his hands up in mollification. “It’s not my fault. I wanted to tell you. Luke told me that Jack called not long after you got here last night. They thought you’d dealt with enough crap yesterday. Luke told me I couldn’t talk about it. Besides, I don’t know any details other than she was found murdered in a barn in her car. That’s it, Bel.”
I stood motionless. It had been Jack’s voice I overheard on Luke’s phone when we were in the hallway last night.
Talking more to myself, I repeated quietly, “Luke thought I shouldn’t know, too, huh.” I regarded my brother. “Murdered how?”
Innocent eyes the color of a clear, summer sky opened wide and Reggie shook his head emphatically. “Truly, I know nothing more.”
I laughed shortly. “Come on, let’s go.”
Reggie slapped a full magazine into the Ruger and put it back in the bag, along with the spare magazine and bullets. He kept his loaded .357 out for the drive. He grabbed all the gear and followed me at a trot to his truck. I slipped on my sunglasses while he hurried to tell me what went down.
“When you girls went into the living room last night, Luke told me about Cheryl’s body being found. Jack wanted him to fill me in on the news. I was under the impression Luke and Jack decided none of us should say anything to you since you’d been through a rough day, what with Larissa’s ex and the van man.”
Now I wanted to maim someone. Preferably a man named Luke Drake. Jack being Jack was one thing. Luke being Jack was another. I silently climbed into the truck after Reggie clicked open the door locks. He handed me the handgun bag, but placed the shotgun case in the back.
Luke had looked me in the eyes after Jack’s call and not said anything. He might not know of my friendship with Crookie, or all the pertinent details of my involvement, but he knew enough to agree to keep it from me. The tired little woman was strong enough to get her head bounced off a wall, as he virtually did everything but screw me against it, but couldn’t be trusted with the news of Cheryl Crookston’s death due to her rough day? When and why did Jack and Luke exchange cell numbers and start their let’s-protect-Anabel-from-herself bromance?
I drummed my fingers on the console between our seats.
This overprotective behavior had to go. Jack and Luke teaming up was not a positive development, it was a catastrophe. Chief Jack was a terrible influence on a man like Luke. I was having a hard enough time getting Luke to jump through hoops, and now Mr. Man from LaMacho was coaching him? They must not be allowed to play together.
Reg ventured, “Luke seemed to know the whole story about Crookie and Cheryl, but I’m guessing it wasn’t you who told him, eh?”
I shrugged dismissively in answer. That tidbit only made it worse Luke didn’t tell me about Cheryl. I continued looking out my passenger window and thinking of my own plans. Reggie went on talking to himself.
“It must have been Jack who filled him in.”
At my lack of response, his tone of voice got wheedling. “Come on, Anabel. No shitting you here, you’re the most reasonable of my sisters. You know Luke was only looking out for you. What’s so wrong with that? You got a good night’s sleep and they told you this morning.”
I faced my brother then. “I didn’t say ‘they’ told me. ‘They’ told me nothing.”
I snorted at his “Oh Shit!” expression.
I made a face and lifted a shoulder. “Somehow, I’ll manage to take care of myself, despite those big-balled, buttheads cramping my style. I’ll tell you what; those stupid men shouldn’t plot to deliberately keep information from me. It only hinders me. So, you said you wanted to tell me last night. Why, Reg?”
Starting the truck, my brother slanted me a cajoling grin. “Uh, because you scare the living crap out of me when you’re mad at me?”
Not smiling, I waited.
He put the truck in gear and started down the driveway. “Okay Junior, I get why you are disgusted. It must blow to be a girl.” He smiled sheepishly over at me. “Don’t tell Jack or Luke because I will lie and deny it, but I’m on your side about this nondisclosure crap. Yesterday, you kicked a dude in the balls, and then shot at a man trying to kill all you girls. Damn right, I think you should be told things. I snuck away from the game to tell you about Cheryl last night, but you were passed out on my couch with my brownies smeared all over your face.” He thought a second. “I guess I should have said something before I went to shower, but I was thinking about what guns to bring today. I must be one cold bastard,” Reg laughed ruefully, “because Cheryl’s murder never crossed my mind.”
“You’re not cold.” At his glare after that comment sunk in, I reached over and pushed his shoulder. “You sneaky, adorable, ratfink of a brother, do you swear to God you came to tell me last night?”
Reggie promptly put a hand to his heart and flashed me the infamous MacKenzie double dimples. “I hereby swear to God.”
“Then thank you for that. By the way, the brownies were delicious. Oh, and Reggie,” I pulled my sunglasses down on my nose to give him some sister-brother eye contact, “do you think by now you’ve given Jack and Luke enough time to search my building to be sure it’s safe?”
Chapter XVIII
“Born This Way” by Lady
Gaga
Sunday, 11/18/12
8:00 AM
Reg performed some groveling along the way to Northfield. Well, I consider it groveling when someone repeatedly calls me ‘a damn bloodhound’ with a certain tone of admiration in their voice. We made it to my apartment without incident. I didn’t say anything more about not being clued in on the events concerning my own life, but Reggie must have felt bad.
Approaching my building on Division Street, Reg brought it up again. “Jack called and told me some of his cops were searching the building before you went home. My orders were to wait for his all clear. Luke wasn’t involved in this, as far as I know.” He glanced over at me to see how I took this confession. “I never thought about if Jack was wrong or right to do the search without telling you, I was only damned relieved he was making sure it got done.
“Jack mentioned the ex has lawyered up and isn’t talking. Hansen won’t say why his asswife, old Hummerschmidt, is after you.” Reggie then scoffed, adding in his forthright manner and sounding an awful lot like Jazy, “It seems obvious to me the fucker’s nuts, and so who cares about the why. We only need to concentrate on trying to keep you alive until he’s caught.”
“Super. By all means, let’s try.”
The definition of the law of averages would indicate sometime today a piece of news I’d receive would have to be good. I didn’t bother mentioning that Jack was able to enter my building without my consent because I gave Luke the codes to the doors yesterday. I considered Luke involved.
Now that I was thinking about it, what did Luke have to do today that was so important he had to take off, instead of staying with me when a homicidal rapist was on the loose? Disgruntled, I imagined he was taking his houseguest out to breakfast so that over pancakes, his man-whore friend could find another woman to line up for a hit and run.
Sure, I was perfectly fine staying with Reggie. However, if Luke was so concerned about my emotional well-being and physical safety; you’d think he would have insisted on sticking around. On the job, he prevented and secured. It may be his weekend off, but if anybody could use a little preventing, it’s me.
Was I wrong to believe I am worth the unpaid overtime?
I don’t think so, either.
I wallowed in my pity party for a minute more while Reg parked directly in front of the entrance to the shop. I blew it off then to concentrate on my goal of the day- staying alive. Glancing up and down Division Street reaffirmed this early on a Sunday there was little traffic and plenty of parking spots.
Reggie interrupted my progressively crankier thoughts. “I know what it means when you get quiet. Tell your little brother, what are you planning in that pointy head of yours?”
“Hard as it is resisting your suaveness, I’ll tell you in the lobby. Let’s go inside.”
“Not so fast!” He reached behind for the shotgun case and awkwardly maneuvered it into the front seat and across my lap. “Here, you carry both these bags in so my hands are free.”
Reggie came around to my side and opened my door. He reminded me of a secret service agent in his sunglasses. His head was scanning the street while his right hand was in his jacket pocket. He crowded behind me when I carried the gun bags, my jacket, and my purse to Bel’s front entrance. He used his larger frame as cover until I unlocked the door and we were inside. Using his body as a shield to protect my life almost made up for his earlier treachery, but not completely.
The main doors were locked behind us, and I plunked everything down on the bench near my apartment door.
“Can I have the gun you brought for me, please?”
My amiable brother complied, taking out the pistol from the padded gun bag. When he handed it over, I automatically checked the safety before relaxing with the gun in my hand.
He inclined his head, indicating the Ruger at my side. “The clip is loaded with ten rounds. This gun will feel about the same as your Glock to shoot.”
I examined the weapon. “I have to say, this Ruger is quite cute. This skinny, little barrel is sexy. Maybe I can keep it?”
“Guns are not cute or sexy, Anabel, you little freak. They are tough and masculine. No, you can’t have it, that’s my varmint gun.” His smirk disappeared and he frowned in worry. “I thought it was smarter to give you a gun closer to your Glock, instead of my .357, but I’m really stupid sometimes. We should have stopped at Luke’s pasture on the way here and let you practice shooting a few rounds.”
“Don’t sweat it, we’re only being precautionary here. You have the big guns and we’re sticking together, right? I doubt a little practice would make much difference in the scheme of things. Besides, I’ve been target shooting at the range and have become pretty accurate with my Glock, so if they aren’t that different,” I shrugged, “I should do okay.”
“I guess you’re right.” He pointed at me in warning. “You remember I get first dibs on shooting any fuckers that get in our way today, and we’ll be fine.”
I meekly gave my word. I then told him my plan.
Frowning in confusion, he rubbed a palm over his unshaven chin. The scraping sound was loud in the quiet of the lobby. “Jack already had the building searched. Why do we have to do it again?”
Patiently, I explained, “We know every crack and crevice in this whole building. You want to bet our lives Jack’s cops checked the old dumbwaiter behind the cupboard door in Bel’s staff kitchen? Or the hidden storage room in the basement behind the shelving? Unless we call Chief Jack and verify those cops searched in every nook and cranny I can name, I sure as hell don’t.”
Shaking his head in laughing frustration, my brother begrudgingly agreed. “Let’s make it quick then, I’m starving.” He brightened. “Will you make me some pancakes or scrambled eggs when we’re done? Or wait, how about French toast?”
“Perhaps that could be negotiated.” I cautioned, “Now don’t have a kitten, but I’m carrying this gun ready to shoot.”
Reg’s face grew serious at my statement. “Damn right you are. I’d be freakin’ out more if you didn’t, Junior. While we search, I want you to stay on my left side and not behind me.” He took the revolver from his pocket, shrugged out of his jacket and laid it on the bench. Out of the duffle he removed extra bullets for the .357 and the spare magazine for the Ruger. He put the bullets in his jeans pocket, and handed me the spare. He unzipped the long bag and took out the Remington 12 gauge shot gun. He checked the safety, loaded the magazine tube with five shells, racked one in the chamber, and put the sling strap over his neck. Loaded for bear, he stuck his cell in his shirt pocket.
“Just remember that I’m a friendly, practice muzzle control like you’ve been taught, and be aware you will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law for brother-slaughter.”
“You act like I haven’t shot you before and don’t know the drill.”
My brother gave me a dirty look, but we were both chuckling while I set my weapon and spare magazine down for a second. I slipped out of my high-heeled shoes and socks. Barefoot, but more slip-resistant, I was longing for a shower, my sweet smelling lotions, and my cosmetics bag. I felt about as appealing as something the cat dragged in. But I had to deal. The cream colored slacks and pink blouse I still had on from last night had no pockets. I was nonplussed where to carry the extra magazine for the Ruger, and also my cell. Shrugging to myself, I agreed with Plato’s practical words, “Necessity, who is the mother of invention.” In went the extra magazine under the tight waistband of my slacks, and down sideways went the cell phone into my cleavage.
Reg blinked, but was smart and said nothing. He went over a few tips about stalking game quietly together and using simple hand signals while I listened attentively. Then we entered Bel’s Books, relocking the door behind us, and started searching.
Silently as possible, we thoroughly searched the basement and then the first floor. Reggie did mouth the occasional grumble to be duplicating the cop’s efforts.
I firmly believe there was still a dab o
f admiration in his tone when he whispered for about the fourth time, “You’re a damn paranoid, little tyrant.”
After clearing the second floor apartment, Reg and I agreed the guest bedroom would serve as the Axelrod’s last stand, if it came to that. We stored the gear in there. Unlike my room, the guest bedroom has a sturdy lock on the door. There’s a heavy dresser against the wall to push in front of the door. I took the rope ladder from under my bed and left it next to the guest bedroom window. This side of the building is a sheer drop down to Fourth Street.
There’s a sizeable balcony off the back of my apartment. The balcony is higher than a normal second story due to the lofty proportions inside my building. It has a retractable fire escape ladder attached to the side. I stood on alert while Reg, after scoffing in brotherly disgust, secured the ladder with a swaddling of duct tape. I wasn’t taking any chances with areas I could control.
The back door onto the balcony has a safety bar lock and only a small window. The laundry room window looks out onto the balcony. It’s large enough for a man to enter, but it’s locked and wired into my security system. Our reconnoitering had me mentally adding several more items to my personal, self-defense check list. Nothing like a little brush with death to make a girl reevaluate her security needs. An arsenal of guns and ammo, a bar lock for my bedroom door, and permanent bars for the laundry room window are now at the top of the list.
On the bedroom side of the apartment, the long hallway dead-ended at a door leading up to the third floor. At the top of the steep, straight staircase, a long storage room runs back the length of the apartment over the bedrooms below. The high, loft-like ceiling throughout the other side of the apartment prevents the attic from spanning the entire third floor.
