by Debra Webb
“The problem is”—CJ had to tread cautiously here—“if he doesn’t answer their questions, the police are going to presume he’s guilty.”
Frances stopped her rocking.
“He really should tell them what he knows so they can start looking at other possibilities.” CJ moistened her lips. “You . . . you know as well as I do how the police are about folks in this neighborhood. They probably figure nailing Ricky for her murder would kill two birds with one stone. They’re not going to bother looking for the real killer if they’ve got someone they can blame.”
The old woman’s eyes narrowed behind her corrective lenses. “You mean like putting Ricky in jail takes him off the streets and then they don’t have to worry about him causing no more trouble?”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s exactly what I mean. Shelley’s dead.” Emotion pounded against CJ’s sternum. “They figure she didn’t deserve any better than she got, so why not rid the city of another one like her?” She leaned forward, pressed the older woman with the certainty in her eyes. “They don’t care about us. They’d have torn this village down years ago when they demolished the mill if some hoity-toity historian hadn’t insisted the historic value had to be preserved. And all those promises of new jobs for all the laid-off mill workers were over and forgotten as soon as the new mayor was elected.”
The rocking resumed. “Politicians always make promises and then they do nothing. Without the mill, some folks felt they had no choice but to turn to crime to survive. And not one thing was done to stop it.”
CJ nodded, the movement stiff. “We can’t let the police get away with accusing an innocent man just so the mayor’s views on keeping the streets clean look good.” Her lips tightened with the lie. “I’ll go to the police with Ricky. My sister would want me to.”
Frances stilled once more, her gaze engaging fully with CJ’s, searching for the sincerity in her eyes that she heard in her voice.
Think! What now? “Maybe if I could talk to Ricky, I could make him understand that the only way he’s going to get through this without serious trouble is if he lets the police know he didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Shelley. I feel certain he has an alibi. But it won’t do him any good if he doesn’t give it to the police. Running or hiding just makes him look guilty.” CJ reached out, patted the old lady’s hand. “You have my word I’ll go with him.” Damn straight she would. “I want the truth just as much as he does.”
The silence boomed in CJ’s ears.
Just tell me where he is!
Frances Jennings tapped her fingertips together. “Those homeless folks still sleep under that Governor’s Drive overpass, you know. No matter how often the police shoo them away, they just come right back. The police don’t pay no real attention. The president himself could be right in the middle of that horde and nobody would notice.”
CJ’s respiration came in tiny, fragmented bursts. “But they don’t usually come out until after dark.” Where would he be now? She needed to find him now.
The old woman nodded again. “Yes’m. In the daytime they like to mill around in the park. With all the hippies and those no-account kids in black skulking about, the homeless just sort of blend in.”
Of course. CJ should have thought of that.
“I should be going. I have a lot to take care of.” She pushed to her feet, tried not to appear in too big a rush. “It was nice to see you again, Mrs. Jennings.”
“You know when the funeral’ll be yet?”
Pain radiated deep, squeezed CJ’s heart. “No, ma’am. Not yet. But I’ll be sure to let you know as soon as . . . the arrangements are made.” On second thought, she reached into her bag, scrounged up a piece of paper and pen. “I’ll give you my cell phone number. If you need me, just call.” She jotted down the number, then passed the paper to the older woman.
Frances Jennings stared at the number. “I might just do that. You know my bursitis has been acting up lately.”
“Call me and I’ll see what I can do.”
Mrs. Jennings walked her to the door. The impulse to run across the porch and down the steps throbbed in CJ’s muscles, made keeping her stride steady and even next to impossible.
The park. Of course he’d go to the park. Big Spring Park was always littered with the homeless. No one paid the slightest attention.
What better way to hide than in plain sight?
The five minutes required to reach the downtown area had CJ ready to hyperventilate. By the time she parked and headed along the sidewalk, she felt on the verge of exploding. She wrapped her fingers around the cell phone in her pocket. The second she laid eyes on that son of a bitch Banks, she was dialing 911.
Ricky had always used his elderly aunt when he needed help. Like Shelley and CJ, he’d had no other family.
Now CJ had none.
Her lips compressed as fury pounded inside her.
She methodically checked the most frequented hangouts around the park. Near the bridge, the waterfall, and the picnic tables. Nothing. She walked faster, hurrying from one side of the public green space to the other, weaving and scanning.
Big Spring Park was slap in the middle of downtown Huntsville. The expanse of green space sprawled around and between the office buildings. The manmade lake created for the park covered a large portion of the area. Ducks meandered around the water’s edge, picking at the litter left by the human visitors, hoping for food.
Finally, CJ grew desperate and started to ask anyone she encountered if they knew Banks or had seen him.
Heads shook. Gazes narrowed with suspicion. But no one admitted to knowing him, much less having seen him. The exercise proved a waste of time.
A swell of exhaustion washed over her as she neared the distinguished building that housed the city’s Museum of Art. She should just stop. She was no cop. What the hell was she even doing out here shaking down rebellious teenagers and the homeless?
Shelley was dead. Nothing CJ did was going to change that. The police would pretend to investigate, but if they didn’t nail her killer, what difference did it make?
It wouldn’t raise her from the dead.
It wouldn’t give CJ a second chance to do a better job being a big sister.
To the powers that be, Shelley was insignificant. Just another impoverished young woman who’d been arrested on drug possession charges twice and prostitution charges once that CJ knew of.
Who around here was going to miss her?
The cell phone clasped in her hand vibrated. CJ jumped. Her nerves were beyond rattled. She hoped it wasn’t Edward again. He was worried sick about her. She should have called him as soon as she’d arrived, but he wouldn’t have understood her need to do this. Edward Abbott was a bit overprotective, but he was her dearest friend.
Taking a steadying breath, she peered at the screen. Not Edward. Or Braddock. She didn’t recognize the number, but the prefix indicated a local caller.
Tension slid through her. Please, please let it be him. She’d given the aunt the number in hopes she would call and pass it on to her no-good nephew. CJ slid the phone open and pressed it to her ear. “Patterson.”
“What the fuck are you trying to do?”
Ricky Banks.
A moment of triumph was instantly replaced with rage, seizing CJ’s entire being with the urge to act. Her pulse quickened. “Ricky, I have to talk—”
“Are you trying to get me killed?” he demanded.
Images of Shelley’s body lying cold and still on that slab swam before CJ’s eyes. “If you’re innocent,” she said with a far steadier, calmer voice than she had a right to muster, “you should tell the police. They’re not going to look for anyone else as long as they’re focused on you.” Even an idiot should understand that. If he was innocent, his actions were obstructing the investigation.
But he wasn’t innocent. He was a low-life piece of wasted DNA who loved brutalizing women.
“You don’t know shit.” He launched into a tirade about j
ust how stupid CJ was and how she’d been gone for seven years and didn’t get how things were now.
“Ricky!” she tried to interrupt, but he kept screaming in her ear. “Ricky!” she screamed right back even as she cautioned herself to stay cool. “Just shut up and listen to me.”
Incredibly, he shut up.
“Braddock is the one investigating Shelley’s murder. All you have to do is tell him where you were and who you were with when Shelley was murdered. Then you’re off the hook. If you didn’t do it, you have nothing to worry about.” No response. CJ checked to ensure the call was still connected. “Hiding out is only making you look guilty.” She took a breath, grappled for the composure that had fled the instant she heard his voice. Prayed she had convinced him that she wasn’t the enemy. If she could get him to come out of hiding, the cops would get the truth out of him. He wasn’t nearly as badass as he wanted everyone to think.
“Is that what you think? That all I have to do is explain myself and I’m off the hook? What the hell you been smoking?”
“Don’t be stupid.” Keep your cool just a little bit longer. “Just . . . tell me where you are.”
“Right behind you.”
Before CJ could whip around, a strong forearm clamped around her throat. A sweaty palm slapped over her mouth. Her phone hit the ground. She kicked, twisted, tried to jerk free.
“Be still,” he growled between gritted teeth.
Like hell! Her shoe heel connected with a shin. “Goddammit!”
He slammed her against a brick wall. She kicked him again. Got her head banged against the wall for her trouble.
“Be fucking still!” he growled, bracing his forearm against her throat.
Since the gun in his hand wasn’t pointed at her, she stopped moving. See what he has to say. Air sawed in and out of her lungs, propelling the racing blood already roaring in her ears.
“I did not kill her,” he said, his nose no more than an inch from CJ’s. “I can’t go to the police because he’ll kill me if I open—”
“Who’ll kill you?” she challenged. If Shelley’s murder involved more than him, she wanted to know.
“I ain’t getting dead for nobody.” He pressed his arm harder against her throat. She couldn’t breathe. “If you know what’s good for you—”
“Hands up, Banks!”
The pressure on her throat eased enough for her to drag in a lungful of air.
“Drop the weapon and put your hands in the air.”
In an effort to see who’d shouted the orders, CJ craned her neck as far as Ricky’s hold would allow.
Banks twisted to get a look as well.
Tall guy. Civilian clothes. Big gun.
The idea crossed her mind that she’d obviously pissed off Lady Luck, since guns were suddenly everywhere she turned. She saw them in the ER now and then, but the last twenty-four hours had been a little over the top.
The instant the big-ass gun aimed at his head registered in Ricky’s brain, his arm fell away and his gun dropped to the grass.
“Ricky Banks”—the man stepped forward, gun still leveled on its target—“you’re wanted for questioning in the death of Shelley Patterson. Back away from the woman and let’s do this the easy way.”
Another man, this one dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, too, moved in, grabbed one of Ricky’s raised arms, and twisted it behind his back.
Before CJ could ask, the first man who’d spoken flashed his badge. Huntsville PD. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
CJ nodded. Took her first decent breath since her cell had vibrated with Ricky’s call.
“You set me up,” he snarled.
Her gaze collided with Ricky’s. She’d set him up all right, but not with the police. He’d grabbed her before she had a chance. But if that was what he thought, she couldn’t care less. “Maybe I did,” she tossed back.
“You’ll be sorry,” he warned. “You don’t even fucking know how sorry.”
CHAPTER NINE
815 Wheeler Avenue
Huntsville Police Department
8:50 PM
CJ paced the interview room where Braddock had insisted she wait. The coffee one of his colleagues had delivered sat untouched on the table. She’d asked to observe the questioning. Back when she’d had time to watch television, they did it on Law & Order all the time. But Braddock had let her know in no uncertain terms that her request was out of the question.
That had been more than an hour ago.
What was taking so long?
Ricky Banks wasn’t that complicated. CJ had been going head-to-head with him for more than two decades. Shelley had been three months away from her fifteenth birthday and the scumbag had finagled his way into her pants. Another popped cherry to add to his scorecard. Afterward, poor Shelley had just kept crying and saying the same thing over and over.
I don’t want to be like Mom.
So CJ had plotted the perfect revenge to boost her sister’s spirits. With a pair of old Widow Daniels’s late husband’s golf clubs in hand, CJ and Shelley had released years of pent-up frustration and anger on Ricky’s piece-of-shit Camaro.
Ricky had been pissed. He’d growled and threatened for a couple of weeks, but he’d finally let go of his grudge against the Patterson sisters and moved on to badgering some other poor souls.
But he’d never let go of his hold on Shelley.
No matter how many times he hurt her, she always got involved with him again.
And every time she hit bottom, CJ had been the one to pick up the pieces.
Just like with their mother.
The door behind her opened and CJ turned, hoping this was Braddock with news.
Closing the door behind him, Braddock glanced at the untouched Styrofoam cup. “You didn’t like the coffee?”
“Did he kill my sister?” She had no desire to make small talk with this man.
He pulled out a chair and took a seat. Gestured to the one across the table.
CJ shook her head. She couldn’t sit. Her nerves were raw and still vibrating with too many emotions.
“Considering the evidence we have now—”
“Which is none,” she said for him.
“Which is none,” he agreed. “Our only avenue was to verify his alibi and to look for signs of a recent physical altercation. Considering some of the bruising—”
CJ flinched, couldn’t help herself.
“We can assume Shelley struggled against her attacker.” That said, he heaved a frustrated breath.
This was going to be bad.
“Banks shows no indication whatsoever of a recent struggle. But he could have been wearing gloves and long sleeves. We’re executing a search warrant of his home before we make a final decision. If nothing else, we’re hoping to find some leverage to get him talking about anything he knows that might prove useful to the investigation.”
“What’s the bottom line, Braddock?” She knew; she just wanted to hear him say it out loud.
His gaze settled heavily onto hers. “In light of the fact that my partner confirmed his alibi, unless we find that leverage I mentioned . . . we have no choice but to release him.”
Hearing him say it didn’t give her the victorious feeling she’d thought it would. She expected the police to fail her sister. Wanted Braddock to have to admit out loud his incompetence. Yet, all hearing the words did was hurt. CJ rubbed her tired eyes, threaded her fingers through her hair. She’d been sure it was Ricky. Sure enough to hunt him down when the police had insisted they couldn’t find him.
CJ had found him.
Looking back at the risk she’d taken, she was damned lucky the cops had shown up when they did.
Wait. That can’t have been coincidence.
The cops had been watching her.
Her gaze locked with Braddock’s once more. “You used me to find him.” The end result was the same, whether law enforcement had found him or she had, but there was something innately wrong with the way Braddock had gone about
this tactic. Outrage burned away the fog of fatigue. Once again, he had fully lived up to her expectations.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I did put surveillance on you. You grew up in the village. The people there see you as one of them. I knew they would talk to you when they wouldn’t talk to us. But,” he qualified, “the surveillance was also for your protection.”
He had an answer for everything, except who had killed her sister. “Is this the way you conduct a homicide investigation? Prompting private citizens to put themselves in danger?” She didn’t know why Shelley had trusted him. Always wanted to call Braddock whenever she felt the need to reach out to law enforcement. I help him out with what’s going on around here and he helps me out, she’d once told CJ.
He hadn’t helped Shelley; he’d used her.
Just like he’d used CJ.
“I didn’t put you in danger, CJ. You did that all by yourself. But I won’t lie to you. Sometimes”—Braddock stood, pushed in his chair—“we have to take advantage of whatever opportunities are in front of us. The first forty-eight hours after a crime are crucial. You do want to know what happened to your sister, don’t you?”
“Of course.” The son of a bitch. He was turning this around on her. “Like you said, I know the people in the village. I grew up there. And the other thing I know for certain is that the police never go out of their way to investigate anything that happens to those people.”
Braddock braced his hands on the table and leaned forward, pressing her with those dark eyes of his. “This is what you obviously don’t know. You don’t know me.”
CJ grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder. “Maybe I don’t know you as well as Shelley did. But look where that got her.”
She walked out the door.
Someone in the village had to know something.
All she had to do was find that someone.
CHAPTER TEN
“Who’s the old guy?” Ever-present Pepsi in hand, Cooper hopped onto Braddock’s desk and studied the screen monitoring the goings and comings in the lobby. “I thought she didn’t have any family.”
