Everywhere She Turns

by Debra Webb

  “She doesn’t.” Braddock stared at the monitor. “That was Edward Abbott. Professor over at the university. Retired last year.” CJ’s last words kept echoing in his brain. Maybe I don’t know you as well as Shelley did. But look where that got her.

  Cooper knocked back a slug of her preferred beverage. “Kind of old for a boyfriend.”

  Braddock shoved aside the words—the reality—haunting him. “According to Shelley, he’s a family friend. A father figure, I guess.” Not that Shelley had liked Abbott that much. He’d been a part of their lives since she and CJ were kids.

  “Abbott lives around here?”

  “Williams Street. Old money. His family was one of the original settlers in Huntsville. He’s the last of the line. Never been married. No kids. My guess is he’s the reason Dr. CJ Patterson rose so high above her humble beginnings.”

  Cynthia Jayne Patterson owed a lot to the man, according to her sister. Abbott had taken care of the burial expenses for their mother. Ensured the future Dr. Patterson had gotten whatever she needed. Braddock wondered if there had been more to Abbott’s relationship with the mother. Maybe one or both daughters were his biological offspring. That would explain his long-term involvement in their lives. Unless, of course, he was simply a guy who exemplified the term Good Samaritan. A few of those still existed.

  “Father figure?” Cooper arched a speculative eyebrow. “Or perv? Maybe he’s got a thing for the sister.”

  “That’s possible,” Braddock allowed. CJ didn’t confide in him. But then, she had her reasons. And those reasons were going to make this investigation a whole lot more complicated. He had no one to blame for that but himself.

  “Maybe,” Cooper put forward, “little sister was jealous of how much attention big sister got from pseudo-daddy or sugar daddy, whatever the case might be.”

  Maybe. Braddock had picked up on just a hint of envy, but in all the ways that counted, Shelley had idolized her sister. “I don’t think this is about Abbott,” he countered. “What would he have to gain by murdering Shelley? Let’s face it, he’d have a hell of a lot to lose. He’s a very wealthy man. Offing an on-again-off-again prostitute seems a little out of character for a man in his position.”

  “Banks isn’t our man,” Cooper said, moving on from the subject of Abbott. “You know it and I know it. He’s a bully, not a killer. His alibi checked out. And his aunt swears he came in about two that morning and she started trying to get him up at noon. He was dead to the world for those hours in between.”

  She held up her hands before Braddock could say what was on his mind. “I know. I know. The aunt could’ve lied. She’s family. Might be protecting him. But I believe her. My instincts are usually right on the money when it comes to reading people.”

  Braddock could vouch for that. He was hoping like hell she didn’t turn that high-powered perception too keenly on him. They’d been partners for nearly three years. She’d seen him through a hell of a lot. But this crossed the line.

  If he went down, he wasn’t taking Cooper with him. This wasn’t her mess; it was his.

  “Banks might not have killed her,” Braddock admitted, “but he knows who did. And, by his own admission, he was one of the last people to see her alive.”

  Cooper pulled the open case file to her side of the desk. “Banks was in and out of the Patterson home that night. So were two other men the neighbor, Mr. O’Neal, couldn’t identify.”

  O’Neal lived next door to Shelley. The argument between Banks and Shelley had awakened him, which was the reason he’d been up at one-thirty or so in the morning. He had seen at least two other males come and go between two and three that morning but he hadn’t gotten a good look at either one. A stroke had sentenced him to a wheelchair, limiting his views to those from his first-floor windows. O’Neal hadn’t been concerned about the late-night visitors. Men were in and out of Shelley’s place at all hours, most any given night of the week.

  “Shelley used to be one of the King’s foot soldiers,” Cooper went on as she perused the interview notes she’d taken.

  The King. Tyrone Nash. The self-professed ruler of the village. A true scumbag. Braddock’s jaw tightened. The piece of shit even had business cards flaunting his self-ordained status. He had deemed the prostitutes he operated his “foot soldiers.” Others who worked for him were his “eyes” and his “ears.” Nash had himself quite an imagination to go with that inflated ego.

  “Shelley wasn’t turning tricks for him anymore,” Braddock reminded his partner.

  “True, but since Nash keeps tabs on every-damned-body living in the village, he probably knows exactly what happened whether he killed her or not.”

  “Probably?” Braddock shot her an are-you-kidding look. Frustration tightened in his gut. “You know damned well he ordered her death. There is no way in hell it happened without his approval.”

  “I have a theory on the E. Noon thing,” his partner offered.

  “Oh, yeah?” Braddock hadn’t spent much time on that. He’d been too focused on CJ. Just another indication he was way over the line here.

  Cooper nodded. “It’s no one spelled backward.”

  No one fucks with me.

  The words, written in blood—in his niece’s blood—loomed ominously in Braddock’s head. Nash had sent him that note. Nash had killed her. Just like he killed Shelley. Braddock didn’t need any evidence. He knew it in his gut.

  All of this, every damned step, was a waste of time. A game that bastard had set in motion. He wasn’t afraid of being caught. He was too careful. They would search for evidence and interview dozens of folks, and it would all boil down to one thing: no way to legally prove Nash was the one.

  But he was. This time Braddock was going to get him.

  Cooper closed the file. “Look,” she said quietly, “we both know how badly you want Nash.”

  Braddock blinked. He’d been lost in his own misery. “It’s him. We both know where the no one comes from. Nash is making sure I understand it’s him.”

  “I totally agree,” Cooper went on. “He’s a piece of shit. Nobody”—she pressed Braddock with her gaze—“wants that bastard to go down more than I do. But we have to do this right, partner. No mistakes. No jumping the gun. By the book.”

  “By the book,” he agreed, mainly to keep her happy. He would make this stick. One way or another he would find what he needed to nail that blood-sucking lowlife.

  whatever it cost him.

  “You’re a good partner.”

  Braddock looked up, surprised at her statement. “I’d say thanks, but I’m not sure you meant it as a compliment.”

  She shook her head at him. “I just wanted you to know that I like what we have.” She searched his eyes a couple of seconds too long. “I don’t want to see that change.”

  Too late.

  Everything had changed.

  Shelley Patterson was dead.

  And he was the reason.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  3021 Appleton Street, Mill Village

  9:58 PM

  CJ sat on the front steps of her childhood home and absorbed the sounds of the village. Two houses down a couple were having it out, their angry voices carrying in the darkness. Across the street stray cats yowled and hissed in a territorial battle that likely involved the resident’s freshly discarded trash. Beyond that, the constant ebb and flow of traffic and sirens, underscored by the distant, lonesome wail of the ten o’clock train, provided a familiar urban melody that had lulled her to sleep every night for most of her life.

  As on so many of those nights, Edward sat next to her on the steps, his presence comforting, familiar. She never would have escaped this world without his help and boundless encouragement.

  His quiet strength proved more heartening than he could possibly know. Yet inside, where no one else could see, she trembled. CJ didn’t want to feel alone, but tonight she felt entirely alone even with Edward’s patient vigil.

  Her sister had been CJ’s only
family. Her responsibility.

  Now Shelley was gone. CJ had failed her.

  “I wish you would reconsider,” Edward prompted, unwilling to concede on the issue.

  CJ appreciated his concern. He didn’t want her staying here alone. But she needed to be here. Close to her sister’s things. Close to her.

  “I’ll be fine.” She patted his arm, allowed her hand to linger there in hopes of reassuring him of her fortitude. “I’ll call you before I go to bed and the first thing when I wake up in the morning.” Again that surreal feeling washed over her, as if this were a dream or theater production playing out beneath the struggling spotlight of the feeble porch light.

  “You haven’t eaten, have you?” Kind gray eyes searched hers. “I’m certain you’re utterly exhausted.”

  His diagnosis was accurate on both observations. She felt emotionally and physically drained, completely spent. “I couldn’t eat. Not tonight. I’ll get some sleep and perhaps we can have one of your splendid brunches in the morning.”

  With a surrendering sigh, he settled his hand on hers. “I’ll stop badgering you, then. You mustn’t worry about the arrangements. I’ll take care of everything.”

  He’d done the same thing when her mother died. CJ appreciated his kindness, but she needed to do this for her sister. Later they would have that conversation. She couldn’t do it tonight.

  “Thank you . . .” She stopped, drew in a deep, steadying breath. “For always being . . . you, Edward.” A heartfelt smile quivered across her lips. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” A tear slipped past her firm hold; she swiped it away. Couldn’t do that right now, either.

  He squeezed her hand ever so gently. “As much as I enjoy your company,” he said, standing up, “I should go and let you get settled.”

  CJ pushed to her feet. Her limbs felt weak, unsteady.

  He hugged her chastely, gave her a smile, and said good-night. CJ watched him go, wondering why such a good, kind man was still alone. He’d turned fifty-two this year. He’d never been married, hadn’t even come close. He was tall and extremely fit for his age, and even the gray hair lent a distinguished quality to an undeniably attractive and wealthy gentleman. Any woman would be lucky to have Edward in her life.

  Maybe he’d been so busy taking care of the Patterson sisters he hadn’t taken time for himself. That burden settled heavily onto her shoulders alongside the too-numerous others. CJ closed her eyes and cleared her mind.

  She didn’t need to try sorting any of this out tonight.

  Tomorrow would be soon enough.

  Grabbing her bag, she climbed the final step up onto the porch and hauled her weary body to the door. She dug in her bag for the key. Tomorrow she would go through the house to get an idea of where to start with the packing up. Maybe, if she was really lucky, she would find something that would give her some degree of insight into Shelley’s final days. To CJ’s knowledge, her sister hadn’t kept a journal, but there could be other clues: notes to herself, a calendar . . . something.

  CJ shoved the key into the lock and gave it a twist. She might even attempt to talk to Ricky one-on-one. Maybe he would open up to her if it was just the two of them. Alibi or not, she was nowhere near convinced of his innocence. Anything she could get out of him might help focus the investigation in the proper direction.

  Inside, the house was dark, stuffy. CJ closed the door and dropped her bag on the sofa. She reached for the light switch. A loud thwack followed by shattering glass stopped her cold.

  Lifting her gaze to the ceiling, she stared at the cracked plaster.

  For two beats she tried to convince herself she’d imagined the sound. Maybe a squirrel had gotten in somehow.

  The scuff of hard soles on bare wood jolted her out of denial.

  Fear rammed her heart against her sternum.

  Cell phone. Pepper spray. She probed in her bag for both, her gaze never leaving the staircase across the room.

  Her respiration echoed in the silence.

  Someone was up there . . . not her imagination.

  Another creak.

  She froze.

  Shelley’s bedroom.

  He was in Shelley’s room!

  Blind fury lashed through her, propelled her across the room and up the stairs.

  “Don’t you touch my sister’s things!”

  The words exploded in the air startling her with the realization that she’d voiced the thought.

  She hit the upstairs landing without slowing and lunged into the darkness of the hall toward her sister’s room.

  A body plowed into her.

  Knocked her backward.

  She hit the floor.

  The breath whooshed out of her lungs.

  The pepper spray slid across the floor. Her death grip on the phone was all that kept it in her hand.

  A foot came down right next to her head as the intruder scrambled over her.

  The boom of footsteps on the stairs catapulted her upright.

  She raced after him.

  Definitely a him. Big. Strong. Hard-muscled.

  Stumbling down the last two steps in her haste, she landed on all fours on the living room floor.

  The back door banged against the wall.

  He was getting away!

  She staggered up. Ran.

  She burst through the door he’d left open. Stumbled around in a circle, searching the darkness.

  Where the hell was he?

  Peering across the moonlit yard, she got a glimpse of a dark figure as he ducked into the alley.

  “Bastard,” she snapped. She fought to catch her breath. If she’d turned the upstairs light on, maybe she would have gotten a glimpse of his face.

  Dammit.

  Her body started to shake. She was cold. And it was hot as hell, sticky, muggy out here.

  The adrenaline was draining away.

  She took a deep breath, then another.

  Calm down.

  It was over.

  He wouldn’t be back.

  The scumbag had likely heard about Shelley’s death and decided to see if there was anything in the house worth taking.

  “Piece of shit.”

  Catching hold of the railing for support, she climbed the back steps and went inside. She’d see if anything was missing and what had gotten broken, then she would call the police.

  For all the good it would do.

  Turning on lights as she went, she moved through the kitchen to the living room and up the stairs. At the landing, she switched on the hall light this time.

  The consuming quiet pressed in around her, felt creepy.

  Call the police now.

  As she eased cautiously toward Shelley’s room, the little voice that had been screaming at her, which in her emotional outburst she had ignored, prompted her to slide her phone open and do what she should have done in the first place.

  At the bedroom door, she slid her hand along the wall until she hit the switch. Light flooded the room.

  CJ poised her thumb to enter the three digits, then froze.

  The window was broken. Glass had spewed across the floor. Shelley’s things were tossed all around the room. But none of that was what held her transfixed, unable to move or even to scream.

  On the wall above the bed was a message written in bold crimson swipes: STAY AND THERE’LL BE TWO DEAD BITCHES.

  The phone slipped from her icy fingers and bounced on the floor.

  CJ blinked.

  Her lips parted with the sound that burst from her lungs.

  She whirled and ran for the stairs.

  Plunged downward, barely staying vertical.

  She rushed for the door . . . and rammed into a hard chest before she could stop her forward momentum.

  The scream died in her throat as her reactions scrambled to catch up with the message her brain was sending.

  “CJ, what’s going on?”

  Braddock.

  All the hurt, disappointment, regret, anger, and fear fol
ded in on her. She crumpled into his arms.

  He was whispering to her. She couldn’t make out the words over her sobs. Strong arms lifted her. He carried her across the room and settled on the sofa with her in his lap, cradled in his arms.

  Once the tears started, they wouldn’t stop. She clung to his strength, to the warmth of his body. She was so cold. So tired. The misery was so overwhelming.

  And no matter how vehemently she’d denied it, she’d missed him. It felt good to be in his arms. All those nights they’d talked, just being close to him had warmed her . . . made her want things she’d never dared to want. Made her want to give herself to him and to take all he’d had to offer. Even now he had the power to make her tremble with that same need when she shouldn’t.

  She didn’t want to think anymore . . . didn’t want to feel this agony. She wanted to lose herself. Her lips found his. She kissed him with all the emotions churning madly inside her. Wanted to learn every part of him the way she’d dreamed of so many times before.

  “Slow down,” he murmured as he tried to draw away.

  “Can’t.” She pulled his mouth back to hers, kissed him harder. Her fingers knotted in his shirt, tugged at it until she found naked skin. Hot . . . smooth. She wanted to touch more of him. Wanted him to touch her. She tore at the buttons of her blouse. Her breasts strained against the satin of her bra, begging for attention.

  She guided his hand to her breast. He squeezed. She gasped, squirmed in his lap.

  Years of frustration and restraint exploded inside her. Watching her drunken mother’s male friends paw at her mother. Holding her sister while she sobbed because some bastard had taken advantage of her when she was wasted. CJ was always the good girl, the one who cleaned up the mess—who did the right thing.

  She didn’t want to do the right thing anymore. She wanted to go to that mind-numbing place. To forget everything else.

  She wanted Braddock to take her there. She’d dreamed of being with him for months even as she’d tried every tactic she knew to forget him.

  Jesus Christ, why didn’t he do something? “What’re you waiting for?” Her voice was thick with need.

  Those dark, dark eyes clashed with hers. She saw the desire there. He wanted her . . . no matter that he hesitated.