Everywhere She Turns

by Debra Webb

  She wouldn’t make it to the toilet. CJ lunged toward the trash can sitting next to the wall.

  She heaved. She cried. Her body convulsed with the agony throttling through her.

  Please, God, please let those horrific things have been done postmortem.

  As a doctor, she was all too aware of how the human body reacted to fear . . . to pain. Please, please, don’t let Shelley have gone through that with her dying breath.

  Braddock thrust a damp paper towel in front of her. CJ accepted it. Wiped her eyes, then her mouth. She settled her bottom on the floor. “I need to know if those . . . things were done after she was . . . dead.”

  “I can’t confirm the answer to that question until after the autopsy. I’m hoping that’s the case.”

  She glared at him. “What was the fucking medical examiner’s preliminary conclusion?” If he told her he didn’t know, she was going to scream.

  “Postmortem.”

  “Thank God.” Sobs tore at CJ’s chest.

  Braddock joined her on the floor, leaned against the wall. “There are elements that point to Nash, but there’s also a sophistication that almost rules him out. As you pointed out, this was a savvy set-up. Nothing left to chance. Not a single piece of evidence left behind except the carving on the tree limb.”

  Maybe it was the shock of hearing this news or just the fact that they were both sitting on the floor with the trash can she’d puked in standing between them, but CJ looked at the man, really looked, for the first time in months.

  He’d turned thirty-five this year. Dark hair and eyes. Classic square jaw. Good nose. The kind that never needed to be touched with a scalpel. He was a well-dressed, good-looking man whose eyes were warm and compassionate.

  Maybe he really was trying to find Shelley’s killer. Maybe he really did care about the people here. And maybe she was a little crazy.

  She didn’t like noticing anything nice or good about him.

  But then, she was in shock at the moment. Her brain was on autopilot. She felt numb and somehow drunk at the same time. She recognized the symptoms. If she stood up, she would likely pass out.

  She would just sit here for a bit.

  “I tell you what, CJ.” He looked directly at her, let her see how serious he was. “If you promise to go home and stay out of trouble tonight, you, my partner, and I will have a conference tomorrow. We’ll go over everything we’ve got. Check in with the ME and see if they’ve been able to move up the autopsy. We’ll talk it all out.”

  She wasn’t sure how to respond to the offer. Was he trying to get her to agree to something? It sounded exactly like the way oncologists delivered the prognosis to the patient right before they explained the treatment. Ultimately it meant the patient would live, but quality of life would suck.

  “We’ll keep you informed of every step of this investigation. You’ll be sick of hearing from me before it’s over.”

  Now came the but.

  “All I ask in return is that you lay low for now. Stop asking questions and digging around. I don’t think your sister would want you to get hurt . . . not even to bring her killer to justice.”

  Shelley had trusted Braddock. That may very well have been the primary contributing factor in her death, but the fact remained: She’d trusted this man.

  At one time CJ had as well. Before he’d betrayed her trust on the most primal level.

  Still, she had two choices.

  She could get herself into the kind of trouble she might not be able to talk her way out of. Her throat burned where the knife had ripped at her flesh.

  Or trust this man to do his job.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  1407 Dubose Street, 11:40 PM

  Tyrone looked out over his village. It was quiet tonight. That was the way he liked it. His people doing their thing. No interference from the po-po. Something to be said for free enterprise.

  Fury tightened in his gut when he thought of that doctor bitch having the nerve to move back into his village. Banks better get that taken care of fast or Tyrone was gonna end this shit. He did not tolerate disrespect. CJ Patterson was disrespecting him big-time, coming into his territory acting like she was all that. Like she was better than him.

  Maybe he should remind her that she still had it coming for the last time she’d gotten in his way.

  He touched the scar on his cheek, the one that reminded him just how fucking annoying that bitch could be. Yeah. They had a history. One he’d bet his sweet black ass she wouldn’t want to repeat. She’d gotten in that one swipe, but he’d put the fear of God in her tight white ass.

  A tap at his door hauled his attention from the window.

  Excitement heated his skin, made his dick twitch.

  It was nearly midnight.

  Late . . . but worth the wait.

  The door opened just enough for his number one to stick his head in. “Widow’s here.”

  Tyrone nodded. “You know what to do.”

  The number one member of his unholy trinity hesitated like he had something else to say but didn’t want to spit it out.

  “What?” Tyrone demanded. He didn’t want to hear no shit. He had plans for relaxing and enjoying the rest of this night.

  Number one stepped into the room, closed the door behind him. “We got trouble.”

  Tyrone’s survival instincts reared. “What trouble?”

  “Celeste and a couple other foot soldiers said that doctor bitch was asking questions at the clinic today. Questions about you and what happened to Shelley. Some say Celeste spilled her fucking guts. She say that doctor just kept drilling her but she didn’t say nothing important.”

  Rage pulsed in Tyrone’s belly. He shook his head. That Patterson bitch just didn’t know when to walk away.

  “She was asking about Banks, too. Wanting to know if Banks worked for you. Lotta questions, Ty. Lotta questions. She been talking to Banks. She been over to his house. And I already told you about that cop bitch bringing him home. The dickhead was falling down drunk. Then the po-po picked him up again today. Somethin’ going on with that motherfucker.”

  Tyrone digested all that his number one had said. “The Patterson bitch needs another lesson. You know what to do.” He puffed out his chest. He’d tried to do this the easy way and CJ just didn’t want to pay attention. Now she would be sorry. “This is on her.”

  Number one gave a nod of understanding, then left the room to do his duty.

  That was all any of Tyrone’s people had to do. And he took care of them. Roof over their head. Food in their bellies and clothes on their backs. Still, sometimes somebody fucked up.

  Especially the bitches.

  That was why women disgusted him. They didn’t think with their heads. And they assumed that pussy was the road to riches and glory.

  Fucking hos. All of ’em.

  The door opened again and Tyrone felt the burden of his position lift.

  His people called his visitor Widow. Long, sleek black dress. Black hat and veil. Like them fancy white fools over in Twickenham wore to a funeral. But the part he liked the best was the black stockings. Maybe he liked the garter that held those stockings up the best.

  The door closed and Widow leaned against it. “I was held up, but I’m here now. You look tense.”

  Damn straight, he was tense. “That don’t matter.” Tyrone’s heart started that thump-thump-thumping. His cock got hard as a rock just looking. He licked his lips, moved nearer. Motherfucker, he wanted some of that. “We can talk about that later.”

  “Why don’t you tell the Widow what’s making you so tense?”

  The veil lifted and Ty’s gaze went directly to those full, glossy lips. “That bitch doctor,” he said, his mouth watering to taste those sweet lips. “And that fuckup Ricky Banks.”

  Widow made a sound of understanding as Ty moved closer and closer. “I’m here now.”

  “That’s right.” Ty moved in the final step. Reached out, released the buttons that held the dr
ess secured at Widow’s waist. The dress fell open and Ty’s hands moved over smooth, taut skin. He pushed the dress off Widow’s shoulders. Let it fall to the floor.

  No panties. Just the lacy garter belt that held up those sleek black stockings.

  Slowly, releasing one button at a time, Ty opened his shirt. He shouldered out of it, tossed it to the floor. Widow’s eyes traveled over his smooth, muscled chest. Ty kept every inch of his body sleek and smooth. He worked hard to pump up his muscles, big and strong.

  He released his fly, shoved his jeans down his thighs. Heat roared through him as Widow’s breath caught . . . those hungry eyes focused on Ty’s throbbing cock.

  He braced a hand on either side of the door, leaned in close, and tasted those cherry-flavored lips. He let his weight fall against hot, smooth skin. Kissed his way down that pale throat, sought out a flat little nipple and sucked hard. Widow shivered.

  Ty drew back. “Turn around.”

  Widow obeyed.

  Ty couldn’t stop himself—for a moment he had to admire all that beautiful white flesh. Creamy and taut. And that ass. He loved that tight little ass and those long, toned legs.

  Long as Widow took care of the King, the King would take care of Widow. That was the way the world worked.

  Ty leaned in, snuggled his cock between those sweet, hot cheeks. Then he put his arms around Widow’s hips and slid his hands down that lean pelvis until he found what he was looking for. Ty groaned as his fingers latched around Widow’s hard dick. Widow’s ass arched into him.

  “Yes,” Ty murmured.

  This was what he loved—a hot, tight male body.

  Wasn’t no fucking pussy good enough for the King.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  2204 Clopton Street

  Thursday, August 5, 1:05 AM

  A low growl woke him.

  Ricky rolled over in bed. The room spun.

  What the hell?

  He should’ve never drunk that tequila.

  Fuck.

  He licked his lips. Scowled at the shitty taste in his mouth.

  “Satan!” He waited, listened. The dog didn’t come. “Shit.” Ricky sat up. The taste of tequila and bile rushed up into his throat. He had to hold his head. Felt like it was gonna roll off.

  Wood flopped against wood, telling him Satan had lunged out the dog door. He must’ve heard or smelled something outside.

  Ricky gave it another minute in hopes that the room would stop spinning. Then he staggered to his feet.

  “Whoa. Fuck.” He hadn’t gotten this wasted in a long time.

  It was her fault. That crazy bitch was asking questions. Two of his hos had come to him tonight. They’d been scared to death that the new doctor was trying to get in Ricky’s shit by using them. He’d bellowed. Pushed the hos around a little, just to keep them scared and knowing who was boss. Then he’d threatened to let Satan loose on ’em if they went to that clinic again when CJ was there.

  Wouldn’t be no more of that shit.

  Tomorrow he was going to show CJ Patterson what she got for fucking with his hos. He’d start with her rental car. He owed it to her, anyway. She and her sister had fucked up his Camaro that time. He never had gotten his payback for that.

  Then maybe he’d burn her fucking house down with her in it.

  She wouldn’t give him no more trouble then.

  Fucking bitch.

  He dragged on his jeans, stumbled around getting them up. Satan was outside raising all kinds of hell. Ricky hadn’t fed the dog in two days except that one piece of meat. Maybe he’d eat his fill of whoever was messing around outside. He grabbed the .40 cal from under his pillow and shoved it into his waistband.

  People knew better than to come around his place.

  If it was that bitch Patterson, he hoped Satan ripped out her holier-than-thou heart. Serve her right, coming back here acting like she was better. She’d cut her teeth in this hellhole just like him.

  He didn’t have no real beef with CJ. But she’d gone too far now. Asking questions, getting in his business.

  He wasn’t about to let her get him killed.

  Tyrone would only stand for so much bullshit, then he would make them both sorry.

  Hardheaded bitch. He’d warned her.

  He padded barefoot down the hall and into the kitchen. Drawing back the shitty curtain his aunt had had for a hundred fucking years, he squinted to see what the hell Satan was after. The dog was jumping and barking at something in that big old Pecan tree.

  What the hell was hanging from that branch?

  Looked like . . .

  A floorboard creaked behind him.

  Ricky whirled around. Reached for his weapon.

  He felt two tiny pings on his chest.

  What the hell?

  An electrical charge ripped through him. His muscles jerked, twitched.

  He hit the floor.

  He wanted to scream . . . couldn’t.

  Wanted to fight back . . . couldn’t.

  Electricity roared through his body.

  Every part of him twitched and jerked.

  He bit his tongue, tasted the blood.

  Lights exploded behind his eyes.

  Ricky roused. He licked his lips. Tasted metal.

  Smelled something nasty . . . had he shit himself?

  He told his eyes to open. Couldn’t make it happen.

  His body felt heavy. He wanted to move. Couldn’t do it for nothing.

  He could hear Satan growling and snarling. He wanted to call out to the dog . . . couldn’t do that either.

  Slowly, he managed to make his lids slide upward.

  The stained ceiling confirmed that he was in his house.

  On the floor. Kitchen. The battered linoleum felt cool beneath his back.

  What the hell happened to him?

  He tried to lift his right arm again.

  Too heavy . . . and something held it down.

  He concentrated hard on turning his head to the right. Finally it rolled in that direction. His arm was stretched out, his palm up. What the hell was in his hand? He tried to lift it, pain shot up his arm.

  He worked at moving his other arm. Rolled his head that way to see. His left arm was extended away from his body, palm up, just like his right. Something in that hand too.

  He lifted his head, stared at his legs. His legs were spread apart. He was naked. There was something around his ankles, pinning him to the floor. He couldn’t move them; when he tried, it hurt like hell.

  Wait. He dragged his gaze back up to his hips. What was that stuff all over his pelvis? Dark . . . reddish.

  Blood?

  Had he been bleeding?

  Shit! Had someone cut off his dick?

  He wiggled, tried to get free.

  A scream echoed in the room.

  Pain exploded in his hands and arms, his feet and legs. That was when he realized the screaming was coming from him.

  He coughed. Almost choked on his own spit.

  He raised his head again, tried to see. Was his dick still there?

  There was something sticky on his chest. When he looked down, his chin touched his chest and he could feel it. He struggled to focus his blurry gaze. More blood.

  Fuck!

  He tried wiggling again. But his body was so heavy.

  Drugs. Somebody had drugged him. Wait. He remembered his body convulsing, the shock . . . like electricity zapping him hard.

  Taser. Somebody had Tasered him.

  Motherfucker.

  He tried to look around the room. Couldn’t see anybody. The light over the stove was on . . . it was dim but he could see. Where was these motherfuckers?

  “I will kill you!” he warned. “Nobody fucks with Ricky Banks.”

  Satan was scratching at the front door.

  “That’s right, boy,” Ricky shouted to his dog, “come on in here. Satan will eat your ass up!” he told whoever was listening. “Yeah, you hide, motherfucker, you’re dead anyway.”

 
; Ricky tried to look back toward the living room. He couldn’t tilt his head back far enough to see.

  “Come on, boy!”

  Why didn’t the stupid mutt come through the dog door? He’d gotten out that way. He knew how to get back in.

  And where the hell were Tyrone’s zombie fuckers? Ricky knew who had done this. Tyrone wanted to show him who was in control. Twisted motherfucker. Just wait. When Ricky got his hands on that—

  The television suddenly blared to life, the volume loud.

  “Hey!” Ricky shouted.

  The front door opened.

  Ricky stilled.

  The screen door slammed, the wood-against-wood sound echoing above the television.

  Then all the pieces fell into place for Ricky.

  Satan bounded into the room, growling, snarling.

  “Still!” Ricky shouted.

  The dog didn’t listen. He was in a frenzy.

  “Still!” Ricky squeaked as the dog circled him.

  He should’ve fed that fucking dog before he went to bed.

  “Satan! Still!”

  The dog sniffed the blood. Lapped at it.

  Ricky’s body started to quiver.

  “Stop!” he shouted. “Still!”

  The wide tongue lapped faster.

  Ricky struggled. Tried to jerk his hands free. Pain speared through his palms.

  “Still!”

  Teeth sank into Ricky’s skin. He screamed. The harder he fought, the more vicious the attack.

  He turned his face away. Satan’s huge mouth clamped down on Ricky’s throat. He screamed; the sound was weak. He tried to get away. His skin ripped—blood spurted in the dog’s face, across Ricky’s chest.

  Ricky went limp. He could feel the blood gushing from his body, Satan’s teeth tearing out plugs of flesh.

  The blackness closed in on him until all he could see was that stain on the kitchen ceiling.

  His lips formed the word still.

  But he never heard the sound.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  3021 Appleton Street, 7:15 AM