Partner-Protector

by Julie Miller

  He’d been thinking about sampling a good-night kiss and thought he was getting the message that she was, too. Then, bam! She was pushing him out the door, igniting his temper and throwing a very real fear of God into him because he knew that, despite every warning, she was going to go off on some other fool errand today that would put her in harm’s way.

  Having her car stolen was bad enough. He knew the victim of any crime felt a certain sense of violation and vulnerability. He had an unsettling feeling in his gut that that theft had been more about sending a message than making a profit. But Kelsey refused to see the danger. Who knew what Mort and Edgar, or Zero, or even that Doc Siegel would do to a nosy, pseudo detective who asked too many questions in the wrong part of town?

  He knew.

  That meant he had to hustle his sore leg and get some answers to piece together these murders before she got in too deep with her crazy notions and couldn’t get out. She was his responsibility, dammit, even if she didn’t want to be. Captain Taylor had assigned her to him. His conscience and something a lot less tangible inside him demanded that he keep her safe.

  “Your words mean nothing to me, Detective.”

  Then, by God, he was going to do it some other way.

  After his unceremonious departure, he’d driven straight to the precinct office. Most of the night shift worked on the streets or out of satellite stations, so the place was relatively deserted. That was fine. He wasn’t much in the mood for company.

  He’d spent a couple of hours on the Internet, reading up on the claims of psychic phenomena and how to debunk them. He’d been left with more doubts than before. Some so-called psychics claimed they could read minds or see the future. Kelsey herself had said that was impossible for her. Others simply picked up on positive or negative vibes in the air. Some went into trances; others used crystals to channel or deflect energy.

  Like one so-called expert he’d found, Kelsey claimed she had to touch the object or person in order to see anything. Did that mean she got impressions from every single thing she touched? Twenty-four hours a day? Talk about sensory overload. Talk about invasion of privacy. Had she read anything about him?

  T, she called him. Merle’s your middle name.

  The headache had set in about then, throbbing in synchronous time with his knee. What else did she think she knew about him?

  And if he believed she knew things about him, could he believe she knew about those murders?

  Or was she still just The Flake he had to save from her own misguided intentions?

  Frustrated with more questions than answers, he’d turned off his computer and focused on something more tangible. He’d bagged up the doll and its box and labeled it. Then, against his best logical judgment, he’d bagged the yellow scarf, as well. He prepped both packages for Mac Taylor and his team of forensic scientists.

  He doubted either one would provide DNA, a fingerprint or a fiber match to lead him to a murderer. But he was guessing, at the very least, he could find a clue to prove there was something funny going on down in The Underground curiosity shop. Drugs. Fencing stolen objects. Maybe he could even get a warrant and remove that danger from Kelsey’s path.

  Beyond that? Hell. He’d been working the Kelsey Ryan problem all night long. He hadn’t gotten beyond anything yet.

  The elevator dinged to announce the top floor. Merle got off, pressed the buzzer to Ginny’s loft and waited. She was sitting in a wheelchair when she opened the door, but she looked gorgeous.

  “Hey, partner.”

  “Ginny.”

  “Banning to the rescue.” She greeted him with a hug and a smile and ushered him in. “Please, come break up the monotony before I’m forced to play another game of solitaire. Brett’s stopping by the library on his way home for lunch to bring me some books I ordered. But I’ve already read everything else in the condo.”

  “I could have picked them up for you.”

  “I know. But he likes to check on me, anyway. If I give him an assignment, I feel less guilty about taking him away from work just to plump pillows and talk to me.”

  Merle took off his coat and followed her into the sunny, airy living room. Its cool palette of colors complemented Ginny’s silver-blond hair and ice-blue maternity jogging suit. “You two are really getting this place fixed up.”

  She nodded. “About all we have left is the mural I’m painting in the baby’s room. But the doctor says I can only be up for a couple of hours each day, so it’s taking a while.”

  He nodded toward her round belly. “And everything’s going okay with the baby?”

  Hugging her arms around her precious cargo, Ginny smiled. “Just fine.”

  “And you?”

  “Even better.” Ginny parked her chair beside the coffee table and invited him to sit on the sofa opposite her. “But enough about me. Stimulate my brain. Please. Tell me what you’re working on. I heard Mitch assigned you to the cold-case files.”

  Merle nodded, settling himself on the couch. She wasn’t going to like this. “I’m working the Holiday Hooker murders.”

  That sobered her smile. Ginny had been shot, nearly killed, the last time the department had investigated a lead on the case. It had turned out to be a false lead, a heinous ruse to draw members of the Taylor family into a deadly ambush. But she’d survived. She was stronger for it. Her marriage was stronger for it.

  And the man who’d fired the shot was dead.

  By Merle’s own hand.

  The pall that settled between them lasted for less than a minute. Ginny quirked one perfect, silvery brow. “So why did you want to come see me?”

  He handed her the manila envelope. “What do you know about doll collecting?”

  “Not much. But I can find out. What do you need?”

  In a few brief minutes, Merle had showed her the scanned photos of the doll Kelsey had brought in and explained Kelsey’s claims about the doll being the key to the first murder, maybe all the murders. Ginny grabbed her sketch pad and jotted notes while Merle talked. He related every factual detail he could, from their first meeting at the precinct office to her bizarre dismissal at her house last night.

  By the time he’d finished, he was pacing the room. Ginny was doodling pictures on her sketch pad and hiding an amused smile.

  He stopped when he saw that grin. “What?”

  “You sure seem to have an awful lot to say about Ms. Ryan.”

  “Of course, I do. She’s my partner.” He put up his hands, reassuring Ginny of her place. “Temporary partner. Nothing more.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Ginny nodded, apparently seeing something in this scenario he didn’t. “I’m just getting some vibes from you. You’re pretty agitated this morning.”

  Vibes was a Kelsey word, not something he’d expect Ginny to use. “Look. If you do sense anything between me and Kelsey, it’s just friction. She’s not the easiest person to work with. She’s not nearly grounded enough to suit me.”

  Ginny threw up her hands in surrender. “You don’t have to marry her. But it’s nice to see you finally notice someone. That’s all.”

  “I’m not interested. Believe me, she’s not my type.” He had to say it. “You know I go for cool, Nordic blondes.”

  Ginny smiled indulgently, if a bit sadly. She knew about his crush, and appreciated that he’d never acted on it. Still, it had to feel awkward at times to share this deep, abiding friendship and professional relationship, and know he had feelings for her she would never return. As usual, when the awkwardness surfaced, one of them had to change the subject and keep things light and teasing. “So she’s not a blonde?”

  Merle shook his head, picturing that trendy, rock-star hair. “Try glow-in-the-dark redhead. She’s about this tall.” He tapped his chin. “A little on the round side. With soft brown eyes. Big, like doe eyes, but lighter in color.”

  Ginny’s smile had gone Mona Lisa again. Now what?

  “In the six years that you and I have been partners, Kelsey Ryan is the firs
t woman you’ve noticed. The first woman you could quote eye color and statistics on who wasn’t a suspect. I find that very interesting.”

  “She drives me nuts, that’s all,” he insisted. “Makes my job harder than it needs to be.”

  Ginny simply looked at him.

  Hell. Merle blew a frustrated sigh between tight lips.

  Very interesting indeed.

  THIS DAY JUST KEPT getting better and better.

  The afternoon sun couldn’t seem to reach the shadowy corners of the alley that ran beside the Wingate Mission. Too bad the sunshine couldn’t work as efficiently as word of mouth on the streets apparently did. Merle had been in his Jeep on the way to question Mort and Edgar at The Underground when he’d gotten the call about the nude body buried among the bags of trash.

  Only two blocks away and it seemed as if half of Kansas City had already beaten him to the crime scene.

  “Oh, God! Delilah? No!” Monique, the petite blond prostitute, screamed and sobbed in her friend Cleopatra’s arms. “Delilah!”

  A camera flashed and Merle had to blink and look away.

  Hell. He didn’t suppose he needed to ask for an identification of the body now. He draped the blanket back over the brunette woman’s frozen, distorted face, cursed his stiff knee and pushed to his feet.

  He first turned to the lanky brunette who clicked off half a dozen more pictures before he could position himself between her and the body. “You can’t be here, ma’am.”

  The woman held up the plastic ID card hanging from a strap around her neck. “I’m Rebecca Page. I work the crime beat for the Kansas City Star.” She angled her head to peek around his shoulder. “Looks like you’ve got another Holiday Hooker murder.”

  “We don’t know anything yet, Ms. Page.” He touched her elbow and pointed toward the street. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  She resisted when he nudged. “I hear K.C.P.D.’s brought in a psychic because you haven’t made any progress on this case in over a decade and you’re desperate for answers. Has she found something? Stirred things up? Do you think that’s why the killer has struck again?”

  How did she know about Kelsey? Or was she fishing for confirmation of a guess? Merle bit his tongue and tried to remember Rebecca Page was a lady. “I can’t answer any of those questions right now.”

  “My father covered the first murder eleven years ago when he was at the paper. Now I’ve got the job and I’m going to finish the story he never could. Can you tell me anything?”

  He shook his head. “I can tell you that all you’re doing right now is contaminating my crime scene. You’ll have to write your father’s story some other day in some other place. So if you don’t mind?” He pointed to the end of the alley.

  “You haven’t heard the last of me.”

  He’d bet not. Not the way his day was going.

  With a determined huff, Rebecca Page strode out to the street where she started snapping photos of the gathering crowd and official vehicles.

  The two hookers and the press weren’t the only curious onlookers who had gathered to see what the fuss of police cars with flashing red-and-white lights was all about. There were easily ten people loitering in the alley, with a dozen more back on the sidewalk trying to get a peek.

  “Hey, can we clear this scene?” One of the uniformed officers immediately spoke to the homeless trio huddled around a refrigerator box they didn’t want to leave.

  Tragic as it was, this homicide might be the break he needed to solve nine other deaths—if the scene hadn’t already been contaminated beyond usefulness.

  Merle looked straight at Ed Watkins, slouching in his weary pose at the end of the alley, and gave him a direct order. “I want tape blocking off this entire alleyway and every entrance in or out of these side buildings. Think you can handle that?”

  The sergeant gave a fake salute. “Yes. Sir.”

  Merle waited until he disappeared around the corner, taking most of the gawkers with him. He himself stepped aside as the CSI team came in to snap photos and mark potential evidence.

  This was one call he hadn’t wanted to take. It was the call that turned his cold case into an active investigation. The call that turned him back into a full-fledged homicide detective.

  Another dead prostitute. Estimated time of death? Five days ago. Christmas Day.

  Happy holidays.

  Turning off his disgust at the violent waste of a human life, he turned on his logic and went to work. He caught up with Monique and Cleopatra as they exited the alley. He helped the young blonde find a seat on the mission’s front steps and offered her his handkerchief.

  “I take it that’s your roommate, Susan Cooper?”

  Monique buried her face in his handkerchief, blew her nose, then nodded.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure you two were close.”

  “I knew something bad had happened to her. No matter what Zero said. Delilah would have called to tell me about visiting her son if she could. If she couldn’t come back and tell me herself, that is. She loved that little boy so much. And now he’s all alone.”

  She gasped a huge sob, then cried for several more minutes while Cleopatra comforted her.

  “You said he was with a foster family,” Merle reminded her. “I’m sure he’s being taken care of.”

  “I know.” She sniffed again. “Delilah always thought it best that he was with a real family.”

  Cleopatra agreed. “She was trying to earn enough money so she could walk away from all this. Get a respectable job. Maybe get her boy back then. She never wanted him around this place.”

  Maybe Susan Cooper had known how her life might turn out. Merle just hoped her son was too young to understand what losing a parent to a tragic death meant. He hoped he was too young to have to choose between the grief and guilt and shame that Merle had battled with for so long.

  But he couldn’t deal with any emotions right now. He pulled out his notepad and went to work. “You said she checked into the mission before Christmas?”

  Monique nodded. “She needed to see the doctor. Didn’t know if she had a broken wrist or if it was just sprained. Mr. H. had been a good…friend…of hers for about a year. But he picked her up that last night, and then…”

  Cleopatra finished when the tears struck again. “She came up to the room real late that night. And she was all beat-up. The two of us, we took her to see Doc Siegel. He wrapped up her wrist, tended some cuts and put her to bed in his office because the mission was already full for the night. That was the last time we saw her.”

  “Alive.” Monique lifted her face to Merle. With most of her makeup cried off, he could see the fat lip that had been disguised with extra lipstick. A quick visual sweep revealed the bruises on her wrists.

  “Looks like somebody roughed you up some, too.” He had a good idea who the abuser might be. “Who did that to you? One of your boyfriends?” He could play their euphemistic game, too.

  He’d love to pack up these two women and take them someplace safe. Someplace where they didn’t have to sell their bodies and lose their souls in order to survive. He’d love to arrest Zero and put him permanently out of business.

  But he wasn’t working vice this afternoon. He had ten homicide cases to deal with. Right now that meant overlooking one set of crimes so he could earn their trust and get whatever help they could give to solve another.

  Maybe Susan Cooper had found her way home before she’d been beaten. Maybe someone she trusted had been waiting for her.

  Merle heard the chains jangle an instant before he saw the black leather out of the corner of his eye. He rose to meet the devil head-on.

  “Ladies, ladies.” Zero waltzed up and held out his be-jeweled fingers to Monique and Cleopatra. “What did I tell you about gettin’ in this gentleman’s way? ’Specially, now. We gotta let him do his work.”

  Merle intervened before either woman could go with him. “I’m having a conversation with them, Zero. Not with you.”


  “Dat’s cool. I just don’t want them to be a problem. They’re both gonna be real emotional right now. I don’t know if you can trust anything they say.”

  “Zero—”

  Cleopatra’s protest was silenced with a single glance.

  Merle never looked away from the man he suspected abused his own girls. “You don’t have to go with him, ladies.”

  Monique patted his arm as she walked down the stairs to stand beside Zero. “Yeah, we do.” The black man put out his arms and hugged a woman to each side. Merle would give anything at that moment to toss his badge aside and punch that smug, victorious grin off Zero’s face. “He keeps us safe. If we do what he says, he’ll make sure nothin’ happens to us like what happened to Delilah.”

  “He doesn’t have a very reliable track record, ladies.”

  Zero’s smile thinned. “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “In the past eleven years, nine of your girls that you promised to keep safe have ended up dead. Did they all not do what you told them to?” He glanced at the blank expressions on Monique and Cleopatra’s faces. “You sure you trust those statistics?”

  “That ain’t right.” The first hint of temper flickered in Zero’s dark eyes. “That first one, the one all over the TV and in the papers—that Jezebel—wasn’t my responsibility. I let her walk the turf out of the goodness of my heart because she had nowhere else to go.” Zero had a heart? “I offered to take her in, but she kept insistin’ she was only temporary here. I can’t protect what’s not mine.”

  Apparently, no one else had protected her, either. Jezebel’s time in the mission district had been more temporary than she’d ever expected.

  Backtracking a step from his anger, Merle remembered the case at hand. “But Delilah was your responsibility. Did she disobey you, Zero? That last night, when she was beaten—did you fail to keep her safe? Or didn’t she do what you told her to?”