Last Call

by Libby Kirsch

  She took a bracing breath, then heaved the bag up into the Dumpster. Her mouth fell open when she saw several more trash bags on the ground around the other side of the bin. The sound of rushing blood was back, roaring past her ears

  “Trash bags go in the Dumpster, not by it!” she shouted toward the bar.

  “I put them in the Dumpster,” Frank replied mulishly at the door, making no effort to come out and help.

  “Then why are they on the ground?” Janet glowered at her bouncer. She gestured to the abandoned building next door. “We look like we’re competing with old Ben Corker’s restaurant!” Foreclosure signs and trash littered the lot, which blended in seamlessly with hers.

  When Frank didn’t answer, she stalked over and hefted the closest bag up into the Dumpster, then froze when she bent down to get the second bag, her mouth suddenly dry. “What the . . .”

  She reached down and gently lifted the lower corner. Nestled underneath the black plastic were what looked like toes. “Whoo,” she breathed, and her heart skipped a beat. She took an involuntary step back before recovering her wits. She nudged the bag out of the way with her foot and then swore under her breath when it became clear the toes were attached to a foot and the foot to a man, lying alongside the Dumpster. The exposed skin was bluish white, smudged with dirt that looked as dark as the trash bags.

  “Well, shit,” she said, staring at the body. “This day can’t get any worse.”

  Chapter Three

  A slow, gigantic fly buzzed overhead, and Janet swatted it away. It lumbered toward the Dumpster, joining dozens of others swarming around the body.

  “Officers!” she called when she heard a crunch of gravel. But her throat was dry and the word was barely more than a croak. The cruiser was finally pulling away from the bar. Janet waved her arms and called again. “Hey! Over here!”

  The woman cop glanced over and seconds later the cruiser stopped with a jerk. She climbed out and headed along the building toward Janet.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  As she got closer, Janet turned and pointed to the toes.

  “Oh!” The officer hurried forward and moved the final two bags of trash away before pressing her fingers into the neck. “Cold to the touch,” she said. “No pulse.”

  The other cop had honked twice since she walked over, and he finally climbed out of the cruiser and shouted, “Davis, let’s go! I don’t have all day, here.”

  Officer Davis muttered under her breath, “We literally have all day—our shift started an hour ago.” Louder, she said, “Got a dead body over here, Gale! Our day just changed.” She reached up to press a button on the radio clipped at her shoulder. “I’ve got a ten twenty-nine at the Spot. Body out back.” Davis turned back to Janet with a squint. “Do you know this guy?”

  Janet shrugged and took a few slow steps toward the Dumpster, ignoring the tightness in her chest. Her eyes moved from the feet, over the light-wash jeans with a belt buckle the size of Tennessee, to a bright, construction-sign-orange tank top. Her eyes finally settled on the face and she pressed her lips together.

  “That’s Ike Freeman—he’s a regular. He—ah . . . he was here last night.”

  “Was?” Officer Davis said, her eyebrows raised. “Still is.” She took out her notebook. “Did you have any trouble with him?”

  “Oh no—nothing like—” Janet’s throat constricted. The reality of the situation left her momentarily speechless. “Well, I mean, I heard we had to kick him out, but nothing like . . . that.” She gestured toward the body. When Davis’s chin shifted to the left, she added, “We called a taxi. He didn’t want to leave at first, but he did.”

  “No.” The officer shook her head and stepped closer to Janet. “He didn’t. Do you have any idea why he’s here, behind your bar?”

  “No.” Janet crossed her arms. “I have no idea at all. Like I said, we called a cab.”

  Officer Davis narrowed her eyes but took a step back. “I’ll need to speak to everyone who was working last night.”

  “Of course.”

  “EMTs and homicide are on the way,” Officer Gale said. He stopped walking when he got to his partner, but his eyes kept traveling until they landed on the dead body. “We need to rope off the area.”

  Before his partner could reach her hand out for the crime scene tape, a car pulled into the lot. Officer Gale sprang forward, waving his arms as he moved toward it. “You can’t park here! This is a crime scene!”

  Jason leaned forward over the steering wheel, his eyebrows drawn together, lips pursed. Janet raised a hand in a weak wave, and he backed up a fraction and then parked near the entrance to the bar. Officer Gale shook his head. “I said it’s a crime scene! Back out of the dang lot!”

  Jason climbed out of the car, and the cop hurried forward. “Sir, you need to move this car and vacate the premises. This is an active crime scene.”

  “I’m the co-owner,” Jason said through clenched teeth.

  Janet felt the weight pressing against her chest release. Jason was here. It would be okay.

  He brushed past Officer Gale, and her heart flip-flopped against her ribs, as if she were seeing him for the first time.

  Everything about Jason was a study in contrasts. His preppy, short-sleeve, navy blue polo showed off part of the sleeves of colorful tattoos that went from his wrists, over his shoulders, and down onto his back and chest. His dark hair and all-star smile made him a perfect candidate for a lead role in a rom-com, but when Jason turned on his intense, focused gaze, heartbeats accelerated—including hers.

  Was Officer Davis panting?

  Jason’s lips, usually curving up at the corners with a ready smile, were flat and white as he headed for Janet. “What’s going on?”

  “Homicide’s on the way,” Gale said, motioning toward the Dumpster. “Until they get here and clear the scene, I’ll need everyone—employees and owners—to wait inside the bar.”

  Janet glanced at the guy in the cruiser and asked, “Does that include him?”

  Officer Davis sighed. “I guess it does.”

  Her partner turned and motioned to Janet. But instead of following him inside, she raised her eyebrows at Jason. His lips hitched up unhappily on one side and he shook his head; her eyes opened wide and she threw her hands on her hips before turning to the cop anyway. “I think we have something that might help.”

  “What’s that?” Officer Gale asked.

  “Jason owns a security company. He recently wired the bar from top to bottom with cameras.”

  “Inside and outside?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She turned to Jason for confirmation, but he was rubbing his face. She knew he didn’t like the police, but this was a dead customer; he needed to step up.

  “I can’t.”

  “Jason!”

  “I came here to tell you my whole system is down. I’ve been hit with some kind of malware attack.” But when his gaze swept the outside of the building, his frustration gave way to a new emotion.

  “What is it?” she asked, unable to read his expression.

  Now squinting, he walked slowly toward the building. “We have four cameras outside and one of them monitors this part of the alleyway.”

  “We’ll definitely need a copy of that surveillance video for our investigation,” Gale said before relaying the information into his radio for whoever was arriving.

  “I already told you the system is down, but I don’t think it matters, anyway.” Jason folded his arms over his chest.

  Officer Gale took two steps toward Jason and stopped with a wide stance, his chest puffed out importantly. “It wasn’t a question, Mr.—what was your last name?”

  “Brooks,” Jason answered, still distracted.

  The officer scribbled that information into his notebook before speaking. “Well, Mr. Brooks, we’ll take what we need when there’s a dead body to investigate.”

  Jason’s eyes narrowed as he finally turned to face the cop full-on. “It’s not a question of whether
I want to share it with you.” He closed the gap to the building, shook out a folding ladder that had been leaning against the wall, and climbed up until his face was inches from the exit sign hanging over the rear door. After studying the device for several moments, he said, “It’s a question of why I can’t share it with you.”

  Janet was relieved to find that Officer Gale looked as perplexed as she felt.

  “I’m sure I’ll get to the bottom of the malware attack, but it won’t matter: it looks like somebody tampered with the camera.”

  “Don’t touch anything!” Gale said as he took a step closer. “Ah . . . what camera?”

  “I have a security camera hidden in this sign, and right now, the lens is covered with a strip of electrical tape.”

  “Why would somebody do that?” Janet asked.

  “One guess,” he said, turning to look at the body.

  “How many people knew about the camera?” Officer Gale’s eyes narrowed as he looked between the co-owners.

  “Not many,” Jason answered after a pause. He jumped off the ladder. “In fact, I thought it was just me.”

  The words floated in the air and landed heavily at Janet’s feet. Officer Gale’s look as he stared at her boyfriend was unsettling. Had Jason just become a murder suspect?

  Chapter Four

  An hour later, Janet added ice to a glass and filled it with sweet tea from the huge metal urn on the bar. The cubes clinked and settled under the liquid, and the outside of the glass was cold and wet by the time she raised it to her lips to drink. She almost sighed at the perfect blend of sweet and savory flavors. Cindy Lou was a lifelong Southerner and had named herself Chief Tea Brewer after watching in shock one day as Janet scooped iced tea powder into a glass of water.

  So far, the beat officers had given them a wide berth, but Janet had a feeling that was about to change. Two homicide detectives who’d been outside by the Dumpster for the last forty-five minutes had just walked into the bar.

  Detective Mark Finch, older, grayer, and heavyset, moved moodily through the space, lifting things with the tip of a pen and looking suspiciously at her staff and her furniture in equal turns.

  “He likes to look around first and then ask questions,” Detective Patrick O’Dell said, walking up from the opposite side. He was just over six feet tall with broad shoulders, slim hips, disarmingly bright green eyes, and a slight accent. Janet heard a trace of New York just at the end of his sentences.

  He gestured to the gunmetal-gray, bottle-shaped refrigerator that sat in the exact center of the bartender’s space behind the counter. “Is that a Beerador?”

  “Yeah.” She looked at the detective in surprise. “You know about them?”

  “My granddad had one in his shop back in the day. You don’t usually see them this far south.”

  “It came with the bar when we bought it a year ago, and I know why. It’s heavier than a car—I couldn’t get rid of it if I wanted to!”

  “Still chugging along, though, huh? That’s saying something. It must be nearly seventy years old.” He eyed the room. “You’ve got an interesting setup here. Doesn’t seem very efficient, ya know?” She squinted back at the man standing in front of her. She’d heard of the good cop/bad cop routine, but this seemed a bit much. He was looking at her pleasantly, as if he didn’t have a dead man to deal with. “The square bar top should be good—ya know, more seats for customers on all sides—but then you’ve got that Beerador blocking vision down the middle, so one bartender can’t see the whole room. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “You’re not breaking any news here, Detective. It came like this. We have a plan to make some changes, but we just don’t have the funds, yet.”

  They stared at each other for a moment before he said, “Mrs. Black, have a seat. I have a few questions about last night.”

  “It’s Ms. Black, and please, ask away, but I wasn’t here, so I don’t know how much help I’ll be.”

  “Where were you?”

  “At home.”

  “Was anyone with you?” He asked the question pleasantly, but her mouth went dry just the same.

  “My boyfriend.”

  “Did you know the victim?”

  “Sure. He was a regular here—a pain in the ass, but usually sorry the next day.”

  “Any idea what happened?”

  “Nope.”

  He leaned back against the seat, his expression unreadable. “Did he have any problems with anyone?”

  “Only everyone who got in his line of sight when he was drunk. Like I said, he wasn’t a model customer. He drank too much, and we had to call him a taxi to take him home more than once a week.”

  “So, what happened last night?” O’Dell’s eyes were bright, curious, and lightly suspicious as they locked onto Janet.

  “I don’t know—I wasn’t here.” Her nostrils flared. Why was he wasting his time with her?

  O’Dell nodded and stood, placing his card on the table. “Call me if you think of . . . anything worth saying.” He smirked and started to move away.

  “Detective, are you sure this was a murder? I mean, couldn’t Ike have just hit his head or had a heart attack?”

  O’Dell looked down his nose at her. “You don’t often die of natural causes and then cover yourself up with garbage bags.”

  She frowned. “Yes, I know that, but he could have . . . I don’t know, decided to cover himself up first . . . maybe for warmth?” Even as the words left her mouth, O’Dell shook his head.

  “Sure. The low was eighty-four overnight with ninety percent humidity. It’s a possibility, I guess. Also, there was . . . trauma to the body. We’ll have to wait on the coroner’s report to be certain on the cause of death.”

  “I’d just rather—” She turned at a clunk of noise coming from the back and looked suspiciously at the office door. Was someone in there? She got up and tried the handle. It was locked, just like it should have been. She reached into her pocket for her key ring when O’Dell cleared his throat.

  She heard the clunk again and instinctively turned toward Detective Finch, interviewing Frank nearby. He banged on the jukebox with his fist and the music cut off. He grinned and did it again, and the music started back up.

  She blew out a breath and frowned at her own jumpiness.

  O’Dell was staring at her intently. “You’d just rather what?”

  “I’d just rather it not be a murder,” she answered truthfully.

  O’Dell tilted his head to one side and finally said, “Yeah. I know.” He turned and walked away.

  Finch moved behind the bar, picking things up with his gloved hands, searching under shelves and across surfaces.

  Jason made his way to her table and slid into the seat next to her. “I hate this,” he said, watching as Finch opened the cabinet that held the first-aid kit and the extra dish soap. “What’s he looking for, anyway?”

  “No idea,” she replied.

  He took her hands in his. “Are you okay? You found Ike, are you . . . okay?” he repeated.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” She started to pull her hands away but he didn’t let her.

  “Janet, it’s a big deal. Some people go their whole lives without seeing that. It’s okay to feel shaky or scared, or sad.” Jason’s eyes were trained on hers and her heart lub-dubbed at his gentle touch.

  “I promise, I’m fine.”

  With a sigh that meant he didn’t believe her, he squeezed her hands once before letting go. He leaned back and something fell out of his pants pocket with a tiny clink. Janet reached down and picked up his pen from the floor.

  “That is the ugliest pen I’ve ever seen,” she said, watching him tuck the neon blue and yellow pen back into his pocket.

  He grinned. “I special-ordered it that way. Ain’t nobody gonna steal that!” He looked across the bar. “Speaking of special orders, it wouldn’t hurt to have everyone wear a uniform.” He nodded at Janet’s shirt and said, “Even those old bar T-shirts would be better than that.�
�� His eyes darted across the room. “It would at least look less . . . or, I mean, more . . . hmm.”

  She scanned the room and found Cindy Lou, sitting alone at a corner booth, stirring a glass of ice water with a small black straw. With the table covering most of her lower half, she looked PG-13 versus the R rating when her full body was on display. If not for the circumstances, Janet might have laughed.

  “I don’t want to hurt her feelings,” she said. “I think she spends a lot of time getting her look just the way she wants it.”

  “These damn cops rub me the wrong way,” Jason said in a low voice. O’Dell had just sat down across from Cindy Lou, his notebook out, pen poised. When Janet looked over at her boyfriend, she expected to see anger. Instead, his eyebrows were drawn together, concern—sliding toward disappointment. He glanced at her and added, “I mean, they’re just dying to be suspicious of regular people. I hate that.”

  Now it was Janet’s turn to cover Jason’s hands. She squeezed until the tiny creases around his eyes smoothed a fraction.

  “Jason—”

  “I’d rather you don’t talk to each other until we talk to each of you.” Finch had apparently finished his work behind the bar. He planted his feet wide, and folded his arms across his chest as he looked between Janet and Jason.

  Jason peered up at him but didn’t move. “Ask away.” He steepled his fingers in front of his face and waited.

  “You first.” Finch pointed at Janet. “I’ll come for you after.”

  Jason rubbed at his eyelid and shook his head. Janet felt a rising wave of emotion churning inside of him, which was the last thing they needed with cops everywhere and a dead body outside.

  She turned so that her lips were a scant inch away from his ear and whispered, “Looks like you’re sloppy seconds.”

  He snorted, then pushed himself up from the table. “I’ll be over there if you need me,” he said to Janet, pointing to a nearby booth.