Booked for Murder

by RJ Blain

  “Your cat?” Bradley asked.

  “Where I go, she goes, unless it is a dangerous place for my Ajani, in which case, I grudgingly leave her home.”

  “Just give up and prepare the house for our new queen, Mom,” Bradley said. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not stupid, and there’s no way in hell she’s giving up her cat.”

  “I’m not giving up my apartment, either.”

  “Yes.”

  “No.” I snagged another piece of orange chicken and crammed it into my mouth to make it clear I would not be sacrificing my favorite foods again, either. I chewed, swallowed, and grabbed another piece with my chopsticks. “Do you see this, Mr. Bradley Hampton? This is spicy, made of meat, and a necessary part of my diet. I cannot, and will not, not even under pain of death, sacrifice my orange chicken.”

  I got it from a cheap place down the street and pretended it was spicy, something I did once every month or so because I could. The rest of the time, I got what was on sale and saved up for the next medical bill.

  “Your diet’s a problem, Mom.”

  “Seriously? Why are you bringing me into this?”

  “Well, I brought her an entire box filled with meat and nothing but meat so she’d tolerate my presence in her apartment. If I try to take her back to the house, she’s going to look in the refrigerator and leave. I was pushing my welcome a little earlier, so I took your advice and offered food.”

  A little? “You picked the right bribe, but next time, get something you can stomach so you’re not trying to suicide through peppers and lactose exposure.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Bradley’s mother shot a glare at her son before giving me a dose of the eye, too. “All right, Bradley. You lured us here. Ren mentioned an investigator cell, your proposal to make Janette the shooter, and that you’re planning on sponsoring? I do not approve of making Janette the shooter, for the record. It’s even more dangerous than being your babysitter.”

  I appreciated that his mother viewed the bodyguard position as a glorified paid babysitter, as I’d done a lot of keeping an eye on him during my time as his second shadow.

  “Technically, Janette will be the adept sponsor, I will be paying Janette to cover the fees and play at being the sponsor, while Janette, under her not-quite-legal name, will be the group’s shooter. She’s the only person I know who has a hope of qualifying. I know you never liked Godrin, but someone needs to find out who is behind these murders and why. The police? They’re only interested in getting a conviction, and they’re going to start going after innocent people.”

  “And with our magic? You simply can’t abide by injustice you can do something about.” Bradley’s mother shrugged. “It is what it is. Jezabella? You like telling me you’re an adult capable of handling yourself. Here’s your chance to prove it. You can spy on Janette and keep me updated on her condition, and I’ll be expecting you to snitch on the boy over there, too. Basically, you’re dealing with a bunch of children.”

  I missed being a child. I even missed being a teenager fringing on becoming an adult, learning how to be a bodyguard so I could spend the rest of my life protecting Bradley Hampton. Growing up hurt. In my case, it hurt a lot, resulted in the use of a cane, a medical boot I’d have to clean properly before bed, and more painful memories than I knew what to do with.

  “Mom, why are you calling me a child?” Bradley complained.

  “That’s simple. You ran away from home, came over to a woman’s house, went on a lactose bender, and probably ruined her bathroom. Since that wasn’t bad enough, you probably passed out on her floor. That’s behavior a child would indulge in. The woman you’re visiting is a child because she’ll never not be. It’s a rule, and I just made it, and I expect you to abide by it. Instead of a little girl, I got you, so I have to make up for this by collecting little girls. Jezabella has fallen in line with my plans. Janette’s next.”

  No matter what I said, I broke at least five of her rules, so getting Bradley into even more trouble with his mother seemed like a good idea to me, especially since she was being utterly ridiculous. There was zero chance in hell I’d categorize as her little girl. Not even my own father got away with that after I’d turned twelve. I’d made him call me his little lady, as he’d insisted I be polite and act like a lady rather than a demoness. “He almost made it to my bed. He tried. He didn’t succeed, but he did try.”

  If looks could kill, I would’ve gotten a triple dose of death. Bradley and his mother I expected, but Jezabella had honed her glare over the years.

  It beat my memories of her.

  I smiled. “Ren carried him to bed and tucked him in.”

  The bodyguard slipped, smirking before controlling his expression.

  “I see your sense of humor is still slightly twisted,” Bradley’s mother complained. “It’s better than what I anticipated after I learned you’d given everyone the slip so well you’re presumed dead. I thought we’d be fighting by now.”

  “But what would we fight about?” I could think of a few things. I’d been one of the most expensive investments she’d ever made in her son.

  I’d been given a chance to run, and I had.

  On second thought, I could think of a lot of things we could fight about.

  She smiled. “I’ve been thinking about taking a baseball bat to that car of his.”

  While my cane couldn’t compare to a baseball bat, I set aside my takeout container, picked up my cane, and offered it to her. “If you swing it hard enough, you might break something more expensive than he wants to replace.”

  Laughing, she shook her head. “He’d cry, and Jezzie can’t handle watching a full-grown man cry. Keep your cane. I’d probably break it on his hard head when he tried to protect his baby car.”

  I regarded Bradley with a raised brow. “Really?”

  “I have more issues than you have car magazines under your bed. That’s my mother’s favorite barb right now, especially as she never bothered to cancel the subscriptions and has a new bookcase overrun with car magazines.”

  “All right. So I had a car magazine problem. You can inspect my entire apartment. You won’t find anything related to cars in here. Now that we’ve gotten the pleasantries aside, let’s get down to business. This murder won’t solve itself, and we have a lot of work to do if we want to pull together an investigator cell. Otherwise, we’re just going to end up being a bunch of unsanctioned vigilante magical librarians.”

  “Vigilante magical librarians?” Bradley asked, raising a brow.

  I shrugged. “Jezabella is obviously a librarian in training, so she counts. That’s about the only thing we all have in common. We’re certified book dragons. I will rearrange your internal organs with my cane if you even think of calling me a worm. There is nothing worse in a library than a book worm. Book worms do not read. They eat my precious books. Call me a book worm, and I will turn your death into a masterpiece.”

  Beatrice tossed her head back and cackled. “I swear, she’s not normally like this. She’s usually a great deal more professional. That said, I like this side of you, Janette. Bring her out more often.”

  “I take my job seriously. And that’s what we’re going to have to do if we want to find out who killed those politicians and why.”

  “Politicians? When did my request become pluralized?” Bradley asked.

  “It became pluralized when a serial killer targeted six people with the same general affiliations using the same kill methods to do the job. Worse, they’re making it appear someone like me, an exsanguinator, did the crime. When you have six distinctive killings like that, you either have a serial killer or a copycat. And these people all have one thing in common: their political beliefs. They all feel adept-level magic is the one true way, and anyone below them, or was not bred in a pre-approved manner, counts as the dregs of society. I understand he was your friend, but I was one of those dregs, and his policies target me and my family. But there’s no justice in murder�
��and that killer, or killers, will strike again. That’s all I need to know. So, let’s get to work.”

  Eleven

  I’d built a new life, one I liked.

  Once I decided to do something, my tendency to do it despite the consequences often got me in trouble. Bradley’s mother kept trying to kill me with the power of her glare alone, and I ignored her attempts with a certain amount of glee.

  In a way, she was right. Bradley and I could certainly be children, and my rebellion counted as childish. No matter how much of a defiant act I put on, the Hampton family technically owned me. The for life contract still stood, a legally binding arrangement only they could revoke. My current status as partially disabled gave them the option to reassign me to a different role within their family.

  In the foolishness of my youth, I hadn’t seen—or cared—about the significance of that clause. My parents had, to some degree, but I’d been young and believed myself wiser and smarter than a bunch of adults. Not only that, I’d been wise and smart enough to understand I purchased something precious with my freedom.

  My parents would be comfortable for the rest of their lives. They’d received a lump sum at the confirmation of my contract, and they would receive monthly payments for the natural duration of my life from the Hampton estate.

  All my posturing did was delay the inevitable, although I delayed the inevitable for a good cause. My personal feelings for Senator Godrin didn’t matter. Someone had murdered him in a brutal albeit somewhat humane fashion, and I meant to find out who. I’d have to resurrect the woman I’d once been in the process, but some prices were worth paying. I even acknowledged my selfish motivations.

  I truly made the perfect scapegoat for the crime, with one exception: I’d been in a coma at the times of the first two killings, and being in the hospital fighting for my life made for one hell of an alibi.

  So much had changed in four years, six months, and three days. Four years, six months, and four days ago, I had lived in the ivory tower with my life preplanned and carefully managed. Those months, four of them with a handful of days mixed in, had left me a changed person. Six more months of rehab and studying had laid the groundwork for my escape back to New York.

  For over three years, I’d built a new life, one I liked. I’d dealt with physical therapy, numerous operations, and more pain than I cared to think about, but I’d done it on my terms.

  I’d been my own person. With the Hamptons back in my life, it was only a matter of time before I paid the piper again, becoming a puppet for the sake of my aging parents.

  I didn’t look forward to the first time I crawled back home with my tail between my legs and confessing my various sins, including hiding out and enjoying what I could of my life. My father would be disappointed, although he would approve of my work field.

  While I hadn’t quite managed to become a nurse, he valued education, and books were a symbol of education.

  My mother might talk to me in a few years after she sent me into the backyard to pick my own switch so she could give me a beating I’d never forget as a reminder of why I shouldn’t do such things. It’d only taken one round with the switch as a child for me to clean up my act and decide to be a little lady rather than a demoness.

  My mother regretted the switch incident.

  I appreciated it. I’d learned a lot that day, including that even the most peaceful of people had breaking points and a capacity for violence. She’d cried, and she’d avoided even raising her voice to me after that, leaving my father to be the enforcer of the family.

  Bradley offered all of the information he had on all of the murders, which mostly matched what I’d gleaned from the police records. I regretted burning my copies, as I could put the Hamptons to work reviewing them if I told them what to look for and where to touch.

  It wouldn’t hurt—much.

  Well, it would hurt when Beatrice found out I’d been the reason she’d been dragged out of bed early.

  “I have a confession to make,” I announced, staring at the sea of paperwork covering my coffee table.

  “Oh, this should be good,” Beatrice muttered.

  “I’m the one who hacked into the police records for a copy of the murders. I faked doing other work on one of the library computers, erased or modified the log files, and printed them with other documents so I could hide them. I set aside other print jobs to help cover my tracks, and I made sure I deleted the print records as well.”

  Beatrice stared at me with a dumbfounded expression. “You did that?”

  “Yep.”

  “You hacked the police databases on the library’s computer? Wait. You can hack? Janette, you’re one crazy bitch. You did that where anyone could watch you do it. Are you trying to get yourself killed? That’s what will happen if they catch you. They’ll hang you from the Empire State Building for the world to see. Crows will feast on your guts. Then, because you keep bothering me, the cops will assume I helped you, and I’ll be hung up with you so crows can feast on my guts.”

  I could only assume exhaustion had finally gotten to Beatrice. “Do you need to take a nap?”

  Regarding her empty coffee cup, my sometimes friend, sometimes enemy nodded and heaved a pained sigh. “The past few sips were me hoping there was coffee still in the cup. It’s all gone, and your so-called coffee maker only produces sludge. If I drink that, it’ll kill me. I’m concerned if you drink that, it’ll kill you. How are you not dead yet?”

  “I might have a foot of glass, but I have a stomach of steel.”

  “Ren?” Bradley asked.

  With a sigh the match of Beatrice’s, Ren opened his jacket, pulled out his firearm, and offered it to me. “I’ll bring you coffee, but in exchange, you must shoot anyone who looks at the Hamptons wrong while I’m gone.”

  I accepted the weapon, checked the safety, grunted my general approval over the gun’s condition, and nodded. “I’ll ignore the looks, but if the looks appear to be aggressive in nature, I will change my mind about shooting. I’d have to shoot myself numerous times an hour if I shot anyone who looks at them wrong.”

  “Very true. Figure out what you want and text me with the order, please.”

  Once Ren left, I made use of my new phone and his number, tapped in what I wanted, and handed my phone over to Bradley, who followed my example. When the phone reached Jezabella, she narrowed her eyes. She tapped in her request and passed it on before glaring at me. “When did you learn how to hack?”

  Bradley’s mother had worked miracles on the woman, and I appreciated her new courage and willingness to face off against me.

  I waited until my phone made its way back to me, texted Ren with the order, and replied, “A while ago. A friend of mine was accused of a crime he couldn’t have done, so I fixed it in the system. I know he couldn’t have done it because I was with him at the time. I moved his name in the digital police records from suspect to a known person-of-interest with a note of his alibi, which was considered confirmed. I took a few liberties with the alibi, but I kept it mostly to the truth. He didn’t deserve to be punished for someone else’s crime.”

  “That is so cool. Is it something I can learn?”

  “No,” Bradley and his mother replied.

  I laughed. “It is absolutely something you can learn, but I recommend you cover your activities with learning how to program. Hacking is an excellent way to test the security of anything you’re programming. Then, should someone ask what you’re doing, you can claim that you’re improving your software security despite any less-than-legal activities you might be doing.”

  “Do not encourage her to become a hacker,” Bradley’s mother scolded.

  “I’m not encouraging her to become a hacker. I’m encouraging her to become a digital security specialist.”

  Beatrice snickered. “For the record, this is how Janette gets away with so much at work. She’s a master of the spin, and she’s more stubborn than the average goat.”

  “Thank you, Beatrice.”<
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  “Most of that was not a compliment, bitch.”

  I considered her words carefully, and with a puzzled frown, I asked, “Which part of that wasn’t a compliment? It all sounded pretty complimentary to me.”

  Of course, it didn’t hurt that anything even remotely positive from her counted as complimentary. Some days, we hated each other, but I valued her special brand of rough honesty.

  Beatrice grunted, wrinkled her nose at me, and grabbed a stack of papers off my coffee table. “The part that led to me being involved with this situation, which is the entirety of it. Payback will be coming, you will hate it, and I will enjoy it, and I will work to make it as embarrassing for you as possible.”

  Given a single excuse and an opportunity, she would. “Can I get a preview of what hell you’ll put me through?”

  “I’m engaged, you will be a bridesmaid, and I will force you to wear the worst bridesmaid dress in existence, and you will smile through it because I will be the bride.”

  My brows shot up. “Wait. You’re getting married? Since when?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  Had I been a better friend, I probably would have known—or cared—she had a boyfriend. “To who? Why? How?”

  “This is where we take a sharp left turn out of reality. And why else would someone marry somebody?”

  “The sex?”

  Bradley’s mother choked, Bradley coughed, and Jezabella snickered while Beatrice sighed. “You’re something else. No, you idiot. I’m marrying him because I love him.”

  In more ways than I could readily count, I envied her. “If you say Mr. Tawnlen, I will go to my kitchen, grab a knife, and put you out of your misery.”

  Beatrice stared at me as though I’d lost my mind. “Really? You came up with your boss as the most likely candidate to be my future husband? That’s just rude.”