Jammed

by Deany Ray

  Jammed

  by

  Deany Ray

  Copyright © 2016 Deany Ray

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real names, characters, places, events and incidents is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise without prior consent from the author.

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  Chapter One

  What does it mean that the highlights of your workday are a cookie and the chance to slip out early? It means that your life is not exactly a hit. It means you might not be on the fast track to your ultimate dream job.

  I wrote the last line of my report on Burglaries: Resolved. Two more dreary tasks to go, then I’d be out of here. The end of one more week as a precinct secretary in an over-air-conditioned office of the Boston Police.

  Time to celebrate the weekend! I reached into my top drawer and unwrapped a cappuccino-cream-filled chocolate. I was giddy with the smell before it reached my mouth. Then I ate a second. Then a third. Whoa, Charlie, slow down. I looked into the drawer. Then - what the heck? - I ate a fourth. Shut the drawer, I told myself. I shut it very slowly, snatching two wrapped candies before the drawer was back in place.

  And so it came to be that my mouth was filled with creamy bits of heaven when my desk phone rang. My hello sounded like “hallah”. Cool and elegant, that’s me.

  “Cooper,” my boss said. “Can you come into my office?”

  “Thure thing, thir.” I swallowed hard in case he had another question.

  I got up from my cubicle - and as I strolled through the department - I noticed that most people had gone home. I pictured them on white-stone balconies, sipping fine red wine with friends. Or maybe at a party, running to the dance floor when they heard the opening notes of “All About that Bass.” Mondays were made worse by all the office chatter about staying out too late and the busiest weekends ever.

  My weekend plans involved three things: ice cream, scrolling through the movie database, and the Laundromat. I’d have clean underwear at least.

  I’m not sure which was the most pitiful: my weekends or my job. Monday through Friday I answered phones, made appointments and wrote up crime reports. I was the queen of crime statistics: locations of burglaries and batteries, age and gender of the suspects, etc. Sure, it was somewhat cool to work with the police. But nothing that would make you put down the remote if the camera panned in on my desk while you were checking out an episode of CSI: Miami.

  Others did the good stuff. They figured out the motives and found the hidden clues. I knew nothing of such things. But would you like to know the time of day most felonies are committed in a certain part of Winterport, just outside of Boston? Well then, I’m your girl.

  I told myself long ago I’d have a life by twenty-two. And now I swore that I’d absolutely be anywhere but the Boston PD by the time I got to thirty-five. I had six more years.

  I knocked lightly on the precinct captain’s door which was open by a crack.

  “Come on in,” he called.

  As I entered the room, Marcus Kingsley looked up from his desk and stared.

  “Hello.” I smiled and rocked up on my heels like I did when I got nervous.

  He gave me a quizzical look.

  Okay, this was awkward. Didn’t his mother teach him that it was rude to stare? “Sir? You asked to see me?”

  He leaned his head to one side to study me a little more. Then he reached up to rub his chin. “There’s chocolate on your face.”

  Fabulous.

  I looked around for a box of tissues. Nope. So I just used my thumb.

  He leaned back in his chair and his massive shape seemed to fill up half the room. At six-foot-five, the captain’s athletic figure had worn off since he’d gone from chasing felons to a desk job in the precinct. He never raised his voice, even when things got tense. But I always felt nervous in his presence, as if any second I might do something wrong.

  “Cooper.” He nodded toward a chair beside his desk. He was not a man for small talk. “I have a proposal,” he said as I settled into the hard-backed chair. “As you probably are aware, we’ve had a little trouble coming up with answers on the drug case we’ve been working.”

  I nodded. It was a big-deal case.

  “But then flash back to last week. They got a break: Graywell and his guys.”

  Once again, I nodded. I’d met Jerry Graywell, the chief detective on the case. He seemed full of himself, I thought. Not that I knew him well.

  The captain continued with his story. “They managed to intercept a drop off. At a warehouse out past town.” He frowned. “But we think that somehow the perps got wind that we were on their tail. Nobody showed to get the drugs, a whole truck full of crack. But we got the driver. So the operation was not a total bust.”

  Hmm. I was no longer anxious to rush home to my TV series and toffee caramel ice cream, even with chocolate bits to sprinkle on the top. This was way better than any crime show on TV. This was real-life stuff, the ending yet to be determined.

  The captain moved to stand by a window that faced the noisy street. He looked outside, then turned toward me. “We rode hard on the driver of that truck to find out what he knew.” He chuckled to himself. “I swear he almost pissed his pants when Graywell got into his face. And so we’re pretty sure he’s told us all he knows.” He frowned again. “Which is hardly anything.”

  What was I supposed to say? “Oh. I’m…very, very…sorry?” I fiddled with my chunky aqua necklace. I wasn’t used to commenting on cocaine investigations.

  “This driver doesn’t know much. He doesn’t know faces; he doesn’t know names. He just gets instructions on a cell phone when it’s drop-off time. So we didn’t catch a big fish. He’s just a guy who’s out to make an extra buck or two.” The captain moved back to the desk and settled his huge body back into the chair. “So. Analytics got to work to see if the cell might yield up any gold but we’re dealing with some smart crooks. They pretty much kept the calls to less than fifteen seconds, under twenty at the very most. So we couldn’t get a trace.”

  My curiosity was peaked. What did the captain want from me?

  “That stinks big time,” I piped in. “Like a fly in your Cheerios.” Before I even finished speaking, I knew enough to wince. I sounded like my granny, not like an inner-circle confidante to the precinct captain.

  But he just nodded in agreement. “We got a little lucky. There was one call that was different. It went on a little while. So we got a trace on it.”

  “Cool beans,” I said, sounding less geeky than before but still pretty lame.

  Lame, and also so confused. I was a secretary. Nobody ever conferred with me on how to solve a crime. I was the girl in the cubicle taking messages and writing up reports. I didn’t rush out to crime scenes and look for fingerprints. I didn’t comb the area for clues to examine by microscope. I didn’t run in to shout that it must have been the wife who’d stabbed her husband with a knife. Although wouldn’t that be cool?

  Did the captain think that I could help bust the crooks somehow? Was I getting a promotion? Was I about to get a life? Did I still – please tell me no – have chocolate on my face?

  “Cooper, you still here?” My boss’s words snapped me back into the present.

  “Sorry. Yes!”
I straightened my back against the chair and pushed my glasses off my nose.

  “Good. Because, Cooper, here’s the thing. The one call that we could trace, that call came from Springston.”

  My chest tightened at the very name and I opened my eyes so wide, they almost hurt.

  “I see you’re pretty shocked about hearing this.” The captain looked calmly at me.

  “What do you mean, you traced back the call to Springston? Are you sure?” I asked him.

  He looked impatient with the question. “Our people know what they’re doing, Cooper. So yes, of course, we’re sure.”

  I twisted my long hair into a knot, then slowly untwisted it again. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  He leaned forward and clasped his hands neatly in front of him. “Now, we don't know who it was who made the call. And it might have been a one-time thing. It might have been the only time the driver got a call that came from Springston. Maybe it’s a resident. Or maybe just some transient, somebody passing through. As you can see, we don't know much. And I need that to change.”

  “Yes, sir.” Did he want me to change it? Bust some major cocaine dealer…with my degree from junior college in medieval studies?

  I didn’t ask out loud, but he answered anyway. “And we think we might have a secret weapon. And that’s you, Charlotte Cooper.”

  For once, I couldn’t speak.

  “Me?” I finally asked.

  “Yes. We need you on this one, Cooper. I’ve read through your file. You were born and raised in Springston and your family and friends still live there,” the captain said.

  What file and what friends?

  “So I’m thinking you can go home and poke around a bit, see if you hear about anything new going on in town. Hang out with your friends, see what they might know.”

  Again, what friends? At twenty-nine, I had no friends. No friends, no man, no hobbies. I’d had interesting relationships with men, but they never seemed to move past date number four or five. I’d failed at a string of hobbies like knitting and softball. I didn’t even have a cat. The one I adopted from the pound had one day just decided to move in with my neighbor. Can you say loser three times fast?

  “We're not counting on striking gold here, but it's the only lead we have.” The captain leaned back in his chair, causing it to creak with the pressure of his weight. “And we need to move on this one. The DEA is up on our butt and we need some results and fast. Graywell is gonna be there too. He’s gonna be there undercover.” He gave me a stare. “Undercover, Cooper. Do you understand?”

  I bit my nails. “Yes, sir. I know what undercover means.” I was far from an ace detective but I was not a moron, either.

  “Graywell is pretty good. We’re counting on him too. But you’re the one with tie-ins to the people in that town. And you’ll have the perfect cover. Say you’re on vacation. We need you to snoop around. We need you to ask some questions, see what’s going on. See if there’s anything that doesn’t seem quite right.”

  An undercover spy. Kind of thrilling, really. But Springston was a place I avoided at all costs, except for Christmas and Thanksgiving. That’s why I’d moved to Boston five years ago last spring: to put some distance between me and the blue cape cod house on Arden Way where my family lived. I loved them. I really did. But they were kind of bonkers.

  I pictured my homecoming. My mom would be in the den, waving scarves above her head to chase away some energy that she felt in the air. Or was she past that phase? She went through lots of phases. Maybe I’d find her sitting cross-legged on the floor chanting to herself. I never really knew.

  In high school, I’d been embarrassed by my aging hippie mom. Now I just wanted to avoid being pulled into her latest craze. I’d already had my colors done (Voilà! I was spring!) and been to a psychic reading (I should watch out for someone wearing purple, but all would be okay. I was being watched over by the spirit of – get this – Joan of Arc.) But Joan was sleeping on the job – it seemed – cause my life was kind of crappy.

  The captain cleared his throat. “And of course, your extra help wouldn’t go unnoticed. I’m sure we can arrange a little raise.”

  And that sealed the deal. Rent was going up in Brookside Apartments West where I was the proud inhabitant of the most miniscule living space you’ve ever seen. The “master suite” was so tiny that I could brush my teeth, get my clothes out of the dresser drawer and turn on the hallway light without getting out of bed.

  Oh, and I could save for a new car too. Each morning started with a game as I turned the coffee maker on. It was a guessing game. How many tries until the ignition finally caught on the old Corolla?

  “Undercover Agent Cooper reporting for duty, sir. What day do I start?”

  “Thank you, Cooper. Thank you.” The captain rewarded me with a smile. “I’d like you to drive to Springston first thing Monday morning.” He stood to shake my hand.

  I got up from my seat and almost tripped over…well, I almost tripped over an expanse of empty space. I’m talented that way. I recovered my balance and shook his hand.

  At the door, I thought of a question. “Where is Graywell gonna be? What’s gonna be his cover?”

  “He’s working in a barber shop in the main section of the town. Do you know the one I mean?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “It wasn’t much trouble at all to get him set up with a job. We made up some great references.” The captain chuckled to himself. “I hope he knows a thing or two about cutting people’s hair.” He ran his hand across his bald head. “I’d let him practice on me a little, but, well, that wasn’t an option, you see. I think he’s in a good shop that gets a lot of traffic.” He leaned back in his chair, causing it to creak again. “And people talk in barber shops. There’s a diner across the street from him. It’s supposed to be a hot spot, busy all the time. You should spend some time there. Pretend to read a book, but keep your ears wide open.”

  I had a feeling that I knew just the place he meant. I felt my stomach clench. “Are you talking about Jack's Diner?”

  The captain put his reading glasses on and glanced down at some papers. “That’s the very one.” He looked up. “That’s good. It’s good you know the place.”

  I’d had a million meals there, practically grew up behind the counter. “My dad owns the diner. That’s my father’s place.”

  “Well.” He looked surprised. “That wasn’t in my file. That could work for us.” He paused. “I hear they make a real mean omelet.”

  “Thanks. And also a good burger. With a secret sauce. And the chicken fried steak is just amazing. And also the pork chops.” I tended to babble when the situation did not require it. I tried to get out the door before I recited the whole menu or tripped over more empty air. Then I headed home to pack.

  Chapter Two

  Just the sign made my heart seize up with dread. Springston, Population: 42,022 and Growing. We’re So Glad You’re Here. I wished I could say the same.

  I passed my elementary school, which hadn’t changed in twenty years. The monkey bars were still there, the same ones I held onto when Bobby Baker grabbed my sandals and hid them in the bushes. I had to go barefoot the rest of the day. After that, the kids called me Barefoot Charlie, even after we’d all moved on to junior high. I think that sealed my reputation as somewhat of a mess. A well-loved mess, but still…

  Not that it was my fault that Bobby Baker grabbed my shoes. But nobody cared back then.

  Later I passed the big oak tree where eight years later Bobby kissed me. By then he’d gone from chubby bully to the hottest boy in school. And for three weeks, two days and six hours, he thought I was the hottest girl. Which did wonders for my high school cred. Although that, too, was short-lived.

  That kiss. I could still remember it. I put that on my list of things to do before I hit thirty-five: I wanted oh so badly to get kissed like that again.

  The Corolla stalled at the next stop sign, and I cranked it up again. Well, Springston, here comes Charlie at age
twenty-nine! With a teenager’s beat-up clunker and Bobby Baker still the star of her most romantic night. Sheesh. How pitiful was I?

  I pulled into the driveway of the blue house where I’d grown up. My mother flew out the door before I’d turned the engine off. When it came to her, everything was huge: her smile, her graying curls and her flowing red and yellow dress.

  “Charlotte, welcome home!” She pulled me into a hug, then ran her hands through my hair while she studied me intently. “Charlotte Christina, are you well? I’m sensing something dark.”

  “Oh Mom, I’m fine. I told you: I just had some time off, and I thought I’d visit you and Dad.”

  Very gently, she rubbed my arm as she stared at me some more. “But I’m sensing danger, hon. I am!” Then she looked suddenly alert as if someone had just delivered awful news. “Oh no! Oh my goodness. Something’s just not right.”

  I opened my car door and pulled out my small blue duffle and my tote bag with my books, my iPad, and my makeup. “Mom, it’s cool. I promise.”

  She took the tote bag and pulled the straps over her shoulder, walked towards the door then stopped halfway up the steps and turned back to look at me. “But sweetheart, I have to tell you that as soon as my fingers touched this bag, I picked up a kind of vibe. It’s making me uneasy.” She reached out to grab my hand. “You may be about to step into a precarious situation. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I promise, Mom. I will. I’ll be absolutely careful.” I’d learned to humor her.

  “I know you think I’m silly. But the spirits put their trust in me. And what kind of mother would I be if I didn’t pass along a warning to my only daughter?”

  As we walked into the house, I ran straight into a marble stand that held a potted plant. Startled, I worked to get my balance back. Where had that come from? And what an awkward placement: two feet from the front door, guaranteed to cause collisions with unsuspecting guests.