by Paula Graves
Big Sam used to stand her up on the bar and coax her to sing "Old Joe Clark" to his customers in exchange for a Sprite and a new dollar bill. He spotted her the second she walked into the bar and hollered out, "'Old Joe Clark!' Shiny new dollar, girly, for your trouble!"
"You'll have to pay me a hell of a lot more than a dollar to get my ass up on that bar these days, Big Sam." She grinned at him, settling on an empty bar stool in front of him. "How's business?"
"Hell, sugar. Pure hell. Too many punks around these parts figured out how to brew their own back during the recession and they've been slow coming back." He pulled a clean glass from beneath the bar and set it in front of her. "Isn't it a little early in the day for you to be drinking?"
"Not if you'll give me a Sprite and a little information." She'd already scanned the bar for her cousin Dwayne without any luck. "Seen Dwayne yet today?"
"No, ma'am, he ain't been by yet." He filled the mug with ice and handed her a can of Sprite. "You want me to tell him you're lookin' for him?"
"Actually, I'd just as soon you not. But could you give me a call?" She handed him her business card.
He looked at it, his lips curving slightly as he read the information there. "Can't quite bring myself to remember you're one of the police." He put the emphasis on the first syllable. "I reckon your daddy was real proud of how you turned out. Guess hanging out with old Sam Bigelow didn't ruin you after all like your mama worried."
She smiled back at the bar man. "You were never the problem, Sam."
He gave a nod. "Your daddy was a good man. He worked hard, as hard as anyone I've ever known. But he also enjoyed life, and there's not a damned thing wrong with that, I say."
"No, there's not," she agreed with another smile. Her parents had worked as hard as any two people could. They'd both come from poverty, with no hope of coming up with the money for college. They'd gone straight to work in factories, until her mother had gotten pregnant. From there, her father had doubled his shifts so their mother could stay home and raise the kids. All five of them. A lot of mouths to feed, but somehow her father had done it without ever making them feel as if they were poor.
But Stella had known. She'd seen beyond the smiles and the cheer and known that her parents were struggling, worrying at night after the kids were asleep and there was nothing between them and the fear but the remnants of their cheery façade.
And she'd be damned if she let that good-for-nothing, thieving dog Dwayne Barlow take her mother's financial security away from her now.
"Sure I can't talk you into singin' 'Old Joe Clark'?" Sam asked. "This place is deader'n a cemetery, and that's bad for business."
"You don't want to run everybody out of here," Hannigan said with a laugh. "What's cute when you're a snaggle-toothed kid doesn't really translate when you're thirty—"
"Well, shit." Sam's gaze went to the front door of the bar. "Wonder what regulations we broke this time."
Hannigan followed his gaze. Well, shit indeed.
Lee Brody stood in the doorway, looking like some leading man making his big scene entrance, from the Armani suit to the Italian leather shoes. Every head in the place swiveled. All conversation stopped.
"Relax," Hannigan murmured. "He's here for me."
Brody spotted her and crossed the room, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was now the bar's main attraction. His gaze was locked on her like a homing beacon; the rest of the room might as well have disappeared.
She found his focus both flattering and unnerving. "Did you follow me?"
"Yes." He sat on the empty barstool beside her. "I didn't like the way we left things."
"Sam, this is my partner, Lee Brody." Hannigan nodded toward Big Sam. "Brody, this is Sam Bigelow, the owner and proprietor of this fine establishment."
"Pleased to meet you, Officer Brody." Sam wiped his hand on his apron and offered it to Brody.
"Detective," Brody corrected with a smile, shaking the barkeeper's hand. "The pleasure is mine."
"I was hoping to run into my cousin Dwayne here," Hannigan told Brody as Sam put a mug on the bar.
"What can I get you?" Sam asked
"Nothing for me, thanks." Brody looked at Hannigan. "So, Dwayne's the culprit?"
"Maybe. Probably. He has the longest rap sheet." Hannigan slid off the bar stool and reached into her purse to pay for the Sprite.
"On me," Brody said, pulling his wallet from his jacket.
"I can pay for my own drink."
He shot her a look. "Consider it my penance."
She sighed and closed the flap on her purse. "You don't need to do penance, Brody. I'm not angry at you."
His brow creased as he paid Sam for her drink. "Since when?"
"Since about a minute after left my mom's house."
"That's what I like about you, Hannigan. You don't hold a grudge."
She gave him a nudge toward the door. "Don't get overconfident. You've never really gotten on my bad side."
He opened the heavy wood door, squinting as bright afternoon light invaded the cave-like interior of the bar. "Remind me to never get anywhere near your bad side."
Hannigan took a step outside the bar and stopped short, staring across the narrow parking lot at the dark-haired man who had frozen in place just a few feet away. His gray eyes, so like her own, widened at the sight of her.
Then he started running.
"Son of a bitch!" She took off after him.
"Dwayne, I presume?" Brody asked, his long legs catching up to hers in a couple of seconds.
"Who else?"
The bar was a stand-alone building on a small, unkempt lot, but it was only a half a block from a tightly-packed section of the south side, where old brick storefronts lined both sides of the road, separated here and there by alleys too narrow to accommodate any vehicle larger than a motorcycle.
It was out of one of those alleys that a black Kawasaki Ninja 650 roared across their path, nearly slamming into Brody. Hannigan's heart caught in her throat as she saw her partner throw himself out of the way, crashing against the brick wall of the cobbler shop on the other side of the alley. The Ninja blew past her, whipping her hair into her face.
"Was that your cousin?" Brody called from the other side of the alley entrance.
Hannigan shook her head, her gaze drawn down the narrow gravel alley from which the Ninja had just come. "No."
Brody dusted himself off and limped to her side, turning his head to look down the alley as well.
At the other end of the narrow passageway, in a crumpled heap, lay her cousin Dwayne, in a spreading puddle of blood.
Chapter Four
Dwayne Barlow's eyes were half open, as if watching the bustle of activity going on in the cramped confines of the narrow alley around his still form. But even at a glance, there was no mistaking him for someone still among the living. Even if the buckets of blood and other bodily fluids spreading out across the broken pavement beneath his body hadn't been clue enough, the long pole with three sharp prongs that stuck out of his ruined throat would have settled the question. A frog gig, Hannigan had told him. He wasn't sure he wanted to know how she knew what it was.
So far, Hannigan had shown little reaction to finding her cousin dead in an alley, but her silence was reaction enough. Hannigan was usually a talker at a crime scene, worrying her way through the possibilities while she and Brody studied the scene and tried to stay out of the evidence unit's way.
But not this time. This time, she stood several feet clear of the crime scene, her arms crossed over her flat stomach as she watched the body snatchers preparing Dwayne's body for removal.
Brody stepped away from the scene and joined her near the brick wall that hemmed in one side of the alley. "We've got the license number of that motorcycle. I've called it in. Waiting to hear back."
"But we didn't see him do it. Maybe he's a witness, not a perp."
"Maybe," he conceded. "Does your cousin have any enemies?"
She shrugged.
"Hell if I know. I don't see much of Dwayne these days. He's not exactly a fan of the police."
She pronounced it with the emphasis on the first syllable. The glance she slanted his way assured him it was an intentional usage and not just Stella Hannigan slipping back into the mountain twang she couldn't quite shake, no matter how far out of the mountains she got.
"Who would know?"
She blew out a long breath. "His mother, I guess. My mom's cousin Marie. Maybe one of his sisters, although Dwayne's sort of the black sheep of the family."
"We'll need to talk to all of them."
She nodded. "Think Crane will take me off the case?"
"He shouldn't," Brody said after a brief, thoughtful pause. "Unless this case is too emotional for you."
She shot him another look. "Dwayne and I weren't that close."
"But you want to find out who killed him."
She nodded again. "Yeah. I do."
"Think he's got your mama's lottery ticket on him?"
She shrugged. "Maybe that's what he was killed for."
"How would anyone know he had the winning ticket?"
"He wasn't exactly the soul of discretion. He probably bragged about nicking the ticket from his poor sap of a trusting aunt."
"Nice guy."
Hannigan passed a hand over the side of her face. "Listen to me speaking ill of the dead."
"Dying didn't give his character an upgrade," Brody said reasonably. He put his hand on her back and gave her a gentle nudge. She resisted for a second, looking up at him with dread-filled eyes.
"I have to tell his mother."
"We can let someone else do it," he suggested.
She shook her head. "It should be me. Family." She checked her watch. "I'm not sure where she's working these days. She may not be home yet. But we can give it a try."
Turning, she trudged slowly back toward Bigelow's, where they'd both parked their cars.
As Brody was about to open his door, his cell phone rang. "Brody."
It was Davidson from the station. "Ran a check on the plate you called in. It was reported stolen last week over near Lincoln Road. But I can give you the address if you want to talk to the owner."
Brody jotted down the information as Davidson read off the address. "Thanks." He turned to look at Hannigan, who hadn't yet gotten into her car.
"Well?" she asked.
"Bike was stolen last night. I've got an address to follow up, but—"
"But it's probably a dead end," she finished for him. She took a deep breath and got into her car.
Conversation over, he thought.
As it turned out, Marie Barlow wasn't home when they tried to deliver the news, so they drove back to the police station to talk to Lieutenant Crane, their supervisor at the Weatherford Police Department.
"I'll assign Fitz and Millwood to investigate," Crane said after expressing his condolences to Hannigan. "They're good men."
"I want the case," Hannigan said.
Brody watched the lieutenant's expression, usually a good indicator of which way he was going to go in any decision-making situation. A quirk of the eyebrows meant a certain no; a nibble of the lower lip meant maybe. One quick tug of his ear meant yes, but don't make me regret it. After a quick lip-niggle, Crane finally pulled his ear. "If you think you can be objective."
"I can," Hannigan said with a firm nod. "If anything, it gives me an advantage, since I have no illusions about Dwayne's criminal history. I know exactly the kind of people he associated with. I've got a head start on the investigation."
"Anybody informed the next of kin?"
"We tried on our way here. Nobody was home. Dwayne's mother is probably still at work. I'd rather not break the news to her there, so we'll try again closer after closing time."
She fell silent on the way out of the police station, and Brody didn't try to get her to talk. She wasn't one who liked to talk about her feelings, doing so only when she was good and ready. Pushing her never worked—Brody knew that fact about her better than anyone else.
"I need to tell my mom," she said she said as they paused where they'd parked their cars side by side in the employee lot.
"I'll take you," he offered, expecting her to refuse.
But she turned to look at him over the roof of his car, her gray eyes soft and vulnerable. "Thanks."
He followed her home, wondering if she was kidding herself about how hard she was taking her cousin's death.
"I wish I'd never said anything about the ticket." Ruby Hannigan was red-eyed and pale, her small hands clutching a rumpled tissue Hannigan had offered her when she broke the news about Dwayne Barlow's death.
"You didn't cause this," Hannigan said firmly, rubbing her mother's back with gentle strokes. "We don't even know what happened to Dwayne has anything to do with your lottery ticket."
Brody looked away from his partner and her mother, stifling a yawn. Four hours had now passed since they'd found Dwayne's body in the narrow alley between Parker Shoe Repair and Handley's Found Treasures. The sun was low in the western sky, casting shadows across the front lawn of the Hannigan family home, reminding him that he was nearly off the clock.
But homicide detectives were never truly off the clock. And with this new case hitting so close to home, Brody had a feeling they'd be working on it every waking hour.
"Stella's right," he said. "We didn't find the ticket on Dwayne's body. He probably never had it in the first place."
Ruby sniffled into the tissue. "Has anyone told Marie?"
"We went by her house before we came here, but there was nobody home."
"She might be at the clinic," Ruby suggested.
"She's a bit of a hypochondriac," Hannigan told Brody.
"That's not entirely fair," Ruby protested. "She really does have a nervous stomach."
Hannigan slanted a look at Brody. "We should probably go back by her house and see if she's returned. I don't want her hearing about Dwayne from the evening news."
Ruby stood up and gave Hannigan a fierce hug. "Be careful out there. Okay?"
Hannigan squeezed her mother tightly. "Lock the doors behind us."
"I will. And you be sure to tell Marie how sorry I am. Tell her to give me a call if she needs anything."
"She's your mother's cousin, you said?" Brody asked as they headed out the door to Brody's Taurus.
She nodded, her gaze directed forward. "Mom had just one brother. Uncle Gary. He died in Vietnam."
"You aren't close to your cousins?"
"Not very close. We see each other at the occasional family reunion, if I can manage to swing a day off." She sighed. "I don't usually try very hard. Does that make me an awful person?"
"No."
"You're just saying that." She made a low, moaning noise. "I sound like a snob, don't I?"
"No."
"Stop agreeing with me."
"Technically," he pointed out, "I'm disagreeing."
She opened the car door and got inside without further comment and remained silent as Brody drove across town to the small, single-story house where Marie Barlow lived with a back yard full of mix-breed mutts and at least one cat, a marmalade tabby that sat in the front window, gazing out at them with interest as they parked at the curb.
The dogs in the back yard erupted in a chorus of frantic yelps again before they even got out of the car. The fence kept them safely contained, although one of the mutts, a long-haired black dog about the size of a small house, had no trouble putting both enormous paws on top of the fence and peering over it at them as they walked down the overgrown dirt walkway to the front door.
"Her car's here." Hannigan nodded toward the Ford Escort parked in the driveway. It was an older model, well-dinged and scratched, dusty burgundy except the left rear panel, which was a lovely shade of Bondo and, based on the layer of grime on top, had been that color for some time.
When Brody started to ring the doorbell, Hannigan caught his hand. "Hasn't worked in years." She knocked hard o
n the door, three sharp raps.
There was no answer for several moments, but just as Hannigan was about to knock again, the door came open with a scraping noise, stopping after exposing only a few inches of the interior. A small, thin woman with dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses peered at them through the narrow opening. "Can I help you?"
"Marie, it's me. Stella."
Marie Barlow's forehead crinkled. "So it is. Is everything okay with your family?"
"Mom and the boys are all fine," Hannigan answered gently. "Can we come in?"
Marie looked past Hannigan, her gaze settling curiously on Brody. He saw confusion settle into understanding. "This is that partner of yours, ain't it? That rich lawyer's son."
"I get that a lot," Brody murmured, more for Hannigan's benefit than for Marie's. Hannigan's elbow nudged his ribcage. "Lee Brody," he added. "Nice to meet you."
"Back at ya. Come on in." Marie opened the door a little further, allowing them to enter. She led them past a darkened living room into a warm, well-lit kitchen. She waved them to the stools in front of the breakfast bar while she crossed to the stove, where something burbled gently on the stove.
Chili, Brody guessed by the spicy aroma, and when he glanced at the trashcan by the refrigerator, he saw an empty can of store brand chili.
"You two hungry? I can open another can."
"Marie, has anyone else contacted you in the last couple of hours?"
Marie turned to look at them. "Contacted me?"
"Called? Dropped by to talk?"
Marie shook her head slowly. "No. Should they have?"
Hannigan slanted a quick look at Brody. He put his hand on her back, understanding her hesitancy but beginning to lose patience. There was no good way to tell a woman her son was dead, and putting off the dreadful moment wasn't going to change that fact.
"Mrs. Barlow," he said, "I'm sorry to have to tell you that your son Dwayne is dead."
Marie's only reaction was to turn back to the stove and pick up the wooden spoon still sitting in the pot of chili. She gave the pot's contents a couple of slow stirs before she spoke. "Car crash?"
