Doubleback

by Lissa Ford

  “The victim’s premises will be examined during the course of the investigation,” Natsios said.

  “Yeah, sure, but I—”

  “Did you bring Gruber back to your house for sex another night?” Rowan interrupted. His tone was so disinterested, coolly tapping one long finger on the table, he might as well have asked if Jude stopped at the supermarket for a gallon of milk.

  “No, I did not.” Jude could feel anger worming its way in again. “He didn’t ask where I lived and I didn’t mention it.”

  “Do you have any inkling why Travis Gruber’s body would be dumped on your doorstep?”

  “None.”

  “Think harder, Mr. Anderson.”

  “I honestly don’t know, Detective Muir.”

  “You mean the fact that you killed the pregnant girlfriend of the leader of a local drug trafficking operation hasn’t crossed your mind as a possible motive?”

  “Do we need to go into it?” Jude asked sharply. “That happened over a year ago. It was in the line of duty and I think we all know what went down—”

  “Someone left a dead body on your front porch, Mr. Anderson.” Jude winced at the pointed formality in Rowan’s tone. “We need to figure out who did this, and why.”

  Deep breaths, Jude. “And you think my past is relevant?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Jude shook his head stubbornly. “The so-called drug ring was nothing more than a couple of lowlifes cooking up meth in a crummy trailer in the middle of nowhere. We arrested them in the parking lot of a Burger King. Case closed.”

  “A lot of shit went down for a routine drug bust. The suspect, his pregnant girlfriend, Deputy Morelli—they all died that night.”

  Jude squeezed his eyes shut to hold the memories at bay. Rowan had to bring up Logan Morelli.

  “Mr. Anderson?” Natsios prompted, when Jude didn’t answer.

  Jude cleared his throat. He didn’t have the strength to look up from his hands folded together on the table. “Yeah. They did.”

  “You got shot that day, too,” Rowan reminded him.

  Jude nodded blindly.

  So they went over it with a fine-tooth comb, the worst fucking day of Jude’s life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It started off as a routine call. Maybe that’s how all life-altering events begin, in the cauldron of the ordinary. Manager of a rural Burger King calls in suspicious activity happening in the parking lot of his restaurant. Suspected drug deal going down. Units respond, including Jude Anderson, who’d been working a drug trafficking case involving a cabal of trailer trash teens living among Upstate’s Amish communities and dairy farms. As the call rolled in, the MO sounded like one of his suspects, the ringleader of a portable meth lab servicing the stagnating rural villages dotting the Onondaga valley.

  Jude had just been promoted out of uniform deputy sheriff into criminal investigation, and he remembered feeling a little weird responding to the call in plainclothes. He’d pulled his unmarked sedan next to the first responder’s vehicle: a deputy sheriff’s souped-up Mustang. As Jude emerged from the vehicle into the smell of French fry grease and car exhaust, he saw that the officer was Logan Morelli. A good guy, Jude recalled. Morelli ran the sports betting pools around the station and brought homemade cannoli to the Friday potlucks.

  A busted Cutlass Supreme was parked in the shade of the lone tree growing at the edge of the concrete slab parking lot. Two heads could be seen in the rear window.

  “The suspects are still in the car,” Morelli said by way of greeting over the chatter from the radios. “The manager said they’d been sitting there all morning making deals, lowlifes coming and going while those two chilled and ate breakfast sandwiches.”

  “Not too smart, are they?” Jude remarked, eyeing the dilapidated car.

  “They’re just kids, from the look of it. Scared shitless too, I bet.”

  “Sure they are, now that their little drug dealing empire is about to go up in a puff of weed smoke.”

  Morelli laughed. He had a nice face under his standard-issued Stetson: kind of young, very Italian.

  “Hey Morelli, remind me later that I want to put fifty bucks in the NBA playoffs pool,” Jude said, making conversation while they waited for backup.

  “You betting against the Heat again?”

  “I always bet against the Heat, the Yankees, and the Patriots.”

  “Dude, why? You like the feeling of losing?”

  “I like the underdogs. So sue me.” Jude flipped the snap off his sidearm holster. “Dammit, those dumbasses are making a move.”

  “What?” Morelli swung around in time to see the Cutlass’s two doors fly open and the suspects tumble out.

  “Idiots.” Jude keyed the mike on the mobile radio clipped to his shoulder. “Suspects fleeing, on foot. We need backup right now. Officers are in pursuit—”

  “I’m on it!” Morelli yelled, drawing his weapon. Before Jude could grab him, the young deputy bolted after the couple.

  Jude swore. Fleeing suspects, no backup—the situation was devolving rapidly. Jude bolted after Morelli as he pounded toward the suspects running like greyhounds to the line of trees at the perimeter of the lot.

  As Jude drew closer, he heard Morelli bellowing: “Law enforcement—HALT!” which was ignored. The Caucasian male looked to be around 20-years-old and probably all of 150 pounds soaking wet, but wiry as hell. The female, also young, ran impressively fast for someone wearing flip-flops. Jude was wondering if the two would end up vanishing into the trees before they could catch them when the female suddenly faceplanted into the cement, right in front of the little three-wall concrete building housing the dumpster. The male skidded to a stop and turned back. He hauled the girl up by her armpits and began dragging her toward the concrete wall.

  The next minute seemed to happen in slow motion but at the time everything telescoped into bright clarity. Still a good thirty yards away, Jude saw Morelli tackle the male suspect as he bent over the girl. The suspect bucked and thrashed under Morelli’s weight. The girl pushed to her feet and Jude could now see that the girl’s belly was distended with early pregnancy. From the pocket of her hoodie, the girl drew a handgun and pointed it at Morelli with shaking hands.

  “Drop it!” Jude shouted with everything in him as he pulled his own weapon. Sirens were wailing but the thumping of Jude’s heart in his ears squeezed everything else out. He pointed the muzzle of his Glock at the girl. “Now, goddamn it!”

  The girl, eyes ringed in too much makeup, the curve of her chin still rounded with adolescence, spared him one wild look of sheer terror and cocked the gun’s hammer.

  Jude could barely breathe. “Don’t,” he warned, giving the girl one more chance.

  It was a mistake he’d rue for the rest of his life. Morelli flew backward off the kid he’d been cuffing, blood spraying from the gunshot to his head.

  Jude squeezed the trigger. The girl dropped like a ragdoll.

  The kid Morelli had been securing gave an animal yowl. He scrambled toward the girl on his hands and knees, then went for the gun in the girl’s limp hand. Jude blinked and a nanosecond later his right leg exploded in pain. He crumpled to the pavement, writhing in agony.

  Jude’s memories clouded at that point. The distant pop of more gunshots. Blinking to clear blurred vision. The soles of male suspect’s filthy canvas shoes as he sprawled motionless on the ground. Morelli’s blank eyes staring at Jude over the pool of blood seeping out of his head while Jude’s heart tried to slug its way out of his chest before the encroaching blackness swallowed him up.

  “The suspect who shot you was a Tully,” Rowan said.

  The burn in Jude’s chest had dulled to a small bonfire, but he still didn’t trust himself to look up from the burnished surface of the table. Because if he did, he might see in Rowan’s eyes the trace of sympathy he heard in Rowan’s voice, and just then he was already on emotional overload. One more drop would unleash a flood.

  Jude took a
deep breath. “Yeah.”

  “Tully?” Natsios frowned and tapped his pen on the scribbled pages of his notebook. “Why is that name familiar?”

  Jude lifted his head from contemplating his clenched hands. “You don’t know?”

  “Natsios transferred from Troop L, Long Island, couple months ago,” Rowan supplied. “He’s still catching up.”

  “I thought I needed to slow down,” Natsios remarked dryly. He glanced out the window and watched the rear-view lights of the ambulance disappear down Jude’s driveway, bearing Travis Gruber to the morgue. “Go from investigating a murder a day to a murder once every few months. One thing that hasn’t changed is that murder is still a rat-ass ugly business.”

  Jude couldn’t argue with that.

  “The Tully family is notorious,” Rowan informed his partner. “There isn’t a misdemeanor or small-time crime someone with that name or DNA hasn’t dabbled in. Petty larceny, racketeering, drug trafficking, check fraud. The family’s rap sheet is as long as the number of kissing cousins they have living off state aid. Trouble, every last one of them. Could be one of them is holding a grudge against Anderson.”

  “Are they Mafioso?” Natsios asked.

  “Wannabes.”

  “It’s been over a year,” Jude pointed out. “Why wait until now? Why kill Travis? To pin a murder rap on me?”

  “Good point,” Natsios said.

  Rowan shrugged. “There’s no expiration date on vengeance.”

  “Killing Travis Gruber and dumping his body on my front porch to make a point a year later isn’t just dumb. It’s not logical.”

  “I didn’t say members of the Tully family were bright. There’s a lot of inbreeding going on, if rumor proves correct.”

  “But it makes no sense.”

  “Well, how about this? Today would have been the day of Billy Tully’s birthday had he survived the shooting. Morelli isn’t around to blame for Tully’s death. But you still are.”

  “Oh.” Jude swallowed.

  “Most crime is rooted in emotion,” Rowan said quietly. “You know that, Anderson. And that girl was pregnant by a Tully. Some people aren’t going to forget that an unborn baby died that day, too.”

  Jude closed his eyes, but he couldn’t blot out the memory of the terror bleaching that girl’s face. Nor could he forget that he hesitated one second too long in that standoff. If he’d had the strength to take the shot, Morelli would still be alive. His brother officers certainly thought so.

  Except Rowan. Rowan never blamed him. Or so he’d said.

  “Are you bringing me in?” Jude asked.

  “Not yet.”

  Jude abruptly scraped his chair back and stood. “Then are we done?”

  Rowan and Natsios shared a glance. Jude knew what that look meant between detectives: more pushing would make the witness clam up. Bide your time.

  Rowan flipped the cover of his notebook closed. “Yeah, we’re done. For now.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jude did something he hadn’t in a long time. He dug into the back of the cupboard, pulled out the Maker’s Mark and poured two fingers. Pain meds and alcohol did not mix, but right now Jude had no fucks to give. A man he knew had died by violent means, the second in less than a year. And though Jude had nothing to do with Travis’s death, he couldn’t shake the nauseous feeling that Travis would still be alive if he’d never met Jude in the first place.

  Funnily enough, even though he’d been with Travis just a few days ago, Jude could barely remember the encounter.

  What he did remember was Travis’s knowing grin at the end of his shift behind Eight Ball’s bar while Jude was finishing up beer number three and allowing himself to get maudlin. Jude had asked for the number of the local cab service to call for a ride home. Travis licked his bottom lip and murmured, “Riding me is a lot more fun, Big Red.”

  “Big Red?”

  “Don’t tell me no one’s ever called you that before.” Travis seductively eyed Jude’s auburn hair and six-foot-two-inch bulk uneasily perched on the barstool.

  “No.”

  “Their loss.” Travis grinned with such genuine wolfish interest, Jude found himself smiling tentatively back.

  Travis lived two blocks away from Eight Ball, near Armory Square in downtown Syracuse. Jude had followed Travis’s trim ass through the still-lively streets, wondering what the hell he was doing. Travis barely got the deadbolt thrown on his apartment door before he was attacking Jude’s fly. All of Jude’s highly-developed common sense flew out of his head. Both heads, truth be told.

  “Does the carpet match the drapes?” Travis had slurred on a laugh, sliding his hand inside Jude’s briefs.

  Jude had never done an anonymous hook up before. It wasn’t his style. But the loneliness had been so damn crushing that night. And Travis’s cheerful sluttiness, while flattering, also had the side benefit of being direct and uncomplicated. It was what Jude wanted, especially after his life had been upended in the aftermath of what he called The Incident. Simplicity. No strings.

  Ice rattled in his empty tumbler.

  “Who the fuck you think you’re fooling now,” Jude muttered, the bourbon sawing the strap off his emotional leash. He’d gone to Eight Ball that night because he’d been missing Rowan Muir. And while dating Rowan had been anything but uncomplicated, it had also been the most intense, baffling, and passionate time of his life. Until Jude forcibly turned his back on it.

  Jude closed his eyes. Was the faint scent of Rowan’s cologne lingering in his home? Or did Jude just want to believe it was so?

  Sprawled on his leather couch, Jude poured another measure and settled in to get good and drunk. It was twilight: the horses had been fed and watered; owls and bats were out hunting. A faint wind stirred the pines and maples, setting the foliage to rustling gently. The fire in the fireplace let out the faint aroma of hickory. He’d swept up the gravel that had been scattered over his walkway from the EMS vehicles, careful not to disturb the crime scene, made a sandwich for dinner and ate it while he responded to a couple of email inquiries about booking fly fishing tours. At least business was still good at the moment. It might be a different story once word got out about the murder. Jude’s fingers itched to pet Shiloh, who would have planted herself alongside the couch had she not been at the vet’s. He missed her patient regard.

  All was quiet. Except Jude’s memories, which now wouldn’t stop flooding in even as alcohol blunted the bright edge of misery.

  Rowan Muir. It would figure that he’d be assigned to the case. Jude’s luck had been nothing but bad since the day Morelli went down.

  Jude snorted to himself as the cliché from Chandler went through his head: “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the worlds…”

  They’d met at a golf tournament fundraiser for first responders. Jude, a deputy sheriff, and Rowan, then a uniformed New York State trooper, had been randomly assigned a foursome with a firefighter and paramedic. Rowan played golf like he did everything else: with an intense focus on winning that should have rubbed Jude the wrong way. But Rowan’s leonine eyes lingered over Jude’s long body a fraction longer than necessary after they’d shaken hands during introductions and, in response, Jude’s awareness flared to life. Attraction level: high. Interest: immediate.

  On the second hole, while the paramedic and firefighter were down in the rough hunting errant balls, Jude caught Rowan checking out Jude’s ass as Jude settled into his putt on the green.

  “Enjoying the view?” Jude remarked with a lifted brow.

  “Best one on the course,” came the unrepentant reply.

  Jude studied Rowan’s trim torso and powerful legs ending in goofy golf shoes. “My view’s not so bad, either.”

  Rowan’s cocky grin dissolved to a shy smile. It was unexpected. And…sweet. Jude was utterly charmed.

  By the end of the fourth hole, he and Rowan were flirting outrageously, the firefighter and paramedic oblivious to the simmering heat between them. By hole s
ix, the two were exchanging phone numbers. By the end of hole nine, where the tourney ended, Rowan beckoned Jude to the back of Rowan’s Jeep where they could have a sliver of privacy. Rowan stared at Jude’s mouth so intensely, Jude’s cock twitched. After a long moment of gazing at each other wordlessly, Rowan muttered, “Damn, Anderson, the way you’re looking at me is making me hard. When can I see you?”

  Jude, a couple inches taller, leaned closer to Rowan and into his hunger. “I’m starting a four-on tonight,” Jude muttered, referring to his four-days-on, three-days-off schedule.

  “And I’ve got to relieve someone on stakeout in an hour.” Rowan looked Jude up and down and seemed to make a decision. “You aren’t quickie material.”

  “I’m not into quickies.”

  “No?”

  “I’m into longies. I need enough time to touch every inch of your skin.”

  Rowan made a sound like he was in pain, and his eyes darkened. He shifted close enough for Jude to smell the other man’s exotic cologne and sun-warmed flesh. Heat flashed through Jude. He really, really wanted to bury himself in this guy and he had no idea how or why that was. It wasn’t like Jude didn’t get regular action when he was so inclined, but Rowan Muir set Jude’s impulses to gimme now.

  They were nearly toe to toe now. “Sexting until I can buy you dinner next Friday?” Rowan asked.

  Jude struggled not to say, the hell with it – let’s call in sick and go back to my place. “You got it.”

  Rowan’s sexts were more like running gags interspersed with searing queries on how Jude wanted it: with or without toys? Lights on or off? Opinions on beach sex – super hot or too sandy?

  Feels like I’m filling out a Grindr profile, Jude texted back.

  Ok that reminds me: r u into sharpened objects?

  I like a poke now and again.

  U made me spill my coffee. It was kona, btw

  Any damage to important parts?

  Not the part that’s gonna make u scream my name tomorrow nite. The cruiser’s upholstery tho…

  In the end they didn’t even get through the first beer at the sports bar they’d agreed to meet at. As they sat side by side on the barstools while an NBA game blared on three consecutive widescreens, Rowan’s knee accidentally grazed Jude’s and that was it—flashpoint. Rowan flipped a few bills on the countertop, Jude let the waitress know they wouldn’t need their table after all, and they were out of there. Luckily Jude lived right around the corner, his apartment overlooking Onondaga Lake.