Ignoring him, Rosie squeezed her body into the tiny space on the other side of Jordan, taking her from Michael. “Shh. Shh,” she whispered, pushing the hair from Jordan’s eyes and wiping the tears now sliding down her cheeks. “You’re safe now, baby,” she cooed.
“Ray isn’t back from the movies yet?” Victor asked.
When Michael shook his head, Victor wandered over to the doorway leading into Jordan’s bedroom. “Oh my, somebody was seriously looking for something.”
Fifteen minutes later, Jordan was still staring in disbelief at the mess, unable to stop her lower lip from quivering. “Who would do this to me?”
“Don’t touch anything,” a voice from the opened front door shouted fifteen minutes later. Everyone keep your hands where we can see them.”
The two familiar faces entered the apartment cautiously. “Looks like someone didn’t like your story, Ms. McAllister,” Paul Rutherford said, unable to disguise the smirk on his face.
“You think someone did this because of her duck story?” Rosie’s voice elevated, and she glared at the police officer who had ticked her off the last time he’d been there. “Someone from the restaurant?”
By now, Jordan had stopped shivering, and she shook her head. “I was a guest of the owner at the restaurant tonight. I don’t think this is about my story.” She groaned when she glanced around her living room.
“What other reason would someone have?” Officer Calhoun said, sitting down in the chair opposite her despite the stuffing protruding through a long slit down the center.
“I don’t have a clue,” Jordan admitted. She had nothing of value unless you counted the autographed picture of Troy Aikman hanging over the couch. She whirled around, expecting to see an empty wall behind her.
Following her eyes to the picture still hanging there, Calhoun said, “Have you had a chance to see if anything’s missing?”
Jordan shook her head. “That’s the only thing I have worth stealing, and it’s only of value to a Cowboys’ fan.”
Rutherford walked over to the picture. “I loved Aikman. Where’d you get this?”
“A present.” It was one of the few things she’d kept from Brett after they broke up.
“No jewelry or expensive silverware?” Calhoun continued.
At the mention of silverware, Jordan’s eyes moved to the kitchen counter before she remembered Ray had taken the knife rack away. The counter was empty except for Maggie, swimming mindlessly around the fishbowl like she hadn’t noticed all the people invading her space.
“Did your story in the newspaper make anyone mad enough to do this?” Rutherford asked, finally tearing his gaze from the NFL Hall of Famer’s picture.
“I … I don’t think so,” Jordan stammered. “The only one who might be upset over it is the owner of Longhorn Prime Rib.” She paused, distracted when Calhoun flipped a page in his notebook.
“That would be Roger Mason?”
“Yes. But I had dinner at his restaurant again tonight, and he actually thanked me for bringing the story to his attention.”
Officer Calhoun slammed the notebook shut just as Ray and Lola barged into the room. With a nod to the retired cop and his lady, the policemen headed for the door. “The crime scene guys are on their way to check for prints, but I seriously doubt we’ll get anything.”
“What’s going on, Davey?” Ray asked. “Who did—”
“We’ll fill you in after the policemen leave, Ray,” Rosie interrupted, clearly anxious for the officers to go.
Before closing the door behind them, Calhoun turned to the group all huddled around Jordan. “I don’t know what’s going on here yet, but I promise I’m gonna find out. I doubt this was a random B and E. In the meantime, I’d suggest you ask your landlord to install a security camera until we figure it out.” He left, pulling the door shut behind him.
When they were sure the police car had pulled away, everyone began talking at once. Finally, Ray held up his hand. “Let Jordan tell me.”
By the time she’d explained, Ray was shaking his head. “I’ll have to bring the rack of knives back, honey. I’m already bordering on withholding evidence.” When he saw her widened eyes, he added, “I said I would bring it back. It’s up to the cops to find it.”
“There’s no way we can afford a security system,” Michael said. “The renovations on the first floor drained our bank account, and we’re still not finished. The crumbling tile floor upstairs needs replacing before the fire inspector codes us again.”
Ray thought for a moment. “Let me work on it. I know a guy in Dallas who sells stuff like that. Maybe I can talk him into renting us one until you can get the money together to pay it off.” He paused, glancing toward Jordan. “Or at least until they find out who’s behind all this.”
“Jordan, think. Why would anyone want to ransack your apartment?” Lola squished her expansive behind between Michael and Jordan.
Jordan shook her head. “I don’t know. My social life isn’t exactly hopping right now and usually, I’m home.” She stopped abruptly as a small cry escaped her lips. “Oh Lord! What if I’d been here?”
Rosie tightened her grip. “You weren’t, dear. Don’t even think about that.”
Easier said than done, Jordan thought, unable to get the horrible scenario out of her head. What if someone had been expecting her to be home? She shuddered, imagining what might have happened if she’d confronted a masked man bent on robbing her—or worse.
She wouldn’t let herself believe someone was trying to harm her. Besides the people in the room, she barely knew anyone in Ranchero. The alternative was someone who’d known she’d be gone all night and had used the opportunity to break into her apartment.
But who?
Other than her friends, her editor, and the restaurant employees, she hadn’t told anyone else she was going out. And who knew where she lived?
A wave of nausea rushed over her as she remembered that wasn’t entirely true. She’d told one other person about her assignment at the restaurant tonight, and he’d had more than a little interest in her plans, especially when she mentioned Longhorn Prime Rib.
She felt like such a fool. She’d done everything but give Alex Montgomery a key to her apartment and carte blanche to all her things.
CHAPTER 7
As expected, the police didn���t find any fingerprints at Jordan’s apartment other than hers and her friends. Nor did they have any idea who was responsible since there were possible suspects but no apparent motive. Jordan and her friends had worked until dawn, getting her apartment back into shape after the Crime Scene Unit finished up.
Except for the slashed furniture, everything else was salvageable. Even the couch and chair had been repaired with thick duct tape, though they’d be a constant reminder. At least she’d get by until she could save enough money for new furnishings from the consignment shop downtown.
Ray had called Dwayne Egan and explained what had happened and why Jordan wouldn’t be at work that day, despite her protests. She couldn’t afford to lose her job, even though it wasn’t exactly what she’d envisioned after graduating top of her class. She and Brett had been the primary sportswriters for all the University of Texas athletic events, and here she was stuck in Ranchero, writing a fancy food column.
It was dawn before the gang finally left, and Jordan somehow managed to catch a few hours’ sleep, waking around noon starving. After a quick shower and a bologna sandwich, she opened her laptop, wondering why the thief or thieves had left it behind. It wasn’t worth much, but it would have at least guaranteed a quick fix for a junkie.
She hoped that was all this was all about—a crazy kid on drugs looking for his next high. Anything else was too scary to imagine.
She Googled Brittney Prescott, the girl Kenneth said might be J. T.’s girlfriend. The first entry that she clicked on was a story about McKinley High School with a picture of a young girl who looked barely fifteen.
J. T. was robbing the cradle?
She moved closer to the screen, staring at the pretty brunette in the black and red McKinley High cheerleading outfit. According to the article, Brittney Prescott was a senior and not fifteen like Jordan first thought. Since she knew J. T. had been a junior at the college, which only made him three or four years older, it wasn’t officially robbing the cradle.
She clicked on another link and gasped as J. T.’s smiling face filled the screen, standing next to another guy wearing a similar red and black football uniform. Moving closer to the monitor, she grinned. She’d thought he was handsome as a waiter, but he was smoking hot in this picture. Something about a man in a football uniform always jacked her heart up to mach speed!
She scolded herself for being crass. A crushing sadness overwhelmed her as she thought about his death. J. T. had been too young to die.
Flipping back to her homepage, she Googled the McKinley white pages, hoping to find only one or two Prescotts listed. No such luck: there were six. Glancing at her watch, she decided it might be easier to catch Brittney at school to see if she would answer questions.
Grabbing her keys and her notebook, she left the apartment, making sure the door was locked behind her. Momentarily, she contemplated rigging a device to let her know if someone entered while she was gone. That was before she realized she had no idea how to do that and would probably scare herself silly when she returned home.
McKinley was a small town about forty miles south of Ranchero, and the high school was a sixty-minute drive from Empire Apartments. She stopped at Sonic for a cherry limeade, adding an order of fries to munch on until the high school let out for the day.
By the time she pulled into a visitor’s space in front of the entrance, the mass of teenagers held too long behind closed doors streamed from the building toward the students’ parking lot. Jordan knew if she missed catching Brittney on campus, she’d have to call all the Prescotts in the phone book trying to find her.
She turned off the ignition and stepped out of the car, and a boy running past nearly knocked her to the ground. Regaining her balance, she made her way to the principal’s office without further incident.
“Excuse me,” she said to the office assistant. “Do you know where I might find Brittney Prescott at this time of day?”
“At cheerleading practice,” the young woman answered without turning away from a filing cabinet. “In the gym.”
When Jordan cleared her throat, the receptionist twisted around to face her, pointing to her right. “Who did you say you were?”
Jordan pulled out her Globe ID and showed it to the woman. “I’m here to talk to her about a story I’m doing.”
“Go that way down the hall and take the stairs to the lower level.”
Jordan thanked her and headed in that direction, dodging at least four more kids who were too busy talking to notice her in their path. She spotted Brittney the minute she walked into the gym. That old saying about standing out like a blonde in a roomful of brunettes popped into Jordan’s head. Only this time, Brittney was the only brunette in the crowd. Either there were a lot of natural blondes in McKinley or Miss Clairol was making a fortune in this town.
Jordan ambled up to the group and tapped the young girl on the shoulder. “Excuse me.” When Brittney turned to face her, she said, “I’m Jordan McAllister from the Globe. I’d like to talk to you about J. T. Spencer.”
Hearing his name, the young girl teared up. “I’ve already told the police everything I know.”
The sadness in her eyes showed the girl cared a great deal about J. T. “I’m not writing a story, Brittney. I met J. T. a few nights ago at the Longhorn. He was on his way to my apartment to tell me something when he was killed. I’m trying to find out what—and why me.”
When Jordan saw the surprise in the girl’s eyes, she added, “We were only friends, nothing more.”
Brittney stared for a few minutes before whispering something to the girl beside her. “Let’s go over there.” She motioned toward the bleachers. “But like I said, I don’t think I’ll be much help.”
Jordan followed her across the gymnasium and sat beside her on the shiny wooden bleachers.
“What do you want to know?”
Might as well be blunt. “A waiter at the restaurant said J. T. spoke to you several times on the phone that night. Is that right?”
Brittney lowered her head. “Yes.”
“That friend also remembered seeing J. T. really upset over whatever you talked about.”
Brittney kept her head down. “Yes,” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper now.
Deciding this was like pulling teeth, Jordan jumped right to the point. “Kenneth mentioned J. T. talked to you a lot on the phone. Apparently, the night he was killed, some big guy in a Grayson County College jacket came to Longhorn Prime Rib shouting for him to leave you alone.” Jordan paused. “Were you seeing two guys at the same time, Brittney?”
The young girl finally looked up, tears rolling down her cheeks. “It wasn’t like that. I loved J. T. but not the way you think.” She took the tissue Jordan offered and blew her nose. “He was more like a brother. Ever since Eric went off to A&M, J. T. took care of me, like he’d promised.”
“Eric?”
“My brother. He and J. T. were best friends.”
Jordan remembered the picture of J. T. and the other football player from the Internet, guessing that other guy was Eric Prescott.
“So, you weren’t involved romantically with him?” Jordan knew she was crossing a line but pushed forward anyhow. “You weren’t having a lovers’ quarrel?”
“No,” Brittney said emphatically. “I’m with someone else.”
“A big guy who lettered at Grayson County College?”
The brunette nodded. “Derrick Young. He’s the quarterback.”
It was obvious this young girl was in a lot of pain over J. T.’s death, and Jordan had the sudden urge to take her into her arms. She held back. “Why would Derrick go after J. T. and tell him to back off if he knew the two of you weren’t in a romantic relationship?”
Brittney sniffed and looked away. When she turned back to Jordan, a fresh set of tears had formed and were threatening to spill. “Derrick and I had been fighting. When I told J. T., he said if I didn’t break it off with him, he’d be forced to tell my parents.”
“Tell your parents what?” Jordan interrupted.
Brittney blew out a long breath. “You have to know, Ms. McAllister, Derrick is a sweetheart. He treats me like gold most of the time.”
“What was J. T. going to tell your parents?” Jordan pressed for an answer.
Without changing expressions, Brittney pushed up the sleeve on her sweater to expose several large bruises on her upper arm in various shades of purple and yellow.
“Good heavens! Did Derrick do that to you?”
“It was my fault.” Again Brittney lowered her head. “He caught me talking to one of his football buddies, laughing over something I can’t even remember now. Derrick grabbed me and pulled me away. Called me a whore and said I had humiliated him.” She sniffed back more tears. “I wasn’t flirting, really, but I can see why he might think that.”
This time, Jordan couldn’t stop herself and took Brittney into her arms. “Of course, you weren’t,” she said, massaging the young girl’s back, knowing nothing she did would stop the agony she was going through.
“Because of me, J. T.’s dead,” Brittney managed between sobs, burrowing her head further into Jordan’s chest.
“That isn’t true,” Jordan assured her. “His death had nothing to do with you. You have to believe that.”
Jordan continued holding her until the sobs dissolved into an occasional hiccup.
Although Brittney might be right, Jordan couldn’t let her carry the guilt that she was somehow responsible for J. T.’s death.
“Right now, I don’t know why J. T. was killed, but I do know you weren’t even remotely responsible, Brittney. I’m going to find out who
did this, and I promise, when I do, you’ll be the first person I call.”
As Jordan continued to hold the young girl, her mind was already racing ahead to tomorrow after work. She intended to take a short ride into Connor to see an angry young man in a letterman jacket who might very well be more than a bully who manhandled innocent girls.
The next few days seemed to fly by as Jordan prepared for the second edition of her new gig—posting fancy recipes. Budin de Papitas Fritas con Pollo, otherwise known as Potato Chip Chicken, was an instant hit with the readers, and she’d had to endure Dwayne Egan and his “told you so” attitude all day. He’d pranced around the copy room like a rooster who had just satisfied the hussy of the henhouse, as if he’d been the one to come up with the recipe idea.
Okay, maybe he deserved a little of the credit, but the Potato Chip Chicken casserole was Rosie’s baby with Grandmother Rodriguez’s so-called old-world touch.
It hadn’t taken long for the reaction to hit, turning the newsroom into a madhouse. All day Friday, calls and e-mails poured in by the dozens. Seems the good people of Ranchero had no idea fancy food could taste so good.
Jordan didn’t have the heart to tell them otherwise.
By the time she wrapped things up at the office late Friday night, she was already in a panic about the next week’s offering, hoping whatever Rosie was cooking for tonight’s potluck would be worthy of a fancy fictitious name.
This was her week to bring the salad, and after a quick trip to the grocery store, she headed home. The pent-up stress of the entire week began fading with each mile that brought her closer to friends and a relaxing night of cards.
Her visit with Derrick Young had gotten postponed, mostly because of time constraints. But that wasn’t the only reason. The more Jordan thought about the bruises on Brittney’s arm, the more she wondered if she shouldn’t take Ray with her when she talked to the quarterback.
The problem was, if it looked like a cop and talked like a cop, it probably was one, and Ray definitely fit the bill on both counts. Derrick would no doubt clam up the minute he figured it out.
Liver Let Die Page 7
