Liver Let Die

by Liz Lipperman

  “Yeah, Coach?”

  Jordan stared up at Derrick Young. He didn’t look like a girl beater, although she had no idea what one actually looked like. The quarterback stood about six two with sixpack abs not entirely hidden under his half shirt. His thick brown hair curled on the ends and framed his hazel eyes, highlighted with eye black to stop the glare. No wonder Brittney was so enamored of him.

  “Derrick, this is Jordan McAllister from the Globe. She’s doing a story on the team and wants to have a few words with you.”

  The young quarterback squirted water into his mouth from his squeeze bottle before meeting Jordan’s eyes. “What do you want to know?”

  Jordan squirmed, figuring he weighed somewhere around 220 pounds without one ounce of fat anywhere on his body, which only infuriated her more. Brittney didn’t stand a chance against him. She swallowed hard, thinking even someone as well built as J. T. would’ve been way out of his league by at least 30 pounds. Wondering if he’d put up a fight, she lowered her eyes to check out Derrick’s hands for scratches or anything that might indicate he’d been involved.

  There were none.

  She needed to loosen Derrick up before she went in for the kill, a tactic she’d learned from Brett before he’d dumped her. Come to think of it, he’d used that same technique on her—loosened her up, then darn near killed her.

  “You’re quite a talent,” she stated, knowing men of any age couldn’t resist a compliment. When his smile verified he was no different, she continued, “I read about you last night. Found out you broke all the records at your high school in San Antonio.”

  She saw the first sign of a smile in his eyes. “Not just my high school,” he said, his face now lighting up with excitement. “I shattered most of the records in the city. Even broke Joey Malone’s long-standing one for touchdown passes in a single season.” He paused as if to watch her reaction. She obliged and returned the smile.

  “I even broke my own record—twice,” he added.

  Yeah, like you tried to break Brittney’s bones.

  Jordan forced herself to maintain the fake smile. “Fantastic! I’m guessing you had a lot of scholarship offers.” She leaned closer. “Why’d you pick Grayson County College with all the Division I schools knocking on your door?”

  Derrick’s mouth dropped, and he turned to his coach.

  “Because we offered him the best chance for breaking into the NFL,” Trevelli answered for him. “At any of those other schools, he would have been just another really good player. Here in Connor, he’s on the front page of the two newspapers every week. Even makes the Dallas Tribune at least twice a month.”

  What kind of idiot did they think she was? Who in their right mind believed going to a lower-division college would leapfrog you into the National Football League? She was tempted to tell them what a load of crap that was but guessed they already knew it.

  “Interesting,” she said instead, before focusing back on Derrick. “So, how did you feel last year when you nearly won the division championship?”

  Again, Derrick shot a glance toward his coach before making eye contact with Jordan. “I’d give anything to get that last pass back.”

  Jordan remembered Michael’s story of how the Cougars, down by four points with under a minute left in the game, were driving toward the end zone. With second and one from the twenty-five-yard line, normally a running play, Derrick had thrown a ten-yard pass. Unfortunately, he threw it in the middle of three players, none of whom was wearing a Cougar green and gold jersey. The cornerback for the opposing team had easily picked it off and ran it back for a touchdown, sealing the victory.

  According to Michael, that play was still being debated by the old-timers at Myrtle’s Diner at least once or twice a week. Texas was a football state, and the good old boys ranked the sport right up there with their beer, country music, and pride in their state, where the motto “Don’t mess with Texas” needed no explanation.

  “Yeah. Sometimes we all make bad decisions we can’t undo,” Jordan said, zeroing in on the quarterback for the first blow. “Like using Brittney Prescott’s upper arm to show how strong you are?”

  Both Trevelli and Derrick gasped, before the young quarterback’s face colored like an overripe strawberry and his hazel eyes turned darker. Jordan leaned as far as she could until her lower back pressed against the next seat. She was convinced that if Trevelli hadn’t been next to her, she would have seen Derrick’s rage up close and personal, just as Brittney had.

  “This interview’s over,” Trevelli said, jumping up and shoving Derrick toward the field with the rest of his teammates. “I thought you were a reputable reporter, Miss Jordan, not some paparazzi looking for dirt.”

  “I never meant to hurt her,” Derrick growled through clenched teeth. Muscles twitched in his bulging neck, and he jerked away from his coach’s grip.

  “But you did hurt her, Derrick. I saw the bruises.” Jordan fired back. “You should pick on guys your own size, not pretty young girls who can’t fight back.”

  Larry Trevelli attempted once more to push Derrick toward the field, but even he didn’t stand a chance against Derrick’s strength.

  “What goes on between Brittney and me is none of your business,” Derrick growled, thrusting his face toward her and smashing a fist against the bleachers.

  A cold knot formed in her stomach, imagining what he was capable of. “Did you kill J. T. Spencer?” she asked, keeping her eyes directly on him.

  She’d learned early on to watch for the initial reaction to a direct question. Everybody lied, some better than others, but that first reaction after the question was as telling as a lie detector. Most pathological liars recovered quickly, so it was important not to miss the way the eyes shifted or how the overall body language changed.

  Derrick Young was no exception. He glared, breathing hard through a flared nose, his lips pressed together, his fists balled at his side. Jordan had no doubt the likelihood of her leaving with a shiner would have been quadrupled if the entire team hadn’t been there as witnesses.

  Before Derrick could answer, Coach Trevelli gave him a final push toward the field, then motioned with his hand to the team, who were all staring. “Y’all get back to practice. Now!”

  When Derrick was out of hearing distance, Trevelli turned to Jordan, his eyes flashing the anger she knew she’d caused. “I’d appreciate it if you’d get off my practice field, Ms. McAllister. I have a game to get ready for Saturday night, and none of us have time for your insane accusations.”

  He started toward the team, then stopped and whirled around to face her. “Oh, and you can expect a call to Dwayne Egan,” he said, a smirk replacing the scowl. “I give the Globe unlimited access when it comes to my team, and I’m guessing your editor isn’t going to be too happy to hear about all this.”

  Great!

  She had to pick on a guy who was tight with her boss. “Suit yourself, Mr. Trevelli.” Jordan stood and walked down the steps to the landing. “And, Coach, with a running back as fast as number twenty-two out there—” She pointed to the team who had resumed practice. “What’s he run? A four-three-forty?”

  When Trevelli’s mouth dropped, she smiled. “I would have put him in the Wildcat Formation and let him scramble for those twenty-some yards you needed to win that trophy last year.”

  With that, she turned and walked away, still a little shaken by how quickly she’d seen Derrick Young transform into someone she seriously suspected could kill in the heat of the moment.

  CHAPTER 9

  Friday night rolled around quickly as Jordan shut down her computer and headed home, excited about a night out with her friends at their favorite hangout. After a week that could only be described as hairy, she needed to be around friendly faces where her main objective was to eat, drink, and … drink some more.

  Her interview with Derrick Young still unnerved her every time she thought about it, which was often. Up that close, the anger radiating from him had been a
lmost palpable, and she had no doubt he might have erupted into uncontrolled rage if the coach hadn’t been there.

  A wave of apprehension coursed through her. Derrick was definitely a possibility on her short list of who killed J. T. Much bigger than J. T., Derrick might as well have worn a sign proclaiming his physical superiority. Brittney wouldn’t have stood a chance against his brute strength. Mix that with his short fuse, and she was certain the boy could be lethal. Mentally, she put a star by his name on her list of suspects.

  Jordan debated whether to tell Ray about the interview, not looking forward to the tongue-lashing she knew she’d get for confronting Derrick on her own. Even if she reassured him that Coach Trevelli had been right there, she was positive her ex-cop neighbor would not be happy when he heard. Eventually she’d have to confess, but the longer she put it off, the better.

  And thinking back on the interview, how much help would Coach Trevelli have been if Derrick had decided to give her some of what Brittney probably got on a regular basis? Larry Trevelli was a big guy, but even he was a good four or five inches shorter than his quarterback. He would have gone down faster than the Titanic if the younger man had suddenly gone Rambo on her.

  As expected, Larry Trevelli called Dwayne Egan to complain, which meant Jordan had to sit through a grueling lecture on how long it had taken the Globe to get unlimited access to the Cougars. Even Jim Westerville, the sports editor, received a call and joined in the what-thehell-did-you-think-you-were-doing reprimands.

  In the end, Jordan agreed to apologize to both Trevelli and Derrick Young, although she was still convinced the quarterback was somehow involved in J. T.’s murder.

  “And I have your absolute word there will be no more shenanigans involving the football team, McAllister?” Egan had demanded.

  “I won’t make any more accusations,” she’d promised, pleased she had managed to appease her editor without actually agreeing not to question the two men once more. She had no intentions of apologizing to them, at least not sincerely, but promising to do so would give her another excuse to revisit the practice field.

  She needed one more shot at the quarterback.

  Alex spotted Jordan McAllister leaving the building and walking to her car, noticing she didn’t interact with any of the other employees filing out. He hadn’t pegged her as antisocial and wondered if her co-workers still labeled her an outsider. He’d been lucky when he arrived at the bank several weeks ago and everyone had been helpful and friendly.

  Of course, most of the people there were women and he’d always been able to warm up the female gender, as far back as junior high. The loan officer had even invited him to dinner, but he’d come to Ranchero for one reason, and it wasn’t female companionship.

  Watching Jordan McAllister swing her legs into her car made him reconsider that decision, maybe throw in a little pleasure with work. But if he’d learned anything from his last job, it was that the two didn’t mix. Moving from city to city, wherever he was sent, left no time for building friendships, let alone a relationship. His past experiences proved the consequences were too steep.

  He pulled into traffic, far enough behind her to avoid being noticed. He still hadn’t figured this woman out. If she was involved, she was being very careful about flaunting it. Empire Apartments wasn’t the worst housing complex in Ranchero, but it was among the cheapest. And cheap didn’t come with great views or jetted bathtubs. If she had extra cash coming in, she was hiding it well.

  Sliding into a parking slot several spaces down from where Jordan parked, he pretended to read the newspaper in case she glanced his way. Even if she did, he was far enough away she shouldn’t recognize him. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out his binoculars, zooming in on the sign in the window of the building she entered.

  LOLA’S SPIRITUAL READINGS.

  What in heaven’s name was she doing visiting a psychic? He definitely didn’t picture her as someone who believed in that garbage.

  But then, he’d never suspected she might be a killer, either.

  Settling back in the seat to get as comfortable as his six-two frame allowed, he wished Ranchero wasn’t such a small town. He’d kill for a Starbucks right now.

  He jerked up, fully alert when Jordan exited the psychic’s shop and got back into her car. Watching her pull away, he reached down to turn on the ignition and froze in mid-act when a sudden idea hit him.

  Since he’d been following Jordan the last three days and she’d always gone straight home after work, he decided to play a hunch and check out the psychic. After making the possible connection between Jordan and the dead waiter, as weak as it was with Ray hiding the knife rack, it was time to dig deeper into her life for more clues.

  Or perhaps one solid motive.

  He waited until her Camry was out of sight before exiting his car and walking down the street to the cornball psychic place.

  As he grabbed the doorknob, a sudden chill coursed through his body, and his fingers automatically touched the Glock tucked into the shoulder holster. Unsure what he would find inside, he needed to be prepared for anything. His boss always said, “A surprised man is usually a dead one.”

  He pushed through the door. The jingling bells announcing his arrival reminded him of Joan Crawford’s charm bracelet in the horror movie StraitJacket, and he hesitated. In the movie, every time you heard the bracelet jangling, you knew someone was about to lose a head. It had been his mother’s favorite spooky story, and he’d watched it once with her, wanting to prove he wasn’t a sissy. He’d had nightmares for weeks after that, and sissy or not, he’d climbed into bed with his older sister many nights after she’d fallen asleep.

  Pushing the unexpected memory out of his mind, he glanced around the small, dimly lit room. He breathed in the unmistakable scent of flowers, noticing the dozen or so candles of varying sizes and colors, all lit in strategic places around the room.

  A sudden rattle caught his attention, restarting the Joan Crawford movie in his brain again. His eyes darted to an entryway where a rotund elderly woman wearing a long flowing caftan was coming through the doorway, which was covered by a hippielike cascade of vertical beads.

  Again, his hand slid under his jacket to the holster.

  “May I help you?”

  She didn’t look like a killer, but then again neither did Jordan.

  “Alex Montgomery,” he said, crossing the room with his hand extended. Up close, he noticed her perfectly shaped, ruby red lips that seemed a little large for her face.

  The woman accepted his hand with a firm grip of her own. Alex made a mental note not to make the mistake of treating her like a helpless old lady.

  “Are you interested in a reading, Mr. Montgomery?”

  “What? No …” he started, before catching himself. It would serve no purpose if he made this woman suspicious of why he was there and have her call the cops. “It’s probably too late today, right?”

  She glanced at the clock above the door. “I have time for one more.” She pointed to a small table in the middle of the room. “Have a seat.”

  “I can come back tomorrow,” Alex protested, suddenly wishing he had stayed in the car.

  The woman smiled. “No need to. If you walked into my place, there must be a reason. Something is troubling you. Let’s find out what it is.”

  She walked around the table and sat in the chair opposite the one she indicated for him.

  Alex hesitated briefly before easing into the seat. The table was covered with a dark purple scarf embellished with a variety of gold squiggles bordering the material and forming an intricate design in the middle. A shiver slid up his spine as the woman reached behind her and picked up a white candle, which she placed in the center of the linen, facing him.

  He debated whether to get up and run like hell or stay and tough it out.

  Something about this stuff had always freaked him out. His sister, Janie, used to make him play the Ouija board with her. He still remembered some of the
responses, particularly the one that said he would die before he ever fathered a child.

  He knew it was bunk, that it was just Janie guiding the Ouija piece across the letters on the board to scare him, but still …

  “Have you ever had a reading before, Mr. Montgomery?” the woman asked, striking a match and lighting the white candle.

  “Call me Alex.”

  “I’m Lola.” She reached for his hand before closing her eyes. “We need to get in touch with your spiritual guides.” She spoke almost in a whisper.

  “I light the white candle to entice the spirits around me,” she began. “Mr. Montgom—Alex—close your eyes and feel the energy in the room.”

  He pressed his eyes shut, wondering how she knew they’d been open in the first place.

  “Come, Divine Spirits, and form a protective circle around this man who is looking for answers in his life. Stave off evil spirits, keep them out of this space and burn off any obstacle that might interfere with his journey.”

  Alex could have sworn the room grew suddenly colder. It took him a moment to realize Lola had stopped speaking and was humming some sort of chant. Visions of the Ouija board, coupled with the swirling vanilla-smelling smoke from the candle supposedly circling him with good spirits dueling with evil ones, fueled his desire to bolt without looking back.

  Sheesh! Who believes this stuff? He tensed when another chill skittered down his spine.

  “You can open your eyes now, Alex.”

  When he looked up, the woman was smiling. “Let yourself believe,” she said, making him think she’d read his mind.

  She reached under the table again and produced a potted lily, a windmill, and a purple candle that matched the silk scarf spread on the table. She placed each one in a corner of the cloth and pushed the white candle to the fourth corner.

  “These signify earth, wind, and fire,” she explained, reaching under the table for a deck of cards which reminded him of the large Old Maid ones he used with his nieces.