Soul Rest: A Knights of the Board Room Novel

by Hill, Joey W.

  Even if she did that, though, she’d keep seeing him like this. And unless she backed out of Ben and Marcie’s wedding, they’d be seeing one another there as well. Damn it. It was too much to hope the city would be hit by some kind of natural catastrophe, like a hurricane or meteor shower. Just affecting Baton Rouge, keeping all members of the BRPD on duty. She didn’t want Marcie’s wedding ruined. A lot of planning went into those things, after all.

  As he emerged from his unit, a big man who made the vehicle dip and lift as he stepped out of it, her gaze slid over the line of his shoulder and hip, the way his uniform fit. Had he taken a shower this morning after she left? She was sure he had. She could picture him in the small shower, the water sluicing over all those muscles and golden skin, his hands following the soap’s track to cup his balls, rub soap along his cock. Would he have thought of her? Of how he’d had her bound and helpless, calling him Master? Would he have worked his hand up and down himself as he imagined doing it again, as soon as humanly possible?

  She’d certainly had some similar thoughts in her own shower, though she’d kept her hands away from herself. She’d told herself she was testing her control, not obeying that lasting instinct that felt like her climaxes belonged to him. Then his gaze met hers across the police barrier, and she knew that for the pathetic lie it was. She remembered how she’d swept her gaze downward last night, and had a sudden, unwise compulsion to do it as a gibe, exaggerate it. She suppressed the urge. She needed to cut back on her stupid impulses, since her version of flirting with Leland was akin to tossing rocks at a pit bull on a frayed rope.

  She’d only be doing the submissive gaze taunt to cover her weird compulsion to do it for real, anyway. So she kept her expression as inscrutable as his. He gave her a nod, which she returned.

  He was probably measuring how far she was from the crime tape, to determine if it was far enough for his tastes. Since she wanted to watch him too much, the way he walked and moved, or tune into that deep voice as he spoke to the officers on scene, she busied herself with other tasks. She checked her email and then scrolled through the notes she’d made from her interview with Dogboy’s foster mother.

  Mavis Roberts had wild bushy hair, a sharp voice and hands quick to slap out at any of the seven rambunctious children currently under her care. She’d verified he’d attended the same high school as Loretta. School records showed they’d been in the same Spanish class, when he chose to show up.

  “No ma’am, we couldn’t keep no pets with that one in the house. He hated dogs and they hated him. So his brothers and sisters called him Dogboy to tease him. Took the name and owned it, though.” The woman’s brow had creased. “He did that about the time the only dog we had left got hit by a car. I thought he did it because he liked that one. It was a male. The others were female. Dogboy, he likes girls, but he doesn’t know how to be patient with them. Boy doesn’t know how to be patient or kind with nobody. Gonna end up dead, but it won’t be my fault. Did the best I could by him. Sometimes they just start out rotten. Know what I mean?”

  Though her hands were quick to fly out, Celeste noticed none of the kids seemed all that afraid of her. They were also well fed and clean, and all of them were girls. When she asked Mavis about that, she shrugged.

  “Girls are just easier, honey. Got tired of dealing with boy shit.”

  She needed to try to find some of Loretta’s friends, determine if Dogboy had ever come on to her. She’d bet money he had, and Loretta had shut him down, recognizing him for the trouble he was. Celeste had already sent her interview with the foster mother to Detective Marquez. He’d need to follow up and conduct the same interviews, but if Dogboy had killed Loretta Stiles, that was going to be his undoing. A murdered prostitute might regrettably pass under the radar, but a middle-class teenage girl’s death enraged a community and galvanized a deeper investigation.

  Leland had disappeared down the alley. Though she was ostensibly paying attention to everything else about the scene, her gaze kept returning to that opening, anticipating his return. When he’d left his car, it might have been her imagination, but she thought the wind had brought her a trace of that peppermint scent he carried on his skin. Olfactory memory was almost as dangerous as hormones in driving a woman’s decisions. She thought of the strength of his hand closing over hers, his whisper in her ear, and she closed her eyes, sensation washing through her. He’d been all hers last night, and then she’d spooked this morning.

  But all of it hadn’t been cold feet, damn it. He was trying to tell her how to do her job. Typical cop. They saw everything in black-and-white, civilian versus police. She covered stories that required taking risks, but he took risks by putting on that uniform every day.

  She thought of how he’d come down on her about getting in Dogboy’s face. Okay, yeah, now that she thought Dogboy had a thing for killing women, she’d be steering clear of him, at least the face-to-face encounters. No woman, no matter how confident she was or how public the meeting place, would be safe attracting the attention of that kind of person. She wasn’t a moron, no matter what Sergeant Leland Keller thought.

  But she knew it wasn’t that. She’d spent the past few years around cops, so if she stepped away from her personal hang-ups about people fucking with her about her job, she understood he’d have pretty black-and-white lines about keeping her safe. Mike or Billy might react the same way. Mike had come into the cul-de-sac just to check on her, hadn’t he? It was the intimate nature of what was happening between her and Leland that had lifted her hackles. He’d said she was good at her job, after all. That’s why I worry.

  Sighing, she looked up to find he was emerging from the alley. As he stopped to talk to the officer on that side of the barrier, he was facing her. Though he appeared focused on the officer whose back was to her, she crossed her eyes, stuck out her tongue. Warm swirlies kicked up in her stomach as a hint of a smile appeared on his face. The little hop stirred up the effects of last night, sent other desires pulsing through her. Who was she kidding? No matter what she’d resolved earlier, she wasn’t going to cut the cord between them yet. The glint in his eyes, suggested he wasn’t planning on cutting her loose yet, either.

  The thump-thump of a car stereo with too much pumped up bass disrupted her pleasant imaginings. It was coming out of a black sedan with one tan-colored door, a battered back panel and expensive rims. It wasn’t the first car that had cruised past, slowing down to see what was happening in that taped-off area. There was far less rubbernecking, though, since most of the normal traffic would be people coming to score drugs. The police had blocked off the right lane so any traffic had to swerve out, which slowed the vehicles further and gave the barrier cops a good look at the driver. If they thought the occupant was a regular patron, they might stop and question the driver.

  That was the case with this car. Officer Manny Brown, who’d been in District 1 about three years, a slow-talking Texan with a young face but sharp dark eyes, stepped forward, raising his arm to slow the driver down, bring the car to a stop.

  The driver punched the gas.

  Leland had said a reporter was like a cop when it came to noticing details, but one thing they had that Celeste didn’t was an impressive level of vigilance. The second the car accelerated, Leland, Manny, and the other two officers on the barrier drew weapons. Suddenly they were all bellowing orders at the car to stop, Leland’s baritone roaring over all of them. The back windows came down and one of two figures shadowed there thrust a weapon out toward the barrier side.

  “Down!” It was a thundering command from all the cops. Gunfire cracked through the air. Celeste saw the flare of the discharge, Leland standing in the line of fire. No.

  She’d sprung to her feet and started forward, despite the stupidity of such a knee-jerk reaction. Later, she’d remember she’d screamed his name, but in the next second, she was scrambling for cover as gunfire erupted out the other back window. Bullets struck her stadium chair and knocked it backward like a fly hit
by a flyswatter. As she stumbled away, another bullet ricocheted off the light post, a sharp ping, then the concrete, sending up a spray of dust and gravel.

  As she ran for her life, cracks in the curtains of the buildings across from her became smooth lines again as the occupants of the apartments retreated from the vulnerable position. The door of the nail salon slammed as the store owner took cover. She was holding her tablet up to cover the side of her face. The car couldn’t stop or the police would catch up, so as she heard glass shatter in the storefront behind her and heard the nail salon employees screech in alarm, she knew the gunman was being carried away from her. She spun around when she was pretty sure she was in the clear and saw the car rocketing toward the end of the street.

  Her gaze shot to Leland. He was all right. He was helping Manny back to his feet as the other two cops sprinted toward their units, one shouting into his radio.

  She pivoted and ran down the alley behind her. This was why it was critical for Billy and all the others to know the streets inside and out. The car was most likely to turn left so they could shoot down the parallel street. It was the quickest route to a warren of neighborhoods with rabbit holes for a fleeing vehicle. If she could run fast enough, she could see them as they passed by, get a better look at their faces. Rage accompanied the adrenaline now. Bastards. Thinking they could shoot at the police, at Leland. The police hadn’t returned fire, no time for it. Plus, a moving target was too great a risk to the civilians behind the windows. She’d been sitting on that same sidewalk herself.

  She’d been on scene at a police shooting a couple years back. She’d known the dead officer. Tom had been twenty-nine years old, with a young son and a five-year marriage. He’d been gunned down on the street. By a stroke of unlucky fate, she’d arrived right before police backup had. 911 had already been called, officer down, but she’d been the one to see the life die out of his eyes while she held his hand impotently. She hadn’t been aware of the police arriving, of hands moving her out of the way. Eventually she’d found herself sitting in her car in an empty parking lot, no idea how she’d gotten there, with smears of his blood on her shirt.

  Now she visualized Leland in the same position as Tom, that strong handclasp going limp around hers. Her speed doubled. Son of a bitch wasn’t going to get away with shooting at her man without her seeing his face.

  She was glad for every punishing workout as she skidded out of the alley on the other side, right by Jai’s place. Triumph surged through her as she saw the black sedan come screaming down the street. The tinted windows in the front were raised, so no chance of identifying the driver, but she saw one of the two in the backseat. Shock froze her as Dogboy’s dead eyes pinned her, his lips peeling back. Fast as she could blink, he thrust his gun back out the window.

  He could send a dozen bullets across her body faster than she could move. But it was harder to hit a moving target than a sitting one. Pure survival instinct had her dropping to the ground. As she went down, something grabbed her around the waist, swung her back into the alley, hard enough she hit the concrete with a bone-jarring thud. She was covered as the whine of bullets shot over her, then the weight on her back lifted.

  She shoved herself up in time to see Leland spinning and lunging out of the alley, weapon drawn. He fired one shot before lifting the muzzle, the fury in his face indicating the car was making its getaway.

  “Dogboy,” she gasped.

  He didn’t hear her, so she said it louder, repeated it again and again before she realized she sounded like an answering machine stuck on a loop. Shock, probably. Yeah, she’d been in some sticky situations before, but that was the first time someone had tried to kill her. Christ. Dogboy. Teenage psychopath. The asshole had shot at her. Multiple shots.

  Despite her legs feeling like noodles, she was on her feet and out of the alley, breaking into a half run to go after the car. Leland caught her around the waist. “Hey. Celeste, they’re gone.”

  “Son of a bitch,” she snarled, fighting his hold. “Thinks he can take a fucking shot at me and make me scared of him. Bastard will wish he’d never been born.”

  “Easy, easy.” He gave her a hard shake, snapping the red haze out of her eye. “Stop clawing at me. Settle down.”

  She knew she was acting irrationally, fought it back, but she pushed against his hold. “I’m all right. Let me go. Let go.”

  “Okay, but you stay right there.” He kept a hand on her shoulder, fingers curled in her shirt while he spoke into his radio. “Black Chrysler sedan, bullet hole in the back trunk, Louisiana license plate Delta-Hotel-Lima, 5756.”

  “Dogboy,” she said again. “It was Dogboy doing the shooting in the back. Earl Edward James is his real name.” She took a breath, suddenly remembering standing at Leland’s door this morning. “Guess neither of us watched our asses, did we? Good thing we were watching each other’s.”

  It was a weak joke, and he glanced at her, concern etched on his face. There was a ringing in her head, a keening sound like a frightened woman. That wasn’t her. She’d shoot herself before she’d make such a noise. As she focused, she realized it wasn’t her. The unidentified sound widened her focus so she could take in more of her surroundings. As soon as she did, she wrenched herself from Leland’s hold and was off like a shot, but not to chase down a car that was long gone.

  One of Jai’s windows was gone except for jagged glass teeth, and there was a trio of bullets in an arc along the thick glass door. She jerked it open and saw a woman on her knees by the cash register. She wore a yellow tunic and brown leggings. The tunic was stained red. A dozen tomatoes were around her, but they were unbroken. They weren’t why her tunic was stained and her hands were red and wet. She lifted them to Celeste, eyes frantic. “Help us. Help…”

  Leland pushed past her, already back on the radio. “We need an ambulance at the Mini-Mart at 447 Weller Avenue for…” His voice hitched as he reached the end of the counter. “Multiple GSWs to the chest. One male, mid-forties… Ma’am are you hurt? Are you hurt? No? I need you to move back then, let me help him. Step back for me.”

  Celeste, her heart in her throat, moved forward. Leland briefly met her gaze as she eased the woman away. Jai was crumpled behind the counter, a thick puddle of blood soaking his shirt. His head lolled toward her, his eyes glazed, but she thought she saw a hint of the half smile he always gave her. Muscle memory. Shock as well. I’m not really shot if I can smile and say hello like I always do, right?

  The woman was crying louder now. Despite wanting to stay right at Leland’s side, Celeste moved the woman further away, in front of a display of Hostess cakes. Jai had teased her about those.

  “Two for a dollar. Makes your butt bigger, Celeste. A man likes at least two good handfuls. You see any skinny porn stars? How about the classics? Marilyn Monroe, Jane Russell, Sophia Loren. Those are women, the ones men fantasize about it. Not these pencil thin super models.”

  The Mini-Mart had a small supply of overpriced folding stadium chairs, cheaper versions of her own. Thank God Jai had one set up so his customers could see how they worked. She sat the woman down in it and checked her over, made absolutely sure the blood wasn’t hers. It wasn’t. It was all Jai’s. Celeste’s hands shook as she turned the woman’s palms over. Pulling some paper towels off the shelf, she ripped them open and helped her clean off the blood. It gave them both something to do.

  Celeste wondered if she was the lady who brought the tomatoes, or if she’d just knocked them off the counter. She’d assumed she would be an older woman, but this woman was about thirty, pale under her hazelnut skin. She had a figure Jai would like. Wide backside and generous breasts. Right now she smelled like blood and a fragrant hair spray, mixed with cigarettes. They might have been flirting before the shooting. If so, it would have been harmless fun, like how Jai teased Celeste, because Jai was faithful to his wife. His wife and two daughters. The one who was studying to be a doctor and the other dedicated to partying, to giving her father sleepless night
s.

  Celeste swallowed on a hard lump.

  “Monsters,” the woman sobbed. She had a heavy Jamaican accent. “They are monsters. Jai did nothing to them.”

  Celeste held her, uttered something pointlessly soothing, but her gaze clung to Leland. He was doing what his training allowed to slow the blood flow, keep Jai responsive. His hands were covered in blood, too. When his gaze slid back to her, checking on them, she saw in his face what she already feared.

  Jai’s head turned, his hand fumbling to rest on Leland’s arm. The store owner coughed, muttered something. Leland bent to hear him. As he did, his full lips twisted in an attempt at a smile. Jai’s hand closed in a fist, beat a weak tattoo against his arm. Leland took his hand while holding pressure on the gunshot wound in his chest. So she saw when Jai’s fingers loosened and that stillness set in. It was over.

  §

  Marigold was the woman who brought Jai those non-USDA approved tomatoes. Her gaze couldn’t seem to leave them, the way they gleamed on the floor. When someone accidentally stepped on one, Marigold winced as if she’d been punched. There was about ten feet between her and Celeste, and they were under the supervision of one officer, Jack Bronski. She knew his job was not only to see to their comfort while they waited, but to minimize conversation between them. Witness statements tended to be more accurate if they hadn’t discussed the scene with other witnesses.

  Jack explained that to Marigold, but she looked as if she heard none of it. She was fixated on the tomatoes, mumbling to herself. Celeste asked Jack if they could collect them in a basket, give them back to the woman. Bless him, Bronski checked with the detective on scene and the crime techs and received the go-ahead. She suspected the officer who’d stepped on one had made the case for removing them from the floor before a bigger mess happened. When Celeste automatically rose to help, Jack put a firm but kind hand to her shoulder, keeping her in place on another stadium chair they’d opened up for her. He had one of the crime techs hand him a grocery bag from behind the counter, then squatted to collect the tomatoes. Marigold stifled a sob as Celeste stared at his long fingers closing over the shiny red spheres. For some reason, she felt a similar desire to cry over the simple, normal act. Gathering up tomatoes, putting them in a bag. Bronski brought them to Marigold, who held them like she was cradling a baby.