by A. J. Norris
“Mmm. Interesting.” Harry pressed his lips together.
“What's interesting?”
“Your candor, among other things.”
“Why lie? I didn't do anything wrong. And what other things?”
“You talked about the victim as if she were still alive. Believe me, she's definitely dead. So, do you have an alibi for Tuesday or not?”
“I do.” Mikey looked toward the ceiling and sighed. “I had dinner with someone at Hector’s and left around eleven on Monday night then went to my friend’s restaurant, Cocoa, and hung out.”
“Does this someone have a name?” Harry asked, looking bored.
Mikey moaned. “Do we have to involve her? We recently met and I like her. Listen, I was at my friend's restaurant from about eleven-thirty until closing, which is about 2:30. He can verify I was there. Brad Winston is his name, owns Cocoa.”
“Oh, pardon me, swanky place there. I know someone who loves that restaurant. Can't understand why,” the detective said as he jotted a note down inside a brown folder.
“Not your crowd, I take it?”
Harry shook his head. “A little fancy for my tastes.”
“I wouldn't go there if my buddy didn't own it. But who can pass up free food?”
“I could.”
“Really?” Mikey lifted his chin and glanced over the table.
“Nice. Real fuckin' nice.” Harry sucked in his stomach and flattened the front of his shirt. “Your alibi better check out.”
“It will.”
“So you wouldn't mind if I called Brad Winston now, would you?”
“Aren't you gonna do that anyway?”
Detective Hunter snorted. “You've got to be the strangest suspect, I've ever met.”
“I'll take that. You have no idea the types of people I've met over the years in my line of work. Strange is good. Celebrated even. Am I a suspect?”
Harry grunted. “Not sure, but someone out there doesn't like you.”
“I know, tell me about.” Mikey assumed the detective was referring to Cynthia.
Hunter looked at him curiously. “Who doesn't like you?”
“The ex-wife. Who else?”
“Oh…yeah, right.” He nodded then walked out the door.
Mikey closed his eyes. “Fuckin' shit motherfucker.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Harry
Cocoa. What kind of a name was that for a restaurant? Harry had never been inside, but from the outside it seemed like a place he wouldn't like. He walked in and no surprise, he’d been correct in his assessment. However, now the name made sense. The inside smelled like chocolate. Panels of shiny brown fabric draped down the walls like curtains, some partially covering tall windows, and some were merely decoration. Harry’s eyes focused on the only thing that wasn’t a shade of brown. Three tiers of liquor bottles lined the wall behind a white marble topped bar. He inhaled sharply. Expensive, top shelf, good old-fashioned alcohol. Oh, man.
“Would you like a table, sir?” The hostess interrupted his no-good-can-come-of-this thoughts.
“I was looking for your owner, Brad Winston,” he said, handing her his business card. She glanced at it, but it didn't register any alarms that he could tell. Perhaps she only eyed the card out of courtesy.
She picked up the phone behind her podium, dialed, and spoke into the phone. After a few minutes a gentleman in a chef’s uniform came out of the back wiping his hands on a white brown-stained apron.
“Can I help you?” he asked. The hostess handed him the card. “Detective Harold Hunter?”
“I hope so. Are you Brad Winston?”
“That’s me. What can I do—?”
“Can we talk more privately?”
“Yeah sure, but what’s this about?” Brad inquired while he led Harry through the kitchen into an office at the far end. A stronger chocolate smell mixed with garlic and other spices assaulted Harry’s nose as they passed the stoves. Several other cooks glanced up then continued with whatever they were doing.
Brad closed them inside his office and planted his butt on the edge of the desk. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“You were named as an alibi.”
Brad’s eyes widened. “Alibi? For who?”
“Mikey Hardin. He said he was here Monday night. Hung around till close. Do you know him?” Harry ran a finger along his face-stubble.
The muscles in Brad’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. I do. And yes he was here. What’s this ab—?”
“Police business. What time was he here and when did he leave?”
“He was here about eleven-thirty, sat at the bar and sipped coffee, keeping my wife company while she tended bar. He left about two-thirtyish when we closed. What happened?”
Harry wrote down the times in his little black field interview notebook. “Like I said, police—”
“Business. Yeah I know,” Brad finished for him. “Mikey’s a good guy. I'm sure whatever it is you think he did, he didn't.” Brad looked him directly in the eye.
“How long have you known him?”
“All my life. Grew up together.”
“I see. Friends for life,” Harry nodded.
“What exactly are you implying, Detective Hunter?”
Harry sighed. “I'm not implying anything.”
Brad wrinkled his nose. “Do you smell that?”
Harry sniffed the air. “What am I supposed to be smelling, Mr. Winston?”
Brad smirked. “I told you what you wanted to know. And since you're trying to bait me, I figure his alibi passed your test. So if you don't mind, I have to get back to work.” He started for the door.
Harry scratched his head. Was this some kind of joke? “Am I bothering you, Mr. Winston?”
Brad sighed. “A little. The dinner rush starts in ten minutes.”
“Excuse me, but I think you ought to know your friend is a murder suspect. So you might want to tone down that attitude of yours.”
“Pfft.” Brad rolled his eyes and smiled.
“Pfft what? This is a serious allegation.”
Mr. Winston shook his head. “Yeah. You don’t know Mikey. I do.”
“You sure about that?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mikey
Lining up the instruments of his craft always comforted Mikey. He prided himself on always using the best quality inks and tattooing needles. He pulled over the rolling tray he used for holding the inks, towels, and other items he needed while he worked. His first client of the day, Cody Pollard, who had become a regular over the past year, liked for him to be ready to work when he arrived. Across the way, one of the other artists watched his ministrations. Everyone called him Needles Ned even though his name was Eric. A long beard grew from his chin and was tied together in several places with rubber-bands. And of course, he was covered in tattoos.
Needles grimaced. “You got that weirdo coming in again?”
“What?”
“That freak,” he sneered. “That’s the only time you do all this,” he swirled his hand around.
“What? Get myself set up?” Mikey chuckled. “You’re crazy, man.”
“You ain’t just setting-up like usual. That guy set you off or something?”
“I dunno what you mean.” Mikey glanced at his tray. Maybe the guy had a point. Everything he could possibly need cluttered the stainless steel, including extra towels, ink cups and flat needles used for shading. Cody never had his tattoos shaded.
Needles snorted. “What I mean is—”
“Yeah. I know what you meant. Part of me wishes he’d take his biz someplace else. But money’s money.”
“I guess. I’m glad I don’t gotta do it. Personally, I don’t like the guy.”
At three P.M. sharp the motion sensitive doorbell chimed. Mikey stood to ward off the receptionist. His client didn't like to be held up. Cody's back went rigid as he spoke with Suzie, the current revolving-door receptionist.
“It's all right, darlin', he can come ba
ck,” he told her.
“Oh sorry, I didn't realize he was one of yours.”
Mikey waved his punctual client over. He patted the adjustable tattoo bed. “Have a seat.”
Cody settled into the seat and made no eye contact with him. After what seemed like decades of readjusting his position, he looked up.
Mikey concentrated hard on not sighing. “Ready?”
“I want a name on my arm.” Cody tapped his upper left arm then lifted the short sleeve.
“You have a font in mind? Script? Serif?”
“Script.”
“Okay. What's the name?” He opened a package with a fresh needle inside.
“Jennifer. J-E-N-N-I-F-E-R.”
Mikey’s eyes widened. That was the same name as—whatever, not an uncommon name. He shook his head and the thought dissipated. “No problem. Lose the shirt.”
Cody pulled his shirt over his head, carefully folded the polo, and placed it across his lap. He arranged his left elbow on the armrest.
Mikey made up the transfer for the tattoo and placed it where his client indicated. He smoothed out the pre-drawn name over Cody's arm and lifted the paper. “Go check it out in the mirror. Let me know if you like the placement.”
Cody inspected his sinewy bicep. “Yep.”
The tattoo artist in Mikey thought it was a bad idea to ink names in your skin, particularly of women, but over the years he'd learned to keep his mouth shut. If some moron wanted the name of a girl permanently emblazoned on himself for the world to see, what did he care? Cody always paid in cash and tipped him well.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Grace
End-to-end papers covered the top of Grace’s desk inside her office. She puffed out a breath and sent a loose page off the edge and onto the floor. She tried to catch it mid-air and missed. This career of hers had little to offer in the realm of excitement—flying paper was it. She leaned back in her chair and imagined being on the back of Mikey's Harley. Her thighs tingled, remembering the feel of the engine rumbling beneath her. Okay, who was she kidding? That wasn't the only thing that made her thighs tingle. She put two fingers up to her mouth and ran them over her lips. The sensation wasn't anywhere near the reality of his kisses. She hiked up the hem of her skirt and teased her thigh with her fingertips. Her mind conjured up what he looked like naked based on the memory of his solid body pressed against hers, his thickly muscled arms wrapped around her waist. Slipping a finger beneath the crotch of her panties, she gasped. She brushed across the most sensitive part and moaned, imagining his mouth there.
Her cell jumped across the tax returns on her desk.
Grace tried ignoring the vibrating interruption, but glanced at the screen. Dad. Hastily, she pulled her hand out of her thong and flung her skirt back into place.
“Hello? Dad, is everything okay?”
Her father sighed. “Yes, honey, just checking in.”
“Oh. Usually you don't call till later and I was worried something happened.” She picked up a tax return but tossed it down when she remembered where her hand had been moments before. A frown formed on her face.
“Well, actually—”
“W-what? What is it?”
“Relax…I want you to be extra careful for now. Lock your car door as soon as you get in. Your apartment door.”
“I always do. What's this about?”
“You know, police business and all. Can't discuss specifics.” And he didn’t with Grace, for which she was glad.
“What is it anyway?”
“There have been a couple of murders, possibly the same perp did both.” Harry breathed deeply, then Grace heard him to take a sip of coffee. Her father drank java juice like he used to guzzle alcohol—daily and sometimes two-fisted.
“I know. I watch the news.” Grace tapped her fingers on her desk.
“The other reason I called was because your mother's birthday is coming up. How do you want to celebrate it this year? I was thinking—”
“Dad, I think I'm going to sit this year out. I don't think it's a good—”
“I didn't hear that, did I, Gracie? Your mother should be remembered. She loved her birthday.”
Grace was always amused by how her father spoke about her mother; the emotion filled words contradicted his gravelly voice.
Grace groaned. “I know, but I don't think she would want us—you to live like she's still here. It's been ten years, Dad. Eleven.”
“It's what we do every year.”
“Yeah, and at Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Flag Day.” Grace looked up in annoyance.
“What am I supposed to tell Mrs. McGregor? She always joins us. She looks forward to your mother's birthday.”
Grace laughed humorlessly. “Why don't the two of you go to dinner or something?”
“It won't be the same without you.”
“I'm sure Natalie won't mind.”
Her father couldn't see the real reason his neighbor came over all the time, and it wasn't to talk about her late mother. Mrs. McGregor hadn't been a Mrs. in years. Her husband had left her right about the time Grace’s mother passed away.
“I think you're wrong about that.”
“Dad, do you hear yourself? She's over all time. Coming around for how long now? Never remarried. She’s attractive, don't you think?”
Harry chuckled. “I don't think…” The denial lost its power and he went quiet. He swallowed another sip of coffee.
Grace stared at the wall in front of her. She really didn't want to celebrate this year. She hated the sad look her father always had on his face. After leaving, she always pictured him sitting on the edge of his bed, the same way she'd found him crying the morning of the funeral.
“If you really want me to be there, I will. But this has to be the last time. Promise me.”
His voice brightened, “Okay. Last time. I promise.”
Grace paced around her office after the emotionally exhausting phone call. She ignored the pile of papers. The mound sat there like a prognostication. Her life would forever be boring. Stagnant. She’d had a glimpse of a new beginning on the back of that motorcycle. After her date with Mikey she'd had second thoughts about moving forward with the man. Sure, he was big-hearted, fun, and a bit wild, but also had a ten-year-old son. A contradiction to his job as a tattoo artist. Grace never considered herself parent material and kids didn't seem to like her. However, Mikey was everything she wasn't, which wasn't a bad thing. She reached for the phone.
While the phone rang in her ear, the contents of her stomach swirled. She could hear her father words inside her brain, ‘You should never call a man, let them call you. If they're interested, they'll call’.
“Hello?” Mikey answered.
“Hi, this is Grace. Do you remember me?”
He chuckled in a quick burst. “We only went out two nights ago. I remember you well.”
“Okay. Well, I was wondering if you were doing anything this weekend?”
“Um, I have my son this weekend, but I'm free tonight. I was about to order some pizza. Why don't you come over…watch a movie…or something?”
“I can probably do that.” She already knew his address because she'd insisted on him giving her the information before she’d agreed to their first date. A cop’s daughter was well-trained.
“Cool. Come over whenever, I'll be here.”
“’Kay. Bye.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mikey
Mikey surveyed his house for signs he might be a slob. Finding none, he wandered into his bedroom to shower and change. He had plans to show Grace some of his tattoo collection so he put on a muscle shirt. Fortunately, he could to pull off the look. When he wasn't working or spending time with his son or Brad, he hit the gym.
The doorbell rang right as he sat on the couch and he jumped up to get it. When he opened the door, Grace stood with her back to him. “Hey darlin’,” he said.
She spun around. “Hi.” Her hand came up in a wave.
&n
bsp; When she neared him, he leaned toward her and planted a kiss on her lips. He'd meant the kiss to be a quick greeting but it turned into a promise of more later. Or maybe more right now. He pulled her against him and with their mouths still fused, walked them back into the house. Blindly, he felt the air for the door. Once he found the panel, it took a couple tries before he got it shut all the way. He turned the lock and returned his full attention to her.
Grace broke the contact first. “Sorry,” she said.
He furrowed his brow. “For what? That was a hell of a greeting. Besides, I kissed you.”
“Oh yeah. I guess you did. I must’ve been thinking about it.” She brought a hand up to her mouth and ran her fingers over her lips, her face red.
Mikey took her hand and led her into the living room. “Have a seat. I'm going to try to be a good host. Can I get you something to drink before I order some pizza?”
She followed him into the kitchen. “What do you have?”
After he opened the fridge, he remembered he hadn't gone to the grocery store yet. “Shit.”
She peered over his shoulder and snort-giggled. “It’s empty.”
“The pizza place can bring us something cold to drink.”
“That or water’s fine.”
God, she was so cool. He was glad he’d met her.
After the food was ordered they settled on the couch. “What kind of movies do you like?” he asked, directing the remote at the TV.
“I should probably tell you romantic comedies, although I prefer action comedy. But I don’t care. It’s up to you.”
“Hmm, all right. How does Bruce Willis sound to you?”
“Perfect. He’s the king.”
Mikey grinned. “I knew I liked you.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Harry
BEEP! BEEEEEP!
“Yeah, I'm going.” Harry planted his hands on his steering wheel. The light had turned green while he'd been thinking about the two unsolved murders in South Webby. He moved his foot to the gas pedal and sped through the intersection. The town wasn't all that large, but big enough. Locating one person who you didn't have any idea what they looked like or where they lived or even a first name, was nearly impossible.
