“Cynth could take a look at the emails,” Brent said. “What was the nature of this gig?”
“He said his name was Lucas Cross, and he needed help breaking out of a bad case of writer’s block. Said he had stage fright because he’d been contracted by a major publisher willing to pay millions for a new book. I was supposed to kidnap him from this writer’s conference, chain him up in the RV and keep him out in the middle of nowhere for four weeks so he could get out his first draft. There were a number of stipulations, but the main one was that I never break out of character.”
Peter rubbed his forehead. “Weird, but I guess it’s not illegal, if that’s what went down.”
“Perhaps we need to bring Leroy back in for a chat,” Brent said. “What you did may be legal, but perpetuating a fraud on the public isn’t, not when hundreds of thousands of dollars in taxpayer money were spent searching for him.”
“But that’s just it,” Linda said, squeezing the Pepsi can so tight, it crinkled. “I don’t think it was Luke who booked me. He’s a decent guy. I don’t want him to get in any trouble.”
“Interesting,” Brent said. “Who do you think it was?”
“I have no idea.”
“What made you think it wasn’t Lucas?” Peter asked.
“When that woman died, falling out of his float. He freaked. I knew then, whether he was paying me or not, something else was going on and I didn’t want to be part of it. I hauled ass back here. I thought the least I could do was get him to her funeral, since she seemed important to him. I figured all hell was going to break out after that.”
“It has, indeed,” Brent said.
“He didn’t question it when I hit the interstate. I knew for sure then. We still had a few days left on his dime, and the contract stated I would drop him at a bar in Austin when his time was up. If he’d booked me, he would have said something.
“Am I in trouble?”
“That’s a good question,” Peter said. “We have to call Austin.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” She bit her lip, looking at Brent and Peter with a bleak expression.
“Can you stay in town until we sort this out?”
“I can stay a few days, at least. I hear there’s a decent RV park west of town.”
“What do you think?” Brent asked as they watched Linda climb into her RV.
“I think I need a beer.”
“So do I. Too bad it’s only eleven.”
"If this doesn't bring back memories," Brent said as he climbed onto the stair stepper next to Cynth's after he went off duty. McKie Recreation Center was little more than a mile from the station and was popular with District Five.
"I recall you were on this very same machine the first time I laid eyes on you. Time stood still as I realized that I would never be graced with the presence of a more magnificent woman."
Cynth rolled her eyes while maintaining her rhythm. "You just don't quit, do you?"
"I know what I want, and I know, deep down, you want it too."
"My little cousin wants to run out into the street every time he hears a car coming. His daddy wants a drink every morning when he wakes up. Want is just an urge. A meaningless firing of neurons that has no understanding of what is good for you."
Brent turned serious. "You're more than an urge. We almost had something going, back when. I've never forgotten how it was. Don't you feel the unfinished business between us?"
"The only--"
A howl of pain erupted from the weight room. Brent and Cynth jumped off their machines and dashed through the door in tandem, as if they were long-time partners. Brent felt a brief and painful stab of nostalgia at the way they just clicked.
Jarvis, AKA Jeckle, lay pinned on a weight bench, a barbell across his chest, loaded with what Brent estimated to be 250 pounds of plates.
"Goddammit, get this off me," Jarvis yelled, his face a dangerous red.
"I think I sprained my wrist," Brainard whined, supporting the injured joint with his other hand. "Sorry man."
Brent could only see a sliver of Brainard's face, but he thought he caught a fierce grin.
Cynth reached the bench first. Brent ran around to the other side, and together they lifted the weight off Jarvis’ chest and settled it into the rack over the bench.
"Don't move," Cynth said. "How do you feel?"
"How do you think I feel after this oaf dropped the bar while he was spotting me?"
"Hey," Brainard protested. "I told you it wasn't a good idea to load on the plates like that."
"Settle down," Cynth said. "Does it hurt when you breathe?"
Jarvis wheezed. "I think my sternum is cracked."
Cynth patted her waist for a cell phone that wasn't there. "I'm going to go call for an ambulance."
As soon as she left the room, Jeckle's eyes narrowed and his face grew even redder. "You did that on purpose," he said.
Brainard's eyebrows rose. "You mean like you neglected to tell me Lia Anderson was Peter's woman on purpose? Like you and Hodgkins made up that story about the East Side Slasher on purpose, so I nearly shot a civilian while you watched? And wound up getting a new one ripped by Roller? I bet you and Hodgkins got a big laugh out of that. We got a new captain coming in, and I got a blot on my record. You think that's funny?"
"You're dead," Jarvis spat out.
Brainard let go of his "sprained" wrist and placed the palm of that hand on the center of Jarvis’ chest. He leaned in until Jarvis’ face turned white with pain as he gasped like a beached guppy.
"Ease off, man, you'll hurt that wrist even more," Brent said quickly as Cynth re-entered the weight room. "Why don't you take a seat while we wait for the EMTs?"
Jeckle was packed off to Good Sam while Brainard pulled a doleful face full of self-recrimination. Brent had to admire his acting ability and decided that maybe Brainard was smarter than he looked. Not by much, mind you, but at least by enough to allow Cynth to continue believing Jeckle's injury was an accident.
Cynth returned from escorting the EMTs out of the rec center and zeroed in on Brainard's dangling arm. "Why didn't you have that seen to while the medics were here? Let me have a look at it."
Brainard held his good hand up, palm out, to stop her. "You've done enough. I'll ice it when I get home and wrap it up. I saw way worse in Afghanistan. I gotta get going. See you, man." He fist bumped Brent with his good hand and headed for the door.
"How are you going to drive one handed?" Cynth demanded.
Brainard looked back. "Don't you know? I'm Captain America. I think I'll manage." He sauntered out of the room, Cynth eying him suspiciously.
"You can look at my hand, if you like," Brent said to distract her. "I think I scraped my knuckles getting that weight off Jeckle's chest."
Cynth rolled her eyes as she let out a frustrated "huh" and walked off. Brent watched her long braid swing above her very toned glutes as she headed for the locker room.
"Oh, darlin'," he mourned.
16
Wednesday, July 13
Peter arrived with dinner balanced on top of a four-inch binder stuffed with papers. Lia took Viola’s leash and held the door for him.
“Who rang the bell? Viola?”
“I used my elbow.”
“Good thinking.” She leaned over and sniffed the bags. The dogs sat and whined. “You’ve all had your dinner—Chinese?”
“I figure you’ve got to be craving pasta after all these weeks without it. The chow fun is made with rice noodles, no wheat. We also have teriyaki beef, and shrimp with broccoli. All diet approved. I already ate your fortune cookie so you wouldn’t be tempted. It said you’re going to spend a romantic evening with a tall, dark, incredibly handsome man tonight.”
“Yum. Food sounds good, too. What’s the binder? Homework?”
“It’s Sarah’s murder book.”
“All that?”
“And a bag of chips. I need to spend some time with it this evening.”
“I can
’t believe one murder generates that much paper.”
“I wish this one didn’t.”
Peter set his load down on the kitchen counter and unpacked the bags while Lia took dishes out of the cabinet. “This case is so crazy, it’s hard to see what’s really going on.” He took a plate, using two forks to load it with the skinny noodles on one half, then spooned beef and shrimp on the other side and handed it to Lia. He filled a second plate for himself and took a seat at the table.
The dogs sat, eyes glued to this entire process.
“What has you hung up?” Lia asked, ignoring them. Viola curled under Peter’s chair with her head on her paws and sighed. Honey padded away, grumbling. Chewy waited, ever hopeful for a dropped morsel.
Peter made a face, then speared a shrimp.
“That bad?”
“Where do I start?” Peter ticked off points on his fingers. “Since Sarah didn’t die during the attack, we can’t pinpoint when it happened. Our window of opportunity is more than 10 hours. That makes it hard to rule anyone out.
“The people with the most motive would be Leroy and his cabal of knitting librarians, but unless RV lady is a scam, Leroy is accounted for and none of those women are strong enough to get Sarah inside the float. Not unless they all ganged up on her, and I can’t see that. Even if I could, their time frames don’t align. And if it was a conspiracy, one of them would have cracked by now.
“We can’t identify the murder weapon. We thought it was some kind of horse halter, but we can’t match it with anything.
“If Sarah was drugged, we’ll never know because the most likely drugs had time to metabolize before we were able to get a blood sample.
“The ladies agreed to open their books for us, but there’s nothing there. Monthly payments to a variety of charities, expenses, and modest profits split among the partners.”
“What about the charities?” Lia asked, relenting and scratching Chewy’s head.
“All legit. A number of local rescue charities, all in existence for years, the ASPCA, the Humane Society …. The Doris Day Animal Foundation gets the biggest chunk.”
“Those are the folks who are upgrading the park.”
“Que Sera, Sera.”
“I wish I could help,” Lia said.
Peter gave her a stern look. “I’ll be much saner if you don’t.”
“I don’t go looking for trouble.”
“You don’t have to, Babe. Trouble scrawled your number on the bathroom wall. It and all its mullet-headed cousins come looking for you with drool soaking into their boots.”
“Not fair, Kentucky Boy. Nobody has tried to kill me lately.” Lia’s tone was determinedly light.
“No, they’ve just put you in line to be charged for obstruction of justice and accessory to a crime. And these are your friends. I just want you safe.”
Lia set down her chopsticks. “I won’t be tucked away in a closet, just to make life easier for you. Life isn’t about being safe. Life is about dealing with what’s in front of you. You and Asia keep telling me this. Do you expect me to turn my back on the people I love?”
“I’d like you to turn your back on this and put it behind you. Get back to your painting. Make another one of those garden things with Bailey. Crochet ear warmers. Anything so I don’t have to chase down another freak in the woods before he has a chance to rape you. Please?”
“How am I supposed to put it behind me if it’s all around me? If you bring it with you?” Lia flipped the cover of the murder book for emphasis. “You want us to live together. How does that work? Am I just supposed to put my brain on ‘Bimbo’ when you walk in the door? Are you going to turn the job off when you leave the station? I don’t think so.”
“God, Lia, I don’t want a fight.”
“Good. I don’t either. But think about what you’re asking, and consider how you would feel if I told you all my problems, then expected you to butt out.”
“These aren’t my problems, they’re my job and you aren’t a cop. And if you learned how to say ‘no’ to your friends, you’d get in a lot less trouble.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, if you could say no to people, you might feel comfortable enough with our relationship to stop pushing me away. You just want your little hole where you don’t have to deal with anyone, including me. I’m tired of it.”
“Wait a minute, Dourson, you just took a left turn here.”
“You want to make everyone happy, and you never stop to think about whether people have a right to ask you to put yourself in the situations you’ve been in.”
“Peter, my income comes from doing everything I can to make my clients happy. I like making people happy, and I’m good at it. I like making you happy, too. I see no problem with having my own place so I can have some balance.”
“Does it ever occur to you, that if you learned to say ‘no,’ you wouldn’t feel compelled to protect yourself by living alone?”
“Where is this coming from?”
“You say you love me, but you don’t want us to live together because you don’t want to lose yourself. You can’t lose yourself if you don’t give it away.”
“Did your granny stitch that on a sampler, Dourson?” Lia picked up her plate and dumped her dinner in the trash. She set the plate in the sink with the rest of the day’s dishes, turning her back to give herself distance. She ran water in the sink, using the activity to settle herself. Deep breaths, Anderson.
“Stay or go, whatever you want. But I need time to myself and I’m going into the studio.” Lia turned off the tap, abandoning the dishes.
“You can’t keep running away, Lia.”
“I’m not running away. You just dumped a bunch of stuff all over me and now I need time to think. I’m saying ‘no’ to continuing this conversation before one of us says something we can’t take back.”
Lia took her jar of dirty brush water into the kitchen and dumped it in the sink, now clear of dishes. Peter sat at the table, leaning on his elbows with both hands buried in his hair as he examined several color printouts.
Lia walked behind him, laying a hand on his shoulder as she looked down to see what he was so engrossed in.
“Truce?” she asked.
“Is that what you want?” Peter asked without looking up.
“I want you, Peter. I also want to make sure we don’t hurt each other in the process of working things out. I’m doing the best I can, but I have to do it in my own way. Can we put this aside for a few days? I promise we’ll get back to it.”
“You sure?” Peter shoved his chair back.
“Yeah.” She brushed the hair off his forehead. “Will you show me what you’re looking at?”
Together, the photographs documented the series of bruises that ringed Sarah’s throat. The light was different, somehow, revealing distinct impressions of objects. A braided rope. Parts of a large ring. An odd oblong shape made of thin parallel lines.
“These were taken under ultra-violet light? And that’s the weapon? This rope?” Lia asked.
“Yeah. It’s braided instead of twisted, and it looks like it has a ring on the end. When we saw that, Brent and I figured we had a break. It’s not ordinary, and that could focus our investigation. But it’s so not ordinary, we don’t know what it is.”
“And that oblong, what do you think it is?”
“At first we thought it was a footprint, but it’s too wide.”
“Why would they bother with the rope if they were going to step on her neck? Wouldn’t that be enough?”
“You’d think so. No defensive wounds, so she was probably drugged and they had all the time in the world. Whoever did it is strong, because there were no marks on her body or clothing from being dragged. That’s a crying shame. If she’d been dragged, we would have some transfer to work with.”
“If he carried her, wouldn’t you have fiber from his clothes?”
“Crime scene found some blue and green fibers. The color is too bright and c
heerful for most men’s clothing. Looks like it came from something kids would wear.”
“So you’re looking for a child who can bench press 200 pounds and likes to play with ponies.”
“That about sums it up.”
Lia woke in the middle of the night with Peter spooned behind her. She couldn’t get the photos of Sarah’s neck out of her head. Restless, she left the bed, careful not to disturb Peter. She pulled on a robe and went back into the living room, Honey padding silently after her. The murder book lay open on the coffee table. She paged back until she found the photographs.
She picked up a drawing pad and pencil and swiftly reproduced Sarah’s neck and the marks from the murder weapon. Then she stared at her drawing, imagining the form suggested by the marks, joining the curved parts into a D-ring just an inch off the front of Sarah’s throat—no, it curved too much to be a D-ring, it had to be round—circling round and round with her pencil to give it weight, defining the gap on one side of the ring that lacked the braid texture, shading the rope to make it appear round.
The gaps in the impression of the ring on Sarah’s skin, on one side it would be some smooth material—leather maybe, or plastic—where the rope attached, on the other side, the braid pattern continued inside the circle where the rope slid under the ring and came up through the center.
She imagined the hand pulling the rope through the ring and to the right. Someone would normally hold down the left side that was connected to the ring so they could pull it tighter, but the mark wasn’t a handprint.
Instead there were parallel lines. They started at the base of Sarah’s throat and leaned left, with the lines perpendicular to an axis about 40 degrees off vertical. The lines were too wide for a shoe, the proportions were wrong. Peter was right about that. Where she could see an edge, it was straight, not curved like a shoe print would be.
Peter said they removed blue and green fibers from the body. She grabbed a case of Prismacolor pencils and gave the rope a candy cane pattern. She chose a dark grey pencil and filled in the odd shape with the parallel lines.
Muddy Mouth: A Dog Park Mystery Page 17
