Desperate to the Max

by JB Skully

  For one terrible moment, she thought he really had told them that, though they hadn't even had sex yet. Except in her dreams. Most probably in his dreams, too.

  "You're such a liar."

  "Also told ‘em you were in for one damn big surprise because I ain't even started playing the game yet."

  She could hear the wheels of his mind turning. Man, if he hadn't even started, she was in trouble. Big trouble. She'd already been close to crumbling like a cookie way more than once. Last night, for instance, when he'd whispered in her ear. “Give it up, Long, and tell me the scoop."

  "You ask too many questions. I got you what you wanted. What d'ya care how the hell I did it?"

  For a moment, she felt a bit left out of his “other” life, his cop life, his work life. As if he turned all of that off when he turned her on. And vice versa. He had secrets. Just as Cameron had had secrets. Like the case involving Bethany's father. Max hadn't heard word one about that from the man she'd been married to, not then, not now. Cops and lawyers lived in their own world. They dealt with secrets on a minute-to-minute basis, either exposing them or keeping them. They were invariably good at keeping their own to themselves. Max wanted to break that barrier down. Just once.

  "Humor me, Witt. Tell me what you told them anyway."

  "Promised them my firstborn."

  The words flowed down her like a bucket of ice. Babies again. Her throat was suddenly parched.

  Witt went on as if he hadn't expected an answer anyway. “You got your phone line. You got what you wanted. What the hell more do you want?"

  Okay. This was the wrong time to flex her muscles. She couldn't tell whether it was his mood flipping or simply her interpretation. The baby thing bugged her, too, as if it were a slap in her face. On this one, Witt definitely sounded pissed.

  "What's wrong?” Ooh, stupid question. She really didn't want to know.

  "Feeling sorry for myself, that's all."

  Yeah, like she'd been only seconds ago. She really, really, really didn't want to know why he was. A gray seventies gas-guzzler cruised slowly past. “Why?"

  "Because you're using me..."

  "I am not."

  "...and I think I like it."

  She had no idea what to say to that. So she ignored it and asked another question guaranteed to pop them both into another mood swing. “Are you going to listen to the tapes of what I say on the phone?"

  The ensuing silence stretched her nerves. Finally, “Guess."

  Bastard. In that one word, she heard the last vestige of his anger slip away. Ire was replaced by a thread of sexual tension thrumming across the airwaves between them. She headed him off at the pass. “Did you look at the Spring file?"

  "Yep."

  As soon as she asked it, she realized it had been her original burning question when she'd called him. “And?"

  "Interesting.” He was irritatingly brief on purpose, she was sure.

  "What did it say?"

  "Over dinner."

  "Huh?"

  "Tell you over dinner,” he enunciated carefully.

  No, no, no. She'd seen far too much of him lately. “I can't."

  "Why?"

  She chewed on her inner cheek and thought. “Because I want to know now, not later. It's important.” Which really didn't answer his question.

  A moment, then, “Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me something, Max?"

  He'd pitch a fit if he knew she and Ladybird had done a little reconnaissance on the house next-door. Worse was what he'd do when he found out his mother had been introducing Max to the neighborhood as his fiance.

  She pulled at the collar of her white blouse. “I'm real busy tonight, Witt. How about a rain check?"

  "Doesn't fool me, Max."

  "Why on earth do you think I'm hiding something?” Couldn't be because she was. “You were the one who wanted to know what was going on with the Spring thing. I don't know why you're hiding it from me.” Ah, very nice turning of the tables.

  His sigh was audible. “Tell you now, but you'll still have to pay later.” It sounded a bit like a threat. Would he want another kiss?

  "What's the price?"

  "Tell you that later, too."

  She imagined the price. Imagined the slow seductive ways he could extract it. He'd up the ante and ask for more than a kiss this time. She tugged even harder on her collar. Then she shook herself. No real way he could make her pay up, no way at all. “Deal. Tell me."

  "Don't kid yourself, you'll pay, sweetheart,” he said as if he'd read her mind yet again. “You'll be begging to pay."

  "Dream on, Long. There won't even be a contest unless you tell me right this minute."

  Another sigh in her ear that tingled her nerve endings. “Shot himself in the head in his study."

  "Oh my God.” Mr. Spring in the study with the gun. It sounded like the game of Clue. It sounded eerily like Bethany's phone call that Max had taken the other night. Mr. Mustard and Miss Scarlet. Coincidence? A psychic sign?

  "Your husband was investigating the case as possible murder."

  "What do you think?"

  Instead of speculating, he continued with the facts. “It was ruled suicide in the end. Odd case, really odd."

  She waited for him to go on, the sun through her window now burning her left side.

  "Spring was being sued."

  "Why? What did that have to do with his death?"

  "Patience is a virtue, Max. I oughta know.” A brief pause tempting her to interrupt. She didn't. “To continue, he was being sued. By his daughter."

  Holy Hell. “Bethany?"

  "Jada."

  The suspense was killing her. He surely knew it since he was stretching it all out interminably. If he'd been standing right in front of her, she'd have shaken the whole story out of him.

  "For what, you ask?” The slime was really enjoying being man on top. Bastard. “Well, I'll tell you. Recovered memory crap. Jada accused her father of molesting her as a child. She was suing him for extreme mental distress."

  Her heart kicked into palpitation mode. “You're kidding."

  His voice changed, subtly, nothing more than a slight deepening, a hardening. “Testimony in the civil suit the day he died was from an MD who'd examined Jada. Apparently she had severe rectal scarring that was consistent with repeated forced anal penetration."

  "Oh no, oh no.” A numbing cold settled in her belly. She sat forward and struggled to breathe normally.

  Cop voice, cop persona. His dialogue had become the recitation of an automaton. “The mother then testified concerning an incident which occurred when the girl was three. The mother returned home from a hat-making class. The husband was in a panicked state, told her that the child had cut herself. He'd taken her to the emergency room, and the bleeding had been stopped. She was resting upstairs. The doctors said she'd be fine."

  "All that in the time it takes to make a hat?” Max whispered. Who the hell even wore hats anyway, then or now?

  "The mother further testified that when she attempted to examine the girl's injury, Walter Spring became agitated, then angry. She stopped at that point."

  "What about the next day when he went to work?"

  "The child became upset and wouldn't allow examination by the mother."

  "Jesus, Jesus.” She swore, knowing God hadn't listened to Jada Spring that long ago day when she was three anymore than he'd ever listened to Max.

  "The suit contended the molestation started that night and continued until the girl was thirteen years old. At that point, she aborted a fetus. Medical records introduced confirmed the abortion."

  She couldn't catch her breath. The sun through the windshield blinded her. This wasn't real. It couldn't be real.

  "Walter Spring went home that day after testimony and shot himself that night. It was later ruled a suicide."

  She concentrated on only one thing, the only thing that allowed her to keep her sanity. “Why did Cameron think it was murder?"
/>   "Don't know. Wasn't in the file. He'd simply written murder with a question mark in the margin of his notes."

  "Leaving a question unanswered wasn't like him."

  "One more thing, Max.” Witt paused for dramatic effect. “Walter Spring was a partner in Bud Traynor's law firm."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Max hit the “End” button on the phone, then turned it off. Slowly. With deliberation. Witt might think they'd lost the connection and call again.

  Nah. The guy did not believe in coincidence. He'd know she'd done it on purpose. He'd call back anyway. Nobody would be home.

  She started the engine, pulled away from the curb, watched Virginia's house as she eased by, a momentary spark of terror in her heart. She squelched it.

  "You did good, Maxi."

  She didn't need to ask what she'd done well, nor did she need Cameron to tell her. She didn't even need to point out he'd used that hated nickname. Nor did she ask him why he hadn't told her about Walter Spring being Bud Traynor's law partner. He'd only have said he hadn't remembered. Instead she lashed out in general. “No thanks to you. Where were you when I was in there?"

  "With you all the way."

  She turned right at the corner, letting the clutch out too fast. The car stuttered. “It would have been nice to hear you."

  "You didn't need me."

  "Right. I was dying in there. I could have used a friend."

  "You had Ladybird Long."

  Max snorted.

  "When you got out, you had Witt."

  She bit the inside of her cheek. “I only called him to find out about Bethany's father."

  "Lie to yourself, if you want to, but he did make you feel better. Like I used to."

  She didn't like the implications, but decided not to fight. It would only draw more attention to the fact that she had called Witt instead of calling out to Cameron. She'd done it without thinking, without a clear question in mind. Hearing his voice had driven the panic away, though she wouldn't admit that aloud to Cameron.

  Her silence dared him to nip it out of her thoughts.

  He didn't. That scared her more than if he had.

  * * * *

  Max climbed the stairs to her apartment with her two grocery bags. She'd stopped for cat food, milk, tuna and bread. Somehow a bag of potato chips and Mother's Circus Animal Cookies had slipped in there as well. In the car, she'd broken open the bag of iced cookies. God, they were good. She'd forgotten how good.

  Unfortunately, she felt sick to her stomach—the bag now being half empty—and she was coming down off an intense sugar high that had lasted less than fifteen minutes.

  "I have to get close to Jada.” But how?

  Her conversation with Cameron had been going round and round this issue for the last two hours. It had at least stopped her from dwelling on Bud Traynor.

  The fading sun didn't penetrate the room. The big elm stood outside her room, and her window faced the wrong direction for late afternoon sun. She got morning light, filtered. Morning light suited her better. Buzzard perched on the sill, looking out, his tail twitching. A squirrel chirruped in the tree.

  Max set her groceries down on the bureau with a plop. How to get to Jada? “It's not like I can crash the funeral."

  She'd done that before, but this required more finesse. She needed Jada to trust her, to open up, to turn to her.

  "Hey, something just occurred to me."

  Cameron was there before she completed the thought. “Why weren't Jada and Virginia at Wendy's funeral?” Bethany wasn't a factor. She never left the house.

  Max nodded. “Traynor's godfather to Virginia's daughter, yet she doesn't even make an appearance, and now she's hanging on him like he's her life preserver."

  Something else niggled at the back of her mind. Something Wendy had told her in a dream. Something that had to do with Bethany. And Jada. Damn, she couldn't remember exactly what.

  "It'll come to you."

  Just like that, Cameron's voice made it disappear. She scolded. “Damn it, I'm thinking here."

  "You're thinking too hard. It'll come when your little neurons aren't so fired up."

  "Bethany will let me know."

  "Oh, Maxi,” he breathed in her ear, “you're getting so good at this."

  She felt the tingle down to her toes but tried to ignore it.

  Cameron went on with another question. “Why were Virginia, Bethany and Jada still living in the same house with Walter if Jada, his daughter, was suing him, and Virginia, his wife, was testifying against him?"

  She hadn't even thought of it. Had they all come home at the end of the day to watch reruns of Father Knows Best on TV? Or maybe that was Incest Is Best. Max shuddered.

  "Is that one of the questions you had when you were investigating his death, Cameron?"

  "I don't remember. But it's one of the questions I have now. And there's another."

  His voice hung in the air, ringing in her ears. “What?"

  "Did you see Virginia's furniture? Her clothes?"

  The rosewood dining set, the velvet settee, the mahogany coffee table. That knit dress must have been a St. Johns.

  Cameron went on. “Walter was a partner in a wealthy law firm. Why is his widow living on Garden Street, in a sixty-year-old two-bedroom duplex, and driving a used Camry station wagon?"

  Max didn't have any answers. She should have remembered Spring in the name of Bud Traynor's law firm. She should have remembered a lot of things. Instead, she couldn't forget the way Traynor made her skin crawl with maggots.

  "You're too hard on yourself. Seeing him was a shock. Get over it, and get on with finding answers."

  Her fingers tore at the plastic bag she'd emptied. “What if the man Jada should have been suing wasn't her father?"

  "If it wasn't, why would she finger him?"

  Max cut him off. “The memory's a tricky thing. How many times have we argued about what I do and don't remember?"

  Cameron grunted agreement.

  "Maybe she remembered being molested and immediately thought it was her father. Only it wasn't."

  "Who do you think it was, Max?"

  He already knew what she was going to say, but it pleased her to make the accusation aloud. “The man who molested his own daughter. Her godfather. Bud Traynor."

  Cameron said nothing. Max was glad. She didn't want to do the obsession argument again.

  She put the milk and bread in her tiny fridge, stored the cans, then stared at the potato chips and cookies. Whatever had possessed her? Well, duh, Max. Bethany had.

  God, she was tired. She'd been up too late the night before. Despite the fact that she'd slept in, she was still dog-tired. Strong emotion—okay, panic—did that to a person. She didn't want to think about Bud Traynor anymore.

  Wimp, a little voice inside her whispered. It was neither Cameron nor Bethany.

  The message light blinked at her. She hadn't noticed it before. Pushing the button, she heard Witt's slightly irritated cop voice. “Call me."

  She didn't. Instead, she erased his message and turned down the phone's ringer. She'd turn it back up when she had to, like when her first official call came in at midnight.

  Hanging her blazer in the closet, she was suddenly too tired to undress further. Her red silk tie slipped from around her neck, landed on the chair back, and that was it. “I'm taking a nap.” The solace of sleep or the inability to deal any longer?

  Super wimp.

  "I have to spend all night talking to those perverts who used to call Bethany."

  "You don't have to explain, Max. At least not to me. Maybe when you wake up, you'll know how to approach Jada."

  My, how solicitous he was. She wanted to smack him, would have, too, if he'd been flesh and blood. As it was, she climbed beneath the spread and ignored him.

  Sleep. She wanted sleep and nothing more.

  Chapter Twenty

  Maybe Cameron's words echoing in her ears as her head hit the pillow brought on the dream. May
be the insistent chant of Jada, Jada, Jada in her mind—which didn't quite seem to be her own anymore—set up her subconscious to receive the images. Or maybe it was picturing Jada's sunken, haunted face before she fell asleep.

  The why of it didn't really matter. Max fell into the dream as if it had been waiting around the corner to jump on her.

  She stood in a white room with padded walls facing an empty institutional gray chair with a green vinyl seat. She blinked, and the chair was no longer empty.

  Jada Spring sat in the chair, and she was smiling. Her bony cheeks were now full and rosy, her eyes lit with humor, her skeletal hands now plump, her nails manicured and painted a pretty coral that matched the health of her skin. Her sable hair, cut short, flounced prettily around her face. She wore a close-fitting sweater that accentuated her ample breasts.

  She was beautiful. She was happy. She was the woman Jada could have been, would have been, if someone hadn't stolen her precious childhood from her.

  Max blinked. Jada's left hand now held a bag of sweets. No, not sweets, dried fruit. Dried prunes, to be exact. She pulled one from the bag, her white teeth sinking into the delicious fruit. Max's mouth watered.

  Max blinked once more, and Jada's skin began to change. First the color altered, from a blooming pink glow to an iridescent green, then the texture. Before Max's eyes, the woman's flesh turned to ... scales. Yes, fish scales, bright scales like a beautiful multi-colored angelfish.

  And still Jada smiled.

  It was dark when Max woke. She glanced at the clock. She'd been out for four hours. Four hours? How could that be? It wasn't possible. From the sill, Buzzard stared down at her with hungry yellow eyes. Not planning on passing out cold for that length of time, she hadn't fed him before she'd fallen asleep.

  Four hours. She sat up in bed, the spread slipping to her waist. It was possible. In fact, it was exactly what Bethany did. When she didn't have to contend with her small business and couldn't find a talk show to interest her, she'd slept her days and nights away. Except midnight to two a.m. She lived for midnight to two.

  Max's message light blinked.

  Damn. The phone. She pounced on it, turned the ringer on. God, that was close, what if she'd slept right through midnight? Right, as if Bethany would let her. Still, what if one of those callers had gotten her message machine? The jig would be up. She had to be more careful, she admonished, as she erased Witt's second message, same as the last.