Long Night Moon (Bad Mojo Book 1)

by Sharon A. Austin

  Northcutt and Cantin took turns questioning Chase about what kind of a person and employee Susan Nolin was.

  Chase didn’t know. All he did know was she worked there. He confessed he only knew that much because he’d heard it on the news. He summoned his secretary, and told her to pull the file on Susan Nolin. While they waited, he offered the men a cup of coffee.

  They declined.

  “Ah, here we go,” said Chase when he was handed the file.

  He read quickly, trying to get an idea about the employee. His cheeks grew warm. “Not only was it embarrassing to admit I didn’t know the woman, I’m even more ashamed now that I see she’d been with us for three years.”

  He cleared his throat, loosened his necktie.

  “Um,” he released a short laugh, “according to the time sheet and other records on Miss Nolin, she is, er, was a very dependable employee. Apparently, she’d never missed a single day of work. She was a team player. Followed directions. Uh-huh, uh-huh. Got along well with the managers.” A sheepish grin. “This is according to the handwritten remarks on her annual evaluation report made by the manager of the department the associate worked in. Let’s see. Ah yes, that would be Soft Home, er, bath and bedding.”

  The collective stare of the detectives was unnerving.

  Chase sighed, slammed the folder shut, shoved it aside with his fingertips. “Look, gentlemen, we have well over two hundred employees on the payroll. I don’t know how, but somehow, I just never became acquainted with this particular sales associate. Her record’s impressive, but unless she’d done something above and beyond her normal duties which helped make the company money such as convincing a great number of customers to apply for our store credit card, well then…”

  “Fine,” Northcutt responded, sourly. Susan Nolin may’ve been the type who’s content with only drawing a weekly paycheck, which made her invisible to her employers. “If you think of anything else, give us a call.” He took out a business card, and dropped it on top of Nolin’s folder. “Thank you for your time and cooperation.”

  >+<|>+<

  On the sidewalk in front of the store, Northcutt caught sight of a familiar face. “Who’s the guy over there?”

  A couple of blocks up the street a man exited a bar, and walked toward them. He stopped and stared at the detectives, pulled an oversized sweatshirt hood over his head, and went the other way.

  “I think he’s the rookie cop who’s been asking all around about how to become a detective. Wentzel, Jeff Wentzel. A little early in the day to be drinking, don’t you think?”

  “And wearing a hoodie when it’s, what, eighty-some degrees out here?” Northcutt’s mind noted the time and date.

  CHAPTER 17

  Jeff Wentzel took the long way round to his apartment building on Vine Street. He flattened a hand on his forehead. Definitely had a fever. The flu? He hoped not. He sweated profusely under the sweatshirt but felt too cold to take it off.

  He opened a can of vegetable soup, dumped the contents into a glass measuring cup and set it in the microwave. While he waited for the reddish greasy-looking stuff to heat up, he washed down a couple of non-prescription pain relievers with bottled water.

  Beep!

  The high-pitched sound of the microwave made him jump. He retrieved the steamy cup. Carrying it by the handle, he went to his office. Booted up the computer. Drinking from the spout, he took a long swallow of the broth. Grimaced.

  He opened his email, found nothing but junk, most of which informed him how to grow a bigger dick. Don’t fear the measuring tape anymore! Is that a rocket in your pocket? Foreign stuff. Mostly encouraging the recipient to click a certain link to receive prize money. A bank account number is required for prompt deposit of the funds. “Suuure. Delete, delete, and delete,” he whispered, repeatedly jabbing the button with his forefinger.

  Tons of porn. Saved for viewing later.

  Nothing, nothing at all, from his sweet Suite Sue.

  He clicked on the Compose Mail link. Stared at the blinking cursor on the blank page while he finished the soup. What could he say? Somehow he had made her lose interest in him.

  “Dammit, I shouldn’t have called her. What if the husband had gotten the call instead of Miiiz Donovan?” Jeff smiled. Yeah, he knew her name now, too. Their home phone number was listed in her husband’s name.

  He had no intentions, whatsoever, of going anywhere near her house again. In the Garden District, an upscale neighborhood, lurkers would surely be noticed.

  Mm, but she doesn’t know I won’t be back.

  He slumped in his chair, closed his eyes, and tried to visualize her street the one time he’d seen it. Other thoughts suppressed the image. I don’t ask for much, and I get even less. Sue’s the only woman whoever took a real interest in me. The smiling face of Kelly Murphy filled his mind. Jeff lit a cigarette. Inhaled deeply. Blew her image out of his head along with the smoke.

  “A house on each side of Sue’s. Directly across the street, hmm, didn’t I see a roofing company working on that one? Trimmed lawns. Neat and clean houses.”

  He drew a ragged breath.

  What the hell am I doing? She’s a joke. All women are dumb as hell. Just like mamma.

  Jeff was lonely when Sue came into his life. He enjoyed goofing off with her online. Mainly, the dirty-wordy email. He wasn’t married, of course. Had no kids. But she didn’t need to know that. He released a frustrated sigh. Dragged his weary bones to the shower. He’d been working the graveyard shift for the past week. The hours were killing him.

  >+<|>+<

  Dressed in a crisp, clean uniform he stood before the mirror and admired his overall appearance. Used the cuff of his shirt to shine his gold nametag. The song Maniac blared from the radio. He spread his feet apart, rapidly flexed one leg then the other to the beat of the music while he parted his hair on the left side and combed it back. “The ladies love me. Yes they do.”

  A rapid knock on the door.

  Jeff switched off the radio. Rushed to the living room and peered through the peephole at the flabby jowls of his partner, Darrel O’Rourke, a white-haired guy with a sarcastic attitude. Jeff unlocked and opened the door, pressed his right foot behind it to keep the guy from barging in.

  “Let’s go,” said O’Rourke, impatiently.

  Jeff sighed, slid his hand down a wall switch to turn off a nearby lamp.

  Officer O’Rourke turned onto a side street on the seedy side of town, and parked. “See that boarded up warehouse?” He pointed to a dark building in the distance. “We’re gonna keep an eye on it, for just a little while. I heard something big’s supposed to go down tonight, and I want a piece of the action.”

  Jeff groaned, looked out the side window. He couldn’t stand his partner, but he had lofty plans of becoming a detective someday. Man, if that ever does happen, I’ll be shittin’ in high cotton from then until doomsday. The burly dude, wedged between the seat and the steering wheel with hardly enough room to exhale, wasn’t the type to put in a good word for some whiny-mouthed sissified mamma’s boy, so Jeff kept his mouth shut.

  “Y’know what?” O’Rourke tried to shift his weight in the seat.

  Jeff perked up a bit thinking something good’s coming. Maybe O’Rourke heard his rookie had done such an outstanding job the department decided to shoot him straight up the ladder, or in his case, upstairs to the detective division.

  Maybe they had something even bigger in mind.

  Maybe—

  “I never understood what the deal was between the coyote and the roadrunner. Why’d he even want to eat such a scrawny ole bird? For that matter, if he had enough money to buy all that ACME crap why the hell didn’t he just buy lunch?

  Jeff slapped his open hands on his face and dragged them down where they rested on his neck. Shit.

  CHAPTER 18

  Jeff Wentzel sat in a corner booth farthest from the entrance. Sipped an ice-cold draft beer, unable to believe his miserable shift was finally over for
the week. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to cope with O’Rourke. The guy drove him slam up the wall.

  Last night they sat in the patrol car and waited and waited for some bigass action that never appeared. Considering O’Rourke fell asleep behind the wheel, it was just as well they’d made a wasted trip. Jeff wished some badasses had shown up. He felt angry enough to have taken them on single-handedly.

  He closed his eyes, massaged his forehead. Allowed his thoughts to continue on its backward spiral. Jeff had spent many hours surfing the Internet. Marilyn, the woman he found a few months before he met Sue had toyed with him the same way. He lost her pretty fast, though. He assumed, because she abruptly stopped visiting the chat rooms, her husband must’ve caught her typing cybersex stuff. Jeff didn’t have a chance to get her email address or phone number much less make arrangements to meet in person.

  He thought about the many emails he’d sent to Suite Sue. Wondered how much of what she told him was pure bullshit. Eh. Look at all the crap you told her. The memory brought a smile to his face. He knew he’d been quite clever. Reading crime novels, he learned how to act.

  A short, topless dancer strutted her wares out to the center of a wooden platform. He shifted sideways in his seat and propped his legs up on it, crossed his ankles. Leaning his back against the wall, he sipped beer, and watched her.

  Dressed only in a red thong and a shiny matching pair of stilettos, long blonde hair tossed back, she gyrated erotically for all the horny Joes.

  Sliding his feet to the floor, he leaned forward. Took in her general appearance before returning to her chest. Her boobs were around a size thirty-four. He pulled his gaze away from her breasts, and stared more intently at her face. She could be Sue. In one of their earlier emails, he asked about the size of her tits. Sue typed 34C. He recalled thinking her honesty was cute and refreshing especially after he saw her in person. Although seeing her from afar, he clearly saw her boobs but not her face. Damn frickin’ gigantic sunglasses. He didn’t want to approach Sue. Not then. Shadowing her was much more satisfying.

  Jeff watched the woman dance until he felt a familiar throbbing sensation. “She’s Suite Sue if I want her to be,” he muttered. He shoved the unfinished beer aside, and stood. Holding his ballcap in front of his crotch, he went to the end of the bar closest to the stage. Ordered a bottled beer. Slid onto a wooden stool.

  The smoke-filled room gave her and two other dancers a captivating surrealness. Is this a real word? He wondered. A cheesy overhead strobe light left over from the days of disco came on when some guy accidentally hit the switch when he smacked his hand against the wall to steady himself. The harsh glow broke the spell Jeff and the Joes were under.

  The band took a break. The dancers left the stage, each going their separate ways. The blonde came to his end of the bar. Ordered a gin and tonic from the barman.

  Turning to face Jeff, she smiled. She had a very toothy grin, which surprised him. Most of the strippers were crack addicts who’d lost one or more teeth. He returned the smile, noticing her facial appearance was different up close. She definitely wasn’t Sue.

  “You’re a good dancer.” He lied, knowing he’d never get to first base if he told her the truth. He figured she’s around twenty-six. Same as Sue.

  “I’m okay, I guess.” She shrugged, dispassionately. “None of this matters. I’m not going to do this for the rest of my life.” She glanced at the other dancers. “Soon as I graduate from law school, I’m leaving this place and heading northeast. Boston, maybe. Lots of big-time lawyers up there, I hear.”

  He didn’t give a shit about her little pipedream. He’d already made up his mind she wasn’t Sue. All that remained now was to see whether or not he could take her somewhere close by and screw her brains out.

  He took pleasure in the roundness of her ass. Imagined kissing and fondling the soft skin. Jeff chewed his bottom lip, and scanned the room. No one paid him any attention. He scooted closer to her. Whispered what he had in mind. She smiled.

  Perfect.

  They checked into one of the old hotels about twelve blocks from the bar. Damn room set him back fifty bucks, but all’s good since he had no intention of paying for services rendered.

  Jeff didn’t waste time on foreplay. He helped her remove her coat, thong and shoes. Stepped back to take in the sight.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, and kicked off his shoes. Fluffed up the pillows behind him, stretched his legs out and got comfortable. He dragged a transistor radio out of the front pocket of his slacks. The radio seemed so much smaller in his hand now than it did when he was a kid. He glided a thumb over the rough edge of the black wheel on the side to switch it on, increased the volume, and set it on the nightstand.

  “Dance for me?”

  She stood with her hands on her bare hips gawking at him in disbelief.

  Are you for real? He imagined her thinking.

  “No. What I do in the bar stays in the bar.”

  Jeff tried not to laugh. He tilted his head and furrowed his brow in mock confusion. To his surprise, she grinned. He patted the mattress. She slowly moved forward.

  “Get your ass over here, girl.”

  She giggled. Walked a little faster. Pressed a knee on the bed, then took her time crawling across his legs. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled his face close to hers. He could feel her breath on his cheek. An inexperienced kisser, he lightly gripped her wrists and pushed her away. Got up to remove his clothes. Excited beyond belief over how well things were going otherwise, his fingers kept losing their grip on the zipper pull.

  The song Behind Blue Eyes filled the room.

  His attitude changed.

  His features hardened.

  He didn’t intend to hurt her, but shit happens when you’re having fun. Right?

  Jeff briefly thought of Kelly Murphy while he zipped his pants with ease.

  He heard the blonde whimpering as he closed the door behind him. He felt no remorse. He’d gotten what he’d come for.

  It wasn’t his fault she wasn’t woman enough to handle it.

  It wasn’t her fault she resembled Suite Sue.

  Whistling the song about the bad man, he strolled out of the hotel with his hands tucked in his pockets.

  “I guess I should’ve told her I’m an old farm boy, and I’m as good at getting what I want as any other rooster in the henhouse.”

  CHAPTER 19

  BJ Donovan learned her debut novel had received many favorable reviews. Learning she’d gotten her wish about writing a series pleased her even more. She’d already finished the first sixty chapters of the next book, titled Suite Sue 2.

  With so much going on in her life now, she’d nearly forgotten the disturbing side of her life. For quite some time, there’d been a number of hang-up calls. She felt certain that it was Jeff. She often wondered if Frank ever received any of those calls.

  The last call, four days ago, she heard nothing but a verse from the song I’m Missing You. Unimpressed, BJ hung up. Changed the radio station she’d been listening to in her office while she printed out a new entrée for her menu. The same song was on.

  She’d already ended the chapter on Jeff. If he had real intentions of harming her he would’ve done so by now.

  Her good friend, Cyndi, had recently returned to the area. One day over lunch she confided in Cyndi about Jeff. She felt she ought to tell someone about him in the event something did happen to her.

  When BJ was eighteen and had fully recovered from the car accident, she met Cyndi while working in the same store at the mall. At that time BJ also became an assistant to a legendary chef, as well as a part-time server, and had signed up for culinary school.

  A few months later, Cyndi abruptly quit her job and moved to Memphis, Tennessee.

  BJ Donovan was the only other person who knew a very intoxicated Cyndi Nortman had hit and killed a pedestrian, and then fled the scene of the accident before the police arrived. The information was damaging enough
that she was confident Cyndi wouldn’t betray her trust and tell Frank what she’d been up to behind his back.

  Tell your secrets to a servant and you make them your master.

  >+<|>+<

  BJ donned her white chef jacket and hat she found in the closet next to the kitchen in her restaurant. While feeding dough through a pasta maker, she remembered something dumb she said to Jeff in an email one day. He told her he’d thought about doing a full 180-degree turn and chucking everything in his life, including his wife. He dreamt of moving to a tropical island to open a cruise service strictly for the rich and famous. He wanted Sue to strap on a bikini and do her best to separate old men from their old money. She’d responded saying even if they never got together she hoped he’d still pursue his dream.

  He laughed. LOL, he wrote.

  She felt foolish for all of five seconds. The only thing she cared about was that Frank never found out about Jeff. She was prepared to give him some spiel about how she’d met Jeff while doing research, if he did find out, but she’d preferred not to even mention him. She hoped Jeff drowned in his ocean.

  “Take over for me, Leo,” she told her newly promoted chef.

  BJ fixed a cup of coffee. Sat at a bistros style table in the corner. Once again, she flipped through The Times newspaper, and found her face staring up at her. A brief article about her upcoming appearance at a local bookstore accompanied the photo.

  >+<|>+<

  BJ turned the key while pumping the gas pedal. Why won’t the damn thing start? She slapped the steering wheel. Frank promised he’d come by and take her car to get it serviced before the book signing.