Set the Pace (The Detroit Love Duet #1)

by Kim Karr

  “The site of the explosion?”

  He nods.

  I want to ask him a million questions. “So you investigated the explosion?”

  He shakes his head no. “I was removed after my first day.”

  “Why?”

  “The DA insisted it was an open-and-shut case. Said the grieving people of Detroit didn’t need to be left with a cold case after a tragedy like that.”

  “And that was legal?”

  He shrugs. “No one questioned it. The DA took the case on personally, assembled his own team of investigators and attorneys.”

  “And you agreed with the outcome?”

  The detective gives me a wry grin. “Wasn’t my place to agree or disagree.”

  I say nothing.

  He directs his attention back to his monitor.

  Waiting, I stop breathing when I glance down at his desk. Photos of Eve’s body are spread all over it. The manila folder tab beneath them reads “Coroner’s Report.”

  Noticing my loud gasp, he quickly shuffles the photos inside the folder, but I get the feeling he left them there for me to see. When he’s done, he slumps back in his chair. “Sorry about that. I was just preparing a statement for the press about Ms. Hepburn’s cause of death.”

  “How . . . how did she die?” I dare to ask.

  “She was strangled.” He says it very matter-of-factly.

  Shivers run down my spin.

  Picking up a pencil, he taps it on the desk. “While you’re here do you mind if I ask you something? Informally of course.”

  I can feel my heart rate pick up. I can tell he knows that I knew I had her things yesterday when he was at my apartment. “No, I don’t mind.”

  He falls silent for a bit.

  I almost blurt out that I lied to him, that I knew I had her things in my possession, but I keep it together because he didn’t call me on it for a reason.

  Finally, he speaks. “Did Ms. Hepburn drive herself to the hotel?”

  Not what I was expecting. “Yes, we both did.”

  He nods. “It’s just that we can’t seem to locate her car anywhere on the hotel grounds.”

  “She drove it to the hotel; it must be there. I assume she would have valet-parked it.”

  Since the company was paying, even I had done that.

  “We have footage of her pulling up to the valet sometime around six p.m. on Friday, but there was a line. She didn’t wait, and pulled through the drive and headed toward the self-parking area.”

  “She must have been running late; the unveiling started at six.”

  He nods. “And your car? Where might it be?”

  This is starting to feel like an inquisition. “It’s in the shop.”

  “Yes. That’s right. You broke down.”

  My palms feel sweaty.

  He looks at the bag of Eve’s things. “You have your own computer in your possession, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re certain of this?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “We haven’t found her computer, her phone, or her purse, either.”

  I lean forward. “Her computer was in the hotel room in her orange case. Somehow my computer ended up in her case. I assumed it was a mix-up when the police were in the hotel room.”

  He diverts his gaze back to his screen and studies it for a long while before looking back at me. “Only one computer was logged in, and nothing has been entered into evidence that was marked as Laneworth bank statements.”

  “There must be some mistake.”

  His gaze sharpens. “I’m sorry, but there isn’t. Procedure was followed to the letter. Perhaps you misplaced them?”

  I can’t tell if he is lying.

  Don’t know if I can trust him.

  Uncertain if he’s more worried about his case than anything else.

  He keeps staring at me.

  Waiting.

  For what—I have no idea.

  If it’s a confession—it won’t be from me.

  I’m at a dead end.

  Standing, I place both my hands on the edge of his desk to steady myself. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. I have to get going.”

  The detective jots “Bank statements” on his pad of paper.

  Slowly, I start for the door.

  “Miss Lane,” he calls.

  I look back.

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  And I’m certain he will.

  OVERHEATED

  Jasper

  I CONFESS—I get angry in confrontational situations. And this trait is often disastrous. I blew my cool with Hill earlier today and it was more than detrimental because he blew his cool too, and then walked out.

  Not cool.

  Not cool at all for either of us.

  “He just called and said he wants to give it another try,” Todd Carrington tells me the minute I walk into his office after being summoned to return.

  “Shit!” I throw my arms in the air.

  “Calm down, Jasper, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. We get a do-over, and this time you’re going to remain even-tempered and answer his questions about that night in a straightforward manner without all the emotion.”

  Balling my hands into fists, all I can do is nod. Now that I’ve had a chance to go home and shower and think about things, I realize I shouldn’t have lost earlier today the way I did.

  The best criminal defense attorney in Detroit points his finger at me. “I mean it, Jasper—you have to learn to control that temper of yours. He’s not your arch enemy, but you’ll turn him into one if you keep it up.”

  Placing my elbows on my knees, I look out the window. “I didn’t do it, Todd. I didn’t kill Eve.”

  “I know that, Jasper; if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be representing you.”

  I feel slightly better. “So when are we doing this thing?”

  He looks at his watch. “It’s Friday, so it won’t be tomorrow. I’ll let you know when. Go home, rest up over the weekend, and we’ll hit it again on Monday.”

  I nod. His plan sounds perfect.

  Fifteen minutes later I’m in my car with the windows down, speeding down the highway, but I’m not heading home, not to my current home anyway. I’m heading to Eastpointe. My childhood home has been on my mind all week and for some reason I feel the need to see it. Remember what my life was like back then. How happy I was. Reconnect with who I once was.

  Why I want to torture myself, I don’t know.

  What I do know is that I can’t get her out of my head.

  It’s been five fucking long days since I saw Charlotte.

  Every day that passed I wanted to forget the fact that I shouldn’t be involved with her during this dark time in my life, but then every day I remembered just how bad things are. It’s not the right time.

  Between lawyer visits and trips to the police station, my head is a fucking mess and my temper is at an all-time high. Then there’s the damage control Will is working on. Soon enough the story of that night will break, and let’s just say I’m not going to look good. As it stands now, a few of the investors Jake had secured to back the plant have already pulled out.

  Whitney, Will’s girl—that’s what I call her now instead of the naughty secretary—suggested hiring an image consultant. Will being Will, he got right on it. In fact, he’s been interviewing firms and getting estimates on how much it will cost. The prices are astronomical. But in true Will form, he hasn’t given up and is interviewing a few more firms on Monday.

  There is plenty of sun in the sky left, but nothing seems bright. Before I know it, I’ve passed the Eastpointe exit. Loving the feel of being on the open road, the freedom it gives me, I drive and drive and drive. Faster and faster, and faster still.

  That storm within me raging almost out of control, I feel completely torn. I can’t stop thinking about Charlotte, and not in an oh-I-miss-my-friend kind of way.

  My thoughts are dirtier.

  Picturing her naked beneat
h me, screaming out my name as I take her to the edge over and over and then finally let her fall. How good her sweet pussy would feel. Fucking her all night long as if my need for her is insatiable. These are thoughts I shouldn’t be having. Nothing good can come of them. There is too much bad that would accompany the good, and in the end, regardless of what everyone always says, good does not defeat evil. The truth is the bad has a way of taking over the good and tarnishing it.

  The sound of my phone ringing jolts me out of the fog I’m in. “Hello,” I answer.

  “Hey, Jasper, it’s Craig from the body shop.”

  “Hey, man, what’s up?”

  “Listen, I hate to bother you, but you know that car you had me pick up last week?”

  Instantly I go on alert. “Yeah, the black Honda Civic.”

  “Well listen, I need to get it out of here but I can’t get the owner to call me back. Is there any way you might be able to get in touch with her and ask her to call me?”

  I answer without hesitation. “Sure, I can do that. What’s wrong with the car?”

  “Transmission issues. She said she had to see if she could get the money together and I haven’t heard back from her. I left her a message earlier in the week that she has until Friday to decide.”

  A quick glance in the rearview mirror tells me no cops are around, and I swerve onto the median and do a U-turn so that I can head back home. “Do me a favor, let me get in touch with her and hold on to it until Monday. Can you do that?”

  “Yeah, sure, but then it has to go.”

  “How much is it to fix it?”

  “Over three grand, man. The entire thing is a mess.”

  “Ouch. Is there any cheaper fix?”

  “There probably is, but nothing I could guarantee.”

  “I understand. I’ll call you Monday.”

  “Cool. Take it easy,” he says and hangs up.

  Minutes later I’m back at the Eastpointe exit.

  Screw it.

  Weaving in and out of traffic, I take it. Not much longer, I pull up in front of the house I used to live in and shut the engine off. My gaze flickers between the brick house and its matching twin, the one the Lanes lived in. To the window I used to sneak into. The backyard we played in. The front porch we sat on. The sidewalk we rode bikes on.

  We—me and Charlie.

  To the people who live in these houses now they might be just bricks and mortar surrounded by grass and trees. For me, they represent the only happiness I can remember as a child, and that happiness will forever be tied to Charlie Lane—Charlotte.

  The girl I always took care of.

  The girl I shouldn’t turn away from.

  The girl that needs me now.

  The girl I can’t turn away from regardless of my situation.

  How to handle the car?

  I know she won’t let me pay for it. She thinks she’s needy. She’s not; it’s just years of negative reinforcement drilled into her head. As I look at her house the memories of why she thinks that way, what was instilled in her from such an early age, come rushing back.

  “For Christ’s sake, Charlotte, you’re almost nine. You can stay by yourself for a few hours while I go out.”

  “Mommy, please don’t go—it’s scary when you leave me home alone at night.”

  Mrs. Lane shakes her head at Charlotte. “Stop with the weeping, will you? It’s not that big a deal. Besides, you’ll be asleep soon enough.”

  Charlotte sucks in a breath and I know she’s being brave, trying not to cry.

  Her mother huffs in frustration. “You act like I do it all the time.”

  She did.

  I shuffle my feet, biting my tongue so that I don’t say what I’m thinking out loud.

  As if just noticing me, she glances in my direction. “It’s getting late, Jasper—you should probably be getting home.”

  “I can stay with Charlie.”

  Her lip turns up in a snarl. “Your parents won’t like that. Besides, Charlotte needs to learn some independence.”

  I nod, knowing I need to be going before Charlotte gets yelled at. “’Bye, Charlie,” I say and look at her.

  She bites her lip, and I tuck only one hand in my pocket. They’re signals. How we communicate in front of adults. When she bites her lip it means she needs me. When I put one hand in my pocket it means “leave the window open for me, I’ll be back as soon as I can.” We have other signals too. A wrinkle of her nose means she’s fine. Two hands in my pockets means I probably can’t sneak out because my dad is home and he might notice. A twirl of her finger around her hair is to let me know she understands. A fake sneeze alerts me that her dad will be home.

  The windows are open as I walk out the front door and cut between the houses to go in my back door, and I hear her mother say, “Charlotte, why are you always so needy?”

  Even then I knew Charlotte was anything but needy.

  Neglected? Yes.

  Lonely? Yes.

  Frightened? Yes.

  But needy? No.

  I blink out of it. I hate remembering those times. I hated that there were days when there was nothing I could do to help her. This feels like one of them. I have to figure out a way to help her. Fuck the storm within me. Fuck my worries about what might be. Good and bad be damned. I’m done fighting this. Done.

  My body buzzes thinking about her, and without another thought about why I shouldn’t call her, I just do it. I need to talk to her. To hear her voice. To make sure she’s okay.

  “Hello?” she answers, a little breathless.

  Her voice is sweet and I want to reach through the line and lick it. “Charlotte, it’s me, Jasper.”

  She’s silent.

  “Charlotte, it’s Jasper,” I repeat.

  “I know who this is.” Her tone is curt.

  “Don’t be mad.”

  “Why would I be mad?” There’s a hint of sarcasm in her voice this time.

  “Come on, you know why.”

  “No, tell me.”

  “Because I said I’d call you and I’m just doing it now.”

  She’s quiet.

  “I . . . I . . .” I stumble for the right words. “I told myself I wouldn’t soil you with all my shit, but I don’t want to stay away from you, either.”

  “Jasper,” she sighs.

  Over the horizon the sun blazes like a huge orange halo and I look at it anyway. “I want to take you out tonight . . . on a date.” No more dancing around.

  She sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry, Jasper, I can’t.”

  “Look, I know this is last minute and I’m sorry I haven’t called you sooner, but please let me make it up to you. Don’t shut me out.”

  “I’m not. That’s not why I’m saying no. I know you have a lot going on. I don’t hold anything against you.” She sounds genuine. “And I’d really like to see you, but I have to work tonight.”

  Wondering what kind of job she got so fast, I ask her, “Where are you working?”

  Her sigh sounds resigned. “At the Bronx Bar.”

  Alarm floods me. Putting my car in gear, I ease on the gas and head toward the highway. “Charlotte, I don’t want you working there.”

  I can hear her breathing pick up and know she’s getting upset. “I appreciate your concern, but it’s really none of your business.”

  I ignore the comment and zing—I have the perfect idea. “What if there was a different solution to your money issues. A better one.”

  “What, like stripping?”

  Horrified, I snap. “No!”

  “Relax, I’m just kidding. But if there was a better job, I would have taken it.”

  “What if you come work for me instead?”

  “Jasper, be serious.”

  Flooring it on the main road, I hit 60 in no time. “I am. More than serious. We could really use someone like you right now.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Will is trying to hire an image consultant and the cost is sky hi
gh. What if you came to work for us? You could write press releases. Help set the record straight. Provide updates. Write articles about the community. Even set up a blog like we were going to do with The Detroit Scene until I had Will fire that douche’s ass.”

  “Jasper,” she gasps.

  “Charlotte, please, we could really use someone like you on our team.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Pulling off near her street, I slow my pace. “Call in sick. Then let me take you out to dinner tonight and we can talk about it. If it’s something that you think might work for you, take the job. If not—” I let the sentence hang because fuck, I can’t stand the thought of her working in a bar with all those lowlifes who will easily prey on someone as beautiful as her. Once again, I remember the horrible stories my mother had spoken of when she’d worked at a bar in the Cass Corridor.

  This time her sigh is long.

  “You’re thinking about it, I can tell.”

  “Jasper, I can get off work tonight. That’s not a problem. I was just picking up an extra shift and the other girls are always wanting extra shifts as well, but is your offer real?”

  My car is in front of her place. “I already told you, Charlotte, I never lie.”

  “You said you would call and you didn’t.”

  “That’s not true—I’m calling you now.”

  Silence.

  I can hear her breathing. Contemplating. Twirling her hair, I bet.

  Still there’s silence.

  “Charlotte, please. I read some of your stuff this week from when you were blogging on Mackinac Island. It’s really good.”

  The line is still silent.

  “Charlotte, please,” I repeat, my voice low.

  “What time?” she concedes.

  I smile for the first time in five days. “How about now?”

  She laughs. “Give me an hour.”

  Already feeling better after just having talked to her, I don’t care if I have to wait one hour, one day, or one year to see her. “See you then.”

  NO U-TURN

  Charlotte

  I WANT TO look good for him.

  For our date.

  Not too casual. Not too dressy. Not too sweet. And definitely not too sexy, but just sexy enough.

  Any quick glance at me will tell you I’m nothing like the girls he’s been photographed with.