Closer Than She Knows

by Kelly Irvin

She drew her legs up, crossed her ankles, and rested her head on her knees. Texting Max was out of the question until her hands stopped shaking. A busy line of ants paraded past her scuffed, dusty shoes, headed for unknown parts. She began to count them. Anything to take her mind from the medical examiner’s wagon that rolled in just as the fire truck departed.

  “Hey, Teagan.”

  The deep familiar bass that delivered those words made Teagan lose count. Darn it. One, two, three, four . . .

  “T?”

  “Hey, Justin.” She brushed her hands together and forced herself to look up at Homicide Detective Justin Chamberlain. Of course it had to be him on this day inhabited by Murphy’s Law from the time she spilled a full cup of expensive Starbucks on her fresh white blouse. “Shouldn’t you be home with Lilly?” Teasing her brother’s best friend since ninth grade about his marital status was force of habit for Teagan. “Are you here in an official capacity, or are you checking up on me?”

  Justin removed his Ray-Bans and stuck them on top of his slicked-back curls. Someone should tell him to ease up on the hair product. He squatted in front of her and brushed her tangled hair from her face like the pseudo–big brother he’d always been. “Lilly and I aren’t joined at the hip. We have a very healthy relationship. I called your dad and Billy as soon as I caught the call, and they told me you were involved.”

  Billy she could deal with. Her stepbrother knew better than to treat her like a second-class citizen because she hadn’t joined the family business.

  “I’m okay. I don’t need him to come.” The words came automatically. She’d worked hard to stand on her own two feet in a family of cops. “I’m fine.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Did you ask for this case?”

  “You know it doesn’t work that way. Me and Alisha were up next.”

  His partner, Alisha Martinez, stood talking to the ME investigator. She turned at that moment and waved. Teagan returned the gesture.

  Justin swiveled on the toes of his glossy leather loafers and plopped on the curb next to her. He removed a notebook from his suit coat pocket. The official capacity part was about to begin. “I know it’s been a rough day, but I need you to run through what happened. Think you can do that?”

  “I’m not a hothouse flower.” She bristled in spite of herself. Justin knew better. She picked strands of fresh-cut grass from her suit pants. “Where do you want me to start?”

  “At the beginning.”

  So helpful. Teagan outlined the trip to secure evidence at the PD evidence storage facility.

  Justin underlined words in his notebook. “What trial?”

  “A couple of gangbangers got into it during a drug deal. One of them tried to book with the product and the money. The other one shot him. He tried to claim self-defense, but nobody was buying that.”

  “So he was convicted?”

  “Manslaughter. They were both habitual offenders.” Teagan suspected jurors had a hard time caring in cases like this when both perpetrator and victim were criminals with long rap sheets. “It’s not likely the guy will appeal, and he’s not smart enough to realize the court reporter is in charge of the evidence.”

  “His attorney is.”

  “Lenny Soto caught the case.”

  “There you go.”

  “He wouldn’t risk his career for a lowlife druggie gangbanger.” Despite his penchant for long-winded opening and closing arguments, Teagan liked Lenny. He was a no-holds-barred public defender into winning, social justice, and making a name for himself—not necessarily in that order. “For a poor immigrant, maybe, but not for a guy who got greedy and offed a guy for a few pounds of pot.”

  “What if the gangs involved want payback?”

  “Do you see them using a high-power rifle to kill a cop? It’s overkill, and they’re smart enough to want to avoid the scrutiny of the entire SAPD and the capital murder charge. More likely they’ll go after the families involved. They’ll keep it in-house.”

  Justin scratched his nose and frowned. “Then what? A random shooting? A hit on a patrol officer? Have you made anyone mad lately? Any irate boyfriends?”

  Teagan snorted. Justin didn’t smile. “I’m serious. You’re a court reporter. You’re involved in murder cases, sexual assaults, aggravated robberies, commitment hearings, capital murder cases. Maybe someone decided to take you out and missed.”

  “Seriously? People don’t even see me in the courtroom. They think I’m a stenographer.” A glorified typist. She had an associate’s degree in court reporting: computer-aided transcription technology. She wrote 230 words a minute with 97 percent accuracy in real time. During a trial she did this as much as eight to ten hours a day. “It’s more likely it has something to do with Officer Moreno.”

  “She was a second-year patrolwoman. We’ll dig into any recent calls she took and arrests, but it’ll be small potatoes.”

  Small potatoes. The woman died for small potatoes. “What was her first name?”

  Justin looked up from his notebook. His forehead under thick black curls furrowed. He cleared his throat. “Her name was Kristin Moreno. She went by Kris.”

  “I want to know who did this and why. I want him caught. I want him put away for life—”

  “Whoa, whoa. Kris was a fellow officer. We work every homicide with equal zeal, but you can rest in the fact that we’ll throw every resource at finding this maniac.”

  “I feel so . . . I want to help.”

  “Your dad, Billy, and Gracie are the police officers. You prepare court records. You don’t solve cases.” Justin’s voice softened. “It’s not an uncommon reaction, though.”

  “I’m a witness. I should be able to help.”

  “You can help by telling me everything you saw or heard. Anything unusual from the time you left the courthouse until the time of the shooting?”

  Teagan closed her eyes. She’d been thrilled that the sun was shining when they walked from the tower and crossed the street to the patrolwoman’s SUV. Not a cloud in the early May sky. They couldn’t tell what the weather was like inside the justice center. The heat made her remove her jacket and sling it over her shoulder. She kept her wheeled basket with the packages containing the pot and the weapon close. She was anal about her evidence—any court reporter worth her salt was. The rest of the exhibits were on their way to the district attorney’s evidence warehouse, where they would be retained until they could be legally destroyed. Only weapons and drugs went back to PD.

  The drive took them from downtown to I-10 East, exiting on Nogalitos Street. Nothing. Then they turned onto Park Boulevard by the H.E.B. grocery store and past the Collins Garden Library, and farther along Park Boulevard. Nothing. Quiet. Cars parked on the house side of the street. No perpetrator strolling along the sidewalk with a rifle slung over his shoulder.

  As if that wouldn’t be obvious. How had the killer got off at least twos shots and walked away without being noticed? Teagan touched the bandage on her cheek. And with such accuracy? “What kind of weapon was used?”

  “We won’t know until the ME does the autopsy.” Justin tugged at the knot in his tie. Fine perspiration dotted his forehead. “Some sort of high-velocity rifle.”

  “Where did the shots come from?”

  “Good question. We’re corralling everyone we can in the park and in the neighborhood, trying to locate someone who saw something.”

  “We stopped at the stop sign at Park and Academic Court,” Teagan thought aloud. “She looked at me and said something about getting me through security. She turned left. The window blew out. I have no idea if someone was standing at the corner. I was oblivious to my surroundings. Could the killer have shot from a passing car?”

  “It would be a heck of a shot. He’d have to hit a moving target.” Justin’s gaze roved over the crowd that refused to disperse. “Totally dependent on being in the right place at the right time. That’s not much of a plan.”

  “Unless it truly was a random drive-by
shooting. Gangbangers going through initiation or getting back at PD for arrests on their turf.”

  “Which is up to SAPD’s finest to figure out. Not you. Your job is to go home, rest, and recuperate from a traumatic event.” Justin’s tone was a wisp away from sarcastic. He knew her too well to expect her to rush home and throw herself on the bed. “You might also consider finding someone to talk to about all this. It helps. If you promise to do that, I promise to keep you apprised of what’s going on with this case. Even though it’s not necessarily protocol.”

  “I appreciate that.” He knew she would pester him until he told her what she wanted to know, just like she did when he knew her siblings’ plans to apply to the academy. “And I’m fine.”

  “From the level of prickliness you’re displaying, I’d say you’re determined to be fine. That’s not the same thing. Take it from a nine-year veteran of this stuff.” He shoved off the curb, stood, and held out his hand. “Hang tight. When we’re done here, I’ll get someone to drive you downtown to make a formal statement. Then your dad wants you to come to the house. Or he said he’ll get Gracie to give you a lift if you’re not up to it.”

  “I need to go home and feed Tigger. She’ll be starving.” Teagan ignored his hand and stood on her own. It took her last ounce of strength to keep from swaying. Tigger would be all the medicine she needed. The pit bull weighed fifty pounds, but at two she was still a puppy who thought she was a lapdog. “I’m not in the mood for a family powwow.”

  “Get Julie or one of your other amigas to take care of Tigger. Let your dad cook for you. It’ll make him feel better. We lost one of our own, and that hurts.”

  Her headache ratcheted up another notch. Julie Davidson, her court coordinator and friend, would be happy to feed Tigger, but she had plans this evening—a granddaughter’s dance recital—and Teagan had no intention of bothering her. She hadn’t even thought about her dad. “Sorry. I’m so wrapped up in myself. Did he know Officer Moreno—did he know Kris?”

  “He taught a couple of classes at the academy when Kris was there. Yeah, he knew her.”

  “I’ll call him when I get home.”

  “You’ll be here awhile longer, so try to be patient. Get someone to feed Tigger if you can.” Justin grabbed her hand and squeezed. “I’m glad you’re okay. If you ever need to talk, I’m available. You’re always welcome at the house. Lilly loves to feed strays.”

  Leave it to Justin to be nice in one sentence and insult her in the next. It was his MO. His wife was far too sweet for a guy like him. A whiff of long summer evenings spent splashing around at a neighborhood pool drifted over her. Justin lording it over the younger kids as a lifeguard, buff and bronzed in swimming trunks, a whistle hanging on a lanyard around his neck, dark hairs just beginning to sprout on his chest, the smell of chlorine and sunscreen in the air. She’d been watching the girls fawn over him and wondered what they’d think if they knew how he belched after drinking soda or chewed with his mouth open just to annoy her stepsister, Gracie. “Thanks. I’m . . . that’s nice of you, but like I said—”

  “You’ll never be the same. You shouldn’t be—”

  “Teagan, Teagan, over here!”

  Annoyance flitted across Justin’s face, but he backed off and looked over his shoulder. Teagan waved at Brian Lake, a one-man band from the local ABC affiliate. He stood out in a crowd, mostly because he was six feet two, weighed two hundred pounds, and had a big nose even for that football player–sized body.

  A hopeful look on his craggy face, Brian waved back. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be at home with your feet up by now.”

  “So did I,” she called back. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

  “Don’t even think about it.” Justin turned to face Brian. He pulled his sunglasses from his head to his nose, hiding his dark-brown eyes. “Chief is on his way. He’ll do the usual news conference.”

  “Brian’s a friend. I know better than to share too much.” Dealing with members of the media who visited her courtroom had taught Teagan to tread carefully on the high wire of being friendly without revealing more information than her job allowed. “I thought you liked him too.”

  “I do. I don’t have any beef with him or the rest of them. I just don’t want the chief chewing me out for stealing his thunder with the media.”

  “Come on, guys, give me a hint.”

  Brian was a nice guy who followed all the judge’s rules—no shorts in the courtroom, muted cell phones, no showing the jury on the news, and so on. If Teagan dropped him a tidbit on a juicy upcoming trial now and then, she wasn’t the only one. It was nice to have a photographer who doubled as a reporter who actually understood how the system worked, who was who, and got the story right. He was older, probably in his forties, with enough experience to use diplomacy to finesse his way into the information he needed.

  “I’ll fend him off.” Justin adjusted the sunglasses. “I can talk to him on deep background. He won’t burn me. You stay away from the media.”

  Teagan couldn’t help the eye roll. “Yes, sir.”

  Justin’s lips rolled up in a sardonic smile. “As if you ever showed respect for my authority.”

  The first notes of “Forever on Your Side” by NeedtoBreathe floated from her pants pocket.

  Max.

  Wednesday night. Youth group.

  Would a true believer forget her church obligations in the aftermath of a shoot-out? Mom would say no, but she’d been on track for sainthood. Max would happily feed Tigger after youth group. He was a good friend.

  A sudden hitch in her breathing hurt Teagan’s chest. The look in Max’s burnished amber eyes when he thought she wasn’t watching told her he wanted to be much more. All she had to do was say the word. Make the first move.

  The ball was in her court. Max would never pressure her. Not because he lacked guts, but because he saw himself as less than worthy.

  He was so wrong. Teagan held that title.

  Not now. Keep it light. “Hey.”

  Max’s husky voice filled the space around her. “Hey, where are you? You’ve never missed youth group in two years.”

  Justin frowned and walked away.

  “I’m having a bad day.”

  But not nearly as bad as Officer Kristin Moreno’s day.

  3

  Even a fifty-pound pit bull terrier couldn’t protect a woman from a sniper’s bullet. Not something Max Kennedy expected to worry about in his hometown. He’d had enough of that in Afghanistan. He shoved the thought away.

  The gentle rumble of his Indian Scout Bobber soothed him. He let the motorcycle idle in the driveway as he sat contemplating Teagan’s small 1940s wood-frame home in Southtown, a stone’s throw from San Antonio’s downtown. The distant hum of I-10 traffic mingled with crickets chirping and the occasional dog barking.

  Security lighting cast its rays on her small cement porch and a series of hanging moss-lined containers, some filled with Bossa Nova Orange begonias, sweet potato vines, and silvery dichondra. Max knew the names of these plants because Teagan liked to sit barefoot on the front steps in the dappled sunlight of early evening, paint her toenails sparkly purple, and tell him about them. They gave her pleasure, and her animated voice as she reeled off their names did the same for him.

  Teagan had asked for his help. She didn’t do that much with anyone. Even friends. Some would think feeding a dog a minor request. Not Teagan. She counted Max as a member of her small group of close friends. Being a part of that group was a privilege.

  He dismounted and headed across the yard to the Little Free Library Teagan had built near the wide sidewalk in her equally small front yard. The scent of basil and rosemary she’d planted on the roof of the three-story mini house anchored on a five-foot cedar post wafted over him. He slipped his goddaughter’s copy of What the Dinosaurs Did Last Night into the children’s section, trying not to think about how she’d outgrown it already. Babies grew so fast. He wanted a few of his own so he’d have an excu
se to read silly children’s stories every night.

  Should a guy with his past have kids? It was an old argument. Faith and Hope Community Church obviously thought so. They trusted him to pastor two dozen rowdy middle and high schoolers. He had them for a few hours a week and on a couple of mission trips a year. Little chance of thoroughly messing them up and plenty of opportunity for shepherding them closer to Jesus and farther from the miry pits that had ensnared him.

  Could he trust himself to be a husband and father? He needed to know. Only then could he ask Teagan to venture into territory beyond friendship. To trust him.

  A beige folded sheet of stationery floated from the first-floor box of adult classics into the thick St. Augustine grass. Borrowers and lenders often left sweet notes for Teagan, one of the many things she loved about having the library, where she sometimes served lemonade or gave away cherry tomatoes and cucumbers grown in her backyard garden. Some court reporters drank after work or went to the gym to drown out the day’s proceedings. Teagan grubbed in the garden or worked in the youth group pumpkin patch and ran a library in her front yard.

  Lucky for Max. He stayed out of bars these days.

  He scooped up the note and squinted in the motion-detection solar light that allowed evening visitors to see the books.

  The words buzzed in his ears. He read it again.

  The thin sheet fluttered to the ground a second time. Goose bumps prickling on his neck, he glanced over his shoulder. Swallowing against bitter bile, he bent to retrieve the paper again, this time with his fingertips.

  With his free hand, he dug the key Teagan had given him as backup for when she lost her own from his jean pocket and tromped across the yard to the front door.

  A half-strangled scream shattered the night.

  Key halfway to the door, Max froze.

  The scream rose. “Stop. Please stop. Help me, someone help me, God, help me!”

  Mrs. Conklin. Max thrust the note in his back pocket, whirled, jumped the two steps, and pounded toward the neighbor’s house.

  “I’m coming.” He jerked open the fence gate that led to the backyard. “Where are you?”