Closer Than She Knows

by Kelly Irvin

  “Sorry, girl, I’m done.” She slid her hand down the dog’s warm, muscled body. “Save it for tomorrow.”

  Her phone dinged as she dragged herself up the steps to the house. Max.

  How r u?

  Good. U?

  At church.

  Max always tried to arrive at the sprawling church campus early for devotions and prayer before the other staff members showed up. He and Rick seemed to have an unspoken competition going on to see who could unlock the doors first.

  Good. That’s good.

  Are u really okay?

  Really.

  Be safe.

  U too.

  Praying.

  Me too.

  Be God’s.

  Always.

  She did her best with her prayers, but Max knew that. He did a much better job of keeping in touch with God. Her prayer life was more a series of discussions between an Abba Father and his recalcitrant daughter.

  Their text language reminded Teagan of the one she used on her writer. People who bothered to ask found it hard to understand how she typed hours of dialogue using fourteen blank keys. Court reporters who made it through the training—only three from her class of twenty graduated—learned to type phonetically, combining numerous sounds.

  Be safe. Just seeing Max’s name come up on her phone made her feel safer.

  Cheered by the thought, she picked up speed and headed to the shower. She chose her favorite blue suit and low heels. Normally when she didn’t have a trial on the docket, she walked the mile and a half to work or grabbed one of the ubiquitous electric scooters now available on every corner downtown. Today she would heed the cop squad’s warnings and play it safe by driving. Ninety minutes later she strode into her office behind the 177th District Court at the Bexar County Justice Center.

  Julie Davidson didn’t bother with a greeting. She simply folded Teagan into a hug and patted her back. Her signature gold bangle bracelets jangled. Julie was at least forty-five but looked thirty. She never had a brown hair out of place or a wrinkle in her simple but elegant Anne Klein ensembles. Under her able administration, the 177th’s team was a well-oiled machine. “You should’ve taken the day off. The judge would understand.”

  “I’m better off working.” Teagan hugged back and broke free from her willowy friend’s grasp. She was late, no time for their usual give-and-take about their evenings. “What’s on the docket today?”

  Hearings on a variety of topics usually filled Thursday’s docket if they weren’t in trial. Julie perused the document that served as her bible as they headed down the hallway behind the courtroom that led to their offices. “A PSI on a sex assault of a child, several motions to revoke, and several trials that will probably plead out or could get settings.” She glanced at the smartwatch on her wrist. “Judge will be ready to take the bench in about fifteen minutes.”

  That gave Teagan enough time to grab a cup of coffee and check her email. On trial days she often didn’t communicate with the outside world for eight or ten hours. Nothing urgent for now. She slipped into the courtroom where the assistant district attorneys had taken over two tables inside the gates that separated the bench from the gallery. The 177th was one of the smaller courtrooms in the Paul Elizondo Tower. The walls were a soft coral and the carpet sturdy gold. U.S. and Texas flags adorned the space behind the bench. Her home away from home.

  She made the rounds. Everyone had a theory on the events of the previous day. Everyone wanted her take on it. She kept her responses short. She knew little more than they did and she’d been there.

  Bailiff Pete Sanchez waved and turned back to the prisoners who shuffled into the jury box, where they would wait for consults with their attorneys already gathering to hash out plea deals and contested Motions to Revoke with the assistant DAs.

  As usual Thursday meant organized chaos in the 177th.

  She slid into her chair just below the judge’s bench and smoothed her fingers over her writer. Plain, simple, and her touchstone. It brought order to chaos. She’d been doing this so long, she could type lengthy voir dire of potential jurors and plan her grocery list in her head at the same time. Attorneys might argue on top of each other, the judge might mumble, the defendant might stare, but she let nothing get in the way of the words.

  “I heard you had a bad day.” Hand on his service weapon, Pete paused by her tiny work space with just enough room for her machine, her computer, and a few technology odds and ends. “Sorry about that.”

  “Thanks.” Teagan scooted closer to her desk. Some days the defendants in the jury box behind her were too close for comfort. “I just feel bad for Officer Moreno’s family. She was so young.”

  “Quiet in the box.” Pete turned and shot a fierce frown at an orange jumpsuit–clad man with the state of Texas tattooed on one cheek and a nasty cold sore on his upper lip. “You just can’t shut up, can you? Stop talking.” Pete turned back to Teagan. His smile returned. “Moreno knew what she signed up for. It doesn’t make it any easier for the family, but Moreno was a police officer. She died with her boots on.”

  Small comfort for Teagan too. What if it had been Gracie or Billy? Families of law enforcement officers knew they had to suck it up and swallow their fears.

  She busied herself making sure her computer was up and running, ready to do real-time transcription so the judge could see the record. She’d transcribed two capital murder trials in her career. She never wanted to do another one involving a police officer. Her mind tapped out the record she prayed would never be needed for Gracie even while her brain demanded she stop her fingers.

  2A. The actor, the driver, he’s now unable to

  3get over the fence, and he turns around and confronts the

  4officer. A large guy, a big guy, much bigger than

  5Officer Gracie Evans Gomez. And the officer tells him to get

  6down, to surrender. She’s wearing her full police

  7uniform. It’s broad daylight. She’s telling him to give

  8up, he’s caught. He waves a gun around.

  9Officer Gomez is backpedaling,

  10starts to—starts to backpedal. Pulls

  11her gun. Tells him to drop his gun. He does not. Comes at

  12the officer. The driver shoots at Officer Gomez one time

  13in the chest and Gomez falls to the ground in the middle

  14of the yard. The officer tries to call for help.

  15and—and shooting. The officer takes two more blows. She

  16takes one to her—her left thigh and then she takes one

  17to—through her boot into her ankle. She’s hurt bad, but she

  18returns fire. The neighbor retreats back into his house.

  19He gets on the phone.

  20He’s calling 911. He goes to get his own gun. It’s

  21upstairs. To load it up, but you’ll find by that time

  22Officer Gomez is deceased.

  Deceased.

  Teagan’s stomach twisted. Sudden tremors shook her. Maybe fine had been the wrong word. Shake it off. Sitting at home would be worse. She didn’t need more time to think. She needed to work.

  “Teagan. Teagan? Teagan!”

  Startled, Teagan jolted from her chair. “Is the judge ready?”

  “He’s still on the phone in his chambers.” Julie grinned and cocked her perfectly coiffed brown-haired head toward the door. “You got a delivery. Run take a look before he comes in.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “After the day you had yesterday, this will cheer you up.” Julie opened the door with a flourish. “Somebody loves you, and I think I know who it is.”

  With a glance at her watch, Teagan dashed down the hallway to her office. Amid the mess on her desk sat a cut-glass vase containing at least two dozen pink roses. Their sweet aroma overcame the usual scent of old paper, stale coffee, and dust. Spring had sprung in her dingy courthouse office.

  “They’re gorgeous.” Teagan breathed in the deliciousness. They rem
inded her of Mrs. Conklin. She raised her head and stepped away from the bouquet. Someone knew they would. Max, probably. He knew she loved flowers, and he managed to make them into a friend gesture—just behind the line she’d drawn between them. “That’s so thoughtful.”

  “Who sent them? Was it Max?” Julie clasped her manicured fingers in front of her like an ecstatic child waiting for a gift to be opened. Her bangles clapped with her. “I bet it was Max.”

  Her coworker labored under the illusion that one day Teagan would open her eyes and see that Max was a perfect match for her. She was one of the few people whom Teagan had enlightened as to why they were not, in fact, a perfect match. That didn’t stop Julie from hoping.

  Teagan tugged a small cream-colored envelope from amid the greenery. Instead of the usual typed message that resulted from a telephone call or an online order, she found a note penned in thick black ink. A familiar script that read:

  Dear T,

  These are no match for Evelyn’s lovely Belinda’s Dream roses, but I hope they lift your spirits. Blue is your color. I wonder how red will look on you. Tell your father I said hello.

  Your friend,

  Phillip Meek

  Teagan eased into her chair and laid the card facedown on her desk. She examined the envelope without touching it again. No florist name or address adorned it. That should’ve been her first clue.

  “Who’s it from?” Julie’s smile died. Her hazel eyes grew somber behind stylish red frames. “What is it, girlfriend?”

  “I need to call Justin.”

  “Why would he send you flowers? He’s married—”

  “They’re not from him either.”

  “Who then?”

  “They’re from the killer—Evelyn’s and Officer Moreno’s killer.”

  Julie’s court coordinator mask slid into place. “I’m on it. I’ll let the judge know and get Pete in here.”

  Roses would never smell sweet again.

  9

  Same book second chapter. Teagan rubbed her pounding forehead with both hands and tried not to get in the CSU investigator’s way.

  “Who’s Phillip Meek?” Alisha stood in the doorway doing the same thing. “Another literary friend?”

  “No friend of mine, but yes. Phillip Meek is a fictional serial killer in Death So Sweet. More accurately, a hit man who gets paid to kill but also enjoys it.” Suddenly cold in the tepid air generated by the courthouse’s overworked AC, Teagan shivered. “He kills his victims in various violent ways and then butchers them to freeze the meat. His version of taking trophies. He’s a gourmet chef, by the way.”

  “Lovely. How does Fuentes sleep at night?”

  “He was a reporter before he wrote fiction. He knows bad stuff happens to good people and bad people are everywhere.”

  If it sounded like an oversimplification, too bad it wasn’t.

  The CSU investigator didn’t bother to take the roses with her. They came from a shop on South St. Mary’s, delivered by their employee who brought them through security and carried them directly to their offices. She dusted the card and the envelope and then placed them in evidence bags. The once lovely scent of roses now gagged Teagan. She grabbed the offending flowers and stuffed them into the wastebasket. She had to smash down the stems in order to close the trash bag and tie it off.

  “Good job.” Alisha leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Teagan’s semi temper tantrum. Justin’s partner was a solidly built woman slightly taller than Teagan with deep cocoa-brown hair and eyes shaped with a hint of her Mayan ancestors. “You showed them.”

  “They stink.”

  “I can see why you’d say that.” Alisha pulled away from the wall and tried to pace in the space between the desk and the door that led to Teagan’s evidence vault. Her long ponytail swayed with each step. “I know you can’t tell me anything about the flowers, so let’s just concentrate on what you did this morning.”

  The killer had been watching her. He knew she wore a blue suit. Her favorite Calvin Klein notch-collar jacket with silver buttons and matching pants would no longer be her go-to outfit. Its price tag made it too expensive to burn, but it would make a nice donation to Dress for Success San Antonio, a charity that helped women experiencing homelessness get jobs.

  Shuddering, Teagan sipped the water Julie had brought her and studied the mosquito bite on her wrist just below her Fitbit. “I went for a run.” It sounded so self-absorbed said aloud. “I needed to clear my head. Tigger needed to stretch her legs. I owed her one.”

  “You don’t have to justify your actions to me.” Alisha went back to leaning on the wall. Her fingers tapped a brisk beat on the painted drywall behind her. “I worked out at the gym for an hour and a half last night. I couldn’t get enough of the punching bag.”

  She did understand. A punching bag was far better than the twelve-pack some officers chose. Teagan grabbed her tension ball from her desk and squeezed it. “That was it. I did eight miles, dragged my butt into the shower, and came to work.”

  “Nothing unusual? You didn’t see any strange cars in the neighborhood? You didn’t pass anyone on your run who seemed out of place?”

  “No one. No one out of place.” Teagan rubbed her forehead. She dropped the ball, grabbed her leather satchel, and dug through the contents until she found a travel pack of Tylenol. She extracted two. “I chatted with my neighbor from across the street. He’s one of the least strange people on my block.” She took the pills and swallowed them with a gulp of water. “Unless you think bibliophiles are strange. He likes to browse through the books in my Little Free Library, mostly so he can critique the collection. He thinks I should have more classics.”

  “Name?” Alisha tugged her pen from behind her ear and produced a small notebook from her jacket pocket. “Anything different about him?”

  “He’s into Victorian decorating, but that doesn’t make him weird. He bought the house over a year ago from flippers who ran out of money. He’s finished the downstairs and started on the bedrooms upstairs.” Teagan blabbered when she was nervous. “Cole Reynolds, San Antonio College instructor of speech and communications.”

  “I’ll check him out.”

  “You should. He’s cute, physically fit, and has a dog named Huck.” Alisha was single and ready to commit. She hadn’t been able to find the right guy or one who didn’t mind her job. Teagan tried to help her out. As if she had this guy thing figured out. “He’s into DIY projects and he likes to cook. He’s nearly perfect.”

  “No beef with Evelyn Conklin? We don’t have a lot to work with here.”

  “What about the flowers? Isn’t that a stupid thing to do?” Teagan went back to squeezing her tension ball. Maybe she could pretend she was squeezing the killer’s neck. Probably not very Christian. Turn the other cheek. Kill ’em with kindness. Heap burning coals of kindness on their heads. “He calls a flower shop and buys flowers or, better yet, orders online?”

  “Except he didn’t.” Justin swaggered into the room. The guy thought he was all that and a bag of chips. His scent of Polo and hair product arrived slightly before him. “The flower shop clerk says a woman came in and ordered them. She brought the card with her. She claimed her boyfriend asked her to order them for him. It was a surprise for his mother on her birthday. She paid cash.”

  The news poured cold water on Teagan’s tiny flame of hope. “What woman would do that?”

  “It’s not unusual for psychopaths to have girlfriends.”

  “Could the clerk describe her?”

  “Average height, white, long brown hair, brown eyes, cute, thin. Mid- to late-twenties.”

  Like thousands of women in one of the fastest-growing cities in the country. San Antonio boasted a rapidly expanding population of 1.3 million. Many were millennials drawn by its reasonably priced housing market, a thriving, culturally diverse downtown, and job opportunities. “Her fingerprints have to be on the envelope.”

  “We’ll see—”

  Max bu
rst through the door, a sudden impression made up of shaggy sandy-brown hair, a TobyMac T-shirt, faded, holey jeans, and boat shoes. Pete the bailiff—Teagan always thought of him that way. Did his wife?—followed with one hand on his gun and the other on his ASP baton. Pete didn’t look happy, but Max looked even more agitated. “Are you okay? Confirm for this guy that you told me to come.”

  “I told you it wasn’t necessary for you to come.” Teagan rose and slipped around her desk. The office barely held the space for her desk, two chairs, and some filing cabinets. Now it had to play host to a law enforcement convention and one larger-than-life youth minister. “But I knew there would be no stopping you. There’s a subtle difference.”

  Max muscled his way between Justin and Alisha. Teagan barely had time to brace herself before he delivered the hug. “You’re okay?”

  “He sent me flowers. He didn’t come himself.” Teagan edged from his space even though every muscle urged her to lean into his broad chest. “I’m fine.”

  “How did the flowers get up here?” Max looked around as if to browbeat someone into answering his question. “I thought this was a secure building. Where was Pete the bailiff?”

  That he used her name for Pete reflected the number of stories he’d listened to Teagan tell about the hard-nosed bailiff’s antics in the courtroom.

  “The flowers went through security.” Justin had asked the same question. He didn’t need to consult his notebook for the answer. “This is a public building. That’s how all the jurors get in, the defendants, the attorneys. What were you expecting? Alcatraz?”

  “Looks like they don’t need any stinkin’ security in Corpus, either.” Billy stuck his head through the doorway. “Hi, Sissy, how you holding up?”

  Another LEO heard from. Soon her office would be like the Volkswagen Beetle vying for a Guinness World Record for the greatest number of law enforcement officers who could be stuffed into one ten-by-twelve office. Teagan returned to her side of the desk, Max in tow, a fact that didn’t bother her no matter how much she’d love to be the macho woman in this scenario. “Come on in, Bro, the more the merrier.”