Under A Blue Moon : Indigo Knights Book IX

by A. J. Downey

  Under A Blue Moon

  A.J. Downey

  Contents

  BOOK Nine

  COPYRIGHT

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Also by A.J. Downey

  About the Author

  BOOK Nine

  Published 2020 by Second Circle Press

  Text Copyright © 2020 A.J. Downey

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner and are not to be construed as real except where noted and authorized. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or names featured are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing & book design by Maggie Kern @ Ms.K Edits

  Cover art and Indigo Knights logo by Dar Albert at Wicked Smart Designs

  Dedication

  To David, for pulling it out in the clutch and being fabulous with your time and music knowledge. I owe you one. I’m sure you’ll find a way for me to repay you at some point. Love you, bitch.

  1

  Poe…

  “Car thirty-two, we have a report of a carjacking at the corner of 153rd and Cash Street. Respond.”

  I picked up the radio handset as my partner, Brody, flipped the switch for the lights, holding off on the siren until I completed the call.

  “Dispatch, this is car thirty-two, go ahead and mark us en route.”

  “Copy, car thirty-two. Report of one female victim and two witnesses. All three are waiting on the corner to make contact.”

  “Thank you, dispatch.”

  I hung up the radio.

  “Amateur night back there,” my partner grumbled.

  “Right?” I asked.

  Unnecessary information to trade over the airwaves always tended to annoy us. Everything that we needed to know was already coming up on the laptop screen, the airwaves needed to stay clear for priority-one traffic. It was crazy out there tonight. A Blue Moon. Somehow, the gods had seen fit to curse our asses with a second full moon in the same month.

  “Victim’s described as a blonde in a jean jacket and hoodie,” I said, reading off the screen.

  “Got a name?”

  “Mmm – no.”

  “Seriously, they get a description but not a name? Jesus Christ.” My partner made a noise of disgust that I wholeheartedly agreed with as we rounded the corner onto 153rd and slowed down on the approach to Cash Street.

  A mixed-race dude jumped off the curb a block ahead and waved us down. We double parked and we got out.

  “My girlfriend and I saw the whole thing!” he called out. “Dude, he shoved a gun in her face and everything. Scared the shit out of us, man. I thought he was going to shoot her!”

  “Where is she?” I asked and he waved me along.

  “She’s over here with my girlfriend.”

  I followed the guy who couldn’t have been older than nineteen over to the curb. Brody was already asking him questions. A pretty young black girl was crouched down and huddled next to a blonde woman who sat on the curb, her stylish but sturdy brown boots had their heels planted in the gutter, her head bowed, her forearms propped on her knees, her hands shaking. She wore a pair of jeans with the knees torn out and a jean jacket over a gray hoodie. Our victim by the description provided.

  “Ma’am, are you okay? Are you hurt?” She looked up at me and I was rocked to my core. Nearly put back on my ass by a pair of eyes that belonged on a fairy princess out of some fairy tale, not set in a human face. Especially one as ethereal and as pretty as hers.

  She had one deep bronze eye edged in green except for one wedge of blue that matched the other eye which was a startling blue that seemed too blue to be real.

  “I’m not hurt, I’m okay,” she said and yet her voice betrayed her some. It was exceedingly brittle but still with an undercurrent of steel to it. She’d been shaken up. Hard. But she was holding it together. The adrenaline crash hadn’t come yet.

  “Okay, you got your ID?” I asked her, trying to get ahead of it and the information I needed before the potential hysterics and inevitable waterworks.

  She pulled her small utilitarian purse around from behind her hip, and I was glad she at least had that on her. That the perp hadn’t gotten away with her complete identity. Bad enough he got her car, and maybe her phone. At least she was spared from having to cancel all her credit cards, etc. I took the laminated rectangle from her fingers that was her identification and frowned at the unfamiliar license image and setup.

  “Washington State?” I asked. “A little far from home, aren’t you?”

  “This was supposed to be my new home,” she said miserably and the harsh sigh that fell from her lips sent out some bad vibes.

  I was writing down her info, Saylor Grace Dresden, last known address some place called Olympia in Washington State, which was clear across the country and almost then some it was so far west from here. Depending on the route she took, she had a couple of mountain ranges between her and Indigo City.

  “Supposed to be?” I asked absently.

  “My boyfriend and I have been together in a long distance relationship for close to five years – or, well, we were together. The plan was that I was going to join him out here. I thought everything was fine and that he was as excited as I was. Except, when I got here and knocked on his apartment door, he didn’t look happy to see me. He said he had cold feet and that this was a really bad idea and he was sorry and just shut the door in my face. I was trying to find a place to park for the night and figure out what to do next when – welcome to the city – this guy ripped open my door, shoved a gun in my face, and told me to get out of my car.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ms. Dresden. That’s not how I want to hear someone’s been welcomed to Indigo City. Can you tell me what kind of car you drive?”

  “Uh, yeah, it’s a 1994 maroon-ish Volkswagen Golf and has one black fender and two black doors on the driver’s side. Um, it’s pretty banged up and has literally all my stuff in it.”

  She wouldn’t look at me, her voice starting to wobble a little as she stared up the night-dark street. Her eyes misting over, she sniffed and looked at the ground so I wouldn’t see her cry and my heart went out to h
er – it really did.

  “Can you tell me what your assailant looked like?”

  “Ah, yeah. Um, he was black. I know that sounds awful, but it’s the truth.”

  “No need to apologize,” I told her. “Anything else you can remember about him?”

  “The gun was, um, black and a lot like yours, I guess.”

  “What about clothing? Did you see what he was wearing?”

  While I talked with Saylor, my partner was saddled with the other two witnesses over by our patrol car. I took down her description of the guy and radioed in the details about both the perp and her car to dispatch to put out as an all-points bulletin.

  “I’m really sorry this happened to you,” I reiterated and I meant it. It was a shitty position to be in.

  “I honestly don’t even really care about the car or any of the clothes – it’s just my granddad’s guitar was in the back seat and I really want it back,” she said and wiped at her face.

  “Okay, is there anything else you can tell me about the car?” I asked. “Do you happen to know the plate number or anything?”

  “Oh, yeah, it’s Washington plates.” She rolled those spectacular eyes of hers and added sardonically, “Obviously.” She blew out an unhappy breath and rattled off the number, peeking around my arm at my notepad to make sure I got it right. “Five-zero-four dash the letters W, D, and E.”

  I got on the radio and called it in, reiterating the make, model, and adding the detail of the plate number for dispatch to add to the APB out on the car.

  There was no telling what the guy was running from but most times a carjacking like that? The perp was trying to make a getaway from something much worse, more violent, and I couldn’t exactly say I was surprised about that, especially in this neighborhood. A lot of shit went down in this part of the city, unfortunately. It was one of the poorer neighborhoods full of drugs with a bunch of robberies going down weekly.

  “Can I get you a ride somewhere?” I asked her, and she shook her head, miserably thrusting her hands into her jacket pockets.

  “Even if you could, it’s not like I have any money for a hotel or anyplace to go. I had about forty bucks left to my name and that was in my guitar case.”

  “Wow. You literally put everything on this guy, huh?” I asked and tried to keep any hint of accusation or derision out of my tone. She didn’t need judgment right now. It was probably the last thing she needed to be honest – I was pretty sure she knew exactly how stupid it was to have come all the way across the country for a guy. I felt my jaw tighten. Fucking scumbag to do her like that.

  “You really trusted him, didn’t you?” I asked softly and she looked up at me sharply.

  “Yeah,” she said quietly and tears slipped over her bottom lashes and coursed down her pale cheeks. There was something so raw and beautiful about it. The hurt radiating from her face, the ache in her heart represented in her eyes. She looked so tired, washed out by the lights strobing from the top of my car – her hair kissed by the light of the blue moon hanging low in the sky overhead.

  For some reason, her pain and her fear was resonating with me unlike any other call I’d taken thus far. I didn’t quite know what I was thinking but there was something brewing in the back of my mind. I was just waiting for it to hit the front of my consciousness so I knew what it was.

  Before any thoughts were fully formed, my radio crackled to life at my shoulder. Both my partner and I looked at each other.

  “What?” Saylor asked nervously. “What is it?”

  “Might have found your car, honey. Come on and get in.” My partner opened the back door of our patrol car and Saylor hesitated. She didn’t look nervous but there was something there. Maybe a bad memory when it came to the cops back where she was from. She looked up at me and I smiled and gave her a nod.

  “We’ll take you to it,” I said, and put a light hand on the back of her shoulder. She stared me in the eyes for a long moment before giving a light nod and letting me guide her to the back of the car. I put my hand on her head absently to protect it from the roof and she settled into the hard plastic seat.

  Brody and I traded a look over the patrol car and I felt a grim expression settle on my face.

  Her car wasn’t even a mile away and was wrapped around a light pole. The suspect driving the car had tried dodging another unit and had zigged when he should have zagged. He’d popped off rounds and had thankfully missed, but the unit chasing him hadn’t missed him. It was still coming out over the radio how bad it was.

  “What’s happened?” Saylor asked from the back seat and I turned in mine.

  “Suspect was in an accident with your car,” I told her, and she slumped back, turning to look out the window, the color draining from her already colorless face.

  I glanced at my partner who was eyes forward, watching the road and studied his expression which was neutral, bordering on… bored.

  Just another day at the office, I thought to myself. Shitty things happen to good people every day.

  So why the fuck was this one bothering me so much? I read what was coming across the laptop screen and turned in my seat to steal another look at Saylor Dresden.

  She stared out the window, huddled in on herself, her beautiful eyes vacant and her expression defeated and it made my heart twist almost to the point of pain. Still, it wasn’t unlike any other call I’d ever been on. Nothing about this was outside my usual routine of shittiness I dealt with on a daily or nightly basis. Swing shift saw it all, and this really was no different.

  Except for the fact that there might have been a little magic something or other in the air because of the blue moon. I was a cop, though; and cops weren’t supposed to believe in magic.

  2

  Saylor…

  I was so fucked. I was so fucked. I was so fucked! And it was way more than usual this time. I got out of the back of the police car, the cop who had been talking with me, working with me, held open the door for me and what I got out to look at had my heart sinking into the bottom of my boots.

  My car was a total loss. The front end smashed in and wrapped around a light pole. Sparks occasionally showered down from the busted fixture, steam rose in a pissed off hiss from my fucked up engine compartment.

  “Hold on.” The cop’s hand fell onto my shoulder, gripping it lightly when I went to move forward and go to my car.

  I looked up at him and hated how my eyes felt too wide as I stared up at his handsome face. He gave me a crooked smile that held an edge of sadness and said, “It’s a crime scene. Let me see if I can get anything out of it for you. Might not be able to for a while though.”

  “Okay,” I said swallowing hard, not trusting my voice to say anything else without cracking on me. It was sort of how I felt. Cracked in two, all the important things and feelings leaking out. Like I had a hole in my soul and no way to stem the flow.

  I have to remember that, I thought. Write that down. I hoped I would remember. My journal and notebooks were in my backpack which was with my granddad’s guitar, which was currently in my smashed-up stolen car, which was currently police evidence and oh, my God, I was so fucked!

  “Hey.”

  The cop who was trying to help me stepped between me and my smoking smashed-up car, as a firefighter let loose with a fire extinguisher beneath the crumpled hood, drowning out any potential flames before they could start. I looked up into the officer’s eyes which were gravely concerned, the color indiscernible in the dark, whatever color they boasted leeched away by the strobing red and blue lights flashing and overwhelming the purer light of the moon. His hand fell lightly onto my shoulder and gave it a squeeze and I took the strength that was being offered.

  “You’re going to be okay,” he said evenly – and surprise, surprise I actually believed him, which was strange in and of itself. I didn’t believe anyone anymore. Nothing was ever what it seemed and people were always fishing for an angle to come out on top. It just was the way the world was. It was a miracle I wasn�
��t more cynical than I already was.

  “What do I do now?” I asked softly, breaking down just a little. It’d been a long time since I was in a situation that I just didn’t know how to get out of or fix myself.

  “You wait here. I’m going to try and get you some of your stuff out of your car. I need to talk to the detective in charge to see if that’s possible. Aside from your boyfriend –”

  “Ex,” I cut him off sharply.

  “Aside from your ex,” he amended, “do you know anyone else in or around the city?”

  “No,” I said firmly.

  “Okay.” He nodded, pursing his lips together and staring back over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. I could see the wheels turning in his head and finally his hand fell from my shoulder and he said, “Wait right here. Don’t move a muscle.”

  “Okay,” I muttered and watched him move across the cracked and worn asphalt of the street, nearer to the corner and the curb that my car had jumped to a man standing with a notepad open in his hand, writing things down.

  I watched him talk to who must have been the detective in charge and I could also see it was about as effective as ice skating uphill.

  “Just take her to the homeless shelter on third for tonight! She can sort shit out at impound later!”

  The cop who was helping me shook his head adamantly and spoke in a tone too quiet for me to hear, the expression on his face was clear, though. He was angry. Righteously so and on my behalf and he was fighting it out with this guy to get me at least some of my belongings. I gazed past him, longingly, at my guitar case sitting on top of the rest of my worldly goods in the back seat of my car.