by Hank Edwards
He texted Michael that he was headed inside. Then, in case the news crew was there for Russell, he grabbed a hoodie from the back seat and slipped it on. Cell phones were not permitted inside the prison, so he tossed his in the glove box, donned his big Gucci sunglasses, grabbed his notepad, and stepped out of the car. Locking it, he pocketed his keys and carefully made his way to the prison entrance, avoiding the news van by skirting several cars and coming in from the other side.
Fucking just couldn’t ever do things the easy way, eh, Russell?
Jazz hadn’t known what to expect visiting a prison, but he was glad he’d called to verify if he was even allowed to visit Russell.
As a spouse, yes he was.
A boon for me, as Michael often said.
Michael. As much as Jazz had insisted he needed to do this by himself—and he knew that he did—it sure would’ve been nice to have Michael holding his hand on the hours’ long drive.
Processing through the security points to the visitor area was pretty much what Jazz had seen on TV, minus the guard with one rubber glove and cavity searches. It seemed efficient and fast, and before Jazz knew it, he was in a cream bricked room facing a wall of phones and plexiglass, just like the movies.
Jazz followed the guard’s instructions and sat down. He placed his notepad on the table before him and reviewed the notes he’d written to keep himself on track. Russell could take any conversation and spin it off in a new direction, and Jazz needed to keep his focus. There was a lot of background clatter, but a loud buzzing sound made Jazz sit up straighter.
An armed guard escorted Russell through the door and to the seat across from Jazz.
Jazz sucked in his breath.
Russell looked impeccable.
What the actual fuck?
Hastily Jazz smoothed his hair, pissed off the hoodie had built up enough static electricity to power the prison.
They picked up the phones at the same time.
Neither spoke. They stared at each other. Finally, Jazz cleared his throat and ventured, “You’re looking rather… well.” He begrudgingly noted Russell’s highlights and hair were nicely done.
Russell gestured airily. “Yes, well, it’s amazing the things you can access in prison if you have enough money in your commissary. I can even get my hair colored.”
How did Russell always manage to fall in shit and get up smelling like roses? This was exactly why Jazz hadn’t given him an easy separation. He hadn’t wanted to make it easy for him. He would regret that decision—he often did—but that choice had placed Michael in his path and changed his life. Of course, Jazz eventually would’ve run into Michael, right? Misty hated working at the funeral parlor, and it was Jazz’s clients who seemed to all be dying of late, so chance would have crossed their paths. Lacetown wasn’t so big, to imagine they’d never meet.
Yes, that totally would have happened.
Jazz needed to stop giving Russell any credit for having a hand in the best relationship of his life.
And if Jazz wanted things to move on to the next level with Michael—and hopefully the next and the next—Russell’s influence on said relationship had to stop.
Just remember, he’s killed once and has probably hired out these latest murders.
“And orange always was a good color on me,” Russell added, focusing Jazz’s thoughts.
Damn Russell’s autumnal color palette! The bastard did look good in orange.
“How are they treating you?” Jazz heard himself ask. For all the practicing, shouting, arguing with, and accusing Russell out loud as he drove here, Jazz suddenly found himself at a loss. The last time they’d seen each other, Russell had tried to kill him.
And Michael.
Jazz would not forgive that.
Russell sighed. “The food is terrible, as to be expected. But I’m getting a lot of exercise and it’s really helping with my mental health.”
“Mental health?” Jazz questioned. That ship sailed the second he stole Dylan’s book.
“Yes, I haven’t quite been myself since the loss of Dylan. Thank you so much for checking up on me. Grief can be terrible when one is taken by shock.”
Jazz scrunched up his face. Was he for reals?
“I’m not here to check up on you or your so-called mental health,” Jazz began, forcing his voice to be calm per the guard’s warnings not to provoke the inmates. He glanced at his notepad and pushed forward. “I’m here to discuss our divorce and your role in—”
Russell waved his hand. “That’s what lawyers are for, Jasper dear. Did you know, I’ve begun writing again,” he said, smiling. “I’m thinking of revisiting Brock Hammer. Wouldn’t it be a hoot if he’s wrongfully accused and placed behind bars? I’ve always wanted to write a prison escape.”
“I think you’d find some plot holes in that story. Like the fact that Brock Hammer isn’t a hero, never has been.”
“What are you speaking of, Jasper?” Russell asked with believable incredulity.
“You killed Dylan. And you tried to kill me and Michael and the sheriff. Not to mention Norbert and Dylan’s uncle.”
Russell shook his head. “That’s what my lawyer has told me you all keep saying. But I simply don’t remember anything. After Dylan’s death, I couldn’t tell the difference between the real world and my fictional world. Everything people tell me about that period of time sounds like snippets from my novels.”
Holy shit, Michael had been right to look in the books for clues to the case. He’d told Jazz that Russell was claiming insanity, amnesia. Russell intended to use his own books as his alibi, and claim he must’ve acted out his stories while insane with grief.
Had this been the son of a bitch’s backup plan if he got caught? Had he planned his crime so precisely that he’d even created a perfect defense on the ground of insanity?
The intense weight of Russell’s evil mind washed through Jazz’s every pore, flushing out of his system like one of Misty’s yoga moves pushing away all the bad energy.
Jazz had been berating himself over his shit taste in men, but how was he in charge of other people’s crazy?
If Russell had plotted with this much detail, it was no stretch he might be secretly paying off a murderer to clean up after him, all while acting confused and innocent.
“Withingham!” The guard by the door pointed to the clock. “Five minutes more. Your interview is being set up now.”
Jazz reeled back in his chair. “Interview?”
Russell preened a bit, the fucker. “Oh, didn’t I mention it? I agreed to an interview with a local news channel.”
“Can you do that when you’re awaiting trial?”
“Oh, Jasper, my dear innocent boy.” Russell leaned closer to the glass and lowered his voice. “In here, I can do anything.”
The word was like a whisper of icy wind down Jazz’s back and he shuddered involuntarily.
Then Russell sat back with a satisfied smirk and said in a more normal tone, “How’s dear Norbie? Hmm? Do you see him at all?”
Jazz blinked as he tried to keep up with the many twists and turns in their conversation. He’d come here to accuse Russell of being an accomplice to murder, but…. “Norbert? Um….”
Russell watched him, expression completely relaxed and open. Could he really not know?
“Don’t tell me you’ve been tormenting him,” Russell said with a pout. “He really was never a match for your sharp tongue.”
“Russell, Norbert is dead.”
The surprised expression looked genuine enough, but Jazz had to wonder. If Russell intended to plead insanity in Dylan’s murder, wouldn’t he be able to pull off a good innocent act after ordering murders from prison?
“Oh dear,” Russell finally said. He brushed his perfectly coiffed hair into place, his hand shaking. “Norbert’s dead? H-how? What happened? Did he…?”
The worry, the concern in Russell’s eyes gave Jazz pause. Did he worry that Norbert might harm himself?
Struggling
to come to terms with Russell’s expressions and their possible meanings, Jazz cleared his throat. “He was murdered.”
“Oh my.” Russell’s gaze drifted off to the side and his expression went slack. “Oh, at least he didn’t hurt himself. I’ve worried about him…. But it does come as a terrible shock, I must say.”
Russell worried about someone other than himself was almost more disturbing than carefully feigned amnesia.
“Does it?” Jazz narrowed his eyes. “Does it really?”
“Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with it!” Russell gestured to the walls around them. “I could think of a list of things I’d rather do should I get out from this place.”
“You have a lot of contacts on the outside,” Jazz countered, refusing to look away lest he miss some clue Russell couldn’t conceal. “You could have paid someone to do the job.”
“Oh, Jasper.” Russell shook his head, that condescending expression so easy, so casual Jazz didn’t know how to interpret it.
“Such a tragically skewed impression you have of me,” he went on. “It’s no wonder we just couldn’t make our marriage work.” Russell pushed back his chair and stood, still holding the handset. “I do hope you’ll sign the divorce papers so we can both move on with our lives. It is a pity about poor, dear Norbie.” Russell smiled and it did nothing to warm Jazz up. On the contrary, it sent another shiver down his back. “Goodbye, Jasper. I’ll drop you a letter when I find out what day they’re going to air my interview. Give my best to your new beau.”
Russell replaced the handset and walked off without a backward glance. Jazz sat there for a long moment, the handset pressed to his ear as he stared at the wall on the other side of the glass. After his thoughts had settled some, he hung up the handset and gathered his notepad full of useless talking points he’d never used.
Well, shit.
“This way, Mr. Dilworth,” the guard said.
In a daze, Jazz followed the guard, signed a timesheet, and eventually stepped out into the sunshine. He breathed in the fresh air, grateful to be out of the confines of the prison. Unlike Russell, Jazz was a free man, but he wasn’t quite sure what to make of their conversation. Russell hadn’t even asked how Norbert had been killed, whether he had been shot, stabbed, or strangled. Did that make him culpable? Or had prison just brought all of Russell’s self-centeredness to the fore? He’d been distracted, as if in another world, like he used to get when he was deep in the throes of writing. Was it real, or all an act?
Jazz truly had no answer.
For a long time, he sat in his parked car, staring up at the prison. He still had no idea if Russell was guilty of these latest murders. He’d been hoping to figure that out with this visit, and he’d intended to accuse Russell to his face, but the fucker had twisted the conversation around so much Jazz had lost his path. And now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe Michael was right, and Ally really was the killer.
As if by instinct, his attention turned to his glove box. He withdrew his phone and found a single message from Michael.
Smiling, he mutely dialed the number again.
“Jazz,” Michael whispered frantically, answering on the second ring. “Hold on one second.”
There was a shuffling sound, and then Michael spoke in a normal volume. “I’m here. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
Jazz chuckled at Michael’s frantic questions. “I’m fine.”
“You’re sure? You called me seven times and didn’t leave a single message.”
His tone was almost scolding, and Jazz winced. “Sorry, sweetie. I wanted a pep talk, but settled on listening to your voice on your message.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Jazz sighed. “No need to apologize. It’s all over now.”
“How did it go?”
“Not sure. Maybe the drive will help it all make sense.”
The phone went silent.
“Sweetie, you still there?”
“Um, yes, I’m here.” Michael cleared his throat. “So you’re on your way home, then?”
There was an oddly formal note in his voice. “Yeah, soon as I get the car started. Do you wanna come over to my place tonight and watch the fireworks from my loft? Think you’ll be finished up in time?”
“Oh, yes, sure,” he said. “I could be there shortly after nine. Will that work?”
“That would be perfect.” He scrunched up his face. “You sound off. Everything okay on your end?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Michael said unconvincingly. “Just a long, weird day. And I’m worried about you. I miss you.”
That last part was said with a note that left Jazz wondering if Michael had more to say. When he didn’t, Jazz said, “I miss you too. Think you can spend the night?”
Michael sighed. “I hope so.”
Again Jazz made a face. “You sure everything is okay?”
“I should be the one asking you that,” Michael countered.
“Well, I’m not sure how to answer that. But I’ll be okay as soon as I see you again.”
AFTER HE’D finally talked with Jazz, Michael felt like the vise tightening his chest had loosened. Jazz was okay, and he was on his way home. Their rendezvous couldn’t come fast enough.
But first, there was something Michael had to resolve.
He located Ezra in the kitchen, cleaning the counters. The final funeral of the day would be happening soon, and this was the first chance Michael had found Ezra alone.
“Here you are,” Michael said.
Ezra stiffened, but did not turn around to look at him, intent on scrubbing the counter.
After shutting the door, Michael wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, dreading this conversation. But it needed to be done. They would be working together for another ten months as Ezra finished out his apprenticeship. The sooner he addressed the kiss, the better it would be for both of them. But getting started was always the hardest part.
“Ezra, could you look at me, please?” Michael kept his tone calm and low.
After a final polishing wipe, Ezra placed the towel down and slowly faced Michael. “Am I fired?”
“What?” Michael frowned and shook his head. “No, of course not. Why would you think—okay, I know why you would think that, but I’m not going to fire you. You’re a very good apprentice.”
“Oh. Okay.” Ezra’s shoulders relaxed, but he dropped his gaze. “I’m sorry, Michael. I shouldn’t have… I wasn’t thinking, and I…. You’ve been so distracted these last few days, and you looked so upset, and I just wanted… I thought maybe that you guys broke up… and I….” Ezra finished with a heavy sigh and his shoulders slumped as if he didn’t have the strength to hold them up.
“Ezra, I’m not angry with you, but I want to be very clear. You did cross a line that needs to be addressed.” Michael ducked his head to catch Ezra’s eyes. “Are you listening to me?”
“Yes.” Ezra lifted his gaze and fixed his wide, slightly teary, eyes on him.
“You are not fired, nor am I going to mention this in my write-up at the end of your apprenticeship. While I am fond of you, I’m in a committed, exclusive relationship. I don’t want you to feel like our professional association and friendship will develop into something more intimate. But that does not reflect on you as a person or your work. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Ezra gave him a fast nod, his eyes even wider as he stared at Michael.
“Are you okay with everything I’ve just told you?” Michael asked.
“I am, Michael,” Ezra said, cheeks turning pink. “And I apologize once again for crossing that line. I hope we can put this mistake behind us.”
Michael hoped his smile looked reassuring. “I do too. Now, it’s been a long weekend, but there is one last funeral today. Let’s try to make sure the family is well taken care of.”
“Certainly.” Ezra ducked past Michael and opened the door to hurry off down the hall.
With the difficult conversation out of the way, Michael’s tens
ion eased up a bit more and his thoughts turned back to Jazz and the evening ahead. While he wasn’t looking forward to telling Jazz what had happened, he was mostly concerned how Jazz might be feeling after seeing Russell. Michael wanted the evening to be relaxing, easy on Jazz, despite the drama of late. Maybe he should bring dinner, or go by the grocery store and grab some margarita mix.
Then again, maybe all they needed was some long overdue physical reconnection.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
WHAT A weird day, Jazz thought as he killed the engine. He’d taken a long route home, allowing himself time for contemplation, but he didn’t feel like he’d solved anything. He looked forward to seeing Michael later tonight and hugging him really hard. That simple physical contact would go a long way toward anchoring Jazz’s troubled mind.
The visit with Russell clung to him like a bad smell. Russell’s deviousness at playing insane, claiming amnesia, left Jazz edgy and agitated. While his surprise about Norbert’s murder had seemed genuine, Jazz knew it could possibly be another act. Even though he was disappointed that he hadn’t been able to figure out if Russell was in on these latest murders, Jazz did feel as if he’d managed to push Russell even further into his past.
Without Michael there to talk through things, however, Jazz itched for something to relieve some of the physical tension and mental stress. But what? He wasn’t really the type to work out, and he didn’t know enough yoga moves to do a session on his own.
The gun range. The idea popped into his head, and he smiled.
That would help him not only kill some time until he could see Michael again, but also pretend he was shooting Russell, the murderous liar and plagiarist. With that decided, Jazz grabbed his gun case from the closet in his bedroom and then drove his Miata to Bullseye Target Range on the other side of Lacetown.
A couple of hours later, Jazz left the shooting range in a better mood than before. He’d had a good time laughing and chatting with some of the regulars at the range, all but forgetting everything that had transpired over the weekend. With a good buffer of time before Michael was supposed to be at his apartment, he drove to Gruff’s Grub. The shooting had gone a long way toward clearing Russell from his mind, and a thick, juicy burger at Gruff’s would get him even closer to being done with the nasty bitch.
