by Meg Lelvis
. . . . .
By mid-morning Jack was back in his own office. He’d updated the heads of state, as he called them, on the murder investigation, and they seemed satisfied with the CID’s progress. Captain Murphy cautioned Jack about jumping the gun on a suspect, and to further consider a drug connection.
Jack assured Murphy the CID would do that, but inwardly dismissed the theory. His gut told him Todd didn’t use or deal. Smoking grass on the weekend hardly counted. But he knew better than to argue with Murphy about irrelevant issues. Let the guy think he knew it all. Jack would continue to investigate things his way.
Next on the agenda was to meet with the team for an update. Maybe Tilford was out sick. Fat chance. Jack called the detectives and told them to meet at his office in ten minutes.
Moose and Hector soon arrived, coffee mugs in hand, along with homemade oatmeal cookies from Jill wrapped in napkins.
“Where’s mine?” Jack eyed the goodies.
Moose shrugged. “Jill said you had yours already.”
“Bullshit, hand ‘em over.” Jack held out his hand.
“Sorry, Jack.” Hector lowered his voice and frowned. “No cookie for you.”
“This ain’t soup, you Nazi. Hand it over.”
Moose offered Jack a cookie and sat in his usual chair. Hector plopped down alongside the desk.
“What’s up, boss?” Moose attacked a cookie. “Umm. Better than the brownies yesterday.”
“Wouldn’t take much.” Jack bit off half of his and scarfed it down. “We’ll wait for Tilford. Should have his wide ass here in a minute.”
Moose crunched off another bite. “Tracked down Brooke Warner’s parents. They live in Pecan Grove. Got the address and phone numbers for you.”
“Good. When you’re done chomping hand ‘em over.”
There was a knock on the door. “Come in, Tilford,” Jack said. “Sorry, no more cookies.”
Tilford wedged his considerable heft into the remaining chair. “No problem. Jill made sure I got my share already.” That annoying grin again.
Jack recapped his interview with Lindsey while Moose and Hector jotted down notes. As usual, Tilford relied on his alleged photographic memory.
Moose stretched his long legs under the desk. “Sounds like a motive, Jack. Someone wants revenge for Todd’s victims.”
“Yeah, I’ll see what I can find out from Brooke. Gonna shoot for this afternoon to interview. Think I’ll get Williams or Nolan to tag along.”
“Good idea.” Hector closed his notebook. “Can use a woman’s touch.”
“Tilford, go back to the Olive Garden and interview Jena, the hostess.” Jack stood.
“I want to know who else Todd hung out with. If he banged a lot of girls, it’ll be hard to narrow down a suspect.”
“But you already talked to this Jena person,” Tilford whined.
Jack felt his blood pressure rise. “I know that, Sherlock, but my gut says she’s holding back. So use your super-skilled tactics and see if you can crack her.”
Tilford grunted as he rose from the chair. “All right. I’ll have lunch there if I can put it on the expense account. Make it worth my while.”
“All right, ya cheap bastard.” Jack looked at Moose and Hector. “I know you guys are working a couple robberies, but Moose, you talk to Derek’s girlfriend Amy. Try to find out if Kaplan hit on other girls.”
Moose untangled his gangly legs. “Right, boss.”
“Okay, boys, check ya later.” Jack opened the door to let the men out. He punched in Denise Williams’s number. He’d decided to ask her to accompany him to the Brooke Warner interview. She was more seasoned than Kathleen Nolan, and would be at ease in the situation. The fact that Denise was black shouldn’t be an issue. Richmond wasn’t the Deep South.
Drumming his fingers on the desk, Jack waited for her to pick up. Three rings, she did.
“Williams, get in here. Got something for you.” He paused. Listened. “That can wait till later. See you right now.” He reached for a water bottle in his desk drawer. Needed something, and he was tired of coffee. One of these days, he’d bring in some Guinness to stash. He took a couple swigs of the lukewarm water.
Jack heard a knock on the door. “Come in.”
Denise opened up and ambled in. Her unruly hair, the usual bird’s nest. “This better be good, Bailey. I gotta get that report done for the captain.”
“Don’t worry about it, Murphy can wait.”
“Easy for you to say.” Denise sat down and crossed her legs. She wore a skirted uniform.
“What’s with the skirt, Williams? Hot date?”
She grinned, bright teeth glistened. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I assume you’re up to speed on the Kaplan case, because you always read my emails.”
“Right, but haven’t heard about the Lindsey Marks interview from yesterday.”
Jack summarized the meeting. When he described what Todd did to Lindsey, Denise said, “Shit. What a son of a bitch. Do that to my daughter, I’d kill your ass.”
“I didn’t hear that, Williams. But, yeah, I know.”
Jack told Denise to be ready to attend an appointment this afternoon with Brooke Warner if he could arrange it.
“Or, could be this evening, maybe tomorrow.” Jack said.
“Come on, Bailey, it’s the weekend. Can’t it wait till Monday?”
“You’re whining like that jackass Tilford does. Sometimes the job comes first, Williams.”
“You’re a hard man, Bailey.” Denise rose from her chair.
“I won’t touch that remark.”
“Ha ha. See you later.” Denise tried to smooth down her wild hair and left the office.
Hungry for lunch, Jack didn’t want to brave the heat so he called Jill and asked her to order a pepperoni pizza from Vito’s, a new place on Liberty Street less than a mile from the station. He’d get a cold soda from the machine, a perfect meal. Take leftovers home for later.
He punched in the land line number Moose had given him for Douglas Warner. After several rings a computerized male voice told him to leave a message, which he did. Then Jack tried cell numbers for both Douglas and Terri Warner with the same results. He spent the next half hour catching up on emails and filing until Jill called about the pizza’s welcome arrival. The delivery guy waited at Jill’s desk, and Jack paid and tipped him. “How about a couple slices, Jill?”
“No thanks. Gotta watch my girlish figure.” She patted her protruding gut.
“Your loss. Later.” Jack returned to his office with the box of steaming, aromatic pizza. He cleared papers on his desk to make room for the box and headed for the soda machine. He bought two cans of Dr. Pepper and returned to his office. While he ate, he listened to his favorite jazz station on Sirius XM, daring anyone to interrupt him.
Jack popped open his second can of Dr. Pepper when a familiar refrain permeated the room.
A piano rendition of “I Dream of Jeannie With the Light Brown Hair” jolted his thoughts back to Chicago twenty years ago. His knee jerk reaction propelled him out of the chair to shut off the damn radio. His hand reached the button and stopped right before punching it off. Melancholy chords forced long suppressed lyrics to the surface. I Dream of Karen With the Light Auburn Hair. Karen laughing.
Oh Jack, don’t try to sing, you’re way off key. But Honey, you’re so good at other things. You know what I mean.
Jack stared at the radio, the haunting melody overtaking his soul. He slowly sat down, put his head in his hands and allowed long-ago images to penetrate his mind. A smilin
g woman in a white swim suit, long auburn hair lifted by the breeze. My lady with the auburn hair played over and over in his brain. Was he finally losing it? This weekend, he’d force himself to look up the number of a shrink.
Jack wolfed down his pizza and gulped the soda. He was relieved when the melody ended, and the soothing strains of “A String of Pearls” filled the air. “Thank you, Glenn Miller.”
After devouring another slice, Jack closed the box, turned off the radio, and headed for the kitchenette with the leftovers. Hector and two other cops sat at a table munching sandwiches and chips.
“You guys want the rest of Vito’s pepperoni?”
Hector swallowed. “Sure. Never turn down free pizza. Suppose it’s cold.”
“Room temp.” Jack placed the box in the middle of the table.
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Bob, the gray haired cop said. “Couldn’t handle the whole thing?”
“Guess I’m slowing down. Used to scarf down a whole pie, no problem.”
Turning, Jack wished them a good weekend, and left the room. He never felt like shooting the shit, and today wasn’t a good time to start.
Back in his office he drained the Dr. Pepper and tossed it in the recycling basket. His civic duty for the day. He put his phone on speaker mode and punched in the same numbers for Brooke’s parents.
On the third attempt, a woman answered. Jack identified himself, and confirmed she was Terri Warner, Brooke’s mother, and that she’d heard about Todd Kaplan’s murder. He explained he was talking to employees who knewTodd. Just routine procedure. Didn’t want to scare her off with more details.
Jack waited for a response. “Mrs. Warner?”
“Yes, I’m sorry Lieutenant, but—ah, it’s been a couple years since Brooke worked at the Olive Garden for only a couple weeks.” She cleared her throat. “She probably didn’t even know this—ah guy, whoever he was. So I’m afraid we can’t help you.”
“I know it’s been a long time, Mrs. Warner, but in our investigations we follow a format of questioning. Just a check list.” He paused. Silence. “It won’t take much time. Do you have a number for Brooke?”
“No, she’s not here now.” Her voice forceful. “She’s away.”
Jack grimaced. “I see. Sounds like she still lives in the area. Is she in college or working?”
“Lieutenant Baker, is it?”
“Bailey.”
“Okay, Lieutenant Bailey, I don’t want to be rude, but I can’t see how that’s any of your concern. I thought I made it clear. Brooke has nothing to say about any of that, so if you don’t mind, I need to leave for work.”
Jack looked at the clock. 2:15. “Where do you work? Hospital?”
She whispered, “Oh god.” Then louder. “Yes, Mr. Bailey, I work relief shift at Oak Bend. I’m an RN. Now unless there’s anything else—”
He’d about had it with this broad. “Yes, Mrs. Warner, there is.” Jack’s voice gruff. “I need Brooke’s number. She must have a cell.”
“Whatever happened to people’s privacy? Yes, she has a cell, but she’s probably out of range.”
Jesus, what the fuck’s going on? This isn’t the CIA. “Mrs. Warner, give me the number, and we can end this conversation.”
Jack heard her sigh. “Look, Brooke will be back next week, maybe Wednesday. You can call back then, and we’ll see—”
Jack decided to stick with the good cop routine. Save the tough shit for later if needed. “All right, I’ll call Monday. Have a good weekend.” He almost gagged at his own sugary manners.
“Yes. Goodbye.” She clicked off the phone.
Dealing with that woman would not be easy. She evidently wanted to hide private and embarrassing information. He’d run into hard cases before. Most people these days know they don’t have to talk to cops unless there’s an arrest. In his experience, if you don’t have something crucial to conceal, you’re better off answering a few questions. Otherwise, it could involve an obstruction issue, subpoena, lawyer, on and on. A real pain in the ass for all concerned.
He was convinced Lindsey’s assessment of Todd doing a number on Brooke was right on. Still, two years was a long time to hold a grudge strong enough for a revenge murder. Maybe his team would uncover more unlucky girls Todd had trapped. Like Pandora’s Box. Could take forever.
Jack turned back to his computer. An email from Hector revealed Todd’s financial statement was sparse, no surprise there. A couple thousand in credit card debts and 500 bucks in a savings account.
The kid was too young and too poor for real investments. Still owed for his run-down car, so no money for his father. Poor bastard would be in the hole after paying the bills, as well as funeral expenses. Well, life’s a bitch and then you croak. He hadn’t always had that attitude. Hell, twenty years ago he was on top of the world until—he forced the invasive images back into the dark woods of his subconscious where they belonged.
The afternoon crawled by. Jack worked on his never-ending papers and emailed Denise about his conversation with Terri Warner. He talked with Moose regarding the robbery cases, who told him they were progressing well, and didn’t need his help. Thank god for that. He wanted a break from the scum of the earth. Maybe he was getting too old for this shit. He decided to call it a day. He’d stop at the saloon for a burger. Didn’t want to face Baumgartner yet.
Chapter 13
Without much interest in what he was doing, Jack tidied his desk by shuffling stray papers and placing them in his wire in-box tray. He dumped several manila folders in the metal file cabinet, grabbed his cell, locked the door and headed for the parking lot. Captain Andrew Murphy caught up with him in the hallway.
“Leaving already, Jack?”
“You too?” Jack held the door for Murphy as they exited the building.
“I’m taking off for Austin for a weekend of golf.” Murphy wiped his brow. “Cooler by the lake you know.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Just don’t let your balls get wet.”
“Clever, Jack. I’ll remember that,” Murphy chuckled. “Have a great weekend.” He held out the remote to unlock his new red Porsche Boxster. Arrogant prick. Common knowledge was his wife had family money, so he could afford country clubs and luxury cars. What an asshole.
Jack walked toward his used Beemer. The humidity enveloped him. Sweat streamed down his temples which he wiped with the palm of his hand. He stepped into his car and fired up the engine. The
AC blew tepid air, but within ten seconds, turned frigid. He sighed with relief and headed down Sixth Street to Calhoun, hung a left. Three blocks later, he found himself in front of the Lone Star Saloon.
Where else could a guy work four blocks from a bar that served the best burgers in town? There were perks to living in Richmond, Texas. Too bad it was so damn hot.
The red brick saloon, billed as a country western bar with live music on weekends, was a 120-year-old fixture in Richmond’s historic downtown. Vintage-designed lamplights welcome customers through a dark wood door under the bar’s signature lone star image. On the Historical Society list, the structure sits next to the tracks running along Calhoun, where customers hear whistles wail from the Southern Pacific line. New clientele are astonished the first time they feel the floors rumble and bar stools shudder as trains thunder by.
Early for Friday happy hour, Jack slid his car in a front slot near the door. He walked in, glanced around the dimly lit area, and chose a stool at the end of a horseshoe bar sideways to the entrance. Like most cops, he never sat with his back to the door, not even at home. A smiling middle-aged woman of hefty build walked toward him.
“Lieutenant, good to see you. Where you been keepin’ yerself?”
“Hey, Linda. Been busy. Gimme a Sam Adams on tap.”
“No Guinness today?” She reached for a glass mug on the mirrored shelf behind the bar.
“Naw, too damn hot. Need something cold.” He looked at two young guys shooting pool on a red felt table at the other side of the entrance. The room was spacious for a bar. An open loft over the back held additional tables and lounge chairs. Red walls displayed wild animal antlers, including a buffalo head. Several black leather wing chairs were scattered along the sides with frosted windows overhead. Glimmering neon beer signs filled in the empty wall spaces. The area was sensory overload on his first visit, but now it suited Jack. The staff was friendly, but left him alone to brood if he chose.
Linda put a frosty glass of beer on the bar in front of Jack. Foam spilled over the rim.
He took a long gulp. “Ah, waited all day for this.”
“Want the usual dinner?” Linda asked, wiping her hands on a black towel. Her brown hair was straight and shoulder length. A pleasant faced woman, but could afford to lose fifteen pounds.
“Sure thing, but no fries.” He checked his vibrating cell, then powered it off.
“Got it. One Lone Star burger medium rare on a jalapeño bun comin’ up.”
“Good memory, Linda.” Jack smiled and reached for some peanuts in a bowl.
“We aim to please our hard-working men in blue.” Linda turned away to give the order to another waitress. Several cops walked through the door and headed for a table by the stairs. He recognized two of the guys and returned their waves. Thank god they didn’t join him. Not in the mood.
He came early on weekends to avoid the racket of live music.
The front door opened and Denise Williams strolled in. She glanced around, noticed Jack, and headed toward him.
He shook his head. “Look what the cat drug in.”
“Bailey, I thought I was rid of you for the weekend. What are you doing here?” She grinned.
