by Meg Lelvis
Maybe this week he’d make progress on the case, at least find a suspect.
An hour later, he called his team to the office for update and planning. Tilford arrived first. He grunted as he settled his large bulk into a chair and slurped coffee from an NFL mug.
Jack opened his notebook. “Any luck at the Olive Garden?”
Tilford smirked. “You’ll be surprised that I did find out something.” He paused several seconds.
“Don’t piss me off, Tilford. What?”
“Jena didn’t wanna spill anything, but finally gave me another girl Kaplan went out with. Name’s Kelly Vega, and Jena knows her.”
Jack wrote down the name. “Good. Go track her down and get on it. Prod her for more names, whatever it takes.”
There was a knock on the door and Moose walked in followed by Hector.
After they were seated, Jack updated them on the case. Bottom line: they had squat.
“Gotta make some headway on this, guys. Don’t wanna retire yet.”
“Surely it won’t go that far,” Tilford said, an oily grin on his face.
“Wouldn’t want you to worry, Tilford.” Jack’s voice sarcastic. “Don’t lose any sleep over it.”
“What’s the plan, Jack?” Moose crossed his mile-long legs.
“I’ll call Brooke Warner’s parents next. Try the dad again. The mom sounds like a tiresome bitch, but I’m ready.”
Hector gulped his coffee. “Anything for us?”
“Not now. Keep on the robberies. Williams is on board for Brooke’s interview.” Jack waved his hand to dismiss the men. Moose remained behind the others.
“Moose, did you know about Williams’ incident—racist shit on the job years ago?”
He chuckled. “Yeah. But we’ve all been there. The PC crap’s even worse today. Gotta watch everything you say to the scum we put up with.”
Jack shook his head. “Maybe I should retire.” He sighed.
“Not a chance, Jack.” Moose waved and left the office.
Jack closed his notebook and stared at his White Sox mug. His pride would not allow him to take early retirement, nor a demotion to detective. He worked damn hard to make lieutenant back in the day and clawed his way up from the abyss ten years ago. He wasn’t about to lose his self-respect and integrity over this case. The murder of a punk who probably deserved it.
He put his phone on speaker mode and punched in Douglas Warner’s cell number. “Doug Warner,” a strong male voice answered.
“Mr. Warner, this is Lieutenant Jack Bailey. I left a couple messages last week.”
“Yes, Lieutenant, sorry I didn’t get back to you.” No excuse, Jack noted. He repeated the reason for his call.
“My wife told me about you wanting to talk to Brooke. She’s been, ah, gone, and frankly I don’t think she’d be much help.” Warner cleared his throat. “It’s been a long time since she worked at the Olive Garden, and—”
God, he’s as stubborn as his wife. “I know, but I just need her cell number and—”
“You know, Lieutenant, we, I mean Brooke, doesn’t have to speak to you. I know our rights.”
Want to play tough, asshole, you got it. “I don’t need you to tell me the law, Mr. Warner. But if you have nothing to hide, think hard about whether you want to be served papers. I’ll bet your lawyer would say it might be in your best interests to talk to us. Less messy that way.”
“We’ll see about that.” He hung up before Jack could speak, which was a good thing. He had no patience for uppity pricks like Warner. Wonder where he was the night of Kaplan’s murder. He intended to find out.
Next he tapped in Terri Warner’s number and braced himself for another round of irritation.
He was surprised when she picked up.
“Lieutenant Jack Bailey, Mrs. Warner. Calling again for Brooke’s cell number.”
“I’m afraid she isn’t here yet.”
Jack said nothing.
“Ah, she should be getting home this afternoon.” Terri sounded impatient.
“Can I get her cell number?”
“I think it’s out of service, Mr. Bailey.”
Jack had enough of this broad. No more nice guy. “Like I told your husband, Mrs. Warner, you may want to think about cooperating. Serving papers can get complicated, but if that’s what it takes—”
The woman paused. “You talked to Doug?”
“Yes, and I’ll ask for the last time. Give me Brooke’s number.” He hoped she wouldn’t call his bluff. He sure as hell didn’t want to subpoena her; too much hassle and wasted time.
“Okay, okay.” Another pause. “Truth is, she’s between phones. But I guess you could talk to her. Maybe here?” The woman sounded resigned. Something was off about the whole thing. Why did she give him the phony cell story?
“Fine. We’ll be there tomorrow around this time.” Jack didn’t care if it was convenient for her or not.
“We?” The woman was a real pain. “I’m bringing a female officer with me. Just procedure. See you and Brooke tomorrow.” Jack hung up before she could say anything else. He planned to call Doug Warner back tomorrow. Wanted him to cool off first. Maybe chat with his lawyer.
Jack was sick of wracking his brain over the case, but he didn’t feel like looking over the robbery files Moose emailed earlier. Instead he went online and researched Janesville, Wisconsin. Had to admit it sounded good, but better not rush into a decision. However, he argued with himself, opportunities like lieutenant positions don’t fall off trees. Usually they’re hired in-house. What the hell was the right thing to do?
Jack’s cell buzzed. “Jack Bailey.”
An amiable man’s voice said, “Jack, how are you? Ted Nathan here.”
Jack’s heart skipped a beat. “Hey, Ted. Doing okay. Been a long time.”
Ted’s voice was strong, confident. “Your message said you’d like a referral in Houston. You mean you haven’t seen anyone since—since you left here?”
Jack hesitated, embarrassed. “Afraid not, probably should have, but—”
“What made you call me, Jack?” The psychiatrist spoke kindly.
Jack cleared his throat. Felt a lump. Oh god, get control. “Can’t sleep without two Ambien. Work’s hard. Feel like crap most of the time.”
“Anything else?”
“Nightmares. Damn nightmares started again. Thought they were gone, but—” He coughed.
“You know, Jack, PTSD can last for decades, and we talked about your continuing therapy when you left Chicago. I gave you several names.”
Jack hated to disappoint Ted, who had rescued him ten years ago. “I know, Ted. I’m sorry, I could never get up the gumption to call anyone. Besides, I was doing better. In fact I was fine until a couple years ago.” He knew he was bullshitting a shrink and failing miserably.
“Jack, you weren’t fine but you can’t unring a bell. After you called, I spoke to a doctor I know. Happens to be in west Houston near someplace called Memorial City.”
Wonderful, Jack thought. There goes my money. “You talked to him?” He frowned.
“I gave him no details, Jack. I asked if he was taking new patients. He’ll make room for you if you call for an appointment. Just tell him I referred you. Got a pen handy?”
“Yeah, go ahead.” Jack wrote the name of Dr. Joel Clemons and contact information.
The men chatted about Jack’s family and the job opportunity in Janesville. Jack wished Nathan lived in Richmond, but he’d give the new guy a try. What could he lose? Jack ended their conversation by promising to call Dr. Clemo
ns soon.
. . . . .
The rest of the day inched by, Jack spinning his wheels. He met with Moose and Hector about their robbery cases, then spoke to Tilford who was dragging his ass about meeting Kelly Vega, the girl who allegedly dated Todd.
Before Jack left for the day, he made an appointment with Dr. Clemons for two weeks from today. He’d make up an excuse to his team for taking time off.
On his way out, he stopped at Denise’s desk. “I’ll see you at 10:30 tomorrow, my office.”
She turned from her computer screen. “Yes, Bailey, got it down. I’m curious about the mom. Wonder what she’s hiding.”
“Should find out tomorrow. Things are slow, Williams. Maybe we’ll catch a break.” Jack said goodbye and headed for the parking lot.
Charcoal clouds shrouded the sun as they drifted across the metallic colored sky. Light drizzle turned into steady rainfall by the time Jack reached his car. A welcome relief after nearly a month of drought. Maybe things were looking up. On second thought, Jack knew better than to count on that.
Chapter 16
A little girl with sun-kissed pigtails splashes by the shore, shrieks as waves unfurl at her feet, spray her tiny legs. She turns, laughs, waves, scampers back in the surf, prances away, farther, farther into the ocean. Jack opens his mouth to yell. Stay close, don’t go out, come back, come back. No sound, why can’t he yell, call? He must rescue her. She moves farther, farther away. No, come back.
His legs are stuck in the sand, can’t run. She fades, smaller, smaller. No, don’t go, come back. Her head bobs atop the waves.
“No, come back, come—” Jack heard his voice as he clawed away the curtain of unconsciousness, of entrapment. “Oh god, oh god.” He wiped his brow. Boone jumped on the bed and nuzzled against him.
Jack hugged the dog’s thick neck. He barely whispered. “Elizabeth. It was Elizabeth. Oh god.”
He glanced at the clock: 2:00 AM. With a moan he stumbled into the bathroom. He looked in the mirror and an old man stared back at him. Wild gray-flecked dark hair, pouches under sunken eyeballs like dried-up ponds. He was 58 and looked 78. He popped a second Ambien, relieved himself, and joined Boone on the bed. He turned his white noise machine to waterfall mode and curled up in a fetal position. He struggled not to think about the dream. Didn’t take Freud to figure out that one.
Elizabeth was gone and would never return. And he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
. . . . .
Next thing Jack knew, the alarm buzzed and daylight peeked through the edges of wooden blinds. He should get curtains to keep the frickin’ sun out, but didn’t know how to accomplish that task.
Baumgartner would jump at the chance to decorate his windows, but he didn’t have the strength to put up with the decision-making and yakking the job would entail. Right now, he had bigger fish to fry, as his mother would say.
. . . . .
Another blistering day. Short-lived, the rain from yesterday only increased the stifling humidity. Jack stepped out of his car in the station parking lot and felt like he was swaddled in a hot, damp towel. He ran into Hector on his way to the building.
“What’s new, Jack?”
“I’m roasting,” Jack grumbled. “Ready to move up north.”
They reached the side door and entered the station.
“It’s exactly one week since Kaplan’s body was found,” Hector said.
Jack shook his head. “Seems like a month. We’re like hamsters and their wheels.”
“Come on, Jack, it’s not that bad. You’ve got a motive and something’ll turn up any day now.”
“Yeah, right.” Jack chose to err on the side of pessimism. “Catch ya later.”
He stopped in his office, took his coffee mug to the kitchenette, grabbed two Oreo double-stuffed cookies, and filled his cup. Kathleen walked in.
“Good morning, Lieutenant.” Her long blond hair fell to her shoulders, one side tucked behind her ear.
“Nolan, you’re looking cool and crisp on this hot, sweltering day. Must not be working too hard.”
“You should know about that.” She smiled sweetly and poured hot water in her cup.
“Ha ha.” The kid was getting more like Williams. “Have a good day, don’t exert yourself.”
Kathleen rolled her eyes and dunked a tea bag in her mug.
Jack headed back to his office, shuffled papers, and waited to leave for his appointment with Brooke Warner. He wouldn’t be surprised if her mom called and bailed on the meeting. She must really want to protect her daughter’s privacy to be uncooperative in a murder investigation.
He needed to ride Tilford’s ass on his interview. Fat chance he was at work already.
Jack punched in the number and waited. “Tilford, you’re here. Did I wake you up?”
“Too early for jokes, Jack. What do you need?”
Jack bit his lower lip. “I need you to interview the Vega girl like you should’ve done yesterday.”
Tilford snorted. “Okay, okay. I’ll get on it. Too early to call her now, but I will later.”
“Good. I’ll be checking.” Jack hung up. If he had to squeal to Murphy about Tilford’s horseshit attitude, he would. He’d had enough of the old geezer not pulling his weight, pun intended.
By ten o’clock Jack was antsy to escape from his four walls. He dialed Denise.
“Williams, I wanna get going. You ready?”
“Be right there.”
He was sick of feeling restless and on edge. Too many things converging on him. The case dragging its feet, nightmares, possible job offer, new shrink. He needed to relax. Maybe more meds.
He checked his image in the mirror and straightened his red tie.
He still looked too old. He left the office and locked the door.
Denise joined him in the hallway. “What’s the mad rush, Bailey?” She wore a skirt and long sleeved light blue shirt. For once her hair was under control.
Jack ignored her question. “You look very professional this morning.”
“Think Terri Warner will be impressed?”
“Doubt anything would impress that broad.”
They reached the door and stepped into the fiery furnace of the parking lot. Denise asked, “We taking a blue and white?”
“No, my car. Don’t want to alert nosy neighbors. Warner wouldn’t appreciate that.”
They stepped into Jack’s Beemer, and he fired up the engine and AC. He entered the Warner’s address in his GPS, and headed down 6th Street to Alternate 90 and across the Brazos River.
Ten minutes later they drove down Old South Road in Pecan Grove, past stately red brick homes and tastefully landscaped lawns. Jack turned right on Pecan Crossing in the Ashton Woods neighborhood. He slowed down and stopped in front of a large, light brick house with a winding stepping-stone sidewalk leading to a beveled glass front door set back from the home’s facade.
Several live oak trees surrounded the structure, and lavender vincas accented manicured shrubs.
Jack and Denise climbed out of the car and ambled up the sidewalk. When they reached the front door, Jack pressed the bell.
He looked up at the vast archway above the entry. “Nice pile of rocks.”
Denise gazed around. “Yeah, I guess. Wonder how much this would go for in River Oaks.”
“At least a couple mil.” Jack guided Denise’s arm toward where he stood. “You go in first.”
He was about to ring the bell again when a shadow appeared through the thick glass.
The door opened slowly. An audible gasp escap
ed from Jack’s throat. Denise looked at him.
“You okay?”
“Uh, yeah.” Jack cleared his throat. Standing in front of him was an attractive, slender woman with shoulder-length wavy auburn hair. He stared at her hair. Oh god. He stared at—Karen.
His heart pounded. Was his mouth hanging open? He wiped his forehead. He stood, mesmerized.
“Lieutenant Bailey, I presume. Terri Warner. You gonna stand there all day or come in?”
Denise looked at Jack, a puzzled expression on her face. “Mrs. Warner, I’m Officer Denise Williams. It’s nice to meet you.”
The woman nodded. “Hello.” She gestured for them to come in. Her fitted sleeveless white shirt and black pinstriped capris were tasteful, elegant. Far from the irritable biddy Jack expected. Far from anything he expected.
Jack coughed and mumbled a garbled hello. He felt himself stumble into the house. They entered a massive foyer, all white with black marble tile. A staircase across the space led to an open second story.
“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Warner,” Denise said.
“Thank you. Can I get you a drink? Looks like you could use some water, Lieutenant.”
Embarrassed, Jack coughed again. “That would be good.”
She looked at Denise. “You?”
“Water’s fine,” Denise said.
Mrs. Warner led them into a large living room on the right and indicated a white leather sofa for them to sit.
“I’ll be back with your water,” she said flatly, and left the room.
“What the hell’s the matter with you, Bailey,” Denise whispered. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
If only you knew, he thought. “I don’t know. Heat got to me I think.”
“Bullshit. Just get it together. Fast. We’ll talk later.”
Jack glanced around the room. Large modern prints splashed in reds, blues and oranges decked the white walls of the living room. At one end an arched doorway revealed a dining room showcased by a dark brick-red wall. Black and red print covered chairs surrounded an expansive dining table.
