“Thank you so much for bailing us out,” Jerry said, throwing his arms around Redmond. “I’m too pretty for prison.”
“We weren’t in prison,” Aidan complained. “We weren’t even in cells. They just threw us in the drunk tank, which isn’t nearly as fun when you’re not drunk.”
I rolled my eyes. “At least you weren’t in the same area with Angelina.”
Redmond’s eyes darkened. “Angelina? Angelina Davenport? Is that how this happened?”
“She wears a girdle.”
I expected Redmond to smile at the gossipy tidbit. I was disappointed.
“She threw a drink on me,” Jerry said. “She totally ruined my shirt.”
Redmond patted his back absentmindedly.
“She threw the drink at me,” I corrected. “You just got a little bit of it. I got the full blast.”
“And what did you do?”
“I tackled her and beat the crap out of her.”
“No,” Redmond shook his head, but a small smile was playing at the corner of his mouth. “What did you do to antagonize her?”
“Why do you assume I did something to antagonize her?”
“Because I know you.”
“Maybe she antagonized me.”
“I’m sure she did,” Redmond agreed. “You could have been the bigger person, though.”
“She asked about Cillian,” Aidan interjected.
“And that sent Aisling into a rage?”
“She also made fun of her dropping out of community college – and Jerry’s shirt.”
“I’ve always hated that bitch,” Redmond growled. “I hope you ripped her hair out.”
“Just a few clumps.”
“Well, next time.” Redmond slung an arm around my neck, rubbing his face against my hair. “Wow, you smell.”
“We were rolling around on the ground.”
“I guess I don’t want to know what’s in your hair then.” Redmond moved away from me slightly, grimacing.
I didn’t want to know either.
The four of us looked up when the front door of the police station chimed and a familiar figure walked through. Crap.
“Morning.” Griffin Taylor looked as though he had enjoyed a good night’s sleep, and he didn’t seem surprised to see us there. Something told me – since this wasn’t his precinct – that someone had tipped him off about our legal problems.
“Morning,” Jerry said, running a hand through his hair to tame the unruly mess.
Griffin walked over to us, focusing on everyone in turn, before finally settling on me. “You look a little rough.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Aidan snickered, while Redmond coughed into his hand.
“You should look in a mirror, Bug.”
I ignored the three of them. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard that you were picked up last night,” he replied. “I was curious, so I came down to see for myself.”
“Are you made aware when everyone is arrested at a drag bar in Detroit?” What? It’s a reasonable question.
“No. Your name – and Aidan’s, for that matter – have been flagged in conjunction with my investigation.”
Well, great.
“Why would their names be flagged?” Redmond asked.
Griffin glanced over in his direction. “You’re Redmond, right?”
“We met yesterday,” Redmond reminded him.
“I remember. There are just a lot of you to keep straight.”
“And you haven’t even met Cillian yet,” I said.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
Something told me that was a lie.
I jumped when the back door that led into the inner sanctum of the police station buzzed, letting another familiar figure out. Angelina. Double crap.
Angelina’s night hadn’t been any better than mine. Her hair – which was already big – was standing on end and there were some noticeable follicle gaps thanks to my rigorous hair pulling the night before and she limped.
“What did you do to her?” Redmond looked happy.
“I don’t even remember doing anything to her feet.”
Griffin regarded Angelina with interest. “Is this the woman you got in a fight with?”
“Fight?” Angelina spit out. “She blindsided me and pulled my hair.”
“Oh, you had it coming.” I took a step toward her, thoughts of finishing what I started dancing through my head. Redmond’s arm around my waist stopped that fantasy.
“You are a menace,” Angelina spat out. “You’ve always been a menace.”
“At least I’m not a slut.”
“I am not a slut! It’s not my fault that Mark and Mike liked me better in high school.”
“And Keith,” Jerry added.
I shot him a death glare.
“Keith was a lost cause,” Redmond said.
“Who are Mike, Mark and Keith?” Griffin asked.
“They were my high school boyfriends,” I replied, my eyes never leaving Angelina’s sallow face, even as Redmond’s arm tightened to the point where I was having trouble breathing.
“They liked me better,” Angelina said.
“That’s because you used to pretend you were a 7-Eleven,” Redmond replied.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you were open twenty-four hours a day,” Griffin supplied.
“Who asked you?” Angelina turned on him.
“The city of Detroit,” Griffin replied, flashing his badge.
“Oh, great, now what?” Angelina wailed. “Whatever they’ve said about me is a vicious lie.”
“She wears a girdle,” I announced.
“You already said that,” Redmond reminded me.
“Yeah, but not when Griffin was here and not when I could see her face when I said it.”
“I do not wear a girdle! At least my bra isn’t hanging out like I’m some transvestite hooker on Eight Mile.”
I glanced down, realizing that hints of my Victoria’s Secret bra were poking out from my torn blouse. I realized that Redmond and Aidan were looking anywhere but at my bra, while Jerry and Griffin both seemed interested.
“Is that the bra we bought when we were shopping last week? It looks different on,” Jerry said.
Redmond groaned. “Can we not talk about Aisling’s bra?”
“Especially since she stuffs it,” Angelina said.
“I don’t stuff, girdle girl.”
“I’m going to claw your eyes out!”
Griffin stepped between us, shaking his head as he did. “I think you should go.”
Angelina looked incensed. “Why shouldn’t she go?”
“Because I’m not done talking to her yet.”
“And he likes her bra.” Jerry looked smug.
Angelina shifted her gaze between the five of us and then slowly made her way toward the front door. “Tell Cillian I said hi.”
I fought against Redmond’s arms, seeing red. “Stay away from Cillian, you witch!”
Angelina scampered out of the building, just in case Redmond’s arms weren’t strong enough to contain my rage. Once she was out of sight, the fight in me fled. “Let me go.”
“Do you promise not to chase her down and beat her ass again?” Redmond asked. “I don’t have enough bail money on me to secure your release again.”
“I promise.”
Redmond cautiously loosened his grip.
“So, if I’m following, that girl used to sleep with your boyfriends and then slept with your brother and that’s why you created a riot at a drag bar last night and got yourself arrested,” Griffin said. “Am I missing anything?”
“She wears a girdle.”
“And she wears a girdle,” Griffin conceded, his brown eyes flashing with a hint of amusement.
“No, that’s about it.”
“So, basically, last night had nothing to do with my dead guy?”
“No.” Why would h
e think that?
Redmond was equally suspicious. “Is that why you came down here?”
“I was just curious,” Griffin replied. “Oh, and I wanted to ask you another question.”
Uh-oh.
“I’m too tired to answer questions right now,” I said. “I’m tired. Try again tomorrow or something.”
“You have work today,” Redmond reminded me.
“Oh, come on,” I complained. “Can’t you get me out of it?”
“Not unless you want me to tell Dad why.”
That was a big, fat no. “Fine.”
“Who did you want to ask a question?” Jerry asked, while I fought the urge to kick him.
“I just wanted to make Redmond aware that the crime scene techs who went to Brian Harper’s apartment yesterday seemed to think that someone had been in the apartment recently,” Griffin said, his gaze fixed on Redmond’s face. “What do you think about that?”
“I think that, since the guy lived there, that would probably make sense.” Redmond is cool under pressure. He always had been. When we were trying to think up lies to cover our misdeeds as kids he was always the one to deliver the lie. He doesn’t break under intense scrutiny.
“Yes, but it seems someone was in the apartment after we completed our initial search,” Griffin continued. “There was a digital seal on the door that had been tripped.”
Uh-oh.
“Well, I hope you find out who it was,” Redmond replied. “That’s probably who killed your victim.”
Or not.
“That’s all you want to say?” Griffin asked, raising an eyebrow in challenge.
“That’s all I have to offer.”
“Well,” Griffin said, resting his eyes on my face briefly. “I’ll be in touch.”
I can’t wait.
Fifteen
“So, what did you get arrested for?”
As part of my penance, Redmond assigned Cillian to work with me after my night in the city jail.
“He didn’t tell you?”
“He just said you, Aidan and Jerry were arrested after getting in a brawl at a drag bar,” Cillian replied. “I figured someone got dramatic and Jerry got mouthy.”
That was a good assumption on a normal night. “Um, well, I don’t really remember who started what,” I lied.
Cillian paused mid-stride. We were on the west side of Detroit, hanging around outside of a Middle Eastern restaurant that smelled fabulous, waiting for a hit-and-run accident to transpire.
“You’re lying.”
“No I’m not.” I averted my gaze and focused on Cillian’s shoes.
“You are so,” Cillian charged. “I can tell when you’re lying.”
“How?”
“You won’t make eye contact.”
I forced my eyes to his, seeing the same purple reflected back. “Everything from last night is a blur.” What? That’s not a lie.
Cillian gripped my forearms, forcing me to remain still. “What started the fight?”
“Someone threw a drink on me – and it hit Jerry, too. There was a lot of squealing and then a fight.” That was true.
Cillian didn’t release me. “Who threw the drink?”
I bit my lower lip and looked to the left. “I don’t know.”
“See! You’re lying. You better tell me or I’ll call Redmond.”
Crap. There was no way out of this.
“Angelina.”
All of the air whooshed out of Cillian. His hands dropped from my forearms and slipped into the pockets of his jeans. “Oh.”
“See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you.” For some reason, one I couldn’t fathom, Cillian was still sensitive when the Angelina situation reared its ugly head.
“What did she say?” Cillian regained his equilibrium and tried to pretend Angelina -- or any mention of her -- didn’t bother him.
“She asked how you were.”
Cillian smirked. “So you attacked her?”
“She also made fun of me dropping out of college and of Jerry’s shirt.”
“She’s always been a bitch,” Cillian ceded. “That still doesn’t seem bad enough for you to kick the crap out of her.”
“I was already having a bad day,” I replied.
“Because that cop is sniffing around? Aidan says he’s hot and he’s … .”
“Warm for my form? Don’t repeat that hateful phrase.”
“I was going to say interested in you, but okay.” Cillian couldn’t hide his grin. “You’re not interested in him?”
“He thinks I’m a murderer.”
Cillian reached over and brushed a strand of my bi-colored hair out of my face, searching for an answer to an unasked question. “You do like him.”
“I do not.”
“You do, too.”
“I do not.”
“You’re avoiding eye contact again.”
I need to work on that. “Fine,” I blew out a sigh. “I can’t like him.”
Cillian cocked his head to the side. “Why? Does he wear polyester? Because I know Jerry won’t put up with that, but he might overlook it if you ask nicely.”
“Because he’s a cop,” I said.
“So?”
“He’s a cop who thinks I’m a murderer,” I tried again.
“He doesn’t think you’re a murderer,” Cillian countered. “If he thought you were a murderer, he wouldn’t be flirting with you.”
“Who said he’s flirting with me?”
“Jerry told Aidan.”
“Jerry has a big mouth,” I grumbled.
“That’s why we love him.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I decided to change the subject. “Did Redmond tell you whether they found anything in Brian Harper’s apartment?”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“I don’t think that would be proper conversation for a police department, and I haven’t seen him since we left yesterday.”
“How did you get home?”
“Braden.”
“Why didn’t he tell you?” Cillian asked.
“I forgot to ask,” I admitted. “Running into Griffin at the apartment complex threw me for a loop.”
“Griffin?” Cillian was smiling again. It was an infuriating expression.
“Detective Taylor,” I corrected, my cheeks starting to burn.
“You call him Griffin?”
“He told me to,” I replied defensively, although I couldn’t fathom why.
Cillian nodded knowingly. “I see.”
“The apartment search,” I prodded, kicking Cillian in the shin as I moved past him.
“Oh, yeah, they didn’t find anything at the apartment except some kinky sex toys.”
Eww. “That’s a bummer.”
“They did find something online last night, though.”
“What?”
“It seems that our Mr. Harper had just acquired an interesting book,” Cillian said, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Like what? The Kama Sutra?”
Cillian swished his mouth to the side. “Um, no. And don’t ever say anything like that to me again.”
“Why?”
“It sends me to a scary visual place.”
“What was the book?” I asked. My brothers liked to pretend that I still don’t know what sex is.
“It was a grimoire.”
“Seriously?” A grimoire is a book of spells. Witches usually utilize them, but other people have tried to use them for nefarious reasons throughout the centuries. They usually mean bad news – or bad witches, to be more precise. “What kind of grimoire?”
“I don’t have the specifics,” Cillian admitted. “I know it’s eighteenth century, though. Redmond and Dad are looking up more about it. Dad seems to think that whatever this grimoire is, though, it’s what got him killed.”
“And Braden and Redmond didn’t see it in the apartment?”
“I think that would have been a clue they couldn’t have missed,
” Cillian replied.
He had a point. “Well, now what?”
“Now? Now we wait for this poor sap, what is his name again?”
I glanced down at the file in my hand. “Myron Goldman.”
“Where is he going?”
“Sheol.” Jewish Hell, for those wondering. A customer’s final resting place hinges on their personal belief system. So, while a lot of Jewish people don’t believe in Sheol, it is a reality for those who do believe.
“Oh, bummer, what did he do?”
“He’s a thief.”
“We’ve been having a lot of people go to Hell -- and the alternatives – lately. Have you noticed that?” Cillian is interested in religion, more than I find healthy sometimes.
“I’ve been doing this for three days.”
“You’ve been living it for twenty-five years, though.”
I rolled my eyes. “You sound like Dad.”
“Take that back.”
We both looked up at a screech of tires, my eyes landing on a small man moving across the street kitty-corner from our location. I had only glanced at the photo attached to the file – we really need to go digital at some point so we don’ t have to deal with all this paperwork – but I would recognize that bald head anywhere.
“This is going to be gross, isn’t it?”
Cillian’s eyes were glued to Myron Goldman as he shuffled across the street. “If we’re lucky.”
Boys are strange creatures sometimes.
The owner of the screeching tires came barreling around the corner – dark sedan, white guy with blond hair behind the wheel, looks to be in his early twenties – and slammed into Myron.
It wasn’t like the movies – not that I thought it would be. Myron didn’t jump up and roll over the hood of the car. Instead, he kind of flew to the side and crashed into the gutter next to the street.
The sedan never slowed.
“Should we get the license plate?”
“That’s not our job,” Cillian reminded, moving into the middle of the street. “Let’s do this quick. Someone could be here within minutes, and you don’t need another run-in with the cops.”
Wasn’t that the truth?
I followed Cillian, reaching into my pocket for the scepter. I could see Myron’s spirit detaching from his body already. At least he hadn’t suffered.
I slammed into Cillian, who pulled up short, before I realized he had stopped in the middle of the street. I peered around his shoulder, freezing when another figure stepped out of the doorway of the building next to Myron’s body.
Witchy Dreams Page 32