by Dawn Dugle
"You didn't get all that?" I asked innocently.
He turned to me with his hands on his hips. "Something happened to the recording. Did you turn off the switch?"
"Now why would I do something like that?" I shook my head and walked out of the room before he could realize I didn't answer him.
∞∞∞
Chapter Ten
SUNDAY
Faith has a saying: "If you don't give your body the rest it needs, it will come and take it." Meaning, get a good night's sleep or you will get sick.
My body had had enough of me running on fumes and very little sleep and food, so around eight o'clock Saturday night I landed on my face and didn't wake up until the alarm clock went off at nine Sunday morning.
Turns out, when you're over 40, that becomes your idea of an exciting night. I'm living the dream over here. I know you're jealous.
I stretched, and looked out my window to the water. Another glorious day in Paradise. I wasn't in a hurry to get out of bed, so I picked up my phone for some mindless scrolling. There was a text from my dad reminding me of the barbecue today at noon. Another text from my Bonus Mom Denise asking if I could come a few minutes early and help her with the potato salad.
She didn't need any help with the potato salad, and I doubted there would be anything else for me to do when I got there. Throwing a party was second-nature to Denise Ward, and everything was always perfect. Even on Thanksgiving, when most people sit down to a dried turkey and cold mashed potatoes, Denise always managed to have the most deliciously moist turkey and the side dishes came out of the oven when the turkey was ready to carve. I think she might be a witch.
U don't need my help making tater salad and U know it.
She texted back a kissy face emoji.
I texted back the purple devil emoji.
She sent me a huggy face emoji.
I was not going to win this emoji war with her. She wanted to see me and wasn't taking no for an answer.
Fine. I texted and hopped out of bed.
I took a long shower and considered how I was going to help Luke clear his name. Any way you sliced it, I was on the outside looking in. I needed to get on that investigation, but I wasn't sure how to do that.
Turns out, fate decided for me.
When I sauntered into the kitchen, ready to make my morning latte I discovered the milk I thought was good was actually a few days beyond its expiration date. Since I think those are more suggestions than anything else, I opened it up and took a big whiff, which caused me to gag.
I threw the chunky milk in the trash and headed out for a latte and some solid advice. Both available in one place this early on a weekend morning.
∞∞∞
"Sweetheart, what are you doing here on a Sunday?" Dixon's loud voice greeted me when I entered The Squad Room. He wasn't officially open for the day, but I knew he'd be here. More importantly I knew his espresso machine would be there along with perfectly unexpired milk.
Dix was a fireplug of a man. I was 5'9" tall, and he was a few inches shorter than me. Where most men in their early 60s had no hair and a beer gut, Dixon's middle was solid muscle, thanks to his continued workout routine that didn't happen in some "frou frou gym". His words, not mine.
He had a thick head of gray hair and had sported a flat top for as long as I can remember. If it weren't for the ironic t-shirts he wore, you might think he had no sense of humor. Today's version: Underestimate me. That will be fun.
"I think that's my favorite shirt so far, you have to give it to me," I said crossing the room.
"No dice. It was a gift."
"You keep saying. Who is this person who keeps giving you these fabulous t-shirts and where can I get one just like that?"
"I'm not telling," he winked at me and turned to the back.
I followed him into the kitchen. "Then make me a latte."
"Why don't you drink black coffee like other cops?"
"Gross. I hate regular coffee."
"You'd make more friends at the precinct if you were gathered around the coffee pot," Dix pretended to scold me as he made my precious dark nectar of the gods.
"That stuff will rot your guts out. Plus, I don't think they have cleaned that coffee pot since Jesus' rookie season."
Dixon patted his flat stomach. "How do you think I got my first ulcer?"
"Dealing with Chief Dad?" I smiled, but wouldn't look him in the eye.
Dix worked for a few minutes as the machine hissed and gurgled. Then he turned to me. "All right then.... spill."
"What are you talking about?"
"You could have gone anywhere for a latte, including some that have anonymous drive thrus," he turned his trademark stare at me. It's the same stare he would give criminals to get them to confess. I really have to learn how he does that because it made me squirm.
"True story dot com."
"Stop stalling and tell Uncle Dixon what's really going on," he softened and pulled out a stool next to the kitchen counter.
I took my time sitting down. These stools were brand new and didn't wobble or threaten to toss your 40-year-old ass on the floor.
"I need to tell you something and you have to promise not to tell anyone else," I started.
"Scout's honor."
"I mean it, Dix. This is the kind of stuff that can get me booted off the force and then I would be unemployed and begging you for a job."
He stared at me for a second, then sighed: "Fine."
Dix waited for me to talk, but when I didn't, he turned back to the machine, frothing the milk and pouring the entire beautiful latte into a Squad Room mug.
"Remember how I told you about spending my birthday with the God Among Men?"
He pretended to gag, but then smiled. "Mmm hmmm..."
"Well, it turns out, he's currently the main suspect in a murder that happened the same night."
Dix didn't wait a beat: "But if you were with him..."
"That's the thing. I was with him, but I passed out, not long after we got to his house. I checked my ride share receipt and that was around 10 o'clock. Time of death for the murder was between midnight and one a.m."
"So you can't say for certain that he wasn't the murderer," Dix nodded.
"Right."
"What about evidence?"
"Circumstantial. They found his DNA - skin cells - on a bracelet he had given the victim. He was seen arguing with her earlier on the day she died, but that's it."
"They searched his house?"
"Nothing, except a spot of my blood on the bedroom floor," I looked at my mug.
"From that cut on your face? What did that bastard..."
"Hold your guns, John Wayne. He didn't do anything. Much like everything else in my life, I did it to myself. Tripp and Diana said the blood type didn't match the victim, so they won't be testing it for DNA."
"Which is good....because... you didn't tell them you were with him the night of the murder? Oh my God, Wysdom."
"Yep."
"Shit. This is a mess."
"Yep."
"Did he do it?" Dix eyed me.
"No."
"How do you know?"
"My gut. Although I've been known to be wrong before."
Dixon sat on the other stool next to the counter and dry washed his face with his hands. He interlaced both hands behind his neck and looked up to the ceiling, like he was stretching and praying to God for patience. Everyone knows you can't pray for patience. That shit has to be learned and earned. The hard way.
"I did tell you to trust your instincts, but this wasn't what I had in mind," he blew out a breath.
"Tripp and Diana are the lead detectives on the case and they're so stuck on Luke being the murderer, they're not looking at anyone else," my voice was getting higher. I couldn't help it. I felt very useless to help my God Among Men.
"Luke? Oh, the God Among Men. Right. Tripp always did have tunnel vision when it came to a suspect."
"I need to get onto that investigation, Dix. I need to
help Luke."
"Did you ask Tripp?"
We both looked at each other and laughed, knowing what the answer would be. Even though I outranked my little brother, when it came to a homicide, the detective on the case ruled the roost. Diana might give me a chance, but she was the good cop and my brother was the bully cop.
"You'll just have to appeal to a higher power," Dix said solemnly.
"Oprah?" I smiled.
"Chief Dad."
My smile vanished. "And how do you propose I do that?"
"I have an idea... but you're not going to like it," Dix put his arm around me and told me the plan that I definitely didn't like at all. Not one bit.
∞∞∞
Chapter Eleven
I could hear music coming from the kitchen as I let myself into my dad's house.
"Hip, hip so hip to be square..." my Bonus Mom Denise was singing way off key and shaking her booty as she washed dishes in the sink. "Here there and everywhere..."
Her voice trailed off as she turned around and let out a startled gasp.
"Wysdom dear! I didn't hear you come in!"
"That's probably because you were getting busy with Huey Lewis, and the News!" I kissed her cheek, shaking my booty in solidarity.
Most of my friends had a step-mother, or two. But I liked Denise from the minute my dad brought her home. I was about eight years old and was still grieving the death of my mom, two years earlier. Denise never tried to take her place or tell me to forget about my mom. She made sure I had pictures of her and preserved some of my mom's things so they would remain in good shape.
Denise told me I could call her whatever I wanted, but that she didn't like the word "stepmom" very much. She wanted me to think of her like a "bonus" mom, and I thought that sounded pretty good. She's been Bonus Mom ever since.
"Sit, sit!" Denise started scurrying around the kitchen toward the espresso maker that I know never got any use unless I was there. "Can I make you a latte?"
"I already had one with Dixon this morning, but thank you anyway."
"Tell me, what's going on with you?"
Other than my Thursday night fling being accused of murder? Not much Bonus Mom. "Nothing much."
"Oh! I just remembered, I have something for you," Denise ran out of the room. You might think she's had a few too many lattes this morning, but you would be wrong. She didn't drink any caffeine. She didn't need it. Her natural energy propelled her around life like a pinball in perpetual motion. She was petite, 5'4" in heels, and she always wore heels. And a skirt or dress. And full makeup.
She was a girly girl who gave up trying to convert me to the Cult of Anne Taylor in junior high school. I was much more comfortable in shorts and flip flops than skirts and heels.
"Happy birthday!" She cried and sat a beautifully wrapped present in front of me. It looked like one of those fake presents you see in a magazine, but this was how my Bonus Mom rolled. She didn't believe in giving a gift unless the outside of the package looked as good as the inside.
"You remembered!" I hugged her and started pulling the ribbon off the box. Inside there was a sports bra with something silver sticking out of the middle. I picked it up and my non-poker face gave away my confusion.
"It's a Booby Trap!" She said, as if that explained it.
"A booby trap?" I laughed.
"Yes. Booby Trap. See that pocket there in the middle? It's designed so you can take your keys or pepper spray with you when you're running. But I thought you might like a concealed weapon," She pulled the silver thing out of the middle. "I found a knife that fit."
It really was the perfect gift and I told her so, hugging her again.
"I can't wait to go back on duty so I can wear it," I said, holding it up to my chest and looking at the mirror on the fridge.
"What is going on in here!" Dad boomed as he entered the kitchen. He picked up Denise at the waist and swung her around, before dipping her and kissing her so hard it would make a porn star blush.
"Dad!"
"Wyatt!" Denise swatted his arm and blushed.
They'd been married for 31 years and still acted like they were on their honeymoon. You'd think I'd be used to it by now. Nope. Nope. Nope.
"There's the birthday girl," my dad came over and hugged me. "I'm sorry we forgot to say something on the actual day. That's not a good excuse. I feel terrible."
My eyebrows went up. It's not every day Chief Deuce Ward apologized. To anyone. This was my chance.
"Maybe you can make it up to me," I said slowly.
"Anything for my favorite daughter."
"I'm your only daughter."
"Hence, why you're my favorite," he was pretty pleased with his joke.
"Can we talk about something in your study?" I asked.
"Absolutely."
We walked down the hall to his "study" - a fancy word for man cave if ever there was one. I told him this once and said calling it a "study" seemed pretentious. His response that there was plenty of studying in there - studying of the Gators' offense, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers' defense, the Orlando Magic's point guards... well you get the idea.
When we were both settled in oversized leather recliners, I turned to my dad and said: "I want you to put me on the Rousseau murder investigation."
Just like that, Deuce Ward went from relaxed dad to Chief Dad. "Why would I do that? They have a suspect in custody."
"Lucio Nelson is being held, without charges, on very flimsy circumstantial evidence. The only reason he's in jail right now, is because he ran from the house during the execution of the search warrant. Tripp seems to think they're going to find the murder scene and tie it back to Nelson, but so far, they haven't. As of tomorrow morning, they'll have to cut him loose."
"I see."
"Dad, right now - Tripp and Diana aren't looking at any other suspects and with the national media about to roll up in here, they're going to need all the help they can get ruling people out."
"Is that so?"
"Think of all the paperwork and interviews they'll have to go through. Wouldn't it be nice if they had an extra set of hands?"
"So you and Officer Davis are volunteering for the job?"
"I can't speak for Bodie, but I know it would do the both of us good to get experience on a real murder investigation."
Chief Dad said nothing, just steepled his hands underneath his chin. It was trademark Deuce Ward. He made you think he was actually considering saying yes, when he was about to say no.
I stopped him. "Before you say no - consider this: How can I learn to be a detective when I've never been given a chance?"
I stopped talking and stared. I tried to copy how my Uncle Dix does it, but it just made my eyes water. So, I just relaxed my eyes and said nothing. The silence dragged on for 37 hours, but I refused to be the first one to talk.
"Fine, but you report to Tripp," my dad stood up.
"Thank you, Dad!" I hugged him. "You won't regret it.”
∞∞∞
I walked out to the backyard and stepped right in the middle of an argument between my two brothers.
"The Bucs are going to win the Super Bowl," Wynn yelled.
"Get real, the only thing they have going for them is Tom Brady, and he threw 11 interceptions in the NFC Championship," Tripp yelled back.
"Tom Brady has been in the NFC for only one year, the Cowboys have been in there for 24 years. How many Championships have they racked up?" Wynn lifted his chin and stared down our brother.
Oh shit. Them's fightin' words. Tripp was a die-hard Cowboys fan who believed they'd eventually return to their glory days. He's been waiting a long time.
Tripp's face got really red and I thought he was going to punch our little brother right in the kisser. I stepped forward to stop him, but Hope Archer beat me to it, putting a perfectly manicured hand on Tripp's bicep and smiling up at him. He immediately calmed down and stepped back.
"Whatever, bro. C'mon Hope, let's go help mom bring out the food," he tucked
Hope's hand around his arm and steered them back inside.
Saint Hope. My brother's eventual wife. "Eventual" because they've been engaged for seven years. He proposed on their second date and she accepted, but thought they ought to get to know each other first. Wise woman.
After two years of getting to know each other, she suggested they move in together to see how that would work out. They've been "living in sin" for five years, and it was just last month they announced they were having a baby. Still no wedding announcement though.
Wynn watched them walk back inside. "That man better figure out a way to get her to say 'I do' before she figures out he's a tool."
"There's a lid for every pot little brother," I said as I put my arm around his shoulders. "There's someone out there for everyone and it may not make sense to those of us on the sidelines, but it does to the two people in the relationship."
Wynn looked skeptical and I continued: "How many lids have you had since Thursday?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," he blushed.
"Oh baby. C'mon baby. Let me dance with you, baby," I mocked him in my lowest voice possible, smacking his butt, then grabbing his hands and twirling him.
"It's not like that!" He laughed. "I'm just seeing what's out there."
"Seeing what's out there, and out here." I grabbed my boobs.
"Ugh. Why'd you have to go and do that? No one wants to think of their sister that way."
"All of those plastic badge bunnies are someone's sister... or daughter... or mom," I pointed at him.
"Yeah, but they're not mine," Wynn wiggled his eyebrows. Gross.
"Time to eat, kids!" Dad announced as he led a train of people into the backyard toward the long table on the patio. We all settled into our usual seats with Tripp and Wynn pushing and shoving each other like they were still in high school.
"Boys! Settle down," One look from Denise and they stopped what they were doing to a chorus of "yes ma'am's".
Dad didn't even wait until we started digging into our plates before he turned to Tripp and asked: "How's the murder investigation going?"
"Good." Tripp replied. The only time Tripp ever talked in one word sentences was when things were definitely not good.