After peeling off my button-up—six dollars at the same sale—I made my way across the living room, to the kitchen.
12.06 a.m.
The beginning of another long, sleepless night. I yanked open the fridge and squinted at the contents. My choices included a Ziplock bag of bacon that had taken on a green shimmer over the last twelve hours, a block of moldy cheese, something else in a grease-stained paper bag, and twenty-three long necks. Not even enough to make my trademark breakfast burrito, otherwise known as the only thing I cooked.
Also otherwise known as the best damn food on the planet.
I slammed shut the fridge door, grabbed a loaf of bread, and after tossing the ones that felt like cardboard, I stuffed a slice in my mouth and set the coffee to brew. A friendly note of advice: Never eat plain bread when all you’ve had to drink is a pint of whiskey.
After washing the playdough down with a drink from the faucet, I poured a cup of coffee and walked to the centerpiece of my place, my desk. I’d set it up in front of the living room window that overlooked the town’s square.
A lump caught my throat, more dense than the bread.
Although I’d already seen them a hundred times, the crime scene photos still made my stomach roll.
They’d had an open casket at Lieutenant Seagrave’s funeral but no amount of makeup or fancy clothes could replace the image of his bloodied torso obliterated like a slice of swiss cheese. Or the grimaced expression his face had frozen into, as if to remind us that his death was no accident.
No accident.
Coffee in one hand, I picked up a photo in the other and scanned it from top to bottom, corner to corner. Not that I needed to. The images would be burned into my brain for the rest of my life. My pulse kicked, a rush of energy suddenly flooding my system. Nothing sobers you up like white-hot rage. I set my cup next to the multiple coffee rings that already speckled the papers. Coffee rings were my personal mark, the entire station knew. Clichés be damned.
I lifted the second image that had been burned into my brain, but not because of the blood and gore. This one was a grainy, black and white image caught from a street cam. I tilted my head to the side, tracing the lines of the blurred silhouette frozen mid-jog, passing by a window in the art shop next to the alley where Seagrave’s body had been found. The image was captured at one-thirteen in the morning. The thief was carrying a black bag that would have faded into the silhouette if not for the corners sticking out. Black, black, black. Hat, mask, clothes, shoes. All black.
“Mother fucker,” I seethed, my hand beginning to tremble, from either rage or the caffeine. Probably both.
I set down the second photo and shifted my attention to my laptop. After logging in several security screens, I hit play on the video I’d watched countless times since that morning. I memorized the flashes of the silhouette moving back and forth past the window, smooth, quick, calculated.
Planned.
Sipping my coffee, I settled behind the desk and watched the video over and over, as I had done every night since my friend’s death. I wasn’t sure how long had passed when my senses suddenly switched to the front door behind me. A distant creak told me I had company, and I never had company.
Then, a rap, rap, rap of knuckles against the paper-thin door.
I grabbed the gun I kept secured under the desk, and in nothing but my suit slacks and socks, I padded to the front door.
“Don’t do it,” the voice called out from the other end.
I yanked open the door.
“Detective.” Lieutenant Quinn Colson shifted out of the shadows in a way that reminded me of his military days before accepting a position with BSPD.
“Another second and you’d’ve been on your back.” I holstered the gun in my waist band.
“Already told you, you’re not my type.”
“Everyone’s your type. What’s got you slummin’ in the back alleys of Berry Springs at midnight?”
“Thought I’d come by and say hi.”
“I’ve known you for three years and you’ve never come by to say hi.”
“Guess today’s your lucky day.”
My eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you supposed to be practicing Lamaze or something?”
“I did.” He blew out a breath. “A hundred fucking times already today.”
I grinned. Colson’s new bride, Bobbi, was in her third trimester, although you’d think it was her fifth talking to the guy. Quinn Colson was a few years younger than myself, with the same build and grit that came from spending years in the military. Except he and I had gone very different paths after getting out. The obvious being a white picket fence and family. Pending family, anyway.
“Seriously. Cut the bullshit. What’s up?” I asked wanting to get back to Seagrave’s case.
“Fine. I couldn’t sleep, took a drive to get some of this stifling fresh air, and came by to check on you. Don’t make a big girly thing about it. God knows I’ve dealt with enough emotional shit today. Anyway, I noticed you were still at the cemetery when I’d left earlier. Went by just now but you weren’t there. You alright, bro?”
“Fine.”
He jerked his chin past me. “That empty pint you’ve got on the floor says otherwise.”
I turned, picked up the empty bottle of Jack and hurled it over his head with nothing short of a Jordan follow-through. Two seconds of dead air went by until, bam, the glass shattered in the empty dumpster at the bottom of the staircase.
“Dammit, dude. Thanks. Now we’re gonna get a call from old lady Doris Dill about a noise complaint.”
“Dill passes out cold at six-thirty every day. The woman could sleep through world war three.”
“I don’t want to know how you know that, man.”
“Probably for the best.”
“Anyway, recycle next time, will ya?” Colson craned his neck to see into my apartment. “Not that you have anything to recycle. Jesus dude, do you sleep on the floor?” He shoved past me. “What are you? A college kid? You’ve got one ratted couch that I don’t even want to know where the stains came from, and a—” He looked at me, gaping in utter shock as if I had three human heads nailed to the wall—“a box television? You have a fucking box television? You know they have flat screens now, right? Your TV is from the freaking nineties.” He continued his visual ass-rape of my place. “And kitchen the size of—you don’t even have a dishwasher—and one desk. And a window air-conditioning unit…” He leaned down and sniffed. “That smells like burnt cheese.”
I kind of liked that scent, if I’m being honest.
Colson breezed past me, checking out the bedroom, where I kept a Queen—mattress, not woman—and an alarm clock on the floor, not that I needed one. I don’t even think the alarm function worked. Thank God I’d removed the antennas from the top or the guy might have had a coronary.
“You’ve been in Berry Springs three years, dude.” He turned and fisted his hands on his hips. “I mean, I get the minimal lifestyle thing but you don’t even have a single picture on the wall.” He scowled. “Unless you consider that nasty-ass peeling wallpaper some sort of hippie art. Is there some sort of gambling addiction I’m not aware of, because I can loan you some money if you—”
“You come here to check on me or give me decorating tips? Because one of those is gonna get you kicked out on your ass.”
“Fine.” He raised his palms to surrender. “Just… unexpected, I guess. Anyway, come on. We know you’re not going to sleep, so come on.”
Another few drinks and passing out might have been more accurate.
“Come on,” he said again. “We’re going to Frank’s, not Lucy’s, so get a damn shirt on.”
Human beings—even strippers—were the last things I wanted to be around at that moment, but the bar part didn’t sound so bad. It was my second home, after all. Franks, not Lucy’s.
Frank’s Bar was a hole-in-the-wall pub on the outskirts of town. A retired officer, aptly named Frank, had purchased the old log cabi
n and turned it into a hub for first responders needing a moment of reprieve. For cowboys seeking the best barbecue across three states, and for cowgirls seeking the best meat across three states. It was a southern, small-town bar at its finest with antlers and flickering road signs along shaded walls, and buckets of ice water on tap to extinguish the routine bar fights.
Especially during full moons. That was a fact.
“I’ll buy the drinks.” Colson said.
And, sold.
I plucked a grey T-shirt off the back of my “ratted” couch, gave it a sniff then pulled it on. I swapped out my slacks for a pair of jeans and cowboy boots, then followed Colson down the staircase.
“My Jeep’s around the corner,” I said.
“Is your air conditioner still broke?”
“Yep.”
“Then we’re taking my truck.”
We stepped onto the sidewalk.
“I don’t want to talk to anyone.” I said.
“You never do, and no offense, no one ever wants to talk to you either.”
We hit the asphalt, still warm from the day before.
“But I will say…” Colson continued. “I’m curious as hell to hear why you’ve got Darby casing a voodoo tree in the park.”
4
Jagg
Colson parked his truck on the edge of the gravel lot next to Frank’s Bar. The clouds had faded, the moonlight so bright we could have driven without headlights. The night had cooled to a chilling seventy-six degrees.
A trio of cowgirls eyed us as we walked to the front door.
“Evenin’ officers,” one winked.
While Colson politely dipped his chin as he passed, I yanked the cigarette from the blonde’s red-tipped fingers, tossed it on the ground and stomped it out.
“Burn ban.” I informed her as I grabbed her Miller Lite and emptied it on the glowing tip. The girls squealed as the beer splashed onto their fancy boots. They gaped at me, speechless—my favorite reaction from a woman, by the way.
Colson rolled his eyes and pulled me inside.
“Can you cool it for a bit? Shit.”
I yanked my arm from his hold, my focus immediately shifting to the scent of stale beer, cedar, and barbecue sauce. My three favorite smells. We saddled up at the end of the bar, ignoring the glances and whispering that followed.
Typically, Frank’s Bar was a flurry of drunken energy. Not that night. That night, the low moan of a Willie Nelson song hung in humid air as thick as the mood beneath it. I’d seen almost every face at the funeral hours earlier.
“Howdy do, boys?” Frank walked up, wiping his hands on an apron that read, Eat my Meat.
Colson and I grunted.
Frank nodded, looked down. “It’s a tough day for everyone. I’ve been there multiple times. The Lieutenant was a good man. Whiskeys?”
“Coffee,” I said.
“I’ll take a Shiner,” Colson said.
We sat in silence until Frank delivered our drinks.
I sipped the coffee, hot, strong, black. Just the way I liked it.
“Okay,” Colson said finally. “What’s Darby still doing at the Voodoo Tree? Aside from muttering half-sentences about witches and strings of garlic?”
“Spinning his damn wheels.”
“Ah, come on. Give the kid a break. We were all new once. I’m glad you’re letting him work with you and I hope you continue to pull him along. Bet he’s jumping up and down to get to work with the infamous Dog.”
“Kid needs more training.”
“Kid needs to get laid.”
“Agreed. I’ve got him searching the park. I did all the important stuff like bagging up the candles, dolls, chimes and shit. What’d he say about it?”
“I want to know what you say about it.”
“Ah, the truth comes out. You didn’t come by my place to check on my well-being. You want to know what I found.”
“True, but I did also want to check on you, Jagg, because you’re an introverted son of a bitch who’s idea of grieving involves a handle of whiskey and a few broken knuckles. And based on what I’ve seen now, I’m glad I dragged you out.” He paused, sipped. “I think you should take a few days off.”
“Fuck you.”
“Listen. I understand being a workaholic. I understand getting personally invested in cases. But in your case, in this case, it’s not healthy for you—”
“What the fuck do you mean my case? This is Seagrave’s case.”
“That’s exactly my point. You know the victim, Jagg. You take it personally—”
“Bullshit.”
“Let me finish. I know you don’t talk about it, but everyone knows. After your dad died, you slept on Seagrave’s couch for six months. I know he was the entire reason you applied to become detective. Hell, the guy gave you a personal recommendation.” He paused. “I knew he meant a lot to you and… under your current circumstance, I really think you need to hand this case off. Give it to someone else.”
“What’s my current circumstance?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re one bad decision away from being fired, Jagg.”
My hand squeezed around the coffee cup, the ceramic cooler than the heat that just rolled up my neck.
“Just think about it. All I’m sayin’.”
I forced myself to take another sip of coffee instead of what I really wanted to do, which was throw it against the wall.
Truth was, Colson was right. I shouldn’t have been on the case. But the moment I got the call that Seagrave had been shot, there was no thinking, no questioning. I drove straight to the crime scene knowing I was going to handle the case one way or another. On—or off—the books. My boss didn’t care that I knew Seagrave. He only cared about getting the job done. If I fucked up? Well, he’d fire me and make the Governor happy. Win/win for him. Bottom line, no amount of whispers or red tape was going to keep me from getting justice for the man who’d taken me in at my darkest time.
I’ll never forget it. It was one month after I’d been discharged from the Navy after being labeled unfit for active duty. Fucking back. I thought I was at my lowest low, but then, one month later, my dad keeled over from a heart attack. Rock bottom, officially hit. My brother wasn’t around, so Colson had dragged my ass to the funeral. My mother had watched from across the street, standing next to a dumpster. Where she belonged. That’s all I’ll say about her.
Jack Seagrave had literally caught me stumbling out of Frank’s Bar six days after Dad’s funeral. I don’t remember the five before.
Jack took me in, sobered me up and gave me the kick in the ass I needed. He was quite possibly the reason I wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere with a bottle of whiskey glued to my hand. I owed him my life.
I owed him justice.
“I’m getting the vibe you think this Voodoo Tree is connected to Seagrave’s death.” Colson asked finally, knowing there was no way in hell I was going to drop the case.
“Everything needs to be considered at this point.”
“Any viable reason to assume it?”
“Any reason you’re immediately doubting it?”
“I’m not challenging you. Just asking the questions.”
I stared at him for a moment not liking what I was seeing. One of his own had been slain, but I didn’t see that fight, that hunt to find the killer, behind his eyes. Was it because his thoughts were at home with his pregnant wife and pending family? Regardless, Colson didn’t seem focused and I didn’t like that. Baby on the way or not, Seagrave’s investigation deserved the full backing of the BSPD, and I felt like I was only getting half from Colson.
“God, I hate this fucking case.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “Okay. Let’s go over this again. Start from the beginning of the night Seagrave was murdered. The Black Bandit breaks into Mystic Maven’s Art Shop to steal the third Cedonia Scroll—”
“Fourth.”
“Fourth?”
“Fourth. There are four scrolls total
. All four were stolen together, a year ago, then sold off. The first three were recovered within days of being stolen. Two in New Orleans, one in Houston. The fourth just turned up here in Berry Springs.”
“The initial report said there were only three Cedonia scrolls.”
“The initial report was wrong. There are four.”
“Does the fourth show a picture of a location around here, like the others?”
I nodded and took a quick sip of coffee. It felt good to be talking about the case with someone other than the mice in my apartment.
“The image of Otter Lake is on one, Shadow River on another, White Rock cliff on the third, and brace yourself my friend”—I shot him a look—“The fourth shows the Voodoo Tree in the park. Sans the voodoo shit, of course.”
Colson’s eyebrows popped. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Okay, now I know why you’re interested in the tree. But how’d you find out about the fourth scroll? I had, like, three people looking into it.”
“Investigating, Colson. You should try it. Yourself.”
Jagger (Steele Shadows Investigations) Page 3