Darby handed me a collage of the crime scene photos.
It was horrific.
I had a visceral reaction when I looked at the blood splatters on the cracked mirror. Her blood. A fresh sheen of sweat broke out under my T-shirt.
I’ve responded to plenty of domestic disturbances during my career, some of which contained a dead body, but these pictures, I couldn’t even look at. It was like a switch was flipped inside me. I handed it back as he continued.
“Miss Harper was in ICU for forty-eight hours. Broken arm, collar bone, swelling of the brain. She got one-hundred and sixty-seven stitches across her body. Doctor noted the dude had ripped clumps of hair from her head.”
I looked through the two-way mirror at the silky mane cascading down her slender shoulders. Long tresses marking victory over a story, a nightmare, she’d likely never forget. Her eyes flickered with awareness, her face turning slightly in my direction, but not all the way. She knew I was there. She knew I was watching.
I ripped my eyes away. “What’s his name?”
“Kenzo Rees.”
I didn’t need to write it down because it burned into my brain like a branding iron, or baseball bat if you will.
“What did he get?”
“Assault with a deadly weapon. First degree felony. Got him a four year sentence in prison but the guy was already on probation for two DUIs and possession with intent to sell, so the judge threw the book at him and gave him another two years. Rees was rumored to be one of the biggest cocaine dealers in the area, but cops could never pin him for it. Rumored gang affiliations, too.”
“And this happened when she was twenty-one?”
“Right.”
“She’s twenty-eight now. That was seven years ago. His sentence was six years. Is he out?”
“No according to my DPD rookie.”
“He should be. Find out why he isn’t.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door flung open. Colson stormed inside and slammed it behind him, a tornado of energy that had Darby inching closer to me.
“Let’s fucking recap, shall we?” Colson interrupted.
I glanced at Darby, who muttered, “I set a copy of all this on his desk.”
Colson ignored Darby and turned to the two-way mirror, staring at Sunny as he addressed me. “We’ve got an emotionally scarred rich girl who dated a gang member who almost beat her to death, and a dead pastor’s kid who just got back from a fucking mission trip. Who, according to our guest of the evening, attacked her and was killed by a phantom ninja who came out of nowhere and then disappeared into thin air. Despite the fact that she was found holding a gun over Julian’s dead body.”
“You don’t believe her.” Darby said.
“No I don’t. There’s something about her. About this whole thing. My gut is screaming at me. There’s something about her I don’t like.”
“That’s not going to stand up in court.” I said.
“Like you’re so politically correct? Give me a break.” Colson turned to me. “Why the hell didn’t she lawyer up? Why didn’t she tell us everything at the scene? Blabbering like a normal panic-stricken person would be? What’s with the fucking attitude and nine millimeter? Who the hell jogs at midnight? Why is she being so… not normal about this whole thing? Chick’s not normal.”
“Is this your first assault victim, Colson?”
“Why are you so sure she’s telling the truth?”
“Why are you so fucking sure she’s not?”
“Why are you so fucking defensive about this? She’s hot and all, but shit, Jagg, I thought you had better contr—”
“You finish the rest of that sentence, you’ll be slurring it through a hole in your mouth.”
Colson squared his shoulders. “You threatening me, Jagger?”
“Whoa.” Darby shifted between us. “Guys. Stop.”
“Get out.” I said to the rookie, my eyes never leaving Colson as Darby slinked out and shut the door.
Colson threw up his hands, heaved out a breath, and took a step back. “I know you’re messed up about Seagrave’s death, but you need to reset, Jagger. Check yourself. Because we both know you’re hanging onto your job by a thread right now and the last thing you need is to stick your neck out for some random chick. There’s emotions already involved here, bro. The Chief knows the pastor. He knew Julian. He hates you. My opinion, you either need to pass off Seagrave’s investigation or this one. Leave the cursed Cedonia scrolls and this Sunny Harper shit alone.”
“I’m already involved in this Sunny Harper shit.”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t mean emotionally you, asswipe. I was one of the first responders with you. Hell, I just interviewed her for you.”
“That’s not why you want to stay on. You think Sunny Harper, Julian Griggs, and the freaking Voodoo Tree are all connected to Seagrave’s death.”
“You’re goddamn right I do.”
Colson shook his head, placed his hand on the doorknob. “I hope you know what you’re doing, bro. All eyes are on you, just waiting for you to screw up.” He glanced over his shoulder and gave me the once-over. “Speaking of, maybe now’s the time to start dressing like you give a damn. Button-up, slacks, shoes that don’t have beer stains on them. Walk the line, at least until everything blows over. That’s my advice.”
I looked down at my T-shirt, jeans and boots.
He turned the knob. “Go home and get a solid night’s sleep. This’ll all be here tomorrow.”
I jerked my chin to the two-way mirror. “What about Harper?”
“I’ve got nothing to hold her on. I’m going to let her go, strongly suggesting not to leave the area for the next few days.”
In case he got something to bring her back in for, he meant.
“You can’t take the easy way out here, Colson.”
He spun around. “You mean by signing the report that says Julian Griggs was simply killed in self-defense? Then filing it away so everyone can move on with their lives? No. I can’t do that. Why? Because the pastor is going to want answers. The town is going to want answers. Because it makes no sense that the God-fearing kid of a pastor would hide in the woods and attack a woman in the park. And don’t even get me started on this mysterious third person.” He pushed open the door. “Forgive me, dude, but you’re fucking crazy to take on a case so high profile right now.”
The door slammed followed by Colson’s heavy footsteps and Darby’s tip toes down the hall.
Colson was right. I was crazy to stay on the case.
Good thing crazy never stopped me before.
12
Jagg
I hung back until Colson’s and Darby’s voices faded down the hallway. I didn’t know how much Darby had heard but I guessed most of it. Just as well. Assuming Darby hadn’t slept through his human behavior class at the academy, the kid had probably already picked up on the fact that the Chief wasn’t too keen on me, as everyone in town had.
Not that I gave a shit. I learned long ago to only give shits about what I could control, and a balding, brash sixty-something divorcee with one foot in retirement and the other in a box of jelly-filled donuts was something I couldn’t. He wasn’t technically my boss, although he liked to think he was. I answered to the state’s attorney general, who didn’t give a shit what I did as long as I got him results and kept him in the voter’s favors. Did I mention I hate politics?
I turned and braced myself on the small ledge below the two-way mirror, looking at Sunny Harper in an entirely new light. Suddenly, the scattered dots started to connect, painting a picture of a woman who’d been to hell and back.
Sunny Harper was a victim.
A survivor.
A fighter.
Colson was dead wrong when he’d labeled her response to the Slaying in the Park as “not normal.” If he truly knew anything about assault victims it was that their entire world became “not normal” after an attack as vicious as Sunny’s. I’d seen it dozens o
f times over the course of my career, not only as a detective, but in war zones overseas. Women thought they had it bad here? Shit, the things I’d seen done to women overseas would make your balls shrink to your throat and give you nightmares for years. It had me.
PTSD was a very real thing, and in my opinion, too big of an umbrella for conditions with so many symptoms and repercussions. PTSD effects almost ten percent of people over a lifetime, with women twice as likely to experience it than men. Most cases are short-lived, with symptoms easing with time. Some, though, experience chronic effects including legit personality changes. New studies have shown that chronic PTSD creates an “amped up” nervous system—think constant ‘fight or flight’ mode—causing actual chemical changes in the brain.
After an attack as brutal as the Dallas police report claimed Sunny’s to be, it’s not far-fetched to imagine her life taking on an entirely new normal. Shaping, adapting, changing.
Yet somehow, after the attack, Sunny had picked herself up, gotten her conceal carry license, enrolled in Krav Maga, bought herself some badass dogs, and dedicated her life to training guard dogs for others in need. Sunny had found a way to adapt, weird behavior be damned.
But now, seven years later, another attack.
Coincidence?
Coincidence that it happened right after Seagrave was shot to death?
Was I crazy?
As I stared at Sunny through the two-way mirror, I clicked off the things I knew to be true, willing the pieces of the puzzle to magically fall into place.
One, I had four ancient Wiccan scrolls, rumored to be cursed, that had suddenly risen from the dead days before the annual Moon Magic Festival.
Two, I had the “Black Bandit,” the name given to the thief rumored to be responsible for stealing said scrolls.
Three, I had Lieutenant Seagrave, responding to one of those heists where he was shot six times in the chest, moments before a blue sedan was caught on camera driving away.
Four, I had a creepy-ass voodoo shrine resurrected yards from his funeral, and hours after that, I meet Sunny Harper, gun in hand, standing over the pastor’s son’s dead body.
Lastly, I had Sunny’s story of a third mystery person who supposedly shot the pastor’s son, then vanished without a trace.
If I’m being honest here, I was still trying to figure if that last part was true. Colson didn’t think so, but he was right about one thing, nothing added up, although my gut was screaming at me that it was all connected. That Seagrave’s murder and Sunny’s attack were linked, and that every piece of the puzzle added up.
I just had to figure out how—starting with finding the damn Black Bandit.
I watched Sunny’s head jerk up as the door to the conference room opened and Colson stepped inside. I clicked on the speaker and listened as he told her she could leave for the night, but not from Berry Springs until he gave her the okay.
Colson was already on his phone and halfway down the hall as I stepped into the conference room where Sunny was slowly pushing herself to a stance.
“Here,” I rushed forward.
“Don’t.” She jerked away. “Please.”
I took a step back and had to restrain myself from helping her out of the chair. The woman was in obvious pain and I wondered if she had more than just a bruised rib.
“Is there something you need?” She snapped, her cheeks flushing with both pain and embarrassment. I tore my eyes away and pretended to busy myself with repositioning the phone to a perfect ninety degree angle.
“You have my card, Miss Harper.” I chanced a look at her once she’d fully straightened. “Call me if you think of anything else.”
She kicked the BSPD sweatshirt to the side of the room and stepped past me.
“Thanks.”
I followed her out.
A hush fell over the station and heads turned as she walked down the hallway, her shoulders back, head held high. It was remarkable to watch, really.
I shoved ahead of her and opened the door that led to the lobby, then the door to outside.
The early morning was as black as midnight. A cool breeze carried through the air, a brief reprieve until the blazing sun came up.
Sunny’s long curls whipped around her face as her pace quickened down the steps. The woman was practically running away from the station—or away from me. Either way, Sunny was beelining it somewhere.
“Do you have a ride to your car?” I asked from the steps.
“Yes,” she hollered back, her focus staying ahead.
I looked around the parking lot. Only a few cars, and none were running. I glanced over my shoulder at no one coming outside, keys in hand. It was then that I realized Colson had either not offered her a ride, or she’d declined. Based on the way she shot out of the interview room, I assumed the latter.
“Is your driver on his way?” I promise I hadn’t intended the condescending rich-girl implication. She didn’t respond.
I jogged to catch up with her abnormally long strides, making me wonder exactly how long they were, and how they would feel wrapped around my waist. This led me to wonder what time it was and how long since I’d eaten or slept.
I was losing my mind. I was literally chasing after a woman, a first for me.
I wish I could say it was the last.
Sunny stepped onto the sidewalk that led to Main Street. The streets were bare, store fronts black. It was that unsettling time of night, or early morning I should say, when darkness seemed to envelop everything, including sound.
The street light short-circuited above her as I finally caught up.
“Take it easy, Flo-Jo. Where’s your ride?”
She ignored me, laser focused on her destination, wherever the hell that was.
“Didn’t doc tell you to take it easy until your body heals?”
Still, no response. Not even a glance.
“Something happen to your ears during the attack, Miss Harper?”
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to keep up with those stilts you call legs.”
“I mean, why are you following me?”
“You’ve never had a gentlemen walk you to your car?”
“I told you I had a ride.”
“I wasn't asking if you owned a motor vehicle. I was asking if you had someone to drive you to your ‘ride?’”
“I’d rather walk.”
“Would you?”
A crack in the sidewalk caught her toe and she stumbled forward. The groan of pain that escaped her lips sounded like a dying dog.
“Alright. That’s it.” I stepped in front of her, cutting her off. “I’m going to touch you, Miss Harper. Don’t go all Krav Maga on my ass.”
She didn’t smartass back, suggesting she was in a load of pain.
I touched her with my fingertips first, as one might an injured bear, then slowly wrapped my hand around her forearm, then my arm around her back.
“This is what’s going to happen here. I’m going to slowly pick you up.”
“No.” The low, gruffness of her voice and the fact she didn’t fight me confirmed her pain.
“Yes. On three.”
“No.”
One…”
“No.”
“Two…”
“Detective—”
“Three.”
I expected a backhand as I swooped down, but instead, her body stilled. Slowly, I lifted her into my arms, my own back screaming at me.
She released another grunt as her body folded into my arms.
“Shhh,” I whispered. “You’re fine.”
I settled her into a cradled position against my chest, grit my teeth, and pushed away my own pain—something I’d gotten very good at over the last handful of years.
“Breathe.” I told her. And to myself.
An exhale against my chest.
“Another. Slow.”
Inhale, exhale.
“Good. I’m going to start walking now. Hang on or don’t, whatever’s
most comfortable. I’ve got you.”
Her body remained as stiff as a board until we hit the halfway mark and her weight finally released against my hold. It felt like a small victory. Her head rested against my chest.
Good girl, I thought.
A breeze caught her hair, sending spirals of silky ebony against my cheek and wafts of that same coconut smell as when I’d tackled her at the park. The scent had me visualizing the sun resting on the ocean’s horizon and waves crashing against my toes.
How long had it been since I’d taken a vacation?
Hell, how long since I’d taken a single day off work?
… How long since the scent of a woman’s hair had me considering it?
We were halfway to the town’s square when the hum of an engine pulled my attention behind us. Shifting Sunny’s weight so my left arm could grab my gun if needed, I refocused my senses to my peripheral. The car slowed. I glanced over my shoulder just as Darby drove by, rubbernecking from the driver’s seat of his patrol car like a damn spider monkey.
Christ.
There I was, cradling Sunny Harper like a new bride.
Of all the freaking times for this kid to take an interest in the safety of Main Street. Our eyes met for a brief second before he disappeared downhill, and I had no doubt the entire station would know about Sunny’s “ride” by morning.
So be it.
The night was just beginning to lighten by the time we reached the park. I wasn’t sure if Sunny had fallen asleep, so I gave my best guess on where she’d parked. I knew it wasn’t where Colson and I had entered, and I remembered her saying she was about a mile into her jog before the attack, so my best bet was the north entrance. I pivoted and stepped onto a shortcut through the woods where I picked up the jogging trail a few yards in. I didn’t like that my gun hand wasn’t free. Keeping my head on a swivel, I scanned the woods as we passed through. The lampposts did a shit job of illuminating more than a few feet, and, Sunny was right, there were pitch-black spots in-between. Dark enough to shade anyone’s face. There was also enough underbrush for a damn elephant to hide. I recalled the debate years earlier between the cowboys and local conservationists—aka hippies—about clearing the shrubbery in City Park. The hippies didn’t want “man” to touch the nature. The cowboys wanted it cleaned up. In the end, the hippies won after a three-day protest.
Jagger (Steele Shadows Investigations) Page 10