No, Patricia Jagger knew better than to knock on my front door. Although, I realized then that her increased—unanswered—calls must have been because of her pending visit.
Should’ve changed my damn number.
“Well, lock up your husband.” I said. “Have a good evening, Mrs. Berkovich.”
I turned back to the counter, feeling the woman’s eyes burning a hole into my back. Jagger family drama. Add it to the list of shit I had to deal with that day.
A shoulder nudged into my arm. I took a step back, cocked a brow and watched ol’ Louis Smith, the town’s plumber, shoot me a glance sharp enough to cut glass. Or, steel pipes, I guess.
What the hell?
Food. I just wanted fucking food.
Christ, just get me some damn food.
I maneuvered my way to the only open stool in the middle of the counter.
“Seat’s taken.”
I tilted my head to the side, my patience officially obliterated.
“Is it?”
“That’s right,” Bob Powell, a local farmer, sipped his coffee without gracing me a glance.
“By who, Mr. Powell?”
“Ain’t none of your business, Detective.”
I stepped forward, nudging two truckers out of the way.
“You got something to say to me, Bobby?”
“Yeah, son, I do.” The old man turned on his stool, coffee in one hand, the other sliding to his lap. I kept my eye on it. “I got a problem with you busting Cowboy Billy’s nose last night at Frank’s.”
“Do ya now? You’re gonna have a bigger problem than that if one fingernail touches the gun you’ve got on your belt.”
He sneered, pulled his hand away. “Billy wasn’t causin’ no harm, Jagg.”
“He was drunk off his ass bullying an innocent bystander.”
“Innocent bystander? Is that right? Was innocent bystanding what that white witch was doing when she put a bullet in Pastor Griggs’ son’s face?”
I leaned forward. “Bite your tongue old man.”
“Ah, look who’s finally decided to respect women.” He laughed an asshole laugh. “Figured after what your mama—”
I lunged forward the moment two arms wrapped around my waist and heaved me off my feet.
Colson’s deep voice vibrated in my ear. “Say one more word, Jagg, and I’ll throw you through these fucking windows. I’m not fucking kidding.”
I was pulled through the front door, where a crowd had gathered on the sidewalk.
Fuck.
Colson grabbed my elbow and yanked me to the side of the building. I jerked my arm away.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” He threw his hands up. “I can’t. I can’t do this right now. I’ve got a pregnant insomniac at home waiting for her biscuits and sausage, blueberry double stack, cheese grits, T-bone steak, and fucking large chocolate milkshake. I don’t have time or patience to deal with your antics or try to figure out why you’re so hellbent on sabotaging your career. Or what the hell is going through your head right now, but God help me, I will—”
Saved by my ringing phone. I yanked it from my pocket, glanced at the name, then looked at Colson. “Then, I’ll get the hell out of your way, then. Enjoy your double-stack. And your pancakes.”
He muttered something as I pushed past him, ignoring the stares from the windows. The assholes should thank me for giving them something else to talk about for the evening.
I answered the call as I jumped into my Jeep.
“Thanks for calling me back.” I fired up the engine.
“Sorry it took a while. Had a financial review to prepare for.”
“Prisons get enough of tax payers’ money.”
“Warden’s don’t. Anyway, what can I do for ya?”
“Kenzo Rees. Does that name ring a bell?”
“Does botulism make you vomit?”
“More pain than vomit, actually.”
“You’ve had botulism?”
“Mongolia isn’t known for its sanitation standards.”
“Damn, dude. I sometimes forget you were a SEAL.” Wish I could. “Anyway, yeah, what’s got you hunting down Rees?”
“I’ve got a case that Rees is loosely linked to. His former girlfriend was recently attacked in a city park. Does the name Sunny Harper ring a bell?”
“Sure does. Rees wrote her a few letters the first few weeks of his sentence.”
“Letters? You mean, mail?”
“Yep. We still check all the incoming and outgoing mail. Some prisons don’t. We do.”
“What did they say?”
“Short of it, he was going to kill her. Finish the job when he got out. Blamed her for making him hit her and for getting thrown in jail.”
My pulse kick-started. “Did she see them? The letters?”
“Hell no. I’ll have to check, but I think it was only two letters total. We showed the prosecutor, addressed it with Rees, and it stopped. Guy was crazy the first few months of going in. The letters are still in his file.”
“I want to see them. I’d like anything you can give me on him.”
I pulled onto Main Street, noting the Moon Magic Festival protesters had doubled in the last thirty minutes.
“No problem, whatever you need as long as it doesn’t involve that satan spawn coming back here.”
I swerved off of Main Street, hit the brakes. “What do you mean, coming back here?”
A brief pause, then, “Sorry, guess I thought that’s why you were calling. Kenzo Rees was released eight days ago.”
23
Jagg
Fifteen minutes later, I hovered over the desk in my living room, flipping through the reports I’d printed from the email the warden had just sent.
Eight days ago.
My mind spun with possibilities.
Kenzo Rees had been released from prison exactly three days before the Cedonia Scroll heist that ended with Seagrave’s murder. Days later, Sunny was attacked in the park. Coincidence? No shot in hell.
I compared Rees’s height and weight to what I believed was the Black Bandit’s, and while definitely fuzzy, it was plausible.
Was Kenzo Rees the Black Bandit?
Over the phone, the warden told me Rees had been a problem inmate from the first day, threatening and goading guards and other inmates. Rees’s first physical altercation happened within eight hours of his sentence. The guy walked in with something to prove. By week two, Rees had joined forces with a small group suspected of gang affiliations—after his cell mate had died of what was recorded to be a heart attack. Even the warden didn’t believe that. And so began a tumultuous stay at the state prison. I’d pulled more pictures of Rees from his file, printed each, and with a magnifying glass, searched over each one of his visible tattoos. A snake slithered up his left forearm, a trio of demons clawing out of his other one. No gang tattoos other than the one under his eye, backing my assumption he’d joined “The Collars,” in prison. No Wiccan or Pagan tattoos. I’d asked if Rees had taken any interest in art, painting, history, the Bible, or cursed Wiccan scrolls, to which the warden laughed. Kenzo Rees hadn’t taken any interest in prison other than pumping iron and hand to hand combat.
Aside from several visits from a sleazy lawyer they called “Stilts,” Rees didn’t receive a single visitor while behind bars, including Sunny. I’m not proud to say I audibly exhaled when I heard that. I hoped to God Sunny wasn’t one of those women who blamed herself and pitied her abuser. Hell no, she wasn’t. She was the type to enroll in Krav Maga and befriend massive German Shepherds.
I’d already called Darby, informed him of the news and given him a new task—find Kenzo Rees. Regardless of whatever the kid had up his sleeve, I needed all hands on deck because Sunny’s safety was in question. I’d also pulled in the infamous billionaire Steele brothers, of Steele Shadows Security, to use their endless resources as well. I didn’t have many people in my life, but the Steele brothers and I had one bond in common, we’d spent our
glory days running special ops for the military. They were good guys, my unofficial brothers, hell, my unofficial family, and considering they had more money than God, were good to know in a pickle.
Gunner Steele was going to hit up the car dealerships around the prison to see if Rees had purchased a blue four-door sedan. If anyone could intimidate information out of a car salesman, it was him. Axel and their head of security, Max Blackwell, was going to use their hacking skills to see if they could track Rees using the last cell phone number in his name before going in. Gage was going to do what that hotheaded bastard did best, look for the guy boots-on-ground style. Old school.
I already had three calls into Rees’s parole officer, with no response yet. Not that I expected too much from that call because, if I knew anything from being a detective, it was that those mandated check-ins didn’t mean shit. I’d also left two more voicemails on Briana Morgan’s cell phone, followed by a call to Harold and Associates to confirm that the woman was indeed investigating the Cedonia scroll heist. I didn’t know why the woman was so hellbent on not calling me back, but I intended to find out.
Above all else, though, I needed to check on Sunny.
24
Jagg
It was just past nine o’clock in the evening when I turned onto county road 3228. A pair of glowing taillights in the distance caught my attention. The vehicle appeared to be stopped, halfway in the ditch. Considering only Sunny lived down that road, the stranded motorist was either her, Kenzo Rees himself, or someone looking for her. Either way, a win/win for me. I lowered my right hand to my lap, resting inches from my gun, wanting nothing more than to come face to face with the gang-banging bastard sitting behind the steering wheel of a blue sedan.
My headlights bounced off the bumper of a 1972 Chevy.
I rolled to a stop and climbed out of my Jeep, my headlights illuminating Sunny, and all her wild hair, twisting her neck to see who was coming. She was flat on her back, half her body under the front of her truck, her head next to a flat tire.
I walked up, glanced at the tire, then took a moment to soak in the view. Wearing a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a V-neck T-shirt that ironically read Girl Power, Sunny avoided eye contact and continued doing whatever the hell she was doing. Her hair was a frizzed mess around her head, speckled with grass and dead leaves. I was pretty sure something was crawling in it, but considering I could practically feel her vile mood, I decided to keep that to myself. A smattering of dirt stuck to her sweaty forehead, making me wonder how long she’d been stranded. Regardless, one thing was obvious, Sunny Harper had absolutely no clue what she was doing. I’d be amused if not for the fact that I was pissed she obviously hadn’t stayed at home as I’d instructed her the evening before.
“What seems to be the problem here, Miss Harper?” Pissed or not, I couldn’t help the smartass dig.
I could feel her eye roll more than I could see it.
“Oh, you know, just decided have a quick looksee under my truck.” She huffed out a breath. “I’m trying to change my damn tire. Obviously.”
“Are you? Because by the looks of it, you’re trying to change the axel.”
Her body stilled.
A moment ticked by and I would have paid my next paycheck—you know, all hundred dollars of it—to see the expression on her face.
“What were you doing leaving your house?” I demanded.
“Getting a salad.”
“I told you not to go out. Where did you go?”
“Gino’s.”
I grit my teeth and shook my head. Right in the middle of damn town. The woman didn’t listen and was going to get herself hurt. Again.
“Three things, Sunny.” I seethed. “Three things I have an issue with right now. One, who leaves their house for a salad? Two, I told you to stay out of public and away from people until everything blows over, and on top of that, the doctor told you to be resting. And three, how is that screwdriver in your hand going to help you change your damn tire?”
She looked at the screwdriver, a second passed, then released a hefty sigh. She set the tool on the ground, craned her neck to get a better view of me and met my gaze with a fire of her own.
“One, have you ever had Gino’s Flaming Farro salad? It’s nothing short of Italian perfection. Artichokes, peppers, onions, cherry tomatoes, cucumbers over a bed of farro—a gluten free Italian grain for your information, because I’m assuming your fridge holds nothing more than boxes of bacon and cases of beer. PBR if I had to guess…”
Ouch.
“And,” she continued, “Gino’s does curbside delivery so I didn’t even have to get out of my truck. Two, I don’t take orders. From you, or anyone. When are you going to get that through your head? And my ribs are a lot better today. I’m fine. And three, I thought I grabbed the wrench, thank you very much.”
“Liar.”
“I don’t lie.”
“Liar.”
“Fine. I only lie about hand tools.”
“Ever consider just learning how to cook?”
“No offense, but I get the feeling you’re not whipping up three course meals on your own, Jagg.”
“Hey, a breakfast burrito takes multiple steps.”
“That’s your idea of gourmet?”
“Honey, it’s every man’s idea of gourmet.”
“Whatever. Look, do you mind? I’m kinda busy here.”
“Scoot over. Better yet, get out of my way.”
“Are you always this demanding?”
“It’s part of my charm. We’ve already been over this. Scoot.”
“No. Just tell me what to do.”
“I just did. Scoot. Get out of my way.”
“You’re unbelievable, you know that? They should bottle your testosterone.”
“If you don’t get off your back, I’ll give you a free sample.”
That got her up… and I don’t know if I was pleased or offended.
I watched her shimmy out from under the fender—absolutely no clue what she was doing under there—her boobs jiggling and hips swaying in a way that had my pants tightening. I helped her up. Based on her smooth movements, she hadn’t been lying that her ribs were better, but she still should have been resting. I took a moment to look at the injury on her arm. It was clean, with a new bandage. The swelling was gone.
Good.
I rolled up my shirtsleeves and squatted down. She handed me the flashlight.
I looked the tire over, searching for a nail or whatever had pierced the rubber. I got nothing.
“Looks like you’ve got a faulty valve.”
“What? No. I just bought these tires.”
“How long ago?”
“Two months.”
My gaze shifted to the rest of the tires, each of which were low. The bottom left would be flat by morning. I pushed off the ground.
“You got four new tires?”
“Yes.” Her eyes locked on the back left tire. “That one’s almost flat, too, isn’t it?”
“New or used?”
“New.” Her brow furrowed as she looked at me, and although I already knew what I was going to find, I circled the truck, examining each tire with Sunny quiet on my heels.
“What’s going on?” She asked, concern evident in her voice. “Why are all the tires low?”
“Someone tampered with your tires.”
“What?” Her eyes rounded. “What the hell? This is ridiculous. I didn’t kill the pastor’s son. You mean to tell me that redneck from Frank’s Bar keyed my car and ruined my new tires? Unbelievable. He’s got another thing coming because I’m not going to put up with—”
“Sunny, this wasn’t done last night.”
“What—how do you know that?”
I leaned in closer, to triple-confirm. “Each tire valve has been punctured. Same spot, every one. The tires have been losing air for days.”
“Days?”
“That’s my best guess.”
“But I haven’t been anywher
e long enough for someone to do it.”
Aside from your house, I thought, but didn’t say it. My mind was racing.
“Leave your truck here. Don’t touch anything. I’ll get it towed and taken care of.”
“No way. I live just a few more miles down the road. I can—”
“Leave it. It’ll be taken care of. I need to make a call. Get in my Jeep.”
“No, I—”
“Sunny. I’m not doing this. Get. In.”
Two minutes later, I slid behind the wheel. “Buckle up.”
I fired up the engine, took one last look at the truck, then pulled onto the dirt road. My call wasn’t to the station, or to Colson, it was to Phoenix Steele, oldest brother and CEO of Steele Shadows Security—someone I trusted with my life, because right now, I didn’t know who to trust. Colson wanted me locked in a padded room, Darby was following me for reasons I had yet to figure out, and the Chief of Police wanted my badge. My list of people to call for favors was running short.
Phoenix promised to have one of his mechanic buddies pick up her truck within the hour and have new tires on it by morning, no questions asked. New paint would be another story though. He’d also promised to wear gloves, avoid each valve as much as he could, and bag up all four tires so I could have them scanned for Kenzo Rees’s fingertips first thing in the morning.
Mother fucker.
The evening air whipped around the open Jeep as we drove deeper into the woods. I looked over at Sunny, who hadn’t moved, or uttered a single word since we’d left her truck on the side of the road. Her curls danced around her face, flickering strands of ebony against her lips. God, those lips. Her jaw was set, eyes narrowed, her thoughts racing. She wasn’t sad, or scared, the woman was pissed.
And it pissed me off.
My hands squeezed around the steering wheel. I didn’t want her to be fearless. I wanted her to be scared. Fear was a good thing. It kept people from making stupid, irrational decisions. I assumed Sunny didn’t know her former boyfriend had been recently released from prison because she would have connected those dots like I had.
Jagger (Steele Shadows Investigations) Page 18