Bound for Magic (The Tortie Kitten Mystery Trilogy Series Book 1)

by Constance Barker

  After a few moments, I heard running footsteps. Chuck flung himself back into the driver’s seat. “Should we follow him?” he breathed.

  I shook my head. “The port’s a maze. No way we’d find that car once it crosses the bridge. Besides, this is the FBI’s case. We’re just here to observe and report. So what did you observe?”

  “Nothing. By the time I got close enough, the boat was already turning around and the vehicle took off.”

  I closed the makeshift Mobile Data Computer and pulled out the log. After filling out what information we had, Shen wiggled his fingers for it.

  “Something to add?” I said.

  He flipped through previous days’ reports. “No, something I saw earlier. Here.”

  Shen passed the log back to me, tapping at an entry. Black SUV, different plate—“Same rental company,” I said.

  “We should have a talk with that company,” Shen said.

  I flipped the pages forward to our shift. “Great idea. But this isn’t our case. The feds can do their own legwork.”

  Shen took his empty thermos cup from the armrest. He frowned and filled it again. “This doesn’t seem like human trafficking. I mean, SUVs are roomy, but not that roomy.”

  “Not our circus,” I said, “not our monkeys.”

  IT WAS WINTER, SO EVEN though I only slept a few hours, I woke in gloom. A noise and scratching sounded from under the door. Cat food. Right. People food would be good, too.

  I grew up in The Hammer, albeit on the east side. More than fifteen years had passed, but not a whole lot had changed. Like a lot of California cities, Delta Vista was flat and almost aggressively residential. Sound walls lined the streets, sheltering the homes from noise, and from view. Flat, dry and boring was one of the reasons I’d joined the Army right after high school and hadn’t looked back. Of course, when you sell all your worldly possessions, where did you go from there?

  Home. I was back home. Sort of.

  “All right, all right.” I opened the bedroom door. Ugly goggled up at me. She put her paw gently on my foot. She pointedly looked toward the front door and back.

  “Owwwt,” the cat growled.

  I stared down at the animal. She went through the same routine. “Owwwt.”

  Was the cat talking to me? I shook my head, hoping my brain would settle. Maybe it was this awful house. Stress at work. Supernatural leg-breakers. A murder down the block.

  “Okay. I’ll go out.”

  Satisfied, Ugly padded downstairs to get up to her cat business.

  Slipping on yesterday’s clothes, I checked my hair in the vanity mirror. Same old unruly auburn. I patted out the sleep-mussed side—something moved behind me. I whirled around. The room was still and dark. Nothing moved when I rechecked the mirror. The place was getting to me. So I left.

  AVOIDING THE MONOTONY of West 9th, I walked up Buitre Creek and made a right. Much of this part of The Hammer had been thrown up by the military during World War II as housing for the workers on “Give-Em-Hell-Island,” a Navy supply base. Some of the old pre-fab concrete homes remained, sinking unevenly into the ground. Most had been supplanted by the vaguely Spanish-style stucco-and-tile-roof homes so common in the area.

  Unlike the rest of The Hammer, small business districts dotted the western end. Most of these were liquor stores, check cashing places, nail salons and pawn brokers. In fact, at the intersection of West 10th and Oak Street, all of these stood. I headed toward the liquor store, stopping when I saw the name of the place.

  Zelidon Farmacia y Market.

  That was weird. When I was growing up, there was a Zelidon Market a few blocks away. It was a family-run place. The Zelidon boys were hellions, bad boys, the ones your mother warned you about. I’ve always been attracted to bad boys. It’s a fatal flaw. Look at the mess Murph had left me in.

  The baby of the Zelidon family was Remy, short for Rembrandt. He was two years ahead of me in high school. When my parents first allowed me to date at sixteen, one of those first dates was the prom. I was only a sophomore at the time, but a senior, Jake Aspen, had asked me. Rembrandt—Remy—was prom king. He had black, wavy hair, amber eyes, a crazy heroic jawline and in his tux, he looked more like a man than a high school student. Jake Aspen was okay, but Remy Zelidon? Forget it. I was drawn.

  Of course, at sixteen, everything I knew about seduction came from TV shows and movies on HBO my parents didn’t know I’d watched. I managed to stammer out something sexy, like, “Hiya!” That was all it took. Of course, my push-up bra, strappy red prom dress and spike heels probably helped. That, and a probably way-too-eager expression on my face. King Remy abdicated the prom throne. Ten minutes later, we were hot and heavy in the back seat of his early graduation present, a Ford Mustang.

  Up to that point, I’d played a lot of kissy-face, and enjoyed a few sessions of heavy petting. But in the car with Remy Zelidon was a whole new level. He was aggressive to the point of scary. I went with the thrill. Before I decided if I wanted to go all the way, however, Remy went all the way by himself. With a humiliated look and a future dry cleaning bill from the tux rental place, Rembrandt Zelidon exited my life.

  Or had he?

  I entered the building. The pharmacy was a window in the back. The market stocked cat food and other essentials. A dark-haired man was at the register, helping the checkout girl with an irate customer. There was gray at the temples, and a few extra pounds, but I was pretty certain I was looking at the oldest Zelidon brother, Leonardo. In his youth, Leo had been the go-to guy for marijuana in the neighborhood. Interesting that he now worked at a drug store.

  “Leo?” I said as the customer, a little old lady with a wad of coupons, huffed away.

  Leo looked up at me. Something like recognition crossed his face. He then leapt over the counter at me.

  “Remy! It’s the law! Run!”

  As Leo closed with me, I saw a man in a white lab coat streak toward the door. Two decades didn’t erase my memory. It was Remy Zelidon, running from the law.

  It wasn’t until Leo tried to block me from the door that I remembered I was wearing my police windbreaker. Instinct kicked in. I dodged right, but darted left around Leo in pursuit of my old prom fling.

  Chapter 3

  I was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers. Remy was in a lab coat, shirt and tie, and dress shoes. He had played football in high school—half back, running back, hatch back, I didn’t know football—and gotten a scholarship to Cal. I, on the other hand, visited the gym once or twice a year, usually after New Year’s Day. Still, as I cop, I chased people for a living.

  The irate coupon lady from the store angrily backed her SUV out of a space. Remy was nearly creamed. Still, he bounced off the rear end, did a little twirl, and kept going. That looked like football stuff. For my part, it slowed him down and gave me a path to cut him off.

  “Why are you chasing me?” he yelled over his shoulder.

  Instinct, I figured. “Why are you running?”

  That didn’t stop him. He bolted out of the parking lot. From my training back in the MPs, the best way to bring down a running man was to hit him at the center of gravity. They probably taught something similar in football training. I put on a burst of speed and tackled him at the belt line. The fact that he tripped helped some, but with dual grunts, we hit the grass between the street and sidewalk.

  Once again, I straddled the prom king. Wrong way around this time. I wrenched his arm behind his back. “Don’t make me cuff you.” This was a bluff. My cuffs were in their little pouch on my gun belt at home. Who wears cuffs to the store?

  “Ow! You’re hurting me!”

  A line of blood seeped through his white lab coat at the shoulder. I didn’t hit him that hard.

  “Mary, stop!”

  Mary? I let go of his arm.

  “If I killed that girl, I don’t remember it.”

  What? Woah.

  “The girl at the end of West 9th. I don’t remember.”

  “Remy, you
should shut up. It’s not my case, but I’m still a cop.”

  “I don’t need a cop. I need a bruja. Mary, help me.”

  Bruja? “You need a witch?”

  “You have La Miel, I know you do. Your family. Tell me, did I kill that girl?”

  A witch—is that what people in the old hood thought of me? I did have some psychic powers. I could read people, tell who was lying. It wasn’t a hundred percent. Ask my ex. It was accurate enough to whisk me up the ladder in the police department. It worked best when I was touching someone. Right now, I was touching Remy all over the place.

  “Hey! Police brutality! Get off my brother!” Leonardo Zelidon ran out of the pharmacy, checkout girl and a few customers in tow.

  “I’ve got my cell phone!” the checkout girl said. “I’m filming you, you fascist.”

  I concentrated. Even though I had my hands on his back, and other parts of me on other parts of Remy, I got nothing. My own thoughts echoed in my head. Breathing hard, I got off him and helped him to his feet.

  “I can’t tell,” I said.

  Remy looked down at me. His amber eyes were wide. There was grass in his hair. “You still have to help me. Please.”

  “Help you how? I said this isn’t my case.” My eyes strayed to the blood seeping through his sleeve. How I made the jump, I’m not sure, but I remembered Antonio Sanchez’ statement about winging the animal in his garbage cans with his rifle. Wanting to take a step back, I held my ground.

  Throughout my life, I could read people’s thoughts. That’s how I knew Antonio Sanchez was telling the truth about the incident, but lying about his dogs’ business in a neighbor’s yard. I knew who was lying or telling the truth; who wanted to do me dirty, and who was on my side; who was guilty and who was innocent. It was a great ability to have in police work...but not without its challenges. I also learned that my paranormal gift didn’t work on other people who had similar paranormal abilities.

  “I can’t read you, Remy. You must be—”

  “Cursed,” he nodded. “That’s why I can’t remember.”

  Conundrum time. First, Remy had offered himself as a suspect. Second, it wasn’t my case. Third, I was still bound by duty. Fourth, I’d had relations with Rembrandt Zelidon in the past. Fifth, he was still that incredibly attractive man and I couldn’t help but thinking about relations in the future. “I’ll look into it.”

  Remy put his hands on my shoulders. Tension eased from his rough features. The hard, bright edge of fear left his eyes, leaving them both soft, and infinitely deep. “Thank you.”

  My phone rang in my pocket: a little clip of “Watching the Detectives” by Elvis Costello—Shen’s ringtone. “Excuse me,” I said, not really wanting to break the contact.

  “We caught one, Mary. I’m on my way to pick you up,” Shen said.

  “We’re not on duty until 22:00,” I said.

  “Lieutenant Dan wants us on this. I guess it’s pretty major. Besides, it’s OT.”

  I hung up. “Sorry. Gotta go.”

  “You’ll be back?”

  I would be back. For all kinds of reasons. Hurrying, without cat food, I headed to the house. Shen pulled up as I reached the porch.

  “Let’s go, Mare.”

  “I gotta change,” I said.

  “No, we gotta go now. The scene’s in City Center, in the middle of East Webster. Gonna be major gridlock.”

  I went inside anyway. “Still gotta get my gun.” A career in law enforcement meant I carried a weapon on me at all times. I had my off-duty carry in a holster in the small of my back. But I needed my gun belt, which had my cuffs, badge, flashlight, pepper spray and other necessary cop gear. I ran upstairs and buckled it over my regular belt, snapping the keepers in place.

  When I did a quick check in the mirror, I froze. There it was again. Motion in the room behind me. Nothing there. I moved closer, looking for some flaw in the glass. Each time, the movement appeared close to the frame on the right. I really didn’t need anything extra freaky going on, not living in this place. For a few moments, I searched the surface, but it all seemed perfectly smooth. Downstairs, Shen honked the horn.

  City Center is an aptly, yet unimaginatively, named neighborhood. Many cities would call it downtown. City Hall was there, a lot of insurance companies, banks, dentists’ offices, restaurants, movie theaters and, ironically, DV Metro HQ (ironically because the majority of City Center was the most crime-ridden and dangerous neighborhood in Delta Vista).

  East Webster was a main drag and North Stanley a big feeder to the Crosstown Freeway. Crime scene tape provided gossamer protection to the scene. Uniforms mitigated traffic for a single block in all directions. Webster was two lanes east and west, separated by a tree-dotted median. The victim lay on the median.

  This was definitely a Viewer Discretion Advised scene. Also a plastic booties over the shoes deal. The victim lay crushed into some low growth. I checked Shen for any green around the gills. When I was confident in his steadiness, I moved closer. I’d seen this kinda thing before. Except there was an element missing.

  “Why are you looking at the sky?” Shen asked.

  Flanking the scene was a parking lot south, a spendy-looking apartment building north. Across Stanley was a restaurant supply business and a rec center. None of the buildings stood over two stories. I looked down Webster. The closest buildings over five stories housed the county courts. They were half a mile away.

  I moved closer, trying not to tread in any blood. There was a flattened aspect to her form. Short green shrubs beneath her were smashed flush with the grass. A frondy limb of some sort lay beneath her, broken in half. “I don’t get it. She looks like a jumper.”

  Shen gazed at the low buildings surrounding. Both Webster and Stanley were broad thoroughfares. He saw what I did—there was no angle. “Jumper from where? Maybe an airplane.”

  The airport was miles east of here. Around the area were a number of sky diving franchises. It seemed unlikely, but so did a jumper without a tall building.

  “What’s with the stick?” Shen indicated the broken branch beneath the victim with his chin. I took from that that he didn’t want to get any closer to the flattened body. I moved in, mindful not to disturb the scene.

  It was maybe eight feet long, and I could see that branches had been trimmed away. The top part was bound in ivy. It seemed to hold a pine cone in place—the biggest pine cone I’d ever seen.

  I was near enough to see her face. A woman, early-to-mid-twenties, black hair and dark eyes staring skyward, a look of surprise on her even features. Impact had not distorted her face. It made the entire tableau that much more disturbing.

  Watching my feet, I stepped back again. A traffic sergeant stepped under the tape. “Any idea how long you’ll be, Inspectors?”

  “Just waiting for the techs,” I said.

  “They’re stuck in traffic,” the sergeant said.

  “Any witnesses?”

  “None that have come forward.”

  I took in the surroundings again. This side of the pricey apartments had few windows. Buildings across the street didn’t have much more facing in this direction. There were hardly any cars parked in the lot. “We’ll need to start a door-to-door, Sarge.”

  He nodded. “I got some guys canvasing.”

  We would need more, but given the possible angles of view, not many more. “Call it in, Shen.”

  My partner seemed happy enough to step away and get on his cell. With my own cell, I took some photos of the scene. The techs would do a better job, but I wanted my own reference.

  “Damned weird,” the sergeant said.

  “Roger that,” I said.

  Chapter 4

  Burl Jefferson, head of the CSU, squinted at the flat woman in the smooshed bushes. “Damned weird,” he said, gazing around. His eyes focused west, on the taller court buildings in the distance.

  I followed his eyes. “What I was thinking.”

  He wore dress pants with a nice crease,
a crisp white shirt and blue tie beneath his emblazoned windbreaker. The breeze tousled up some cowlicks in his wavy brown hair. Dark blue eyes focused with intent. Clean shaven, gold rimmed glasses, and aquiline profile, Burl was the kind of guy I normally would go for. Boxed action figures in his lab attested to a nerd in wolf’s clothing. I didn’t do nerds.

  “From the spatter, it would seem that our victim didn’t fall, at least, not straight down.” His hands extended, palms down. “She hit the ground at an angle.”

  I smirked at him. “Like a crash-landed super-hero?”

  He shook his head. “Upside down, or, supine, face-up, I should say.” Jefferson looked toward the court buildings again. He pointed at a tree up the block. “Broken branches up there. We’ll have to get a closer look, but that might mark her trajectory.”

  “Trajectory?” Shen called from the sidelines. “That’s nuts.”

  “Roger that,” Burl agreed.

  “How do you—?” I couldn’t find the phrase. “How does she get here, then? She flew? She crashed?”

  “Maybe she was launched?” Burl hiked his shoulders. “The science will bear it out, I’m sure. Whatever happened to this woman.”

  “Burl!” someone called from across Stanley. “Got a shoe! Matches the one on the vic!”

  “Don’t touch it!” Burl hurried away. “Take a picture, and mark it. We’ll measure it once we outline and measure the spatter. Bart, call the Fire Department for a hook and ladder. We need to look at those trees.”

  “A pump,” Shen moved next to me. I looked at the woman’s one loose shoe.

  Despite the mess, she wore a pencil skirt with matching jacket and silk blouse. “Business clothes, maybe,” Shen said.

  I looked at the roof of the distant tall buildings. “Or maybe court clothes.”