Dark Streets, Cold Suburbs

by Aimee Hix

  Jan waved me up first and I knew she was remembering me pulling a gun on her a few moments before. This way if someone got shot in the face it was going to be an intruder and not her. It was a smart strategy from every standpoint except paperwork. My nerves stayed down knowing Jan was at my back and I made it up the stairs without a why the hell are you taking so long poke from the flashlight. We hit the top and swung the flashlight over the space.

  Ransacked was one word for the condition of the room. Our mystery guest had hulked out on the room. Even the daybed was flipped. That thing probably weighed as much as the planter.

  I turned on the overhead light to see the full extent of the damage.

  “Jesus, how could he have done so much damage in such a short time?” She flipped open her notebook to consult the times. “Twenty minutes from the moment he slung that planter to the first cop stepping through the opening. He got up here like he knew exactly where he was going and then tossed this room like a grenade had gone off.”

  The scant furniture in the room had all been tossed around. Holes were punched and kicked straight through the drywall. Even the carpet and underlay had massive slashes in them, ripped open to expose the subfloor near the outside wall.

  “He was looking for something. He knew exactly where to come and he was pissed that it wasn’t here,” I said.

  “Something worth enough for him to beat Damian Murphy to death,” Jan said.

  Good for me, I’d made the same assumption Jan had. Take that, house search jitters.

  “And Damian screwed him over.”

  “Or Damian screwed Aja over. He may have sent the guy here knowing it wouldn’t be here but Aja would. His last bit of revenge.”

  Or Damian hadn’t cared enough either way. The more I found out about him, the less sad I was that he’d gotten himself beaten to death. The only part of his demise I was starting to regret was that I hadn’t gotten to him first.

  Jan’s phone went off.

  “Crime scene’s here. Let’s let them do their thing. I’ve got some stuff for you in the car anyway.” She looked at the gun still in my hand. “You can holster that now, you know.”

  I found that the pictures had been picked up off the floor and a long, folding table sat in the same spot, neat stacks lining the far edge. Thank god I didn’t have to spend another moment sitting on the floor. It had gotten to the point that all I had to do was think about working the case and my back would start hurting. Not that I thought about much else.

  The snitch step squealed and I saw Aja standing in panda pajamas at the bottom of the stairs, Fargo at her feet.

  “Hey, pretty girl.” I knelt down and the dog came at me so fast she knocked us both over. Another reason she wasn’t cut out for law enforcement work—she loved too hard. It worked just fine for me though.

  Aja hadn’t moved. That screw you expression back on her face. Unless she was mad at me, and I couldn’t imagine why but I pissed off a lot of people without knowing it so it was possible, she was upset about her parents.

  “Why aren’t you in bed, Aja? You have school tomorrow, right? It’s a weekday, isn’t it?”

  I honestly didn’t know what day of the week it was. The days had slid into one another like I was back on the painkillers again. Cases were like that for me. And with the cold case and the stalking/break-ins and Damian Murphy’s murder, my brain was extra full.

  “My parents will be here tomorrow.”

  “Excellent. They should be here to support you.”

  She walked to the table and tried to rifle the pile of photos but I put my hand on her wrist, stilling her motions. “You don’t want to see those.”

  She planted her hands on her hips, attitude coming off her in waves, like she was ready to fight. “Maybe I do. Maybe I want to be a cop like you.”

  Like she was ready to fight … a fight. I had danced around that earlier when I was running and thinking, but there was a way to find out. We knew Mandy hadn’t been in a fight because there were no defensive wounds, but had Damian fought back? Had his knuckles been bruised?

  “Aja, we’ll get back to being a cop later but now I need you to think for me. Damian … the last time you saw him, what had he looked like?”

  She stopped rubbing Fargo’s head and looked at me. “Looked how? I told you he was working out more, he’d gotten really built.”

  “Yeah, but was he bruised up like he’d been in a fight or something?”

  She nodded.

  Anabolic steroid use jacked up the normal testosterone. Testosterone, what Adam and I had joked was the stupidity hormone, was already at messy, mood-swing levels in teenage boys. Then we packed them all together in small rooms, sat them at desks, forced them to read instead of letting them out on the basketball court or football field to get out the energy and caveman tendencies. I’d been an idiot to forget that. Damian had been possessive, threatening, breaking into Aja’s house, destroying her things, dominating the weak, so there was no way he wasn’t going to react physically and violently if someone pissed him off.

  I held up a finger asking for a minute while I dug out my phone.

  Did Damian’s body show defensive wounds or the signs that he’d been a fight?

  Jan would get back to me when she had information from the coroner.

  “So you want to be a cop, huh?”

  Where the hell had that come from? Was she under the impression that this was all just some extended career-day presentation? It wasn’t as if I had put some sexy, movie-PI gloss on it. She had gotten the no-sleep, busted-windshield, family-fight version so I was pretty sure she didn’t mean it. She was frustrated and scared, looking for an outlet. She just looked at me belligerently.

  “Fair enough. You want to be a cop, then your first step is to declare Criminal Justice as your major. I’d take Psychology too because it comes in handy dealing with the spitting angry guy you’ve just pulled over in his more money than sense, midlife crisis sports car going ninety down the parkway trying to impress a girl young enough to be his daughter.”

  She giggled. That was better.

  “Seriously, kid, you don’t want to be me. You’ve got brains to spare. Do something good with your life that doesn’t involve chasing the people who cut corners.”

  She fidgeted. “Ben says you solved a murder last fall.”

  “I did. Along with Jan … Detective Boyd, that is, and another friend. It was most definitely a team effort, eventually.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Even with help, it wasn’t easy, Aja. I hit a lot of brick walls. The friend, Seth, he didn’t want me involved. He wanted me safe at home while he did it all single-handed. Sometimes people are like that. I’m like that. This job can do that to you.”

  “I know.”

  But she didn’t know. She felt small and scared and thought taking charge and being the person tracking down clues would make her feel safe and strong.

  “Do you? Because I think you see this family and it’s not like the one you have. And with your parents coming back, that might be pretty appealing. You saw the pictures of what happened to me. Is that really what you want your life to look like?”

  She bit her lip. If this was being a mentor, I sucked at it. Royally. Like I could win an award at sucking at it. Then it hit me.

  “Just so I’m clear, you’re a part of this family now. You don’t need to be a cop or a PI. You can just be Aja, okay?”

  She flung her arms around me and I stiffened for a second then wrapped my arms around her, feeling the bones of her rib cage, nubby under her pajama top. Just as quickly as she’d hugged me, she darted back up the stairs.

  Mentor I wasn’t great at, but I had big sister nailed. And I had a long night ahead of me with the full file notes Jan had just handed over plus the case files on Damian Murphy’s murder and the break-in at Aja’s.

&nbs
p; A long, long night.

  After my third trip upstairs for coffee replenishing I vowed to go to the box store in the morning and get a single-serve coffeemaker and mini fridge for the basement. Those were items I could take with me when I moved out eventually but would make working cases easier when I needed to not share a small space with my dad.

  I had finally finished the photo array project of marking what was there but wasn’t there—aka the crap in the room no one considered evidence at the time. I had most of the furniture and closet items and a can of soda on the desk. The desk sat on the opposite side of the room from the crime scene and while a date book had been logged the can had not. It was unopened and it had likely been written off as something Mandy had brought down intending to drink. Still, it was there and even if it didn’t have official evidentiary value it was a part of the whole.

  I slid over to the middle of the table and picked up the file on Damian Murphy. I flipped past my own witness statement and picked up Aja’s reading it over twice before I took a highlighter and started pulling out the sentences that had to do with his transformation from regular artsy kid to muscle-bound stalker. Someone at the FCPD technical unit had accessed Damian’s social media and I used Aja’s statement as a timeline to match up the photos, working out what looked like his physical progression.

  My phone showed it was four thirty. Adam had been up for thirty minutes if he wasn’t shining me when he said he got up at four every morning to meditate and, blech, ground himself. It was wrong to be judgmental of his new age-y approach to mornings, especially considering my process was to throw cold water onto me and coffee into me until I resembled something close to human whereas he was a successful business owner with two percent body fat who’d taken my dog out for a day of frolicking and left me a nice note when he returned her.

  Ugh! The guy was annoyingly perfect. Kind, ripped, hot in a Muppet/refrigerator/bear kind of way.

  He’d said thirty minutes to meditate, which meant he was making his crazy buttered coffee at four thirty and change.

  “Hello?” Theo, Adam’s husband answered my call. Also kind, ripped, and hot but in a decidedly prettier than anyone human had a right to be kind of way; his face fine-boned but masculine, the exact opposite of Adam’s. Also an early riser and he made a killer brisket. Like, slap your mother good. I wish I were kidding, but I would seriously slap both of my mothers for it.

  “Hey, Theo, sorry to call so early. I have no manners.”

  “Nonsense. You know we’re always up at this hour.” God, the voice on the man. It was just not fair. I was starting to realize I had a thing for voices. Hands too. Fatigue was making me loopy.

  “Of course, you’ve probably run five miles and made a soufflé already.”

  He chuckled. “Six miles and it’s eclairs today.”

  Man, I really loved them. Adam made sure I was in top fighting form and Theo plied me with food.

  I heard Theo call out for Adam like a four-thirty in the morning phone call was totally normal. My phone rings at that hour and I’m out of the bed and on my feet arming myself before I even get a “what” out. If I managed to make it to the point that a pre-dawn call didn’t engender panic, I could maybe get to “hello” like a decent human person.

  “Hey, Will. Good morning.”

  “I’d like to send you some pictures and see if you can confirm for me that a guy was taking steroids.”

  I heard him draw in his breath sharply. Adam and Theo weren’t exactly my body is my temple kind of guys—the brisket and soufflés and eclairs would have made that impossible—but they were definitely steroids are bad and if you want muscles, apply lots of hard work kind of guys.

  “I’m happy to help you, Willa, but can you bring him in?”

  I blamed the excessive not sleeping for that mistake. “No, the guy is … not with us anymore.”

  “So I guess there’s no way I can talk him out of taking them anymore?”

  I felt like crap. Adam always wanted to help. I should have seen that coming.

  “No, but you can help me figure out what he was involved in and maybe that will lead me to who he was involved with and that might ultimately lead to who killed him.”

  “He was killed?”

  “He was beaten. Probably by someone who was also using steroids.”

  And right on cue … . “You know, not that I don’t want to help you, but Seth can probably tell too. We’ve both seen enough of steroid abuse to pick it out from a few clues.”

  “Seth is, uh, off on special assignment at the moment.”

  Adam was a smart guy, he’d pick up on the vagueness I’d just thrown at him.

  “Huh. Okay, well, I’m happy to help. Do you want to come over now?”

  I desperately wanted to drive right over knowing that Theo was likely already baking and the thought of warm eclairs was making drool puddle in my mouth. However, I was in no condition to be on the road, especially in the dark.

  “Brunch? I need more time than you do to look presentable. Plus I’ve been up all night, so who knows how long it will take to be coherent enough to drive.”

  “You’ve been up all night?” As if both of us were reading from a script, Adam’s mama bear tendencies kicked in.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ve been sleeping when I lie down at night but I’ve got two, two and a half cases right now.”

  “Two and a half? Willa, I know you think you can get by without sleep, but it’s terrible for your central nervous system.”

  The reminder that a body acts funny when its deprived of rest made me realize that my eye had been twitching for hours. One of those supremely frustrating micro-spasms designed to make you willing to do anything to get it to go away. Everything except put down the paperwork and go to bed like a normal person. But I wasn’t normal. I was a detective and there were two people dead.

  Logic told me they’d still be dead even if I got a full night’s sleep, but my sense of justice told me that was another night two murderers were sleeping in comfortable beds when they should be sleeping in prison. It didn’t take two guesses to figure out which thought process I always indulged.

  “I know. I just … there are people who deserve answers, Adam. I’m just wired wrong, I guess.”

  He sighed. “Oh, Will, I’ve never met anybody wired more right. I’ll see you later. Please get some sleep.”

  I disconnected the call and felt a wave of fatigue wash over me. Fargo hadn’t stirred from her spot on the floor next to me the whole conversation, but her doggie ESP kicked in when I started to contemplate lying down next to her. She got up and stretched her body for a moment before trotting over to the couch and leaping up. Circling at the foot, she then laid down and stared at me with her head on her paws. An hour or two on the couch wouldn’t kill me. So I followed and, wriggling my feet under her, fell asleep within moments.

  Chapter

  15

  Adam and Theo’s house was a well-kept post-WWII bungalow settled in a gentrified neighborhood full of other ridiculously good-looking couples and families. It was like the whole area was a set for the Young, Successful, and Good-Looking movie series. I felt bad dragging my unkempt ass into the place and ruining the aesthetic.

  Theo greeted me at the door wearing an apron over his (inappropriately named) wife-beater and khaki cargo pants. He was the work from home half of the couple, with a crazy successful blog and social media empire in the making. Cornering the Hot Guy Baking market without even trying, Theo made his baked goods on-camera unapologetically and drew in every demographic. He was literally the marketing unicorn.

  He gave me a hug and ushered me inside. The house smelled amazing, like always, and I vowed again (a vow I knew I’d break) to become more proficient in the kitchen. It seemed to provide Theo with a calm oasis in the midst of any turmoil that might go on in the outside world.

  Every
flat surface was covered with pastry shells. Dozens upon dozens. They looked picture perfect to me, but I knew Theo evaluated and discarded a piece based on some criteria I didn’t understand.

  “Adam has brunch ready for you two in the dining room.” He wandered off back to the kitchen, a ding marking his perfect timing.

  I wandered through the tiny living room. The house was really not designed for two muscle-bound men over six feet tall, but it never seemed to bother them. They liked the place and the neighborhood, not noticing how the architecture or the almost-dollhouse sized furniture seemed dwarfed by their bodies. Adam’s commute alone must have been annoying but he never complained.

  The table was laid with delicate china and crystal that I knew was not for my benefit. Had they set out plates and glasses more consistent with their guests, there would have been red plastic cups and paper plates. Adam was placing the finishing touches on a small round, glass bowl of daisies and I marveled, not for the first time and hopefully not for the last, at how both men seemed to know everything about their friends. I could have told you Theo’s favorite color or the football team Adam rooted for, but I was a detective. It was my gig to look for that kind of stuff. For the record, Dresden blue, which I’d had to look up to find the name for the exact shade, and the Panthers. You should be impressed.

  Two plates loaded with steaming veggie omelets and whole grain toast sat across from one another and the drool returned to pool in my mouth. I hadn’t eaten anything except a sleeve of saltines, one of the small ones, since dinner the previous night. I’d have been willing to bet that if the meal had been scientifically analyzed, it would be found to be exactly the perfect percentages of lean protein, vegetables, and carbs. A meal designed to combat, in some small way, all the bad habits both men knew I indulged in regularly—too much caffeine and sugar, not enough sleep or water. Not that I was complaining. Free food expertly prepared by a professional chef who looked like a male model? Please and thank you.