by Ken Lindsey
First, she had to choose a new road. Southwest. Maybe California, with all its sun. Or Nevada? Gambling and hookers and neon lights everywhere. That sounded exciting. And a new boy, someone who liked thrills, maybe a fireman or a bounty hunter. There had to be hundreds of them in a place like Nevada.
She could picture it already. Now, she only needed to find her new name.******
“You need to stop fucking with the Captain, Gav,” said Lt. David Reeves as he walked me through the police department. “Just keep your mouth shut, let him run the show, and wait for your check at the end of the week like everyone else.”
David was the closest thing I had to a friend before my recent turn of luck. I'd known him since I got my Detective shield on the police force, and as long as I didn't owe him money, we had a good time drinking and bullshitting. I know he meant well with his advice, but Captain Meadows pissed me off, and I couldn’t resist taking him down a notch whenever the chance arose.
“All right, Dave. I'll try.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” he muttered as we slid our way into the circle of men, which included Meadows, briefing the officers on the case. He stood in the center, next to a mobile whiteboard plastered with pictures and their descriptions written next to them. Some were crime scene photos; others were suspects.
“...and the autopsy has shown us that the victim died of massive head trauma and did not have any drugs in his system. So now we know the brother-in-law lied,” said Meadows, doing his best to sound like Kevin Costner in the Untouchables as he reached out to the board and touched one of the suspect photos.
I raised my hand, David groaned next to me.
“What now, Mr. English?” growled the Captain. He didn't like me and everyone there knew it. Everyone also knew he was stuck with me, at least until the end of this case.
“Isn't it possible that Mr. Wells just happened to be dried up when he died? Just because his system tested clean at his death, doesn't necessarily mean he wasn't already way in over his head to a dealer.”
“Fine, so what is it you're trying to say here, English? You think some meth dealer put down his pipe long enough to do the job on our guy?”
“I'm just saying it's possible. I don't think the brother-in-law had a reason to lie.”
My heart bounced with joy to see his face reddening by the second. Meadows hated being questioned by even his most valuable detectives, so much more by a mouthy asshole who no longer had a badge. But hey, most of the fun of being the guy without a badge is getting to be a mouthy asshole. So, I pressed him.
“His alibi isn't rock solid, but it's worth considering. I just don't see any reason to stop looking in other directions until we're absolutely sure. What about the manager at his restaurant?”
“You want to look into the soccer mom, who signed his paychecks, rather than the brother-in-law with a history of violent crime?” Meadows closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, his huge shoulders and chest moved up and down in rhythm. “We took the manager's statement, and by all accounts, she barely noticed the guy worked for her.” His voice was calmer and his face had lightened from fire engine to puffer-fish... puffer-fish are pink, right?
“And doesn't it seem a bit strange that a woman who manages eight people knows nothing at all about one of them? I don't know what she’s hiding, but her story doesn't add up.”
The room filled with quiet muttering, and I felt Dave's anger radiating like a space heater next to me. Meadows' jaw clenched and unclenched about fifty times and it was hard not to laugh. It made him look like a bulldog chewing on a bone. Then, something strange happened; his eyes lit up, and the Captain smiled at me.
“You know what, English. You’re right. There’s no reason we shouldn't have our best men looking into the manager's story. Hell, since it’s your idea, I’ll let you and Lieutenant Reeves take the lead on that part of the investigation. That way, the rest of my team won't get in your way, playing cops and looking into a convicted felon, while you do your real detective work.”
David groaned loud enough for the whole room to hear over their own snickering, but I didn't care. I smiled back at the Captain.
“Sounds perfect.”
Chapter 3: Daddy Issues and Coffee Dates
In 2002, Olivia Teeter turned fourteen years old. Only her mother showed up to her birthday party that year, and she drank too much brandy and passed out before they could light candles for the cake.
Olivia could make friends if given half a chance—she was a cute girl, with short, sporty hair and a great sense of humor (by fourteen, Olivia just knew that her sense of humor, and most of the other things she liked about herself, got passed down by her father). Olivia sat eating cake by herself in front of the TV on her birthday because she didn't know any kids her own age.
June and Chris Teeter home-schooled her because her parents mistrusted the public-school system. Too many kids with guns and teachers with dirty minds and school lunches filled with gluten and processed sugars. So, for five or six hours a day, five days a week, Olivia sat at a lone desk in her dad's trailer while he taught her about Science and History and English.
Once she finished her slice of cake, Olivia rinsed off her plate and sliced a piece for her father. She knew he wouldn't eat it, but she wanted him to know that she was thinking of him.
Her dad suffered from mysophobia, and had grown so terrified of germs and getting sick by her ninth birthday, he moved into his own sterilized trailer in their backyard. For twelve to fifteen hours every day, Chris Teeter cleaned that tiny trailer with bleach and a handful of other toxic chemicals. Every week, he filled his own garbage can with rubber gloves and sponges and those thin, white hospital face masks. He never used anything more than once.
But Olivia loved him. Her father didn't cut into her every chance he got, like her mother seemed to. He never called her stupid or told her she was worthless. In fact, he made her feel like the most special person in the world. Olivia was the only one allowed in her dad's trailer, and the only one that he would allow himself to touch. He could still hug her, brush her hair, or tickle her til she squealed that she might pee her pants. Chris Teeter never missed a chance to tell his daughter he loved her and was proud of her.
That's why, even though his trailer smelled bad from all the cleaners, Olivia loved to visit with him there. In the trailer, she could pretend that her mom was nice, or that she didn't even exist, or that June locked herself away from the world instead of her dad.
As she opened the back door, her mother yelled from the living room, her voice slow and slurred from drinking, “Tha's right, 'Livia. Go on out to yer daddy. Tell him how mean and drunk I am. Tell him you love him like you alwaysss do. But don't f'get to tell him his wife is still here, doing all the hard fuck'n work while he'sss out in that gordamm bubble he built...”
Olivia rushed through the open door and slammed it behind her. She didn't understand why her mom had to be like that, why she had to be so angry with her dad all the time. He couldn't help the way his brain worked; you don't always get to choose the things that happen in your brain.
She hurried across the backyard with her dad's slice of cake balanced safely in both hands. When she reached the front door, the smell of bleach was overpowering like always, and there was a note sticking out of the doorjamb. Olivia frowned. When her dad put notes out like this, it usually meant he couldn’t handle company and had probably spent the whole night cleaning something no one else could see.
The young girl sighed and pulled the slip of paper from the door.
-My dearest Olivia and June,
I'm sorry for being broken. I'm sorry for so many things. Unfortunately, I know that you will never understand how much I have loved you both.
June, I wish I could have been the husband you deserved. I hope that one day we'll meet again in a world where I don't have to worry about things like I do in this one. Maybe there I will be what you need and deserve.
Olivia, you are an entire world
of joy, wrapped in a glowing smile and knobby knees. One day, I hope you look back at the time we spent together and know that I couldn't have done that for anyone that I didn't love with every fiber of my being. Don't grow up to be afraid like me. And never settle for a man that is less than perfect, because you are perfect.
I love you both,
Chris—Daddy
Tears covered Olivia’s face before she could even get the door opened. She knew that everything was different. Worse than before. She dropped the cake, barely noticing as the plate exploded on the ground at her feet. She stepped inside.
Nearly four hours passed before her mother found her out in that trailer, sobbing with her arms wrapped around her father's legs.
June screamed when she saw her husband’s face, purple and swollen, his tongue dry and hanging just outside his mouth. The noose was made of electrical cords, wrapped in rubber gloves so that the cords never touched Chris’s skin.******
She sat at the bar for hours, waiting and watching as dozens of people filtered in and out—drinks in their hands, arguing, flirting, touching. Living. The room stunk of tobacco and beer and myriad perfumes, all the trappings of the unnatural mating ritual that went on behind neon lights.
The woman could never understand this particular part of life.
She knew the desire to be wanted, loved by another. She hated loneliness and wanted to find that other half of her soul, that someone out there who would understand her and love her until the end. So much, in fact, she could feel that desire chipping away at the deepest parts of herself.
But to be around people—groups of people, swarming and breathing and feasting on each other’s lives, every day, seemed awful and disgusting and painful. She watched as they lied and schemed with thick, ugly smiles. They exchanged kisses and promises all around her, but she knew it was all false, ready to be forgotten long before the morning sun would have the chance to rise.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
His voice was soft and dark. Silently cursing herself for being in her head, missing his arrival, she forced a smile and turned. His eyes stood out, delicate green in the hazy light of the bar, beneath dark, well-groomed brows. He had a comfortable smile and one shallow dimple in his left cheek that his lush, tightly trimmed goatee didn’t quite cover. His pants were dress blue slacks, and he wore his baby blue shirt tucked in at the waist.
Handsome, confident. She felt her pulse kick up a notch, and she showed him her own half smile.
“I'd love a vodka and cranberry juice.” She always ordered the same thing in these instances. The drink was fun and colorful, but also hinting at healthy tendencies. Good guys were sure to notice and appreciate that type of thing, she guessed.
He leaned over the bar and waved to the bartender while she let her eyes wander. Everything fit well and she could see the well-formed stomach muscles beneath his button-down shirt. She could already imagine the feel of his body against hers.
“My name's David,” he said, leaning in so she could hear over the sounds of the crowded room. His breath flowed out warm and sweet on her cheek.
A moment of hesitation as she breathed in his scent, now was decision time. She'd done it before, but this time she knew they would build an entire life around what she said next, and she had to steel her nerves.
“Beth.”
“It's nice to meet you, Beth,” replied David, taking her hand into his. “Would you like to get a table?”
She did. She wanted to get a table, and a bed, a living room, a dog, a white picket fence, and a couple of rosy-cheeked babies. She wanted it all, and in that moment, she knew that he would give it to her.
“Sure!”******
The Jeep growled one last time as I shut her down in the parking lot of Bean There Done That. I hated the place. It crawled with androgynous college kids and overpaid yuppies who all looked the same. A sea of girl-pants and scarves and goofy hats that were supposed to be ironic as far as the eye could see. Don't even get me started on the music. But I had to suffer it at least once a week because David loved the sugary coffee and, for some unknown reason, the girls that wore fourteen layers of clothes no matter how hot it was.
The man always showed up late to our early meetings. He hated mornings, and I had no problem with that. I could pound a cup from my French press at home to wake up, get to wherever we were meeting, and enjoy one or two smokes before he got there.
I hopped out and lit up a cigarette, leaned against the hood and soaked in the sun as it ate away the last of the morning chill. I used the time to think about what I already knew about our stiff, and what we still needed to find out.
His name was Julian Wells. Captain Meadows and the rest of the badge flippers, even Dave, needed to distance themselves, so they only called him, “the victim.” Fuck that, though. His sister hired me, and I needed to get as close to Julian as I could if I wanted to be any help at all.
We knew his latest job had been washing dishes at a little lunch and dinner place, right next to a Denny's. According to the statements on file, Julian had spent no extra time with any of his coworkers. No one knew if he had a girlfriend, where he lived, or what he liked to do in his spare time. I think that must be bullshit, but I had to prove it or I wouldn’t be able to get anyone who matters to listen.
The PD were happy to go after the brother-in-law, Barry, because he admitted to hating the guy, and he had a record. His only alibi was his wife, Becky, who was also the reason I had the case. Becky's statement said that Barry had been home all night, but she also admitted to being shit-faced and passing out early.
I still had a lot to figure out. The brother-in-law was a prick, and if he wound up being guilty, I'd be happy to jump in line behind Meadows and cheer for the lynch mob. But being a prick does not make you a killer, (lucky me) and Becky had the right to know for sure what happened to her brother.
I took the last drag off my second coffin nail, dropped it and stepped on it as David's unmarked cruiser pulled in next to me.
“It's about time, ya lazy asshole,” I said after he killed the engine and got out. He had a big shit-eating grin on and acted like he didn't hear me.
“Morning, Gav.”
“What are you so happy about?”
“Just had a good night.”
“Oh wow, you finally got laid.”
“Let's get some coffee.”
I followed him into the cafe without another word. Despite my own dry spell, I was happy for him. David could pull tail as well as anyone, but usually he felt guilty afterword. I never understood that, but I didn't have his good, Catholic childhood to haunt me.
Dave ordered his foofoo drink in the local cafe gibberish language that I refused to learn, and then it was my turn.
The barista, a twenty-something wearing an ironic flannel shirt, looked uninterested, “Can I help you?”
“Large black coffee, please.”
“Oh, our sizes are Laborer, Mid-Level, or CEO. Which would you like?”
It's a good thing I had time for a smoke that morning, or I might have strangled him. “Listen: reach under the counter, grab the biggest cup you can find, and fill it all the way up with black coffee.”
The little shit-stain hesitated for an argument and then thought better of it. “Yessir.”
Yeah, that's what I thought.
I watched him while he filled the cup, making sure I didn't get any spit with my drink. Two minutes and three dollars later, I was sitting across from David at a table next to the window.
“So whatchya got, Gavin?” he asked, still smiling.
“No. You're not getting off that easy. Every other morning you're mopey and bitching about how early it is. If you're suddenly gonna show up all smiles and sunshine, you gotta tell me about this girl.”
“Maybe I'm just in a good mood, did you ever think of that?”
I gave him the slow blink, like a cat that wants you to go away.
“Fine. Yes, I hooked up last night,” somehow his smile g
ot bigger.
“I knew it,” I said, taking a swig from my already half-gone coffee. “Was she hot?”
“It's not like that,” he answered, trying to sound irritated. I knew that even though he would never admit it, he loved the attention. “I met a girl at the bar last night, we had a good time, and she went home with me.”
“So, she's hot.”
“Yes, dick. She’s gorgeous.”
“Nice. Gonna see her again, or did you forget to get her number?”
David shook his head, maybe showing a little regret, “Yeah, no. She's actually still at my place.”
I laughed. “Jesus, Dave, how drunk did you have to get her for her to go home with you?”
“Go to hell, that's not what happened.”
I waited for an explanation. When I realized none was coming, I pushed, “So why is she still at your place then?”
“She just moved into town, and she's been staying at a hotel. I told her I had the extra room if she wanted to crash for a while.”
What the fuck?!
“So, you met a girl last night, and asked her to move in with you. And apparently she didn't run away screaming?”
“It wasn't like that. She told me about the crappy hotel shower, and the stains on the bed, and how she didn't know if she could keep paying for it. It's just where the conversation went naturally.”
“Is she crazy?”
“No. Don't be a dick.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Gavin. Can we get to work?”
“All right, I'll let it go. But when this—whatever crazy crap this is—blows up in your face, I'm not paying for extra drinks to make you feel better.”
“Fine.”
I felt bad about hassling him because he wasn't smiling anymore. But seriously, don't you have a responsibility to try to stop your buddies from doing crazy things?