by Ken Lindsey
We spent the better part of the next hour going over the facts of the case. Names, places, Julian's record and the likelihood that he had actually quit doing meth, and his brother-in-law's previous violent crimes. That list included breaking and entering, robbery, assault, and a vehicular manslaughter beef that couldn't find a conviction.
Add his record to his flimsy alibi, and this guy added up to the perfect suspect. Providing a jury with a reasonable doubt would not be easy.
“We need to find out who his dealer was,” started David, exasperated after going over the file again. “A dealer with a grudge is our guy's best chance at not going down for this. Maybe the vic' owed someone some cash? Having bad credit with your hookup would be a good reason to suddenly get clean.”
“It's definitely worth looking at.” David stared at me, waiting for me to say something more as I finished the last drops of my coffee. “I don't know, Dave. You and Meadows can give me shit all you want, but I think we need to dig into the people at the diner. There's no way that no one there knew anything about Julian, not when he's been working there for over six months.”
“He was a tweaker, Gavin. Nobody wants to hang out with tweaker, even at a small place like that.”
“How many meth-heads have you busted? A hundred? A thousand?”
“I don't know, at least one or two every day when I was on the street.”
“Right. And out of all those busts, how many of those tweakers didn't talk your ear off the entire time you were around them?”
I gave him a few seconds to respond. Almost thirty seconds. Nothing.
“Exactly. Unless one of those crazy bastards somehow bit his tongue off, they were running their gums at you the whole time. Talking about how clean they were, or were planning to be. Crying about how much they missed their family or how sorry they were about being shit-bags. Promising that they had never done drugs because of Jesus or Buddha or Kate Upton's boobs.”
“You're right,” David admitted.
“So, it stands to reason that if Julian was high for even half the time he worked at that diner, then everyone there should know his entire life story.”
“Then someone's hiding something?”
“Someone's hiding something.”
“We need to bring them in again, grill them one at a time.” David grabbed up his phone and started punching numbers.
“Wait, Dave. Let me get at the diner, you keep trying to track down the dealer. There's no reason to give up another angle at this point.”
“We should do it together, Gav.”
“They're not talking to you. The whole lot of them have already shown that they will not talk to the cops. I can go at it another way, I don't like cops either.”
“Thanks, asshole.”
“Any time, buddy. So, when do I get to meet this chick?”
“Are you joking? After the shit you were talking?”
“I promise to be good. If she's hot enough for you to give up your no breakfast policy, I might just need to steal her from you.”
“Right. Give her a minute to get settled, we'll do something this weekend so we can all hang out.”
“I'll see if I can find a date.”
Chapter 4: Baby's Arm and the Bath Water
“Cup the balls!” shouted Hank as the cameraman crawled between the actor's legs to get the extreme close-up of the redhead as she was gagging on his oversized Johnson. The second girl—a blonde with a body so petite I had a hard time believing she could stand on her own with those giant, fake breasts—obeyed immediately and started juggling the guy's junk in her palm like a pair of Asian stress balls.
Seeing a porn being made was nothing like I expected it to be. I always imagined that shooting adult film was magical, like catching a leprechaun. I thought people would read some lines and then their natural hormones and sexual prowess would take over, giving us the spank material that we know and love.
In reality, there's about three minutes of sex for every ten minutes of prep. There's food everywhere, and special janitors whose only job is to clean up the mess if the guy blows his load too soon. The stars walk around chatting about everyday nonsense between shots, and everyone treats Hank like he knows what he's talking about.
Which, apparently, he does. And that's a thought I'm not ready to deal with. I always thought of Hank as a lucky perv who made too much money. In high school, he had always been the guy that thought more with his crotch than his head, and yet somehow always fell ass-first into luck.
Don't get me wrong, that stuff is still true, but he's also kind of a genius who pumps out two or three movies in two days of shooting. He only has to pay the crew for the time they work, no matter how many videos he makes out of the footage. It's basically a cash cow.
I am clearly in the wrong business.
“So, what do ya think, pal?” asked Hank in his slimiest voice.
“When do I get to hop in there, show these amateurs how it's done?”
“If you're packing a huge cock, you can get to swingin' any time,” he laughed. “We pay by the inch.”
Now, I'm not insecure about my manhood. I've never had a complaint, and even had compliments on size, shape, and manscaping on more than one occasion. After seeing Hank's guy, parading around with a baby's arm hanging from his crotch, though...
“I think I'll stay on the sidelines today, coach.”
“So would I, pal,” he replied. Then, shouting at the set again, “Let's get the money shot so we can move on, goddammit!”******
Beth was lying in the tub, letting the hot water turn her fair skin pink and wrinkly as she listened to the stereo blasting from the living room. The apartment was very nice, big and clean and the furniture was like a storeroom floor. But it wasn't made up like David was trying to show off his money. No, this one was classy and easy going.
This one was the one.
He was brave too. Hell, he had to be brave to be a police detective. Lieutenant even. She could only imagine the stuff he had to deal with every single day. She couldn't wait for him to come home and unburden himself to her. He would tell her about his day, and she could make him dinner and show him what it meant to have a good woman waiting for him at home.
She would be there for him, emotionally and spiritually and physically. She would please him in whatever ways he needed, and he would belong to her. She knew that before long, she would be the only thing in the world that he needed and wanted. And he would be happy with only her.
Not like the others. They had always wanted something else, something different, but David wasn't like that. She could tell that he was different. He was everything she'd ever wanted, and she would be the same for him.
She sat and relished the feeling of the water as it soaked into her hair, down over her shoulders and breasts. On the edge of the tub laid his old-fashioned, three-inch fold-out straight razor. She put it there just in case, but in that moment, thinking of her new man, her new life, she knew she would never need it again. She looked at the scars lining her underarm and knew that she would never get another one. She didn't need the pain anymore; she had David.******
“You need a ride somewhere, sweetheart?” asked the man after he pulled his station wagon to a stop on the side of the road. He was old, probably thirty or forty by Olivia's guess, and his head was shaved clean except for the unfortunate mustache which looked like a moldy slice of peach resting on his upper-lip.
She was sixteen years old now and had finally had enough of her mother's bullying.
“If you keep going like this, little girl,” June Teeter sneered while she spoke, “you'll wind up just like your waste of a father. Nuttier than squirrel shit and hanging yourself cuz you're all alone in this big bad world.”
Olivia had socked her mother right in her hateful face and then left that awful house for good. There had to be somewhere better out there. Someone better.
An hour later the young woman walked along the side of the interstate, with no idea where she was he
aded, but sure she could not go back. She smiled at the stranger, “Yes. Thank you for pulling over, I was worried I would be stuck out here all day.”
His eyes were wide and his smile was ugly as he leaned over to open the passenger-side door. “No problem, sweetheart. Hop on in.”
Chapter 5: Anticipation
Let me be the first to admit it. Since dropping from the PD and getting divorced, my moral compass has pointed somewhere not quite North. I'm okay with that. I have a short temper, drink more than your average racehorse, and by the end of most nights, I'll have sex with pretty much anyone willing.
As I lit a cigarette outside of Hank's “film” set, though, I felt dirty. I wasn't used to it. It had been quite some time since I'd blushed, but after seeing two ladies get worked over by a dozen different guys, through what they would split into three different skin flicks, even I had had enough.
This was definitely not Hollywood.
I took drag after drag from the pill as I made my way to the Jeep, trying to clear my mind. I still had to talk with the crew from the diner, and I needed to give David a progress report that he could pass on to Meadows—who didn't want to give me his home number.
I climbed in and started the engine; Sinatra came through the speakers, ready to cleanse my soiled soul. I leaned my head back against the seat, closed my eyes, and let the crooner do his work. When the last trumpet blast ended, I turned the sound way down and pulled my phone from my pocket. I had missed a call from Kara, and three from my ex-wife.
I dialed Kara.
“Gavin English Agency, how can I help you?” she answered after the first ring.
“Hey, gorgeous. Did you need something?”
“Hi, Gavin. I just wanted to remind you that you have hours scheduled for Mrs. Adams tonight.”
Ugh, boooring. “Is that the husband that's been going to the gym too often?”
“That's the one,” she answered with a chuckle.
“What time?”
“We've got your workout time from nine to eleven.”
“All right, Kara. Don't suppose you want to come to the gym and be my spotter? You could get some on-the-job training, and I bet you look great in one of those bright-colored sports bras the ladies always wear.”
A moment of silence. I laughed to fill it, hoping I hadn't made things very awkward.
“Actually, I do,” she replied. I fancied I could hear a smile in her voice just then. “Sure, I'll come work out with you.”
Just like that, my night went from sweaty and boring, to full of possibilities. And sweaty. The diner could wait for tomorrow.
We hung up after a minute of nervous silence. Nervous, but not necessarily awkward.
I burned another smoke before pulling out of the parking lot and slicing a quick trip through the early evening traffic that clogged the roads on the way to my place. Every red light was pitching a tent and planning to stay awhile, and every asshole on the road acted drunk and blind.
Somehow, I made it home safely—and without committing vehicular homicide—in less than half an hour. I wanted to get a shower, despite the little voice in my head telling me how ridiculous it was to shower before the gym. And I knew that I should call Yvette back or I would have no chance at a peaceful night.
I poured myself a snort of whiskey, without ice, to take the edge off as I found her in my phone and hit the green slider. I emptied my glass by the second ring, and she picked up on the third.
“It's about time.”
“What's up, Yvette?”
She hesitated, which was very un-Yvette. “I've got a problem, Gavin, and I don't know who else to turn to.”
“Ok...”
“Really, though, you're the last person I should talk to about this.”
“I have shit to do tonight, Yvette. Either spit it out, or let me go.”
“Fuck, Gavin! Can't you be supportive for five goddamn seconds?”
“One,” I answered calmly.
“Don't.”
“Two.”
“You're an asshole, Gavin.”
“Three.”
“Can't we just talk for a minute?” she whined.
“Fo...”
“I THINK MIKE'S CHEATING ON ME! Jesus, are you happy now?”
I laughed. Hard and long until I ran out of breath. I wasn't proud of it, but it happened.
All right, I may have been a little proud. Until she started crying.
“It... it's killing me, Gavin. I just don't know what I'm going to do if he decides... decides to... to leave me!”
“Yvette, you need to call your mom, or one of your horrible demon friends, or the leader of whatever religious cult called you from the pit. I'm not the one to talk to about this. Even you have to know that.”
“Why are you being so mean?” she sobbed. I could hear the snot dripping down her face. Disgusting.
“I. Am. Your. Ex. Husband.”
“I thought we were friends.”
I was done feeling bad about the tears and working quickly toward pissed off. “While we were married, you were fucking Mike, who was a friend of mine, behind my back whenever I wasn't around. As far as I'm concerned, you can both catch a raging case of mutated killer herpes and burn for eternity in the flaming, itchy, pus-filled depths of whatever hell will take you.”
I hung up before she could end the bliss that came from her being speechless, possibly for the first time in her life. If luck really existed, I had bought myself a few weeks of no contact.
I poured another quick shot of Jameson and downed it. A moment's thought of Kara and my mood picked right back up. Then, I tried to imagine Yvette's face after I tore into her, and I felt even better. The evening had promise.
I put the bottle away before I could drink myself out of a great night and hit the dresser to find proper workout gear. After settling on a black pair of basketball shorts and a plain white t-shirt, I hopped in the shower.
I let the water run hotter than I normally would, hoping it would scald the conversation with my ex-wife away. It helped. The water ran soothingly over my shoulders and back, easing the tension while I did my best to massage the ache out of my forearm—which still carried internal, and external, scarring from when a cannibal's knife found its way to the bone.
After a few minutes of relaxing, I gave myself a quick once over with soap, rinsed off, and got out. I was psyched about getting time with Kara outside of work, even though technically, we would be working. After shaving and packing my gym bag, I still had about an hour to kill.******
She hung up the phone, smiling more than she knew she could. David had called to let her know that he was on his way home, and he couldn't wait to see her.
She laughed and spun away from the counter with her arms out wide. She spun again and again, letting the apron she wore fly out like the bottom of some princess's gown. She kept laughing and spinning until she got so dizzy that she fell to the floor, with tears of happiness streaming down her cheeks.
It was all so perfect. The kitchen smelled delicious—she was making roast lamb smothered in garlic and honey and rosemary, with crispy, seasoned potato wedges, a spinach and pear salad with homemade raspberry vinaigrette, and chocolate mousse for dessert. He would be as happy as her when he got home, and they would talk about his day and laugh over dinner.
Then, after a few glasses of good, expensive wine, they would make love until they were both breathless and happy and exhausted. She would spend the night in his arms, dreaming of the life she had always wanted. The life she deserved. The life she could now have.
Chapter 6: The Girl Scout and the Steam Room
Sweating buckets and breathing like a hippo in labor, I somehow kept putting one foot after the other to keep up with Kara, who coasted effortlessly on the treadmill next to me when my client's husband finally showed up. According to Mrs. Adams, Gerald was 46 years old and had been working sales at the same car lot for nearly twenty years.
I’m not embarrassed to say that Mr. Adam
s looked damn good for a middle-aged car salesman. He kept his body in good shape, still had all his hair, and sported a goatee mostly made of pepper, very little salt.
He was not alone.
The girl who followed him into the gym looked like she might be breaking curfew this late in the evening, or at least missing an opportunity to sell Girl Scout cookies to overweight gym enthusiasts. She was all done up in spandex, matching black tiny shorts and half of a sports bra.
I nodded to Kara, and we both turned our equipment down to walking speed.
“Jesus, she looks like my baby sister,” grumbled Kara between taking drinks from her bright green water bottle. “How old do you think she is?”
“With the way he keeps rubbing her ass, I'm gonna hope she's at least 18.”
I pulled my phone from my pocket and pretended to flip through music as I snapped half a dozen pics of the couple fondling and flirting. Then, after they exchanged a brief peck on the lips, the girl walked toward us while Mr. Adams made his way to the locker room to get out of his salesman digs. I hit the stop button on my machine and handed the phone off to Kara.
“I'm gonna see if I can get any locker room chat from Gerald, keep an eye on the babysitter's club, will you?”
She gave me a smile that made my pants tremble, “Sure thing.”
I jogged right past Mr. Adams' date, ignoring the flirty eye lift she threw at me, and into the locker room. The place was all static, gray lockers and white walls and a few black, wooden benches here and there. Across from the entrance were ten shower stalls, with black, wooden sides and foggy curtains.
Mr. Adams sat comfortably on one of the benches, lacing up a brand-new pair of Nike cross trainers. He still had his wedding ring on. Classy.
I grabbed a towel from my locker and sat across from him, making a show of wiping the sweat from my face and neck and breathing heavier than I needed to.