“The old man who owned the place died,” Quarles added.
Brit heel-skidded his chair back and tried to remember the buzz he’d heard about the case. He shuffled through a few crime-scene photos and remembered the owner of the store had been knocked around with a baseball bat. “I thought he was okay.”
“Doctors thought so, too.” Quarles ran his fingers through his blond hair. “They stitched him up and sent him home. His daughter found him later.”
“Prints at the crime scene?”
“Come on, do we ever get it that easy?”
“I could use some easy,” Brit said.
“And if she was gorgeous and female, I’d fight you for her.” Quarles grinned. “But, the vic gave great details of the robbery. He even called the distributor and asked for images of the stolen jewelry, so, we’ll have something to show the pawn shops.” Quarles rolled closer.
Brit leaned back. Quarles didn’t seem to appreciate personal space. Right now, Brit needed a lot of space. And it wasn’t just because of Quarles’ fondness for chili-fries, or the fact that he’d fight Brit for some gorgeous girl. Which, frankly, Brit was about as much in the mood for as he was chili-fries.
Quarles dropped the other files on the desk. “I did find two other jewelry store robberies. Same MO. Four men, ski masks. One in Austin, the other in Dallas.”
“So our guys move around, eh?”
“Yeah.” Obvious pride at his findings brightened the man’s green eyes.
“Any leads?” Brit flipped open the other files. More photos, a few written reports. Unfortunately, the only case Brit gave a rat’s ass about now had Keith’s name stamped on it.
“Nope.”
It figured. “Any chance we can pass this over to Smith and Tates?” The smell of yesterday’s coffee assaulted Brit’s nose; he picked up another half-empty cup and tossed it. It landed with a dead thud in the trash can.
“Nope. Sergeant gave it to me personally.”
A clattering noise exploded down the hall.
“Get your freaking hands off me you pervert! What’s wrong? You gotta tiny dick or something?” The woman’s tone, more so than her words, made a man want to cover his dick, small or not, and it brought Brit’s head up in a flash. He knew that tone. More important, he knew the woman—Rina Newman, a local prostitute.
Rina, wearing red and very little of it, jolted to a stop in his doorway. Brit’s gaze moved over her. The part of his male psyche that hadn’t had sex in seven weeks appreciated her hourglass form and exposed cleavage, but the appreciation fizzled out before anything below the belt reacted.
Brit started to turn his chair to face the wall, hoping to do it before Rina spotted him.
His hope was futile when she suddenly swung around. “Detective Lowell, make them take the cuffs off!”
Having worked in the sex crime division before homicide, he knew most of the girls. They all had a sad story to tell. Thanks to his mother, he had grown immune to sad stories.
“What’d you do, Rina?” He crossed his arms.
“Soliciting drugs,” Officer Pratt offered and latched a hand around her arm. “Come on.”
“Lowell! You told me if I talked, you’d do me a favor,” she yelled over her shoulder as Pratt attempted to walk her away.
“Wait.” Brit leaned forward. The chair squeaked again, begging for WD-40.
Rina swung around and grabbed on the door as Pratt tried to drag her away. “Work with me on this.”
Hope ricocheted through Brit’s chest. He’d gone on a rampage after Keith’s murder, offering his right arm for information. He couldn’t remember if he’d approached Rina, but maybe he had.
“Work with you on what?” Hope tightened his chest.
“Your partner’s death. Tell them to get these damn cuffs off me, and I’ll sing like a horny parakeet.”
Brit jerked up so fast his chair pitched back. Quarles did the same. They exchanged a quick glance and then both turned to Pratt. “Uncuff her,” they said in unison.
Pratt frowned. “She might go after your boys; she went after mine.”
“I’ll protect my boys,” Brit insisted, but he saw Quarles take a step back.
• • •
That evening, after joining Tanya Craft, a co-worker for a glass of wine, Cali lingered at the bottom of the stairs at her white-stuccoed apartment building. A November breeze, scented with Chinese food from a nearby restaurant, seeped through her light-weight sweater.
She forced herself to take one step closer to the inevitable argument that awaited her upstairs. But oh, she hated arguing. Plain and simple, she sucked at it.
Making it to the second level, she counted the white painted doors as she passed, dreading facing Stan. Her neighbor popped her head out of apartment 211. A true miniature, the wrinkled woman reminded Cali of a raisin, a sweet raisin, with an accent.
“Wait here.” Mrs. Gomez ducked back into her apartment, and returned with a plastic bowl. “Paella. The best you’ll ever taste.” Her faded brown eyes grew sympathetic. “That kind man of yours, he help me with my groceries and tell me about your mother. You are a good girl. You never use bad language like apartment 209. I hear bad words from there. I sorry about your mother.”
Cali’s chest ached. Why couldn’t she hear condolences without wanting to sob?
“Thank you.” Another breeze, this one scented with teriyaki, gave her a chill and she pulled her sweater closer. The sweet woman touched Cali’s arm, then disappeared into her apartment.
With a bowl in one hand, Cali fumbled with her keys with the other. She pushed open her door, braced for the inevitable. Silence greeted her. No Stan. No arguing. Relief blossomed.
She put the plastic dish in the fridge to party with the other dozen bowls. What was it about a death that made people want to feed you? Had she missed the scientific study that proved overweight people didn’t feel as much grief? She stared at the stacked bowls that her mother’s friends had supplied, and considered eating her way through the refrigerator. Anything to stop the grief.
“Any other family?” Cali remembered the funeral director asking. “Aunts, uncles? Surely there’s some family.”
“No. Just me.”
Unable to stomach the idea of food, she wandered back to her living room. She dropped on her beige leather sofa and freed her hair from the banana clip. Just me. She opened and closed the banana clip. Squeeze. Release. Squeeze. Release.
Spotting the blinking of her message machine, she hit the play button. The voice bounced out of the recorder. “Stan. It’s Nolan. We’ve got a fucking problem.”
“Mrs. Gomez won’t like you if you cuss.” Cali let the banana clip snap shut again. She’d only met Stan’s band member buddies once. Not her type of crowd.
Next, she listened to Mom’s lawyer telling her he’d scheduled their appointment for Wednesday. Then the hospice nurse, Betty Long, needing Cali to sign papers.
Cali looked around the too-quiet apartment. Stan’s callous words echoed in her head. She died, you didn’t. He might help old ladies with their groceries, but he could be a jerk.
An hour later, freshly showered, she sat on the edge of the tub and painted her toenails a cherry red. Pretty feet had been her mother’s cure-all for the blues. Wearing only a towel and cotton between her toes, she heel-walked to her bed and collapsed on the mattress. Then she waited—waited for the mood-altering effect of pretty feet to kick in. “This is supposed to work, right, Mom?” Mom didn’t answer.
• • •
“He thinks Tanya is a lesbian,” Mom said.
Somewhere in the recesses of her brain, Cali knew this was a dream. She didn’t care. She needed to hear her mother’s voice.
Suddenly, the dream went visual, and her mom sat on the end of her bed. She wore one of the navy business suits that she’d always worn to the real estate office. Her hair, kept red with Nice & Easy’s help, bounced around her face. She looked good. Healthy, not like the twig of a woman who’d died
in Cali’s arms last week.
Cali blinked. “Who thinks Tanya is a lesbian?”
“That guy living with you.”
“He’s not living with me. Just staying until his apartment is available.”
“And how long has that been?” Her mom’s brow arched. “I know why you never introduced me. You knew I wouldn’t like him.”
Regret stirred in Cali’s stomach. “You were sick and—”
“Doesn’t matter.” Gold bracelets jingled down her mother’s wrist as she raised a cigarette to her lips. “He reminds you of somebody we used to know, doesn’t he?”
“Who?”
Smoke rings floated up and faded into the air as her mother spoke. “You know who.”
Cali didn’t know, but didn’t care. She studied the cigarette. “You quit five years ago.”
“Yeah, but bad habits die hard.”
Even asleep, Cali marveled at the absurdity of the dream. Mom smoking and talking about lesbians.
“You know why he thinks Tanya is a lesbian?” her mom asked.
“What do you know about lesbians?”
“Betty, my hospice nurse. She’s a lesbian. Did you know there are tools that they strap on? A fake . . . you know what. Oh, damn, I’m dead, I can say penis, can’t I?” Her mom’s laughter hugged Cali’s heart. It didn’t matter that her mom spoke about fake penises, or that this was just a dream. It felt good to see her without the pain shadowing her eyes.
“Betty has a partner. Been together for years.” Her mom took a long, pleasurable drag on her cigarette. “The reason the weasel thinks Tanya’s a lesbian is because she didn’t respond to his flirting at the funeral. He thinks any woman who doesn’t go weak-kneed for him is gay.”
“He didn’t flirt with Tanya.” Cali squeezed her pillow a little tighter.
“Ask her.” Her mom looked over her shoulder. “You’d better get dressed. He’s coming home, and you know what he’ll think if he sees you in bed naked.”
The sound of her front door opening knee-jerked her from the dream. She leapt up, naked, and darted to the dresser. Tugging a nightshirt on, she expected Stan to walk in. Instead, she heard the TV click on. She fell against the dresser, trying to shake off the dream. She’d heard the door while sleeping. Mom hadn’t woken her up. Nor had she sat at the foot of the bed. Just a dream. Right?
Heavy footsteps thudded down the hall. Then the bedroom door swung open. He tossed her extra set of keys on the dresser. They clanked against the mirror.
“You want to talk about this?” His words came out slurred. He’d been drinking.
Now wasn’t the time to talk. “It’s late.”
“So no sex tonight either, huh?”
His bullying tone had her clenching her toes, and she realized she still had cotton between them. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” When she’d tell him he had to move out.
“Fine. But you may want to take a shower. This room reeks of a bar.” He slammed the door.
Cali inhaled a deep gulp of Marlboro-scented air. She recalled the dream of her mom smoking. Hands shaking, she walked over to the chair where she’d left her clothes. She lifted them to her nose. No cigarette smoke.
The door swung back open and whacked against the wall. She jerked around, her nose buried in the blouse.
“Got you something. Not that you’ll give a damn!” Stan tossed a small, shiny object on the bed. It picked up the light from the hall and glittered. The door slammed again.
• • •
The next day after school, Cali parked in front of the Arts R Us store and hurried across the parking lot to meet Tanya, who waited by the entrance.
Tanya was looking for a few art supplies and Cali was there for one thing: procrastination. And who knew, maybe between the acrylics and oils, she’d find a tube of liquid courage. She hated conflict. And telling Stan he needed to find his own place had conflict warnings stamped all over it.
She met Tanya and they hurried in to escape the cold wind. When Cali pushed the door, her sweater sleeve pulled up.
“Hot damn!” Tanya grabbed Cali’s wrist and eyed the tennis bracelet with diamond-filled, flower-shaped studs linked together. “Is this new?”
“Yeah.” Unlike Tanya, Cali wasn’t the bling-bling type. But when she’d found Stan MIA this morning, she’d felt guilty for not even thanking him for the present, so she wore it. Not that it changed anything. She was still asking him to move out, because frankly, she’d never asked him to move in.
“Is it real?” Tanya gawked at the bracelet.
“No,” she said. “Cubic Zirconia, I’m sure.”
Tanya twisted the bracelet around Cali’s wrist. “Looks real.”
“I doubt it,” she said.
Thanksgiving hadn’t come and gone and already Santa and red-nosed reindeer displays stared back at her as Tanya collected a shopping basket. Cali’s chest grew heavy with thoughts of the holidays. Alone.
“You want to grab a salad later?” Tanya leaned onto the basket handle and kicked up her feet like a teenager.
“No. I need to go home and slay a dragon.”
“What dragon?” Tanya reached for a paintbrush.
“My boyfriend. We’ve known each other less than three months. His roommate asked him to move out, so he’s crashing at my place until his new apartment becomes available. But it’s been almost a month and he hasn’t once mentioned the apartment again.”
Tanya scowled. “I hate moochers.”
“He chipped in a little money to help out, but . . . I used to like him. He’s nice to old people. A month ago, I thought we had something, but now . . . maybe I’m just losing it.” The words vibrated through her head. God, she didn’t want to admit that either. So what if she had dreams in which her dead mother talked about lesbians? She felt Tanya’s gaze. “I’m dealing with my mama’s death, and he wonders why I’m not in an amorous mood.”
“It hasn’t even been a week since the funeral.” Tanya stared at the tip of the paintbrush. “I think he’s a jerk. Especially if the bracelet is a fake.”
She thought about her dream, her mom’s accusation of Stan flirting, and almost asked if Tanya had met Stan at the funeral. But that was silly.
“I’ve got a boyfriend crisis myself.” Tanya dropped the paintbrush into the basket. “His name is Eric—blond, a little short, but a nice ass.” She grinned. “I’m an ass woman.”
Cali smiled at Tanya’s bluntness. “So what’s the crisis?”
Tanya let out an exaggerated huff. “This will be our third date. And you know what happens on the third date.”
“I hold out to the fifth,” Cali teased.
Tanya’s brows wiggled. “You wouldn’t with his ass.”
Cali laughed. Something about hanging with Tanya made Cali feel normal. She hadn’t felt normal in a long time.
“The gallery that sells my earrings sold six sets this week. If I don’t replace them, they’ll give the space to someone else. So I’ve got to decide if it’s a jewelry or a sex weekend.”
“You can’t do both?” Cali asked.
“Nah, I’m an all or nothing kind of girl. It’s screw the jewelry—or Eric.”
Cali hadn’t touched a canvas since her mom’s cancer. “Couldn’t you have sex on Saturday, and do jewelry on Sunday?” She ran a finger over the tubes of colors, nostalgic for left-behind dreams.
“But if it’s good sex, I’ll want more on Sunday.” Tanya picked up a tube of ice-blue acrylic. “What’s your thing?”
“Watercolors,” Cali said. “But I haven’t painted in a while.”
Tanya laughed. “I meant with men. I’m an ass woman. What are you?”
“Oh.” She chuckled. “I don’t know. I guess—”
“Shoulders.” Tanya leaned into the buggy. “Stan has nice shoulders.”
The question spilled out. “Did you two meet at the funeral?”
“Yeah.” Her friend turned back to the paint. “You should start painting again.” She grabbed a pack of w
atercolors. “Art therapy. My treat.”
“No.” Cali reshelved the paint. “I’m not in the mood.” The words sounded so familiar that she pressed her hand to her forehead. “God, have I said that enough lately.”
Tanya arched a brow. “So are you breaking up with him, or just telling him to get his own place?”
Cali hesitated. “I don’t know. Before my mama died I thought I liked him. Now . . .”
“Sounds like you’re breaking up.” Tanya eyed the bracelet. “Hide the jewelry before you toss his ass out.”
Cali frowned. Silent Night played in the background, and Cali wondered how silent her night would be once she got home to Stan. Something told her Stan wouldn’t go quietly.
Chapter Two
Thirty minutes later, Cali parked her Honda beside Stan’s white truck. She climbed the steps to her apartment and opened the door.
Stan stood up from the computer desk in the corner of the room. “Hey.” He moved closer. “I was hoping you’d get here before I left. I got you set up so you can pay your credit card online.”
Cali took a step back. “We need to talk.”
He kept coming. “You look tired.”
“I am tired, but—”
“Do you want me to grab you a beer? I picked some up this afternoon.”
“No.” Her gaze slid to his chest. Stan did have nice shoulders. Is that what she’d seen in him? Had she even noticed them until now?
He caught her hand and twirled the jewelry around. “You like it?”
“Yes, but I can’t keep it.” She started to take it off.
“Of course, you can.” He dipped in for a kiss. She wiggled away.
“We’ve got to talk, Stan.” She tossed her purse on the sofa. It landed off-key on his guitar, which sat beside his packed bags. So Stan was leaving? Confusing emotions bumped around her chest. She’d been going to break up with him. But right now, one thought surfaced. Just me. Alone.
Divorced, Desperate and Daring Page 34