Unintended Witness

by D. L. Wood

  “Before now whoever is threatening us hadn’t actually gone after one of the kids. The thing in the alley with Emma could have arguably been a random mugging, but this…it’s too much.”

  “But if you drop the case, whoever takes over will be the new target. And their family, too. You’ll just be shifting the burden to someone else.”

  “Someone else that isn’t my best friend’s kids. Or you.”

  He looked at her, his gaze simmering with a level of concern and protectiveness that made Chloe slightly uncomfortable.

  “What about Jacob?” she pressed, shooting a glance in the teen’s direction, and lowering her voice as the kids started tearing into the takeout bags in the kitchen. “Whatever happens to Kurt, happens to him too. You can’t just abandon him. Who knows what’ll happen if someone else takes over. If Kurt Sims loses, Jacob loses.”

  When Holt remained silent, she pushed harder. “You overheard Trip talking to Jacob earlier, same as I did. Kurt’s not taking this well. And he’s taking it out on Jacob.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “And Emma told me the same thing. A couple of days ago she went with Jacob to the jail, and she could hear Kurt screaming at Jacob all the way out in the waiting room.”

  “Screaming about what?”

  “Something about football practice not going well or something. Like Jacob’s performance on the field has been slipping since this all started.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “That Jacob seems to be doing okay staying at his aunt’s. She says he’s going to school, although she said she thinks he’s gotten a couple bad grades, which is unusual for him. It sounds like he’s managing pretty well overall, except for the football.”

  “I’ll bet Kurt doesn’t like that.”

  Chloe shook her head. “Apparently not.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll talk to Kurt, tell him to lay off. If Jacob manages to graduate with all this going on, it’ll be an accomplishment.”

  “Exactly, and you getting off this case,” she pleaded, “isn’t going to help that situation. You’ve got influence with Kurt. You can sway him when it comes to dealing with his son.”

  “Not much.”

  “Well, more than a stranger would.”

  “I want to help the kid, I do. But the risk—”

  “I know I messed up today, but it won’t happen again. I promise you I can take care of myself. And the kids, if it comes to it,” she said, and patted her hip.

  Holt’s eyes widened. “That’s not what I think it is? Is it?”

  “It’s one of the first things Jack taught me after we met. And, after Banyon stuck me in her backseat, I decided it was better to have it on me than locked in the trunk of my car.”

  “Okay,” he drawled. “So, why haven’t you ever mentioned it?”

  She shrugged. “It never came up.”

  “It didn’t come up?” Holt repeated dubiously. “Really? And you know how to use that thing?”

  Chloe straightened smugly, a reproachful gleam in her eye. “My boyfriend’s a trained killer. So…what do you think?”

  He exhaled disapprovingly, wrinkling his face before shrugging in submission. “I think I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

  * * * * *

  This time he had parked the Camry down the road and walked to McConnaughey’s house, just to make sure no one spotted it. After everything that had gone down, he expected that they might be keeping a better eye on things. So, here he stood, hiding in the shadows of the line of cypress trees across the street, keeping tabs. The invigorating scent of pine enveloped him as a shiver ran up his back, his gloves and barn jacket barely staving off the chill from the rapidly dropping temperatures, a courtesy of the cold spell that just arrived in time for Halloween.

  The kids in the house had opened the front door less than thirty seconds after the delivery guy had knocked on it. Just opened it right up. This proved that the delivery guy thing was definitely his ticket in, as long as it wasn’t Holt Adams that answered. He would just have to make sure Adams wasn’t around to answer it.

  Come to think of it, he had watched the McConnaughey woman get a flower delivery a few nights ago. Wouldn’t be hard to duplicate that either, he thought. Maybe even better than pizza. They wouldn’t be expecting a flower delivery, so they wouldn’t refuse it just because it was a surprise.

  Flowers. That would work.

  All in all, things were falling into place.

  * * * * *

  Hours later, well after Holt had departed and the kids had gone to bed, Chloe rolled over, tugging the heavy cotton blanket up around her as she fought for sleep. Nighttime was the hardest, there in the dark, when it was just her and her thoughts.

  What was Jack doing now? It was midnight in Tennessee, so it was ten in L.A. Jack often headed to bed around that time. But since he wasn’t calling or having any contact at all, she had no idea what he was doing. Was he having trouble sleeping too? If he was, was he out, driving around, his preferred way to clear his head?

  She swiped left on her iPhone screen, pulling up a photo of her and Jack at a Braves game in early June. It glowed harshly in the blackened room, but the warmth of the image—Jack’s smile and hers and his arm wrapped snugly around her—softened the intrusion.

  Swipe. A weekend in Destin, the salty surf pummeling them as they posed for the shot.

  Her heart ached at the sight of him, his imposed separation feeling all the more hollow tonight. She missed him, not because he kept her safe, or because she was lonely, but because she missed him. She didn’t need any more time to figure out why she felt that way. She never had needed any. She knew, had known since last winter in Miami, that Jack was and would be, the only one for her.

  So why doesn’t he know it?

  She wanted to share this whole experience with him. All of it—Reese, the kids, the case—with him. Not because she needed to share it with somebody, but because he was her somebody. Her person.

  And her person had not been himself for some time now. The leg was bothering him more than he let on. And not just physically. His personality had slowly changed. He was more reserved. A little sad even. His affable confidence had morphed into self-doubt. Like he was in some kind of mourning.

  A possibility nudged the edges of her thoughts. What if Jack’s difficulties were actually a sign of something larger? Something he maybe needed help with? He had been through a lot during those first awful weeks together. He had killed people and nearly been killed. Maybe it had taken a larger toll than either of them had realized.

  Tomorrow, she resolved. Tomorrow I end this. I’ll call him and tell him how wrong this is and drag him out of this funk, or self-doubt, or jealousy or whatever. Tomorrow I set him straight. And if he needs help, we’ll get it.

  She brushed away a thin wetness collecting on her cheek, and drew a small smile from a photo of them on date night getting sushi in Buckhead.

  Swipe. Their road trip to Athens for the University of Georgia versus Auburn football game, a sea of red and orange flooding Sanford stadium.

  Swipe.

  Swipe.

  Swipe.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Chloe clutched her steering wheel nervously as she stared at the entrance to D.B. Tucker’s recording studio from her front row parking spot. The stumpy red brick building was situated on Lewisburg Pike, about one mile southeast of downtown. From the outside, it didn’t look like much. Chloe guessed that maybe it had originally been built as an office for an insurance company or something similar. It loomed tauntingly in front of her as she debated whether to go in or just drive away.

  Emma and Tyler were safe in school. She had dropped them off personally, meeting with each principal to make them aware of the current safety risks faced by the kids. After being satisfied that they would be well watched over until she picked them up at three o’clock, she had gone by to visit Reese and assure him that his children—all three of them—were fine. She stalled a little longer, re
membering their conversation.

  “And you’re not over-extending yourself, you’re sure?” Reese had questioned, genuine concern creasing his face, which had finally regained its color after nearly a week in the hospital.

  “No,” she had opined. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”

  He had sniffed before announcing randomly, “Holt came by.” He had kept his gaze trained on her, presumably to gauge her reaction.

  Chloe’s eyes had narrowed suspiciously, something in his tone sending up a red flag. “So he said.”

  “He’s been keeping you pretty close.”

  “I’m helping him with this case,” she had offered, a note of self-justification rippling through her words. “Because his partner,” she had said, slapping at the lightweight knit coverlet cast over Reese’s legs, “is out of commission.”

  “I don’t like it. He shouldn’t be involving you like this.”

  “It’s fine,” Chloe had insisted. “And for the record, he wanted me to drop it.”

  “Good.”

  “But I told him, no.”

  Reese shifted in the hospital bed, frustration seeming to unsettle him. “You tell me that the kids are safe because they’re being watched one hundred percent of the time. But what about you? Who’s watching you?”

  “Stop worrying.”

  “Worrying’s all I can do from here. It’s driving me crazy.”

  Reese was bothered by Holt involving her. But the truth was, if Holt knew she was here now, he would be twice as annoyed as Reese. Because last night, over piping hot ribbons of noodles dripping with Bolognese sauce, he had changed his mind about having her talk to D.B. After what had happened to Emma, he insisted that she stay out of the line of fire. So, finally, she had agreed that she wouldn’t go anywhere near D.B. Tucker for the time being.

  But, in the light of morning, she had thought it was a terrible idea. Once Cecilia spilled the beans to D.B., their opportunity to surreptitiously find out what D.B. knew would be over. So, rather than argue with Holt about it, she just decided to make it happen. By nine thirty she had managed to reach D.B. at the studio, and like Holt had expected, he was thrilled at the prospect of being part of Chloe’s article. Holt was busy with appointments and court today, so he wouldn’t have to know a thing until it was already over.

  “Okay, it’s now or never,” she told herself, finally grabbing her equipment bag and pushing herself out of the car and up the front walk.

  A small brass plaque to the left of the front door read, ‘Tucker Studios.’ She pressed the entryway buzzer and waited. When no one answered after about a minute, she tried again. After another couple minutes, she had nearly decided to forget the whole thing when someone swung the door open.

  “Hey there! I’m D.B.,” he said brightly. D.B. Tucker was lanky with a head of dark curly hair. He wore a navy plaid button-down, its tails loose over dusty gray jeans ending at black boots. “You must be Chloe,” he said eagerly. “I’m so glad you’re here. Sorry about the wait,” he apologized as she stepped inside. “I’ve got a guy in the back laying down vocals this morning.”

  “No problem.”

  “Can you hang back with me for just a second? I’ll get things going and then I can show you around.” His reaction to her seemed perfectly pleasant. If Cecilia had warned D.B. about Holt and Chloe, he wasn’t letting on.

  The inside of the building was a complete one-eighty from what the outside suggested it would be. Varying textures of stone, wood and brick covered every surface, creating a warm, rustic vibe. Chloe followed D.B. through a knotty pine-paneled hallway that ended in a large, open control room where this styling continued, creating the sensation of being in a mountain lodge. A mixing console comprised of six feet of columns and rows of dials and sliders was positioned in the middle of the room, directly facing three separate glassed-in, sound-proofed rooms. The one in the middle was largest, flanked by two smaller booths. An engineer sat behind the console, expertly fiddling with the controls, as a male singer sporting large headphones in the booth to the left spoke to him through a shiny condenser microphone. Faded kilim rugs in muted reds and oranges carpeted each area, complimenting an overstuffed red velvet couch at the back of the control room to which D.B. directed Chloe.

  “If you can give me just a minute, I’ll get this going and then we can talk,” he promised.

  As D.B. conferred with the engineer, Chloe sat patiently and took in the room. A white board beside the door set out the schedule for the current and upcoming month. Chloe noticed that many of the days for November were blocked off with a myriad of names. According to the calendar, the singer in the booth, someone named “D. Freeman,” was there to record vocal tracks. The wall opposite was paneled in a darker wood, decorated with black and white photos of people Chloe presumed had used D.B.’s studio. She moved closer to inspect the names engraved on little brass plates beneath each frame. One in particular, a picture of a young pre-teen girl with long straight blonde hair and perfectly white teeth, caught her eye. The name beneath it was “Keeley Tucker.”

  “Okay, David, you ready?” the engineer asked the singer through a microphone. When the singer nodded in reply, the engineer started working the controls and music flowed into the space.

  “All right, I’m all yours,” D.B. said, stepping over to where she stood by the photos.

  “Is this your daughter?” Chloe asked, pointing to the girl’s photo.

  D.B. grinned exuberantly. “Sure is,” he gushed. “She’s something. We just finished her demo last week. Should be mixed and ready to make the rounds by the middle of November. That girl’s going to be the next Taylor Swift.”

  “Wow. Seriously?”

  D.B. nodded confidently. “We’ve already got interest from two labels. Hopefully the finished demo will attract more.”

  “She must be special.”

  “She is. I knew it when she was four years old, watching the CMAs, jumping up on the coffee table at home and belting it out along with the stars. Next year this time, some little girl is going to be singing a Keeley Tucker song.” He walked over to the console and pulled a CD from a drawer and handed it to Chloe. The cover was another photo of Keeley, this time propped against a brick wall and holding a Gibson acoustic guitar. “It’s a few of her best.”

  “Thanks,” Chloe said, then pointed to the phrase, ‘Recorded at Tucker Studios,’ printed just below Keeley’s name. “I take it if Keeley becomes successful, that would help your studio.”

  “Absolutely.” D.B. jerked his head towards the white board. “We stay about sixty percent booked, and our reach is expanding across the South. Plus, our clientele genres are widening. We handle mostly country and some contemporary Christian artists like David,” he said, gesturing to the singer, “but next month, we’ve got a couple of pop artists coming in. We’re growing, but yeah, it wouldn’t hurt to have a big name get their start here.”

  “I imagine it’s hard to get a studio like this going. How long have you been at it?”

  “Eight years. Hard isn’t the word. You could throw a rock and hit twenty studios from here to Main Street alone. Everybody wants a piece of the Nashville pie.”

  “Holt said you had some success earlier this year with one of the songs you recorded here.”

  “Yep. Nearly made it onto the country streaming chart. We got some business off that one. I’m really hoping Keeley can do the same for us.”

  “Keeley looks a lot younger in the photo on the CD than the one on the wall,” Chloe observed.

  “Yeah, well, the one on the wall is more recent. She…we…kind of took a break for a little while there. You know teenagers. Angst and all that. She had a, uh, difficult year last year. But,” he quickly qualified, maybe concerned that he had said too much, “that’s all over with. She grew out of it real quick and now we are primed and ready to go.” A big grin hitched onto his face. “So,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “tell me about this article you’re writing.”

 
; FIFTY-FOUR

  “This is too rich for my blood,” Tom Erickson avowed, kicking back in the vinyl booth and taking a long gulp on his second Michelob of lunch. “I give you this and I’m done. You want any more digging done, you gotta find somebody else.”

  Holt spun the straw in his Coke and leaned back in his seat, the last booth in a long row inside a greasy shotgun diner on Broadway in downtown Nashville. For some reason, the private detective across from him loved the place, and always insisted on taking meetings there. Holt thought he was nuts. The ear-splitting sound of dishes being carelessly cleared and dropped into a busing tub just barely overpowered the noise from the argument between the fry cook and the waitress over a misunderstood order of a patty melt that, apparently, should have had no onions. The onions had been grilled, however, and their tangy odor saturated the place.

  “Two beers at lunch?” Holt questioned, ignoring Tom’s comments.

  Tom plucked one of the last fries swimming in the watery pool of grease that was the sad remains of his double bacon cheeseburger and popped it whole in his mouth. “Well,” he said, licking the salt from his fingers, “it’s a two-beer-lunch kind of day. Matter of fact,” he continued, signaling the waitress that he wanted another, “I’m thinking it’s probably a three-beer kind of day.”

  From the looks of Tom’s waistband, Holt thought three-beer lunches probably weren’t all that rare. Or double cheeseburgers, for that matter.

  “So what’s got you so spooked?” Holt asked, leaning forward.

  Tom had asked for the last booth, as usual, insuring a certain amount of privacy in the noisy hole-in-the-wall which, for reasons Holt had never understood, was always busy. Tom quickly swept the room with his eyes, before pushing a thin manila file across the table to Holt.

  “I think you have finally gone and tripped in it, son.”

  Skepticism punctuated Holt’s expression. “Come on, Tommy,” Holt drawled. “I’ve never known you to shy away from a case.”

  “You ever been to a scary movie, Holt?”