Flaw-Abiding Citizen (The Worst Detective Ever Book 6)

by Christy Barritt

  The first thing I did was glance around for Jackson.

  I didn’t see him. This area was out of his jurisdiction, but I’d suspected he might come anyway. Just as everything bad wasn’t connected to me, Jackson also didn’t have his hand in solving every crime in the area. I needed to remember that.

  I walked as close as I dared to the scene, but a Manteo police officer stopped me.

  “This is as far as you can go, ma’am,” he said.

  He reminded me of the Queen’s Guard in England. He was expressionless, humorless, and personality-less. If I had to guess, he was also friendless.

  “What happened?” I asked the officer as Zane joined us.

  Officer Serious said nothing, only stared at me.

  “Is everyone okay?” I continued, trying a different approach.

  “Are you a resident?” he finally said.

  I shook my head, although I’d been tempted to lie.

  A slight hint of a smirk filled his gaze. “Then I can’t tell you.”

  I sighed. Officer Serious wasn’t going to offer any information, so it was no use asking more questions. Maybe that was what good police officers did—remained quiet. Good officers like Jackson.

  I ignored those thoughts for now and gathered all the contextual clues I could.

  It appeared an entire house had gone up in flames. Could a gas oven have exploded? I’d heard of that happening. Or had someone caused this?

  Of course, I had no idea.

  I stayed for another thirty minutes but then realized I was getting nowhere. I was spending valuable time on something that probably wasn’t connected.

  “You ready to go?” I asked Zane.

  “I’m ready when you are.”

  I nodded, resigned. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”

  If I was going to brood, at least I could do it in private.

  I’d just gotten home—still feeling a little glum. Maybe I’d take a long bath and watch a movie to clear my mind. I had so many thoughts circling that my head was spinning.

  Before I could do any of that, someone knocked at my door.

  Was it Jackson? Again?

  I hoped not because I still needed space.

  “Zane, can you get that?” I called from the bathroom.

  He didn’t answer.

  I’d bet anything he had his earbuds on as he checked his social media pages. I only hoped it wasn’t a killer who’d shown up, ready to finish me off.

  Seriously, earbuds made people so unavailable.

  I pulled my clothes back on and stomped toward the door. When I looked through the peephole, I saw . . . Crista? How unexpected.

  Crista was Jackson’s neighbor who sometimes helped him take care of his dog, Ripley. The last time we’d spoken, it wasn’t pleasant. She’d basically accused me of stealing Jackson from her.

  Then I’d seen her visit Winston Corbina once, which made me wonder if she was somehow involved in this whole mess surrounding . . . well, surrounding my life.

  I pulled the door open, my curiosity rearing its ugly head—the opposite of Crista’s head, which was blond and perfect and anything but ugly.

  “Hi, Joey,” she said, blinking like Bambi in an open field of flowers. “I know this is probably unexpected, but could I come in?”

  I don’t know. It depends on whether or not you’re planning on killing me.

  No, that was a crazy thought. If she were going to kill me, there were easier ways to do it than this.

  After a moment of hesitation, I nodded and opened the door wider. “Come on in.”

  She stepped inside, and I noticed something in her hand.

  I couldn’t tell what it was exactly. A picture of some sort? It was probably eight by eight in size. I waited, figuring she would explain and comforting myself with the fact it looked harmless.

  “Can I get you a drink?” I didn’t want to ask her that question, but some sort of manners had kicked in.

  “No, thanks. I won’t be long.” She hooked a hair behind her ear. “Look, I know we got started on the wrong foot, and I want to say I’m sorry.”

  Well, that was a surprise, and it kind of threw me off balance. “Apology accepted. I suppose I could have been more forthcoming about Jackson and me, but complicated situations can’t be encapsulated easily.”

  Was that really an apology? The “I suppose” part demeaned some of the effect, but I didn’t know what else to say.

  I didn’t have to share my business with everyone who asked. Tabloids already exploited more details of my life than I welcomed.

  “No, don’t apologize,” Crista said. “It was all me. I was jealous because I could see what a good guy Jackson was. You don’t meet people like that very often. I wanted a chance with him. Can you blame me?”

  Her words caused a certain ache to form in my chest. I’d thought that same thing.

  And look at me now. I was more confused than ever.

  Crista gripped the object in her hands, pulling it in front of her. “Anyway, I don’t want to keep you long. But I did want to bring a peace offering.”

  I raised my eyebrows, suspicious that I’d heard correctly. “A peace offering?”

  She raised the canvas in her hands. “This is for you.”

  I took it from her and examined the image there. The abstract painting consisted of a white background and gray crisscrossing lines with blurs of yellow around them.

  I tried to ascertain whether or not this was an actual picture, but I wasn’t sure, nor did I want to insult her.

  “I . . . I love it,” I finally said.

  “I painted it myself.” She shrugged. “I know it probably doesn’t look like much, but I hoped you might enjoy it.”

  “It’s . . .” What was it? “It’s wonderful.”

  She smiled. Beamed actually. “I’m so glad you like it. I hope now when we see each other, it won’t be awkward.”

  The question was, would I be seeing her again? Would my days of going over to Jackson’s continue? Or was our relationship irreparably damaged?

  I didn’t know.

  She stepped toward the door, about to leave, but then paused. “Oh, by the way, how is Jackson doing after that incident earlier?”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. “What do you mean? What incident?”

  A new light entered her eyes. She’d identified the riff between Jackson and me and was delighting in it. She wasn’t Bambi. No, she was the hunter who’d just set her sights on a target.

  “You don’t know?” she asked.

  Irritation burned inside me, but my concern for Jackson overruled it. “Know what?”

  “Someone broke into Jackson’s house and tried to shoot him.”

  Chapter Twelve

  A dull ache formed in my head as Crista’s words bounced from one ear to the other like a ping-pong ball at a rave. Certainly, I hadn’t heard her correctly. Besides, I’d just talked to Jackson only a few hours ago and . . . he was fine.

  But a few hours were enough time for chaos to happen.

  Jackson . . .

  Crista waited for me to respond.

  “I . . . I haven’t talked to Jackson since this afternoon,” I finally said.

  “It just happened a couple of hours ago. I figured you knew.”

  I rubbed my neck, my thoughts scrambling. “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah, he’s okay. He had to take Ripley to the vet though. Don’t worry. I was there to help them. I try to be a good neighbor like that.”

  Irritation burned at me again. But then I remembered the first part of what she’d said.

  “Ripley?” Ripley was Jackson’s Australian shepherd.

  Concern gripped me. I loved that rambunctious pooch.

  “I think he’s okay. Surface wound.”

  I moved my hand from my neck to my temples. How could I not have known this?

  Easy. Because I wasn’t speaking to Jackson.

  But I obviously still cared about him and Ripley.

  “Tha
nks for letting me know,” I said, anxious for her to leave.

  She lingered in the doorway, as if in no hurry. “Is everything okay between you two? I mean, I figured he would have called to let you know. I’m just surprised.”

  All the good feelings that had formed after her apology were disappearing. I did not want to talk about my love life with her, and I wasn’t sure why she kept insisting on it. “It’s . . . it’s fine.”

  It wasn’t fine. But I didn’t want Crista and her stupid painted peace offering to know that.

  “Well, that’s good.” She stepped outside and pulled her purse up higher on her shoulder. That gleam was still present in her gaze. “Don’t worry about Ripley. I’ll make sure I stop by often to check on him. It’s the least I can do.”

  For some reason, her words caused a spike of heat to rise in me.

  I knew what Crista was saying. She was going to move in on Jackson while our relationship was at a weak spot.

  I might have to burn this painting. Sooner rather than later.

  And now that I thought about it, how did Crista know where I lived?

  As soon as Crista was gone—I looked out my window to make sure—I grabbed my keys. I had to check on Jackson. And Ripley. I wasn’t sure whom I was worried about more.

  Before I walked out the door, I saw that strange painting Crista had given me and frowned. I leaned the painted side against the wall so I wouldn’t have to look at it anymore. I’d figure out what to do with it later. Burning it still seemed like a good idea, but it would take too much time.

  Right now I had to go check on Jackson and Ripley.

  As soon as I climbed into my car, the events from today pressed on me. I couldn’t believe how much had been crammed into one day. Was it just this morning that Jackson and I had fought? It didn’t seem possible.

  In some ways, it felt like weeks ago. In other ways, it seemed like only five minutes.

  I gripped the steering wheel, feeling as if I could hardly breathe.

  What if something had happened to Jackson? What if things ended between Jackson and me the way they’d ended between my dad and me? Would I have to live with my regrets for the rest of my life?

  I hoped not. Because living with regrets was an awful way to live.

  I drove to Jackson’s. My heart slowed when I saw his truck there. My pulse slowed again when I realized that Crista wasn’t at her house to witness this. Not that I really cared, but why add more humiliation to her already nosy discoveries.

  I swallowed my pride and hurried to his door. I pounded on it, waiting impatiently for someone to answer.

  Finally, Jackson appeared.

  His eyes widened, as if he was as surprised to see me as I was to be here. “Joey?”

  “I heard what happened. Are you okay?” I tried to hide my concern, but I couldn’t. And to think I’d won a People’s Choice Award for my acting. If people could see me now, they’d want to retract their votes.

  “I’m fine. How did you hear so fast?” He shook his head. “You know what? Never mind. Do you want to come in for a minute?”

  Did I? What did I want? I wasn’t sure.

  If I was smart, I’d stay right here on the stoop.

  But I wanted to see Ripley for myself. “Sure. But just for a minute.”

  As I slipped past Jackson, my throat tightened at his familiar scent. At the recognizable feel of his home. Of how safe I’d always felt when I was with him.

  Why couldn’t he smell bad, have a hideous home, and make me feel like I needed to be She-Ra while he was Pee-wee Herman or something? That would make my life so much easier.

  I climbed the interior set of steps and paused at the top. I spotted Ripley lying by the brick fireplace. He didn’t get up to greet me, a sure sign something was wrong. That was when I saw the bandage on his leg.

  “He’s on pain meds right now,” Jackson explained. “So excuse his lethargy.”

  I rushed toward him and stooped down to rub his soft head. “Oh, Ripley. Are you okay?”

  The dog licked my hand in response, and I pressed my head into his, feeling unreasonably sad. I figured there was probably more to this than compassion toward the dog, but now wasn’t the time to play psychologist.

  “Is he okay?” I asked Jackson.

  “He’s fine. The bullet just skimmed his skin. It could have been much worse.”

  “What happened?” I left a hand on Ripley’s fur, wishing I could stay here with the canine and take care of him until he was better.

  Because this felt like my fault.

  “I stopped by the house after work. I was in the kitchen when an intruder burst from the closet with a gun.”

  I could hardly breathe as I waited for him to continue.

  “He took a shot. It missed me. Hit the wall.” Jackson nodded toward a bullet hole in his plaster. “Ripley lunged toward the intruder. The man shot his leg. That gave me the chance to tackle the guy.”

  “And?” My heart thumped out of control.

  “And the man threw me off, right into my bookcase. Before I could get up, he ran from the house. I couldn’t catch him.”

  My eyes shot toward the bookcase. I saw that a picture of Jackson and his deceased wife, Claire, sat on top, the glass shattered.

  Grief gripped my heart with a ferociousness that I didn’t know existed. I’d pulled Jackson into this mess. I’d turned his life upside down. Shattered his orderly routines—his past with Claire even.

  I’d been a fool to think the two of us could work together. We were different people with different goals. My life had been tainted by Hollywood and fame and bad choices.

  Jackson . . . well, to him a promise was always a promise. He lived an honorable life, always doing the right thing. He deserved someone who didn’t turn his life upside down. Who didn’t ask him to compromise investigations. Who had a better handle on . . . well, on life.

  “Did you get a look at his face?” I finally asked, my voice cracking.

  “No, he was wearing a mask.”

  “A Barracuda?”

  “I can only assume.”

  I raked a hand through my hair. “This has to be related to the woman who pulled us over. You really are the target. I just have no idea why.”

  I was thinking aloud, and I had no hopes that Jackson would tell me anything. In fact, he probably knew way more than I assumed here, and I was the one in the dark. I wanted to ask him about the explosion in Manteo, but I knew it was useless.

  Disappointment spread through me at the realization.

  A fool . . . the word rang in my head again.

  “You’re right,” Jackson said. “For some reason, I appear to be the target.”

  I lurched back to reality. I wanted to comfort Jackson. To pull him into my arms. I wished I could snap my fingers and make everything better. For Ripley also.

  But it would do me no good to ignore my feelings of betrayal. That would only serve to repress the emotions. Jackson and I . . . we’d been a bad idea from the start. I’d just been too enamored with him to realize it.

  I patted Ripley’s head one more time and murmured words of affection in his ear. Then I stood, reality kicking in. I didn’t know when—or if—I’d ever see Ripley again.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m glad you’re both okay.”

  Jackson stared at me, the look in his gaze trance inducing. “Me too.”

  I rubbed my hands on my shorts. “I guess I should go.”

  His gaze, hot on mine, never wavered. “You don’t have to.”

  Oh, but I did. I really did. For so many reasons.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Adam agreed to meet with me the next morning. At his apartment. Which seemed a little weird.

  And I had promised Jackson that I’d try not to go anywhere alone. The key word being try. Because of that, Zane came with me.

  Adam lived in a little apartment in Manteo, near the retail and city administration area. As we drove through town, I glanced toward where the explosio
n had occurred. There was no sign now that anything had happened.

  I’d watched the news, trying to pick up on any type of clues or indicators as to motives, but the reports had been generic. One reporter had suggested it had been a faulty gas line that caused the destruction.

  Adam’s place wasn’t huge or well decorated, but it was clean—if you could ignore the empty food wrappers on the tables—Hot Pockets, Cheez-Its, and fruit snacks, which, despite what some might say, did not count as your daily serving of fruits and veggies.

  Adam was obviously an eat-on-the-run type of guy.

  “I never thought I’d have Joey Darling in my apartment,” Adam said, obviously eager and a little giddy as Zane and I stepped farther into his place. He was wearing some baggy jeans and a black Death Leopard T-shirt. Three energy-drink cans littered the table closest to him.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.” A cat rubbed against my leg, and I reached down to pet the tabby.

  Adam’s gaze traveled behind me. “And you’re Zane.”

  Zane’s eyebrows shot up quickly before he sneezed. “Have we met before?”

  “I’ve seen your pictures in the tabloids. With Joey. And I did some research after that. I know you’re a surfer and a blogger and sometimes a real estate agent.”

  Adam talked so fast that I could hardly keep up.

  Zane glanced at me. “He does his homework.”

  I was hoping that would pay off now. I turned toward Adam, ready to get down to business, when the cat brushed up against me again. No, it wasn’t the same cat. This one was a black cat.

  Zane sneezed again.

  “As I said on the phone, I need your help,” I told Adam, right after I sent an apologetic smile to Zane, who already looked miserable.

  “Anything for you. What can I do?” He picked up the cat at my feet. No, actually he didn’t. It wasn’t the black cat or the orange cat—this one was a Siamese.

  How many felines did Adam have?

  Zane sneezed yet again. This was going to be an incredibly fun visit for him. Not!

  I needed to make this quick. “There’s a crime organization—”

  “The Barracudas,” Adam finished.