by Sex, Nikki
Jack was firm and tried to speak as calmly and clearly as he could without letting the nervousness creep into his voice.
"This is Jack Curren. I need police and an ambulance at—Laura, what's the address here?" She mumbled out the street and number and he relayed it to the operator.
"Honey, just what is going on down there?" The operator didn't seem too impressed. "Why you think you need all of that in that little old quiet corner?"
"Lady, I got a hallway full of blood and a dead guy with his throat cut ear to ear and I just walked into the God forsaken place. So please don't give me any crap because I’m not up for it. Get police and paramedics down here right fucking now!"
"Holy shit!" Now, the 911 operator sounded more interested. Jack had a mental image of her spilling coffee on herself, as she yanked her feet off the desk. "How many people hurt? Is there still a suspect at large?
Suspect at large? How much TV did this lady watch?
"One man dead and I don't know. How the Hell would I know? Just send me some cops."
As he hung up the phone, he could still hear the operator sputtering and stammering through the speaker.
He pulled Laura to him and held her tight while they waited. The way the blood had clotted, whoever cut the old man was long gone by now and he wasn't worried about him, or them, at the moment.
The sound of sirens pierced the air.
New Bern was obviously a small town and it was apparent that stuff like this certainly didn't happen every day.
When Jack looked out the window on top of the landing and saw a half dozen cop cars and three ambulances roar up to the front door. Two or three even bumped fenders when they stopped.
Instantly, a swarm of armed policemen rushed the front door and piled up the stairs. They surrounded Jack and Laura, guns drawn, and shouted at them to lay on the floor. Jack continued to hold Laura and jerked his head in the direction of Ron's body.
"He's over there, we just found him. The guy was her friend so give us a break for Christ's sake."
A gaggle of younger officers stomped down the hall and, by the braying sounds that swiftly came back, had found the body. They were as excited as a pack of hounds on a new scent.
Much more shouting ensued and much more running back and forth.
Jack and Laura were forgotten after the EMT came by and gave them a clean bill of health. The EMT recommended that they just throw away their clothes—the stains would never come out.
After that, they just sat there and nobody paid them any attention—they were all too busy dusting for finger prints here and laying police tape there.
Jack doubted they would have this much excitement for a long, long time and they obviously wanted to make the most of it.
Eventually someone came to get their statement. Unlike the young and excited cops, this one looked like he'd been on the beat since the Emancipation Proclamation.
A couple inches shy of six-feet, and maybe one-hundred and fifty pounds, his clothes hung loosely upon his slim frame. His weathered walnut-brown face looked as if he’s seen everything, and many things more than once.
If it wasn’t for his glasses, Jack would have said the man reminded him of an older version of Colombo. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere than here at this crime scene.
"Detective Frank Dewitt. I'm with homicide, or what passes for that department around here anyway. I also cover drugs and auto theft. So. Mind if I ask you two a few questions?"
"Sure," said Jack.
Laura, clearly still in shock, just nodded.
Jack was worried about her. Particularly as she obviously knew what was going on and she had a good idea about why Ron was dead.
Jack had no doubt that Laura had vital information toward solving the crime. The question was, how would he feel when he found out what she knew?
Chapter 37.
"OK, so the boys tell me that you just walked in and found the victim?"
"Yes, sir," said Jack.
"And you are?"
"Lieutenant Commander Jack Curren. I'm a doctor with the Navy."
Jack fished out his ID and passed it to the man. He looked like the sort of guy that respected titles and positions—very old school and traditional. By the way his eyebrows raised when the cop looked over his military ID, Jack knew he was right.
"So, an officer and a doctor, eh? That's really somthin'." He handed the ID back. "So, I guess if anyone was to know that the decedent was dead when he found him, that'd be you."
"Of course. As soon as I walked in, I knew that there was nothing anyone could do to help him, so we backed out and called you. We tried not to contaminate the scene but Laura had already slipped and fallen right near him. She's been very upset."
"Who wouldn't? So, did you see anything odd Miss—?"
"Mrs." Laura replied. "Mrs. Laura Wynn."
Looking puzzled, the officer glanced at Jack, and then back to Laura, since Jack’s last name was Curren. Understandably, he must’ve been wondering about their connection.
"Wynn?"
"Widowed," Jack said. “A while ago now.”
"Oh, sorry to hear that," the officer said, looking a bit more relaxed once the potentially awkward situation was resolved. "So, did you notice anything strange or hear anything?"
"No," Jack said. "We met early this morning to go to the beach and were gone all day. It was late when we got back. We walked up the stairs and right into this mess."
"So, then you walked down the hall and happened to find the body?"
"It was an obvious blood trail. I saw them a lot overseas."
"So, you were in Iraq?" The officer scribbled in his notebook as he said this.
Detective Dewitt’s strange fondness for saying the word “so” was kind of distracting. Jack idly wondered if he was trying to spell Iraq.
"Yes."
"So, why follow it? Why not just call the police? A lot of blood in the hall would be reason enough."
Jack wasn't sure if he should tell the man about Laura's reaction. That might make him ask a Hell of a lot more questions. Ones she might not want to answer. He'd fallen for her and he intended to protect her as best he could. He couldn't do that if the police separated them.
Jack thought it better to jump on the proverbial grenade and keep the focus on him. He could sort things out later.
"Like I said, we went down to the beach this morning, sort of a spur of the moment thing and we were gone all day."
"So, I'm sure you have proof of that."
Jack nodded. "I've got receipts from the surfboard rental shop and the park gate down at Atlantic Beach.” He pulled them out of his wallet. “There. That shows you I'm telling you the truth. Why ask that anyway? We called you guys."
"Oh, I'm not accusing you of anything. Just trying to get everything clear. So, I’m covering all of the bases."
"Well," Jack went on, "there isn't much more I can tell you. We went out, we came back, and we found everything the way you see it here. I called 911 immediately."
"So, do you know anybody who had a beef with the deceased? He had a perfect record, you know. I doubt he was involved with anything illegal."
"I didn't know him at all. I don't live here. Just visiting."
Jack remembered what Ron had said to him when they met. Some junkie was here a while ago, giving her a hard time. Scared her half to death. He meet Laura’s gaze with a speaking look. It was up to her to talk about it.
"Jonah Lacks did it," Laura said in a small voice.
Both men turned to look at her. "Excuse me?" asked the detective.
"Jonah Lacks." Laura straightened up from her huddle on the floor and looked directly at Dewitt. She seemed to have recovered her composure.
"He’s an ex-boyfriend of mine. A violent, possessive, no-good junky. That’s why I left him."
Jack looked at Laura, stunned by this revelation.
"So, you think this Jonah had something to do with it?" Dewitt crouched down so he was eye to eye with her.
Laura averted her face, picking at some of Ron's blood that had dried into a crust on her leg. "I hadn't seen him in a long time. I'd thought he'd forgotten about me. Lacks just showed up a few weeks ago, demanding money...and sex. He got rough."
"So… you made a report about this guy?" Dewitt asked.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Why bother? What would I get for it? A restraining order? What would a piece of paper do for me when he came around again?"
The detective frowned. "So, you should’ve filed a report, so we could’ve picked him up. So, if he'd been violent, he'd be in jail right now."
Dewitt's expression was grave. He’d used the word ‘so’ three times in two short sentences, which seemed a higher rate than usual. Maybe he was disturbed about her doubts concerning the effectiveness of the police.
Laura gave him a sarcastic little laugh. "I don't believe that for a second."
"OK," Dewitt let the comment slide. "So, what does this have to do with the deceased?"
Anger burned in her green eyes. "Ron came out of his place when my ex turned up. He must've heard us arguing—Jonah didn’t get into my apartment—I fought with him and refused to let him inside. Ron made Jonah go away."
"How? He's an old guy. From the looks of the body, he didn't hold his own very well."
Laura grimaced. "He could hold his own really well with a gun in his hand."
Dewitt raised bushy eyebrows. "So, the deceased was armed?"
"Yes, he had a pistol. Jonah took one look at it and was out the door. Ron scared him away, but Jonah said he'd be back to get even. That's why I think he did this."
"So, Mrs. Wynn, where is the gun now?"
Laura looked down at the floor and didn't answer.
"Mrs. Wynn?"
"I don't know. I didn't know Ron even had one, much less where he kept it. Why would I know?"
"I'm just asking..."
"Well, I don't know," Laura snapped at the detective, meeting his gaze. "Why are you giving me a hard time? I said I don't know. Why are you worrying about Ron's gun when you should be out looking for Jonah?"
Dewitt made an apologetic gesture with his notepad. "A description would help us out.”
"Yeah, sure."
Laura gave Dewitt an extremely detailed description of Jonah including, much to Jack's embarrassment, tattoos on his shoulders, buttocks and groin. When she was done, Dewitt flipped his notebook closed.
"OK, we'll put this description out and get the boys out looking for him. So, don't worry. We'll get him."
"I think you will. Lacks may be violent and dangerous, but he’s also an idiot. He’s lost whatever brain cells he ever had from sniffing too many drugs."
Dewitt stood up. "Mrs. Wynn, you probably shouldn't be at home for the next few days or at least until we get this Jonah character off the street. So, there’re a couple of women's shelters in town. I could take you to one."
"That won't be necessary," Laura said.
"I insist," replied the detective. "You can’t stay here. From the evidence it looks as if he was trying to break your door down when the deceased interfered. So, if he was mad enough to do this to your neighbor, he's likely to come back and do the same to you. It really isn't safe."
"She can stay with me," Jack interjected. "I've got a room down at the Suites. It has a bedroom and a sitting room. I can take the couch. She'll be safe."
“So,” Dewitt said with a frown, looking from Laura, to Jack, and back again. "You'd feel comfortable staying with this man, Mrs. Wynn?"
"Sure. We're good friends; we've known each other a long time. I trust him."
The detective sighed and shook his head. "So, suit yourself." He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small cardboard card, and gave it to Laura. "My number's on the front. Call me for anything, day or night. When you get settled in, leave me a message so I know you're OK. Please stay inside for now."
Laura took the card. "Thanks. I will."
The detective left them in the hallway. Laura stood up and, with shaking fingers, tried unsuccessfully to unlock the door to her apartment.
Jack took her keys from her hand and opened the door for her. "I meant it. You can stay with me. I'll take the couch and give you any space you need."
"I know Jack, thanks. I'm going to take you up on it. I just need to get a few things, OK?"
"Right. Want me to wait outside?"
"Don't be silly, come in and sit down. I'll pack a bag. I really don't want to be alone right now."
"I understand."
Laura led him inside and turned toward him. “I don't see that there’s any way you could understand—not at all, but thank you for saying so. I’d hug you if I could, but this blood…” She shook her head. “I have to have a shower and change these clothes."
Jack sat down heavily on the couch and watched Laura walk into the shower. He recognized the signs—he saw them in the mirror when he looked at himself most days.
Right now he was looking at a woman with a truck load of guilt, either real or imagined. A woman with secrets—a woman in trouble
And she’s also the woman I love, he told himself. So, he thought, remembering Detective Dewitt and his penchant for the word.
So what? We’ll sort it all out together.
Chapter 38.
Laura’s stomach twisted and her eyes stung. The image of Ron lying dead with a slit throat simply wouldn’t leave her mind. The look in his blank, open eyes, the blood, his body… it was terrible—terrible!
My poor friend, Ron. He was such a good guy. A great guy.
It was obvious what had happened. Jonah had been making a lot of noise while trying to kick in the door to her apartment. Ron, her self-appointed watchdog, had come out to scare him away.
Ron had been trying to protect her, but he didn’t have his gun!
Jonah had only once raised a hand to her when she was with him. One slap and she was outta there for good. He never used to be violent, but somehow he’d been capable of this.
Jonah had clearly lost it. The man she’d once known was long gone.
Laura took a long shower and had a big, long cry.
Then, with practiced experience, she forced every thought of Ron and the implications of what had happened to him—including her part in his death—aside to deal with later.
Why did this kind of shit keep happening to her?
No. No, I can’t think like that. If I do I’ll go mad. Put it away, Laura, she told herself.
If she was going to survive this latest crisis, she had to be levelheaded. Dressed in a bathrobe, she went into her bedroom—well, more like "bed closet."
It was small, but neat and well kept. Orderly. That's the way she liked it. She'd grown up amongst chaos, uncertainty, and so much anger, fear and worry, that as an adult, she needed everything to be organized.
It gave her the illusion of having control over the little that she had in her life.
Everything had to have its purpose and its place. Jonah had been a bad choice and a mistake. She'd let his lazy, scruffy version of disorder into her deliberately crafted world of calm solitude.
At first she’d thought Bob had been a mistake, too.
Laura was surprised that she'd allowed Bob into her life. After the disaster with Jonah, she’d sworn off dating men.
Bob had been the opposite of Jonah. Where Jonah had become more and more cynical and contemptuous of almost everything and everyone, Bob had been trusting, idealistic and upbeat. And he was tidy—something else she could identify with.
Kindhearted and easy, Bob had been a little island of untouched innocence in a maelstrom of uncertainty, fatigue and doubt.
A fucking load of good that got him.
Laura pulled a gym bag out from under her bed then opened drawer after drawer. Socks, slacks, shorts, shirts, underwear—a girl can't have enough clean underwear—went into the bag.
In Bob’s case, she'd found that “goodness” got you a shitload o
f dirt shoveled in your face at the end. That's all good guys seemed to get—nothing. The Bible said that the meek shall inherit the earth. What a load of bullshit. What it meant to say was that the meek will inherit dirt.
Toothbrush from the nightstand. Spare shampoo, deodorant and toothpaste from the "extra toiletries" drawer—all stuffed into a flimsy canvas bag. It was exactly like the night she finally gave it all up and left her mother's trailer.
She’d taken even less when she left Jonah.
Running away. Again. Running away to what?
That was the question. She'd left her mother with absolutely no idea where she was going or what she was going to do.
It'd been hard but she did it, all by herself—at least until she screwed it up. Leaving Jonah had been easier.
Was she screwing up now? She wasn't sure. What she did know was that now, just like the earlier times, anything had to be better than where she was at that moment.
A shiver of dread ran through her body as the image of Ron came into her thoughts. If she’d been home, if Ron hadn’t been there, and if she hadn’t been able to get to Ron’s gun, would she be lying there dead?
This time I’m running for my life.
Bastards get away with anything until someone stops him. They prosper while nice men fold.
Jonah was a bastard.
Ron would have stopped him—if he’d had his gun.
Pain stabbed at her. Her hand went to her chest where she rubbed just over her breastbone. It wasn’t a heart attack, but she was heartbroken.
Searing guilt slipped out from the box where she’d carefully locked it. It burned through her and for a long moment she hated herself.
Why had she ever gone out with Jonah? Had she actually been attracted to him? Ever? He was always a selfish asshole. Maybe she didn't feel worthy of anyone better, deep in the back of her mind. Was he some type of self-inflicted punishment?
Psychobabble bullshit, Laura reassured herself.
Jonah was different before drugs, she reminded herself. Just like her mother had been.
“Bad boys” had never attracted Laura. They seemed to have an odd type of magnetic appeal for many women, but she'd never felt that pull.