Dial A for Addison

by Piper Davenport

  Well, that pissed me off. “The cops must think I’m either a complete idiot or a nutcase.”

  “Nutcase seems to be the consensus. They interviewed a couple of your coworkers.”

  “Already? It’s Saturday.”

  “And almost noon. They’ve been busy.”

  I threw my head back and stared at the ceiling, knowing I was screwed.

  “Tell me what they’ve found out. What happened after you were fired?” Asher asked.

  “I might have had a crazy red-headed white girl moment and told Kirk off,” I conceded.

  Asher sucked in a breath. “Bad timing.”

  “Hindsight. What else do they have on me?”

  He frowned. “Blood in your bathroom. They’re running tests on it to see if it matches the victim’s.”

  My stomach plunged down to the Underworld, danced a jig with Hades, and then leapt into my throat. I’d forgotten all about the blood, and the mere mention of it made me want to crawl in a hole. Didn’t jails have some sort of “hole” you could be sent to where you never had to talk to anyone ever again? That’s where I wanted to be.

  “It won’t,” I said. “It’s not Kirk’s blood.”

  “Okay, whose is it?”

  I stood and started pacing. “I can’t talk to you about that, Ash.”

  “You have to. I can’t defend you unless I know everything.”

  “Trust me, there are some things you don’t want to know.”

  Now he looked worried. “Be that as it may, as your attorney, I can assure you every word said in this room stays between us.”

  I groaned. That was exactly what I was afraid of. “I don’t want it to be between us. I don’t want you to know.”

  His brow furrowed. “You didn’t kill him, so just tell me why there’s blood all over your bathroom.”

  “I’d honestly rather get the chair.”

  He stiffened. “Not funny, Dylan. And here in Oregon, we use lethal injection.”

  I hung my head, unable to even look at him. “It’s my blood.”

  “What?” He stood. “Are you hurt? Did something happen to you?”

  “No.” I swallowed, hoping he’d get the hint.

  The look on his face told me he didn’t.

  Sighing, I added, “It’s not that kind of blood.”

  “Not that kind of… oh. Oh! How the hell did… uh. Jake said there was a significant amount of blood and… uh.” He ran a hand through his hair and looked away.

  He wanted an explanation? Apparently I wasn’t good enough for lethal injection so I’d just have to die slowly of humiliation. “Let me just preface this conversation by reminding you how much I care about the environment.”

  He faced me again, and his eyebrows were halfway up his forehead.

  Desperate to save face, I plunged ahead. “Feminine products stay in landfills forever and… and there’s this new environmentally-friendly blood bucket I was reading about on line, and—”

  “Blood bucket?” Asher blanched.

  “That’s not the real title. It’s something way more fem, but blood bucket is fitting, trust me. Especially when you’re drunk and trying to remove it for the first time ever, and there’s no string or anything and—”

  “Okay I’ve heard enough.”

  “Oh, thank God.” I collapsed back in the chair and buried my head in my hands. “Let’s never speak of this again.”

  “Since I’m confident the tests will corroborate your story, I can make you that deal.” He grabbed his briefcase from the floor and set it on top of the table. He removed a couple of prints and put them down in front of me.

  Thankful to be done with the subject of my bathroom bloodbath, I scooted forward so I could see. “I can’t believe he’s dead. I mean sure, the guy was a douchebag, but I didn’t want him dead. I just can’t figure out why he was in my apartment building. As far as I know, Kirk didn’t even know where I live, which is how I was able to sleep nights.”

  “Well we’re going to figure that out and make sure you get cleared of all charges. We need to work on your defense, so pretend I’m a jury of your peers and tell me why I should believe you didn’t kill this man.”

  I studied the crime scene photos, glossing over Kirk’s lifeless eyes, the way his body was leaning, and the knife sticking out of his chest.

  “Son of a … that is my knife.” And it bugged the heck out of me. “What kind of idiot would stab someone in the chest with a fat meat cleaver?”

  “Not the weapon you’d use?” Asher asked.

  I shook my head. “No way.”

  “Why?”

  I took a deep breath, wondering how much I could tell Asher without sounding like a total psychopath.

  “Dylan?” he asked, watching me.

  I expelled the oxygen from my lungs, blowing my bangs into the air. “Keep in mind that when he wasn’t drunk, my dad was a pretty decent butcher.”

  “Right.”

  “Which is probably why I sprung for sharp, quality knives but didn’t spend a penny on a cheap television set.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I picked up one of the pictures and pointed to the knife sticking out of Kirk’s chest. “And this is not the sort of thing the daughter of a decent butcher would do.”

  He crossed his arms, eyeballing the photos. “Explain.”

  “Based on the positioning, I can only assume Kirk’s attacker was trying to stab him in the heart. But the cut is too far off to the side, like they didn’t really know where the heart was. Your heart’s more to the center. About here.” I patted my chest. “I keep my blades sharp, but getting through the bone with the butcher knife would have taken work. It would have hurt. A lot. Even if the killer surprised him, there would have been a struggle, a chance he could have survived, and it would have taken too long. I have a really thin fillet knife that would have slipped right between the fourth and fifth ribs and pierced his heart, easier than bobbing for an apple.”

  Asher sucked in a breath, and I realized I’d lunged over the psychopath line.

  “It would have been quick and easy and he wouldn’t have suffered long. I’m not cruel, Ash.”

  His eyes widened. “Perhaps this isn’t the best approach to take with the jury.”

  Addison

  AFTER STOPPING HOME to change my clothes and grab my gun, I did some shopping and then headed back to the jail. The gun might be a little overkill, but I had to find a way to get locked up with Dylan. If they didn’t check my purse right off, I was confident the metal detectors would freak out, which meant they’d cuff me and book me... at least that was my hope.

  I was a little surprised to see Jake speaking with someone behind the counter, and even more surprised when he stopped his conversation to watch me.

  “Can I help you?”

  I focused on the uniformed officer asking me the question and smiled. “Hi. I’m here to see Dylan James.”

  Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she asked, “Purpose of visit?”

  “I brought her a change of clothes and some food.”

  “I’ve got this, Roxi,” Jake said.

  I hadn’t noticed him approach, but I certainly noticed him now. Good lord, just as sexy as before.

  “Come with me, Addison.”

  I nodded and followed him to a private room off the lobby where he waved me to a chair. I sat down, cradling my purse, the bag with the change of clothes, and muffins on my lap. He perched on the edge of the table and crossed his arms. “What are you doing?”

  “What do you mean? I’m here to see Dylan. I brought her a change of clothes and a toothbrush, since I’m assuming you snatched her from her bed before she could freshen up.”

  He nodded to the muffins. “And the contraband?”

  I gasped. “What? These are muffins. Not contraband.”

  “May I have one?”

  I shifted in my seat. “I... ah... no. I’m sorry. They’re for Dylan.”

  He raised an eyebrow and leaned forward a l
ittle. “Addison, what’s in those muffins?”

  I raised the plastic top and began to read the ingredients off the broken label.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Oh. Well, what did you mean?” My heart raced, and I felt a sheen of sweat break out on my upper lip.

  He held his hand out, but I pulled the muffins closer. His voice dipped low as he said, “Addison.”

  With a huff, I handed him the muffins. He set them on the table and popped open the container, shoving a finger into the middle of one.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded. “That’s for Dylan.”

  He pulled out a small nail file and chuckled. “Really, Addison?”

  I bit my lip and shrugged. “What? She likes to have nice nails.”

  “So, you hid it in a muffin?”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure if you’d confiscate it or not.”

  “You are aware that something this flimsy couldn’t saw through the prison bars, right?” He waved the file in the air. “However, and not that I think you’d do this, it could be used as a weapon.”

  “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” I sat up a little straighter and held my arms out to him, wrists up. “Maybe I am trying to get a weapon to her. You better handcuff me and take me to my cell... the same one you have Dylan in.”

  He nodded toward my purse. “What’s in the purse, Addison?”

  “My wallet, keys, tampons and such.”

  “Did you go home and grab your gun?”

  “How do you know I have a gun?” I slapped my hand over my mouth, realizing I just gave away information. Even though I joked about my firearm with Dylan and Asher, I took owning a gun pretty seriously, particularly since I had a conceal permit, so it wasn’t something I advertised. “I mean, what gun?”

  “Addison, I’m a detective, and I like to think I’m a pretty good one. I did a background check on you and noticed you have a concealed carrier permit. I’m guessing you have your Walther CCP nine-millimeter in your bag as we speak.”

  “Does that mean you’ll arrest me now? Will I have to go to booking? I brought baby wipes just in case I have to be fingerprinted.” I shuddered. “I’d hate to have black all over my hands.” I rose to my feet, setting my purse on the chair. “Before you take me, will you please give my bag to Asher? I’d rather not check it in, or whatever you do with personal effects.”

  Jake leveled a stare at me. “I should arrest you just for being a pain in my ass.”

  My heart sank. “But you’re not going to, are you?”

  He grew serious and shook his head. “I know who your father is, and I like my badge a little too much to get into a pissing match with you. Besides, you do not want an arrest on your record. Trust me on this.”

  “I have to see her.”

  “You can’t right now. She’s talking with her lawyer.”

  “Well, then I can see her when he’s done, right?”

  “I’m sorry, Addison, even if she wasn’t with Asher, social visitation is already in progress.” He handed me a flyer on visiting procedures. “Hours are nine a.m. to two fifteen p.m. then again from four fifteen to nine thirty p.m. on Saturdays and Sundays. Come about thirty minutes early and check in at the desk over there.”

  I flopped back onto the seat and dropped my head in my hands, forcing back tears. “You don’t understand, Jake. She’s innocent, and I have to help her.”

  “How about this,” he said, pulling a chair up to face mine and sitting in it. “We can’t allow anything from outside, but you can put money on her account and she can use it to buy snacks, an extra blanket, anything she needs.”

  “You sound like my dad.”

  “I do?”

  I nodded. “He, too, likes to throw money at problems and hope they go away.” I sat up straight and looked him in the eyes. “But Dylan’s not a problem. She’s the kindest, most real person I’ve ever met, and she doesn’t deserve to be behind bars.”

  “If you’re right and she didn’t kill her boss—”

  “Ex-boss, and she didn’t.”

  “Then the system will work. We’ll find who did.”

  “And in the meantime, my friend will have to sit in jail like some common criminal. So much for innocent until proven guilty.”

  Feeling helpless, I dropped my gaze and picked invisible lint from my jeans.

  “Hey.” He tugged on my hand, pulling my attention back to him. “We’re gonna do everything we can for Ms. James.”

  “For Dylan,” I said, reminding him she was a human being with a first name.

  “For Dylan,” he conceded. “And I promise to personally keep an eye on her and make sure she’s okay.”

  I met his eyes. “You’d do that?”

  “Yeah.”

  I bit my lip and nodded. “Thanks.”

  He gave me a gentle smile. “You’re welcome.”

  “What are the odds of seeing Dylan before you take her back to her cell?”

  Jake checked his watch. “The next visiting hours start at four fifteen. Show up here by three forty-five and I’ll make sure you’re in with the first group to go back.”

  “Are you sure I can’t go in there now?” I begged.

  “I’m sure.” He rose to his feet and held his hand out to me. “Come on, I’ll show you to the kiosk where you can put money on Ms… on Dylan’s account. Then I’ll walk you out.”

  He helped me through the process, leaning over me to swipe my card. His scent lingered. Soap and man combined with just a hint of cologne worked well for him and I was momentarily lost in his spell. When we were done, he saw me to my car and opened the door for me. As I got behind the wheel, he paused.

  “You’re a good friend, Addison.”

  I didn’t feel like a good friend. A good friend would have been able to get Dylan out of jail. If I was a great friend, I would have insisted Dylan stay at my house last night and we could have avoided this whole debacle. Still, he was being incredibly sweet, and I appreciated it.

  “Thanks, but don’t tell anyone. My friend’s list is full.”

  He chuckled. “Your secret’s safe with me.

  Then he shut my car door and I drove home. I was done with Dylan being all independent and shit. That girl was moving in with me, and I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  After stopping home for a couple of suitcases, I grabbed the key to Dylan’s apartment and headed back to my car, calling Asher on my way. It was a bit of a sneaky move because I knew he was meeting with Dylan, which meant he couldn’t object. Still, I wanted him to know where I was just in case. I got his voice mail, so I left him a message, giving him a very vague description of what I was doing, and drove into the bowels of Portland. I shuddered as I pulled into the parking lot of Dylan’s dumpy apartment complex.

  I prayed no one would steal my car as I grabbed the suitcases and dashed toward Dylan’s building. The front door was propped open, which was weird since you were supposed to have a code (which I did) or you had to be buzzed in to gain access, but apparently someone had decided to work around the system.

  Bolstered by righteous indignation at the thought of my best friend living in such a shithole with such thoughtless people, I climbed the stairs to the second floor (the elevator was out of service... again), and turned right. Yellow crime scene tape blocked off the stained floor of the hallway. I forced down bile as I hugged the opposite wall and tiptoed past. The tape also blocked off Dylan’s door, which was busted. I pocketed my unneeded key and stepped over the tape, pushing the door open.

  I rarely came here, mostly because Dylan hated it almost as much as I did, but as I glanced around the small studio, I burst into tears. The place was trashed. Apparently, the police or whoever searched her apartment had no regard for any of her treasures, few might they be, but they were still hers. “Animals,” I whispered.

  Squaring my shoulders, I set a suitcase in the kitchen and walked the two feet to her bed, setting the other suitcase on it and
propping it open. I raided the hangers and built-in drawers in her closet, pulling out every stitch of clothing and packing it away. She didn’t own much, so between her clothes and her four pairs of shoes, there was still plenty of room left in the first suitcase.

  Determined to grab everything else of value, I wrapped clothing around her framed photos (one of her and her deceased mother... the rest were of her and me, or her and me and Asher) and her favorite snow globes she’d managed to keep from breaking in all of her moves. I checked her bathroom, but there was blood on the floor, so I didn’t go in. Besides, I knew there was nothing in there I couldn’t easily replace with a quick trip to Target.

  I glanced around, wondering what else I should nab. Dylan wasn’t attached to the bedding we both referred to as the “grandma threw up flowers” comforter and scratchy sheets, so I left those behind. From here on out, she’d be sleeping on thousand-thread-count Egyptian sheets and down duvets. I’d already found a duvet cover I knew she’d love.

  She didn’t own a television, but she did have a customized laptop for gaming that she kept hidden under her bed. Yes, my bestie was a closet geek. Shaking my head at the habit I could never understand, I searched for the laptop, but it wasn’t there.

  Irritated that either cops or robbers must have gotten to the computer first, I closed the suitcase, set it behind the kitchen island with the other one, and began to go through her cabinets. That’s when all hell broke loose.

  It started with voices in the hallway. Fearing that the cops had returned—and still uncertain about the legality of what I was doing—I hunkered down behind the island.

  What if it’s not the cops?

  I had been watching a lot of murder shows lately, and the murderer always returned to the scene of the crime, so I fished my gun out of my purse just in case.

  The door squeaked open and the sound of footfalls came closer. Cursing Dylan’s tiny apartment, I stayed low and peeked around the island. All I could see was a pair of black-jeaned legs and what looked like motorcycle boots, then another set of blue-jeaned legs with Nikes.

  Definitely not cops, and so they had no right to be in Dylan’s apartment without her consent. I leaned back and clicked the safety off my gun, ready to defend myself if either of the intruders came at me.