Don't Breathe a Word: Includes a bonus novella (Texas Justice Book 2)

by Christie Craig

  He almost confided in his partners about his suspicions, but considering his proof was only an offhand remark and the name drop of Phoenix, he didn’t have much. Well, other than his gut.

  “Did you speak to Noel’s parents?” Juan asked. Mark busied himself shutting down his computer, getting ready to leave. Since Annie moved in with him and he’d started playing in a band, Mark left at five o’clock every day. When Juan had teased him about it, Mark had told him he’d found out there was more to life than work. He suggested Juan give it a try.

  Juan hadn’t had a comeback. It hurt remembering when he’d had more than his work but didn’t value it nearly enough. When the love of his work cost him everything.

  “Went by twice,” Mark offered.

  Juan straightened the files on his desk. He couldn’t complain about Mark’s schedule. He was one of the best detectives Juan had ever met. Juan was even glad Mark had found a life, one that included a woman.

  “I think they both work,” Mark continued. “You should try them tonight. Also, Cindy Bates is no longer at the address you sent. She moved shortly after her friend went missing. Neighbors said the owner of her rental has moved back and is living there now. I got his name in my car, I’ll text it to you. You might want to run by there, too.”

  “I will.” Juan only dreaded it a little.

  Mark turned to Connor. “How did the prison interviews go?”

  “I got nothing, but a couple sure seemed interested in why I was asking. Which makes me think they know something. One has a parole hearing coming up. I told him we’d put in a good word for him if he talked, but he didn’t budge.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Mark stood up. “Oh.” He looked back at Juan. “I got the DNA back on the Jacobs case we talked about last month. I want to start running down a few of the old witnesses.”

  “We going to run with both cases?” Connor asked.

  “Yeah, I think it’s doable, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.” Connor and Juan nodded. Juan knew the evidence in the Noel case was light. Either one of the few leads would open a door or they’d come against a wall. Not that they came to a lot of walls.

  In the sixteen months he’d worked here, they’d solved five cases, and only reshelved two. Their success had caused a stir in the media, and they’d been dubbed the Three Musketeers.

  While validating their worthiness to the department felt good, Juan could have done without the press.

  Mark stood. “Hopefully by Monday I’ll get you the Jacobs info so you can work your Internet magic.”

  “Sounds good,” Juan said.

  “Oh.” Mark looked back. “We’re still on for poker at your place Sunday, right?”

  “Sure.” Not that he’d recalled until now.

  “Good. My pockets are getting empty.” Mark walked out.

  Juan refocused on the Noel file.

  “So this neighbor who beat you up, was she pretty?” Connor asked. “Billy said she was hot. Is she single?”

  Juan glanced up. “Is every woman a conquest to you?”

  “Yeah.” Connor smiled. “Why? You calling dibs?”

  “I’m calling bullshit. You can’t go sniffing around my neighbor to get lucky. Besides, she has a kid.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  “Right. Probably not your type.” Eager to move the subject off his neighbor, he added, “You mostly date engaged or married women.”

  “No. For the tenth time, I didn’t know she was engaged. And if by married you mean Becky Summers, she was separated.”

  Juan closed his file. “Yeah, but her husband just lived in her garage.”

  Connor frowned. “Why is it you remember more about my dating life than I do?”

  Juan laughed. “You just don’t remember because you only go into relationships you know have expiration dates.”

  “And I think you remember because you’re living vicariously through me.”

  “Yeah. I want to be stranded in my underwear, hiding in bushes, calling you to come rescue me at two in the morning.”

  “Hey.” Connor held up a hand. “Up until then, that night was memorable.”

  Juan chuckled. “All I know is I’ll never forget it.”

  “And you don’t plan on letting me, either, right?”

  Juan laughed. That was the thing about Connor. While he went through women like cheap toothpicks, the ones he dated didn’t seem to want or expect anything different from him.

  Juan’s phone dinged with a text.

  “What? Your neighbor wanting round two?”

  “No. It’s Mark with the name of Bates’s landlord.”

  “You want me to go there?” Connor leaned his big frame back in his desk chair and set it to squeaking. The man was six four and still looked like the football player he’d been in college.

  As tempting as it was for Juan to say yes, the address was on the same side of town as Noel’s parents. “Nah, I got it.”

  “Okay.” Connor sounded surprised.

  And deep down, Juan supposed he was as well. For the first time, he wondered if perhaps Murdock’s pressure for him to get out more was finally taking effect.

  * * *

  Juan showed up at the Noels’ doorstep at six-thirty. The lights were on. He just hoped he wasn’t interrupting dinner. He’d gone by Cindy Bates’s former address, but Rodger Henley, the owner, hadn’t been home. Juan left his card and a note asking Rodger to call him about one of his past renters.

  He knocked. A few moments later, the door swung open. A girl, with a big toothy grin and pigtails, smiled up at him. But as soon as her stare reached his face, that grin vanished. Her eyes widened, no doubt at seeing his scar. Automatically he turned his face to hide the scar.

  “Who is it?” called a voice behind the girl.

  An older man appeared in the doorway. She turned and wrapped her arms around his thighs. “He’s scary.” Her muffled words hit Juan in the gut.

  “Run along to your grandma,” the man said.

  “I’m sorry.” Juan turned so the man would understand why his granddaughter had been so frightened.

  “No,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry. Kids.”

  “I understand,” Juan assured him. And he did. “My name is Juan Acosta. I’m with the Anniston PD, the Cold Case Unit.”

  The man’s eyes took on the same frightened glint as the child’s. Only this time, Juan knew it wasn’t from his scar. “You found Abby?”

  “No, sir. But we’re looking into the case. And we’d like to ask you a few questions. I tried to call.”

  “Oh. Come on in.” He led Juan into the living room, where the child waited with an older woman. “Lacy, go play on your swing set for a few minutes, okay?”

  As soon as the back door clicked shut, the woman got tears in her eyes. “You found her?”

  “No,” her husband assured her. “But he’s looking into the investigation.”

  She wiped a tear from her cheek and waved a hand to the sofa. “Please sit down.”

  Right when Juan got settled, she spoke again. “I’ve seen you and your partners on the news. I called several times.”

  “We got your calls. That’s what brought the case to our attention.” Along with the ties to Guzman.

  She sat up straighter. “I know my husband will argue with me, but I believe she’s still alive. I think a mother would know that.”

  Mr. Noel let out a sad sound. “It’s been five years, Brenda. And even you say nothing could have kept her from Lacy.”

  The woman put a hand over her lips and more tears filled her eyes. “It’s hard. I see her sometimes. In a crowd.”

  Mr. Noel looked at Juan. “We need closure. We need to bury our daughter.”

  Juan nodded. “I understand.” And he did. He often went to Angie’s grave just to say he was sorry. “I’ve gone over the files, but it always helps to speak to the families again.”

  Mr. Noel frowned. “Abby had so much going for her. When she got into drugs, she mad
e mistakes. A lot of them. But she didn’t deserve whatever happened to her.”

  “She has so much talent. She can sing. Has the voice of an angel. She’s so good at art. People have said terrible things about her, but she’s a good girl.” Mrs. Noel shot up and grabbed a couple of framed photos from the fireplace mantel and handed them to Juan.

  One showed a young woman with a baby. Abby and her daughter. The other was of a younger Abby wearing a cheerleader outfit. Her long blond hair hung down past her shoulders. Her blue eyes showed so much life. Hope for the future. One that drugs ended. She held out her hand, showing something. He studied the photo. It was a rabbit’s foot.

  “Was there anyone who you felt wanted to hurt her? Anyone you now look back and are suspicious about?”

  “Not any more than before,” the father said. “She had a new boyfriend, a guy named Cheng Liu. Cops claimed he was a drug dealer. He was found murdered. We just assumed Abby’s disappearance had to do with that.”

  “What about her friend Cindy Bates?” Juan asked.

  “I don’t think she’d hurt Abby,” her mom said. “They were close. Abby called Cindy her twin friend. Kind of looked alike and said they were both interested in music, art, and writing. To this day Cindy sends Abby’s daughter, Lacy, birthday cards with poems and a five-dollar bill.”

  Really? “How long were they friends?” Juan asked.

  “Not long,” her father said. “She worked with Abby at the Black Diamond. We never even met her.”

  “Did she spend time with Abby’s daughter?”

  “It’s possible. Lacy lived with us,” her mom said. “But Abby would come get her and take her places sometimes.”

  Mr. Noel spoke up. “Personally, I have always found it odd that she keeps sending cards. And her poems are weird.”

  “Weird like how?” Juan asked.

  “It’s just poetry,” Mrs. Noel said. “Abby used to write, too.”

  “Did you keep any of the cards?”

  “Yes, I saved them all. One came just last week for Lacy’s birthday.” She walked out to get it.

  “We need closure,” Mr. Noel repeated. “Someone needs to pay for hurting my daughter.”

  Juan nodded. Mrs. Noel returned with an envelope. Could he get so lucky that there’d be a return address? “The others are here somewhere. I thought they were in the kitchen drawer, but I don’t see them. I’ll call you when I find them.”

  Ten minutes later, Juan stood to leave. He placed the frames back on the mantel and took a few seconds to scan the other photos. All were of either Abby or Abby with family.

  Mrs. Noel walked up. She touched the photo of Abby in her cheerleading outfit, holding out the rabbit’s foot. “She made the cheerleading team that day. She said it was her lucky rabbit’s foot. She took that thing everywhere after that. Her grandmother gave it to her before she died.”

  “And it sure as hell didn’t bring her much luck,” Mr. Noel said.

  Mrs. Noel frowned. “You don’t know that. She could be alive.”

  When Juan walked out, he left with even more questions swirling around his head. There was no return address on the envelope, but Mr. Bates had been right. The poetry was odd.

  You lost your mother way too soon

  I lost my friend and the pain still looms

  I hear her voice

  She still sings

  Under the sun

  Under the moon

  Where the flowers are still in bloom

  Juan couldn’t help but wonder what compelled Bates to continue to send money, birthday cards, and poems to a child so many years after her mother’s disappearance.

  The obvious answer was guilt. Bates either participated in Noel’s death, or knew something.

  He was betting on the latter.

  * * *

  The lights were low, except for on the stage. The tables closest to the entertainment were crowded with men drunk on whiskey and near-naked women. Music, sultry but too loud, seemed forced into the room. With the sound came filtered cold air that smelled like sweat, smoke, alcohol, and hormones.

  Juan moved to the table farthest away from the stage. He wasn’t here to watch.

  It had been five years since the officer noted that Bates was employed here. But since the postmark on the card sent to the Noels was from Anniston, and since there was only one strip joint in town, she might not have found other work.

  To this day Juan recalled the talk Christina, his sister-in-law, had given him when she’d found out he and some friends had used fake IDs to get into this very place. “You are too young, and bad things happen there!”

  It wasn’t until years later that Juan learned Christina’s sister had worked here and some coworkers had gotten her hooked on drugs. She’d died somewhere in here, in a back room.

  A waitress with hair the color of cherry cotton candy, wearing little on the bottom and even less on top, spotted him and started swaying seductively his way. As she moved her hips, she balanced an empty tray on her fingertips.

  “Hi, I’m Star. What can I get you, pretty boy?” She stopped in front of him, her belly button ring winking in the light.

  The use of his old nickname stung more than her flinch when she spotted his scar. But her recovery came quick. A recovery that included her leaning in. The shift offered Juan a better view of her breasts. “I’ve always thought scars are sexy.”

  His only answer was a quick nod.

  She inched up. “What would you like to drink?”

  He pulled out his wallet and dropped three twenties on the table.

  She frowned. “I don’t do dances.”

  “I don’t want a dance. Just a few answers.”

  “I serve drinks. I don’t do answers.”

  He added another twenty.

  “You’re a cop?” It was more of a question than an accusation.

  From his pocket, he pulled out the picture of Cindy he’d printed from the DMV files. “Does Cindy still work here?”

  Her eyes shifted to the picture, and then to the money on the table. “That’s all you want to know?”

  “And where I might find her.”

  “Why don’t you just talk to the manager?”

  “I’m going to, but I figured her peers knew her better than he did.”

  She lifted a well-defined brow and looked around to see if anyone was watching. “You got a few more bills in that wallet?”

  He pulled one more out.

  She brought the tray down and pulled a pen from behind her ear, as if taking his drink order. “Is she in trouble?”

  “Not really. I just need to speak to her.”

  She hesitated. “Cindy left last week. Management fired her because she was losing it.” She twirled the pen in tight circles by her temple. “And she lives in…” She picked up his money. “West Mount Apartments on Simon Street. Or she did. I gave her a lift home one night when her car broke down. And you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “Got it,” he said. “Was she close friends with anyone here?”

  She leaned in one more time. “No, she was a loner.”

  He handed her his card. “If you see Cindy, tell her to call me. Or you call me.”

  She smiled. “What if I called you for reasons not involving Cindy?”

  “I’m just looking for her,” he said.

  Offering a slight nod, more amused than disappointed, she walked away.

  He watched her leave, disturbed by what he felt. Or what he didn’t feel. Why was he ten times more tempted by a neighbor dressed in a loose nightshirt than a woman in tight shorts and a top with her breasts on display?

  Pushing his drink away, he stood to go have a chat with Black Diamond’s manager.

  Chapter Five

  Vicki put Bell to bed at nine. Determined to find her necklace, she went back outside with her flashlight. After an hour of crawling around in the grass, she gave up, grabbed a bottle of wine, a glass, a bowl of Cheetos—it was the closest thing to cheese she had—an
d went back outside to crash on a lawn chair.

  Three glasses and two handfuls of Cheetos in, she still lay there reclined on the lawn chair. She stared up at the stars and moon, trying to convince herself it was PMS, not self-pity, she felt at spending a Friday night drinking wine alone. How could she complain when she was alive and Alison wasn’t? How, when Alison’s death had been her fault?

  How, when she’d been the one to introduce her sister to Pablo?

  She reached to touch the necklace that wasn’t there, and sighed. She counted to ten before mentally giving herself a swift kick in the butt for feeling so sorry for herself. Then she refilled her glass.

  Tomorrow she’d have a wine headache, but tonight she wanted to forget. She pulled the goblet to her lips.

  Closing her eyes, she wondered how mosquito-bitten she’d get if she just slept here. The temperature was cooler than it’d been for the past week, and a soft breeze made it comfortable. It almost felt like California weather. Definitely a fluke for Texas.

  The sound of a door opening next door had her glancing at the fence. Then came the barking. So her neighbor was home.

  Without wanting to, she recalled him shirtless, recalled that brief second when their hands touched this morning. Recalled a spark of unwanted attraction that had unwillingly traveled up her arm and straight to her heart. A spark that reminded her that she was a woman. And he was a man.

  Oddly, the scar on the side of his face didn’t distract from his tall, dark, and dangerous appeal. In fact, the scar added to it.

  The barking and scratching along the fence continued. Should she go inside? But why let her neighbor or his dog ruin what was left of her wine-and-Cheetos evening? Then she remembered the dog sneaking into her yard. Surely, he’d fixed the—

  A wet doggy tongue slid across the bottom of her foot.

  “Crap!” she muttered.

  Then a synonym of that word echoed from the other side of the fence. “Shit! Sweetie!”

  Hearing him call the dog, she felt a smile curl her lips. For some reason, she didn’t think he’d named the poodle. In fact, she wondered what girlfriend had abandoned the dog at his place. He looked more like the black Lab or pit bull type.