“Anything else?” I asked.
“No.”
I gave Carly a just-between-us-sisters look. “Nothing?”
Carly abruptly shut the drawer. “She hadn’t had sex, nor was she sexually assaulted, if that’s what you mean, but Jazz still isn’t looking like a choirboy to me.”
“You’ve made that clear.” I had made it through that ordeal. I felt exhausted and a little sick to my stomach. “I’d better go get your Starbucks.”
“Don’t bother, kitten. You must have taken off work. Just go somewhere and chill. Think things through.”
She kissed me on the cheek, and I pulled her into a hug. “We’ll get through this, right, Carly? I mean, we’ll be all right. You and me?”
“You’re my sister. Nothing is going to change that.”
I gave her a squeeze and released her.
“Now, go,” she said, “before Maguire sees you here.”
“He’s going to catch up with me eventually. The question is where.”
“Let him do his job, Bell.”
“I will.”
That didn’t mean I wouldn’t do mine. If I could just figure out exactly what that was. But it had to be something; I was in this for a reason.
chapter seven
IGOT BACK HOMEjust before noon, and all I wanted were my fuzzy pajamas——the awful, amazingly comfortable ones with the permanent stains and the missing button, held closed by a safety pin. Carly had made me throw them away.
With almost psychic ability, she and our mother can discern when I have bad lingerie. I had secretly stashed away a pair of peach flannel ones, with an appalling floral design, that I paid seven dollars for at Kmart. I’d spilled grape soda on them during one of my self-pity sessions that included a couple of two-liter Faygos and bounteous pretzels. The grape soda left a stain, curiously shaped like a butterfly. It was a sign, I’m sure, something to do with the cocoon of despair giving way to…Okay, maybe it wasn’t a sign, but I loved those fuzzy jammies anyway, almost as much as I loved the blue ones I still mourned.
The sight of my “peaches” warmed me. They could probably knock my sister unconscious in an instant, as if they possessed some strange superpower to take down the highly fashionable. Me, in the sleepwear of justice! Death to all oppressive fashionistas!Pajama Girl!
I’d just——carefully——fed Amos a special yogurt/raisin treat and put on a pot of Starbuck’s Holiday Blend when I heard a knock at my door. I hadn’t even had time to check the messages on my answering machine. I didn’t get many visitors and held out the pathetic hope that Jazz would be standing there, looking handsome and needy, begging for my help. I fluffed my crinkly hair and opened my door for my dude in distress.
I got the distress part right but had the wrong dude in mind. Rocky stood in my doorway, looking crazed from worry. He’d gotten another “unique” hairstyle. Impressive clumps of his hair, grown out about four inches now, had been backcombed and teased into some semblance of dreadlocks. He looked very Anne Lamott——whom he’d been reading voraciously——only he was younger and was a really cute guy. An army-fatigue bandana held back his wild hair. Silver rings and Milagros charms adorned several blond locks that had strayed from the confines of the bandana. Khakis, a bright green Virgin of Guadalupe T-shirt, an army coat, and moon boots completed his wacky ensemble. He completely charmed me. I smiled at him. “Hello, Napoleon Dynamite.”
“Babe!” he said, frowning, oblivious to my warm reception. It didn’t matter what I did or said, I couldn’t make this man stop calling me babe.
“Rocky, we don’t date anymore. Stop calling me babe.” Of course, he’d called me LaFawnduh for weeks after we sawNapoleon Dynamite. I supposed I should count myself blessed to be “babe” again.
“Where have you been? I saw Jazz on the news this morning. They suspect he murdered his wife.”
“Ex-wife,” I said. “And they didn’t say they suspected him. They said she was found dead in his home and they suspected foul play.General foul play, not specific.”
“Uh, babe? Excuse me, but that doesn’t make it better for me. So you knew this already?”
“I was at the crime scene last night,” I said sheepishly. “Carly wouldn’t let something like that pass without immediately letting me know what’s going on.”
“Duh,” he said, sounding very Rockyish——and a snarky Rocky at that. “She probably didn’t want him to, like, kill you.” He still stood at my door. The way the conversation had gone, I didn’t necessarily feel compelled to ask him in, and Rocky was gentleman enough to stand there until I did.
He tapped a moon boot. “How come you didn’t answer your phones this morning?Either of them?”
The “either of them” part served as a not so thinly veiled criticism of what my friends and family believed were my fatal phone habits. I didn’t have the energy to argue once again about why I frequently failed to answer my home phone or to carry or charge my cell phone. My answers never proved satisfactory anyway. I relented and rolled out the welcome mat, so to speak.
“Come in, Rock,” I said. “I’ve been gone all morning. I just got home. I was going to check my answering machine.” I had a good old-fashioned one, complete with a cassette tape. It never cut me off, only asked me if I’d like to rerecord my message.
Rocky shuffled inside my apartment, scowling at me. “You didn’t call me as soon as you found out what happened? Every day you inch me out more and more. And I’m not the only one.”
“What? Is there a small-group meeting about my social life?”
“No,” he said. “It’s alarge group.” He smiled to soften the blow. Before a sassy retort could form in my brain, he spotted Amos. My instincts kicked in and I thought I’d have to rescue him, but that man’s eyes lit up, and he grinned like a five-year-old with a new puppy.
I stared at him. “You know what that thing…”
I didn’t have to ask. Rocky nearly bounced over to the cage and started clucking at Amos. What’s worse, Amos clucked back. The saleslady hadn’t said anything about clucking. The scene unfolding between Rocky and my “baby” stunned me so profoundly, I forgot to shut the door to my apartment. I trailed behind Rocky. “Be careful. That thing is dangerous.”
But Rocky already had his hand in the cage. Amos went right into his palm. No shrieking, biting, or attempted murder. Rocky laughed. “You’ve got asugar glider, babe?” My very cool-looking, tattooed, emergent-church pastor squealed with pure pleasure. Of course Rocky would know what a sugar glider was. Nobody else in my life would but Rocky. It just made sense. No doubt about it, if I were ever to relent and marry him, we’d certainly have a lot of fun together. Rocky could make anybody happy.
Okay, not me, but most people.
Suddenly, I wanted him to lacerate me with comments about my boyfriend choice. Instead, he completely ignored me in favor of the cluck/love fest. I was jealous of a pastor and a marsupial. “Could you please put him back in his cage, Rocky? I don’t want him to get used to strangers.”
Rocky shot me a hurt look, his puppy eyes big and watery. Amos’s eyes, also staring at me, looked sad, too. “Babe, I’m not a stranger.”
Shoot.
The genuine pain I heard in his voice made it clear I’d get whatever holy tongue lashing he had in mind, just for being jealous and insecure, not to mention a lousy friend.
Rocky placed Amos back in his cage, and Rocky’s puppy peepers, so reminiscent of Amos’s, fixed on me. “Just because you treat me and everybody in your life like we’re strangers doesn’t mean we are. I happen to be your friend——your good friend——and I love you. I’d be more than a friend if you’d let me.”
“Rocky, please don’t. Not the blond boy-toy bit.”
He replied with his standard “But we’d be holy and stuff.”
My Rocky. He wasn’t a stranger, but how was I supposed to admit how much I hated that my sugar glider liked him better than me? Not to mention the discussion about my being a hermit, which I�
�d promised I’d change. His impromptu proposition didn’t help matters, either. I was ready to offer him yet another lame apology when my spidey senses kicked in and my gaze went to the door.
Detective Bobby Maguire filled my open door frame, looking rough and ready——that was my great-grandmother Ma Brown’s way of saying he looked like he’d slept in his clothes.
“Well, well, well,” he quipped, “if it ain’t girl Columbo in pajamas. And she has company. Am I interrupting you? I see you got on your workin’ clothes.” He leered at me, no doubt putting me and Rocky in a compromising position in his greasy little head.
“Welcome, Maguire,” I said. “My company was just leaving.”
Rocky looked at me. “I was?” No way I’d let him hear Maguire drill me. I didn’t care how compelling his eyes were.
“You sure are,” I said. With that, I hustled Rocky right out the door and allowed Maguire inside.
His overcoat, an olive green disaster, looked worse than Columbo’s, and underneath, he wore my favorite television personality’s awful brown suit. An equally atrocious leather-look briefcase hung on his shoulder. I wondered if he compensated for his lack of fashion sense by doing stellar police work. Honestly, he was the antithesis of Jazz. Nothing stylish or fine about him.
He looked at me as if I annoyed him just by being at home. That didn’t stop me from being a gracious hostess. “Would you like to have a seat, Detective?”
“I certainly would, Dr. Amanda.”
I pointed to the sofa. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be back in just a minute.”
I grabbed my bathrobe from my bedroom, put it on, and tied the belt, thinking that one day I should stop entertaining in sleepwear. Maguire hadn’t moved from where he stood.
“Don’t be shy.” I swept my arm out like a game-show hostess. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
He glanced around, no doubt sizing up my personality based on my décor. Fortunately, I’d gotten rid of ridiculous items, such as the three-foot-long decorative bean pod I’d once wielded as a weapon when I thought Jazz was an intruder. I hoped Maguire liked my Rachel Ashwell’s shabby-chic-with-an-African-flair hookup.
“Nice place.”
The good cop instead of the Good Housekeeping Seal. At least, I hoped he was a good cop.
“May I take your coat?” I said.To the Dumpster.
“Thank you.” He had good manners——when he wanted to use them. He slid out of his coat and handed it to me.
“Have a seat.” I smiled at him.
Seal or no, he eased himself onto my couch slowly, as if it were a bed of nails instead of a cute velvet classic. His suit didn’t look particularly clean, and it smelled of stale cigarettes and booze. I sat in a chair across from him. He set the pleather briefcase on his lap.
I paused to analyze him. I didn’t need a psychology degree to see that Maguire regarded me as if I’d talked too much in his class and he had come to rap my knuckles with a ruler.
“Imagine my surprise at seeingyou here, Dr. Amanda, when my assignment was to interview the last person my prime suspect was with last night. What an amazing coincidence.”
I expected that kind of sarcasm from Maguire. I gave him another smile and no bait to reel me in with.
“Exactly what is your relationship to Jazz Brown?”
I could tell Maguire wanted to assimilate my brain like the Borg onStar Trek. In an open homicide investigation, resistance would be futile. I’d have to play it smart, though. “Jazz and I are colleagues. We worked together on a case a few months ago.”
He crooked an eyebrow. “What case was that?”
“The Jonathan Vogel and Damon Crawford murders.”
He nodded slowly again. I could see the pistons in his brain firing. “I worked on that case. So, how come I never saw you at the station or nothin’?”
“DetectiveMaguire, I didn’t realizeLieutenant Brown needed to report every detail of his investigation to you.”
He nodded, no doubt planning how to throttle me. “You’re not gonna be a nice gal, are ya?”
I gave him my wide-eyed innocent look. “Who me? I’m a lamb. I’d be happy to help you with your investigation. Pro bono.”
And speaking of reporting details of an investigation, I heard a knock at my door. Great. Another slumber party. I silently prayed it wasn’t Jazz. The news hadn’t reported that he’d been captured yet.
“Excuse me,” I said, beaming a fake smile at Maguire. “Who could this be,Detective Maguire ?” I yelled the last part just in case it was Jazz.
It wasn’t Jazz, but the man was nearly as breathtaking. I stood there, confused, trying to figure out who the good-looking, mysterious white guy with the dark hair and darker eyes was. He wore a very nice gray pin-striped suit——Armani, I was sure of it——beneath a black camel-hair coat. His distressed leather gloves looked both hip and expensive. Good-looking stood about six feet tall, 190 pounds or so. He looked a little older than me, with a hint of gray at his temples. He had an air of new money about him, an utterly tasteless tie hanging on his neck, the one bit of excess in an otherwise flawless and restrained presentation. My mother would have liked him, but she’d have grilled him about the tie.
No, she’d have grilledme about it.
The tundra had more warmth than his stare. He may have been at my door, but he looked annoyed to find me home. I got an initial “uh” out of my mouth, but I refused to let his displeasure at finding me home stop me from getting down to business. “May I help you?”
His eyes seemed to thaw, albeit slowly. “Amanda Brown?”
NotDr. Amanda Brown, which almost everyone in a professional capacity called me. I wondered if he was playing at pulling rank somehow. He thrust out his hand for me to shake. “I’m Officer Archi——”
Maguire yelled from the sofa, “That’s just Archie. He’s IAD.”
Archie nearly broke several of my hand bones while shooting lasers from his eyes at Detective Maguire.
Archie had been dispatched from the Internal Affairs Department——a cop’s cop. His icy demeanor indicated the bad cop had arrived. I suddenly felt naked in my pajamas and bathrobe.
I asked him in, told him to have a seat, and excused myself. A guy like Archie demanded real clothing. I dressed, made a pot of Earl Grey tea——not using my remaining Addie Lee mug——and sat down with the men. Maguire claimed the sofa, while Archie and I sat in chairs. We formed a weird triangle.
Maguire started. “You mentioned you worked on the Vogel-Crawford case pro bono. Are you sure Brown didn’t offer a little sumthin’-sumthin’ to take care of you?”
The big rat. Nowhe was bad cop.
“The definition of pro bono, Detective, is that I worked for no pay.None. Not that I think you should concern yourself with my compensation. You may want to keep in mind, however, that the perpetrator in that case wasapprehended. I’m hoping you’ll actually do such exemplary work onthis case.”
Maguire glared at me, then gave me a fake smile remarkably reminiscent of the ones I’d showered him with. “I don’t think you should concern yourself with my work, Dr. Amanda——”
“I don’t suppose you have an alibi for Lieutenant Brown?” Archie interrupted, boring those cool brown eyes into mine. I tried to study his body language. His stolid bearing gave few cues to the inner man, his facial expressions as unmovable as Sean Connery as 007.
“He came here at approximately nine-thirty last night.”
“Are you sure?” He cocked his head slightly in a gesture he probably thought begged my trust. Good cop.
“I’m reasonably sure. I’d been at the pet store until they closed at nine. It’s five minutes from my house. I came in, showered, and got ready for bed, and Jazz arrived right after that.”
Maguire didn’t hesitate. “He came to tuck you into bed?”
I ignored his implication.
Archie dismissed Maguire’s rudeness with a wave of his hand. “Carly,your sister, ” Archie said, to let me know he was
on to me, “estimated that Ms. Townsend was killed around nineP.M. ”
“Perhaps I do have an alibi for him, then. It would have taken him a minimum of forty-five minutes to get here,if he was blazing down the freeway.”
Archie slowly nodded.
Maguire quipped, “Maybe he came right after he killed her.”
I turned to Maguire. “What time did you get the call from her?”
He ignored me.
Archie filled the silence with “How well do you know Jazz, Dr. Brown?”
Oh, I’m “Doctor” now?
“I know him well enough to doubt that he did it, Archie.” I gave him my most open posture and sincere look. “I mean that.”
He regarded me closely. I wished I knew what he was thinking. “Is Jazz your boyfriend?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t say that.”
Maguire’s yank on the stalled zipper of his ancient briefcase managed to steal my attention away from Archie. When he finally got the thing open, he pulled out a picture frame wrapped in an unmarked plastic evidence bag. He handed the diptych——two frames connected——to me.
I took it, and my heart cartwheeled. I addressed both men: “It’s me.” In my red silk halter dress——the dress I’d worn only once, on the night I met Jazz. I wasn’t smiling. The second one was of Jazz holding me. Very closely. Someone had taped a clear label at the bottom of the frame that held the picture of Jazz and me: “Mr. and Mrs. Brown.” I’d never seen the photo before. “Was this in his house?”
“It was in his desk at the station.”
I handed the picture back to Maguire. He tucked it back in the briefcase and fought the zipper closed again.
“Those pictures had to have been taken at the Vogel crime scene. He was just praying with me.”
“Interesting way to pray,” Archie said with a smirk. He added, “Were you withyour sister that night, too?”
“Yes. She had no intention of taking me to a crime scene. It was my birthday, and we were celebrating. She’d hoped she wouldn’t get a call while we were out.”
Maguire’s gruff voice clashed with Archie’s velvet one. “Brown don’t usually have all kindsa people hangin’ around his scene. How did you get inside?”
Death, Deceit & Some Smooth Jazz Page 9