INNOCENT BLOOD: a John Jordan Mystery Book 7 (John Jordan Mysteries)

by Michael Lister

  We had become something like a family. Maybe even something just like it. And Atlanta was feeling a lot like home. A lot like it.

  “Keep workin’ on your jump shot, buddy,” I said to Martin. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I walked over toward Battle, meeting him about halfway between his car and the courts.

  We were well into September now and the autumnal air was cool and a bit breezy, so unlike my part of Florida this time of year.

  “Thought I told you to get a pager?” Battle said.

  “You did.”

  “Well?”

  “I did.”

  “Where is it?” he asked.

  “In my room.”

  “Only works if you have it on you,” he said. “Keep it on you. I’ve been tryin’ to get in touch with you for a hell of a long time.”

  “Okay. Sorry. I will. What’s wrong?”

  “Ray and Vince are in the wind.”

  “What?” I asked, looking around the complex before I realized what I was doing.

  “We’ve been keepin’ tabs on ’em, tryin’ to catch ’em at somethin’ we can come down hard on ’em for . . . and they just vanished.”

  I shook my head. “Shit.”

  “I thought maybe they had you,” he said. “So keep the goddamn pager on you at all times, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “We’re lookin’ for them,” he said. “Hopefully we’ll have ’em soon. But for now . . . lay low and keep your pager on and with you at all times.”

  “I will. Sorry.”

  “Just tryin’ to look out for you. All part of the service.”

  “Were they under surveillance three nights ago?” I asked. “The entire night.”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  I told him what had happened at the K Center a few nights back.

  “The fuck is wrong with you, John? We had a chance to get him and you didn’t even bother to tell us. Y’all could’ve been killed.”

  “I know. I just . . . I . . . Lettin’ you know wasn’t an option.”

  “You need to pick a side, John,” he said. “I mean . . . goddamn . . . You can’t keep . . .”

  He trailed off and we were silent a moment.

  “You think it was one of them?” he asked.

  “Wondered if it could’ve been,” I said.

  “Maybe it was,” he said. “Maybe one slipped away while the other made it seem like they were together. I’ll have to check with the surveillance team. You really think it could be one of them?”

  I shrugged. “At the time I thought it was Larry Moore.”

  “What? Seriously? ’Cause you’re fuckin’ his wife? Now ain’t that a whole other cluster fuck. Son, you know how to make some shit complicated, don’t you?”

  “I’m not sleeping with his wife,” I said. “But I notice you’re not sayin’ he’s not capable of somethin’ like that.”

  “What? Tryin’ to scare you away from his pretty little wife? ’Cause I could see his dumb ass doin’ somethin’ like that. It’s over the top and stupid as hell, but . . . What I can’t see him doin’ is actually killin’ you. But . . . fuck . . . let me go see what I can find out.”

  He turned to head back toward his car, then stopped, spun back around. “And John, look how exposed you are out here like this,” he said, sweeping his arm in a broad gesture that encompassed the basketball court. “And with the kid. What’re you thinkin’? You tryin’ to get him killed too?”

  After tucking Martin away safely, I called Jordan to warn her about Ray and Vince, but she wasn’t at Safe Haven and neither was Ida, and all the woman working knew was that they had taken some time off––Jordan all day, Ida only the evening.

  I called Ida’s home next. There was no answer.

  I wondered if I should call Jordan at home. What if Larry answered? What if all I did was make things far worse for her than they already were?

  I thought about it for a long while, eventually reaching the conclusion that with Ray and Vince unaccounted for, I had to take the chance.

  I let the phone ring for a very long time but no one answered.

  And then I . . . I didn’t know what to do.

  What could I do? I was completely powerless. I had no idea where she was or if she was okay. I had no way to contact her, to check on her, to see if Ray and Vince had her at this very moment or if she was just shopping for supplies for Safe Haven with Ida.

  Think, I told myself. There’s got to be something. You’ve got to figure out something. Come on.

  Two things came to mind. I could go to Safe Haven and talk to Ralph. If anyone knew where Ida and Jordan were or were supposed to be, it would be him. Or I could call Bobby Battle.

  I decided to do both.

  First I called Battle.

  “Jordan Moore is not at work and I can’t find her,” I said. “Same for Ida Williams. Is Larry on duty? Can you check on her? Find out discretely if he knows where she is? Do you think Ray and Vince could have her?”

  “I’m on it,” he said, and hung up.

  As I was about to leave for Safe Haven to see if Ralph might be willing to part with any information he might have about the whereabouts of Jordan and Ida, my phone rang.

  Roger Lawson had taken a turn for the worse and was asking to see me.

  Driving far faster than I should on west I-20 toward downtown and Grady, I could only worry about Jordan, only hope she was okay, only hope Bobby Battle would make sure she was.

  Actually, those weren’t the only things I could do.

  I could also pray. I could choose to trust. I could accept the things I couldn’t change. I could change the things I could. I could find peace by acknowledging my powerlessness, serenity by letting go.

  So I did––or tried to, reaching for the random blue Sparrow cassette on the backseat. As if an answer to prayer, it was Steve Camp’s One on One and it was cued up to the beginning of “He’s All You Need,” which helped me find a fragile but very present peace as I sped toward downtown Atlanta.

  Chapter Forty

  “I’m scared,” Roger Lawson said, his feeble voice no more than a hoarse, low, whistley whisper.

  I nodded. “I know,” I said. “And it’s okay to be. It’s natural. But you have nothin’ to be afraid of.”

  I was standing beside his bed, holding his hand, leaning over, my face just inches from his.

  “There’s nothing but love waiting on you,” I said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am. It’s the only thing I’m sure of.”

  “I don’t want to die, damn it,” he said.

  I nodded. “I know. I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Help me. Do something. I can’t . . . this can’t be it.”

  I thought back to my earlier prayer on I-20 and said, “God, grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change. The courage to change the things we can. And wisdom to know the difference.”

  He squeezed my hand.

  “Say it with me,” I said. “God . . . God, grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change. The courage to change the things we can. And wisdom to know the difference.”

  We said it several times together, until it became like a mantra, until peace entered the room, until he fell asleep. Peaceful sleep.

  As he slept, I continued to hold his hand and say the prayer, repeating different forms, expanding, repeating.

  “God, give us grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed. Courage to change the things that should be changed. And the wisdom to distinguish the one from the other. Living one day at a time, enjoying one moment at a time, accepting hardship as a pathway to peace. Taking, as Jesus did, this sinful world as it is, not as we would have it be. Trusting that you will make all things right if we surrender to your will. So that we may be reasonably happy in this life and supremely happy with you forever in the next.”

  I continued praying for peace as Roger continued sleeping peacefully, continued until my mout
h was dry and my hand ached, until he stopped breathing and the peace he was experiencing went way beyond sleep, beyond mortal, beyond the beyond and into what dreams may come.

  Long after the nurses came, long after the tubes had been removed and the machines turned off, I was still praying the prayer of peace.

  As I walked down the central corridor of the cold, sterile hospital, I felt sad and alone, helpless and hopeless.

  And then I saw Ida and some of the pain and sadness abated.

  In an instant I no longer felt alone, my spirits buoyed a bit before I realized what her presence her must mean.

  “John,” she said. “How’d you hear?”

  “Hear what? What is it? Where’s Jordan?”

  “She’s . . .”

  “What happened? Is she––”

  “She’s . . . Come on. I’ll take you to her.”

  She led me back down the corridor and along another to the emergency room and the small curtained area Jordan was waiting in.

  When she saw me, she burst into tears.

  “Wait here with her while I go get the car,” Ida said. “Had to park in Timbuktu.”

  I rushed over to Jordan’s bed.

  “Oh, John,” she said. “I’m . . . I’m so . . . so glad you’re here. I’m . . . I don’t know what to say.”

  “Start with what happened.”

  Her arm was in a sling, her wrist in a brace. Her face was swollen, red, and puffy around her eyes, one of which was quickly turning black.

  “It’s just sprained, not broken. Doesn’t matter now. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

  “Who was it?” I asked. “Who did it?”

  She looked confused.

  “Who?”

  “Larry,” she said. “Who else.”

  “Thought it might have been Ray and Vince.”

  She shook her head. “No, but . . .”

  “What?”

  “He knows about them,” she said. “I don’t know how. But he claims he’s gonna kill them.”

  “What all’d you tell him?”

  “Nothin’. John, I haven’t told him anything about anything. That’s what I got this for. It’s got to be Battle. Brothers in blue and all that shit.”

  “I’m so glad you’re okay,” I said. “I was so worried and––”

  “Me too. You’re all I’ve been able to think about. I can’t believe you’re here. How are you?”

  I told her.

  “Oh, John,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  “I am now. Now that I know you are, that I’m with you. You can never go back to him. Never.”

  “I’m not. I won’t. I’m moving in with Mom until I can . . . until things get . . .”

  I nodded.

  “I’m so worried,” she said. “I have such a bad feeling. Larry’s crazy. He’s . . . He’ll do . . . He’s capable of anything. And if Bobby Battle told him about Raymond and Vincent, what else has he told him?”

  “It’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out. I promise.”

  “I’ve fallen in love with you, John. Totally and completely. Head over heels. The real deal.”

  “I love you,” I said. “I’m so in love with you.”

  “I’ve already contacted an attorney,” she said. “I’m . . . I’ll be free of him at last. For good. And then . . .”

  “And then,” I said. “I like the sound of that.”

  “Speaking of sounds,” she said, “I know it’s way too early . . . And we’ll probably never live long enough to even . . . And I’m not sayin’ you would even want to . . . even way out there in the future, but . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’ll show you where my mind is. Well . . . I’ve thought about it. I can’t help myself. I did. And . . . I just . . . I can’t be Jordan Jordan.”

  Frank Morgan called me the next morning.

  I tripped over Martin, who was asleep on the floor, on my way over to the phone.

  “Did I wake you?” Morgan asked.

  “No. Not at all. How’s it goin’?”

  “I’ve got meetings this morning and I wanted a chance to talk to you before I got tied up.”

  “I appreciate you callin’.”

  “Only have a few minutes, so here it is . . . Ralph Alderman was forced to leave because of inappropriate behavior––some of it involving kids. The guy’s not right. If somebody had done their damn job back then, he wouldn’t be working around kids now.”

  I thought about it.

  “I don’t have a lot of details. It was all handled very quietly––not a lot written down. Force gave him the chance to resign and he took it. Became a mall cop. Had some complaints there too. Eventually was pushed out. Allowed to resign. Everybody just kicked the can down the road. No complaints filed at Safe Haven so far. He’s had that job a while too. So . . . maybe there was nothin’ to the other stuff or he’s changed.”

  “Or he’s gotten far better at it,” I said.

  “Could be,” he said. “Probably is. Of the three it’s the most likely. Sorry I don’t have more . . . but . . . it’s enough . . . to warrant a second look at him.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “What kind of man keeps company with kids?” he said.

  I looked over at Martin.

  This kind of man, I thought, and reminded myself not to jump too quickly to conclusions where Ralph or anyone else was concerned.

  “There’s a few other people we can talk to about him,” he said. “Get more information––kind of stuff not in the file––but it’ll take some time to track ’em down.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Thank you. Wish I had you on all my cases.”

  That put a small lump in my throat and I was unable to respond.

  “As for the other . . .” he began.

  “The other?”

  “Cases similar to LaMarcus’s.”

  “Oh.”

  “So far no luck. I mean, we’ve got a few with similarities . . . but not enough in common to . . . I don’t know. If this case had a list like the Atlanta Child Murders case did and LaMarcus was the pattern case . . . I don’t think any of these would make it. We’ve got some killed with the same drug, the chloral hydrate stuff, but no real abductions and no rape.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks for looking.”

  “I’ve still got a few agents on it . . . so we’ll see, but I think we’re gettin’ close to exhausting cases to examine.”

  “Any way I could take a look at the ones that had any similarities at all?”

  “Sure.”

  “You sure?” I asked. “You don’t mind?”

  “I knew you would want to––and I know we need you to. Already made copies for you. Got a guy dropping ’em by the college later this morning.”

  “Thanks, Frank,” I said. “Thank you so much. Before you go . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “How well do you know Bobby Battle?” I asked.

  “Tell me you don’t suspect him.”

  I laughed. “I don’t.”

  “Not all that well. But I think with him what you see is what you get. Why?”

  “Would he tell Larry Moore about Jordan?”

  “What about her, John?”

  “About Ray and Vince and . . . He put her in the emergency room again. Told her he was going to find and kill Ray and Vince.”

  “He’s the kind that would too. Crazy son of a bitch. I can’t imagine Bobby would say anything to him, but I can’t say for certain he didn’t or wouldn’t. I just don’t know.”

  “How else would he know?”

  “You want me to talk to Bobby?”

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  “Tell you who you need to be talkin’ to. Your dad. Have you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “John.”

  “It’s not for lack of effort on my part.”

  “Keep tryin’. You won’t be sorry. I swear it.”

  “Thanks, Frank,�
�� I said. “I know. I know you’re right. I’ll do it today. I’ll call him again today.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  I was sitting at a table in an empty classroom at EPI, the case files Frank had copied for me spread out before me.

  After my morning classes, I had gone upstairs and borrowed Randy Renfroe’s phone and called Ida’s home number to check on Jordan.

  I let it ring several times, but no one ever picked up.

  I began worrying about her immediately, my imagination inventing several scenarios, displaying them on the big screen of my mind in vivid detail, as I punched in the number for Safe Haven.

  “Are you okay?” Randy asked.

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  Jordan answered the phone.

  “Hey,” I said. “What’re you doin’ there? Thought you were resting at Ida’s?”

  “I can’t just sit there,” she said. “They need my help here and it takes my mind off it.”

  “But you need to––”

  “Larry came by.”

  “When? What’d he––”

  “Thankfully, it was before Mom left, so she helped. We decided it was best I wasn’t alone there.”

  “I’m glad you did. I wish I had––”

  “John, be very careful. He was braggin’ about what he had done and making threats about what he would do, saying he would finish takin’ care of all our problems soon.”

  “What’d he brag about doin’?”

  “Said the two faggots would never threaten his girl again. John, I’m scared.”

  As I looked through the files of children who went to sleep and never woke up, I thought about my conversation with Jordan and what to do about Larry.

  What could I do?

  The woman I loved was in real danger––hell, so was I––and what could I do about it? What could an ordinary citizen do about a cop? But I wasn’t even an ordinary citizen. I was a broke college student in a new town, with no pull, no power, no connections, nothing that was of any use to Jordan or much use to anyone else.

  I studied the files harder, trying to distance myself from the dread spreading outward from my core as if a poison plunged into my racing heart.