Twisted Hearts

by Keta Kendric

  The way she bit the tip of her pen and eyed me insinuated she didn’t care one bit about how I was dressed.

  “I was hoping I could speak to Miss Jones,” I stated in the most fake proper voice I could muster.

  “She doesn’t take walk-ins, but I can let her know that you dropped by. What’s your name and why do you want to see her?”

  I leaned over the receptionist’s glossy granite counter, allowed my tongue to dart across my lips, and let my gaze travel over her body. If they were intent upon treating me like charbroiled steak, I may as well use whatever they saw in me to get what I wanted.

  “I’m Detective Jeff Jackson,” I lied while flashing one of the fake badges I used while hunting someone. “I was hoping I could see Miss Jones for just a few minutes about a suspect I’m tracking down. I’d tell you everything, but I’d have to get to know you better before I tell you all of my secrets.”

  My flirting had her blushing and grinning. The fact that I didn’t have to try hard or come up with clever lines had me laughing on the inside.

  “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll see if she will take you after her current client. She may have a moment to spare. I’ll be right back.”

  The woman rushed towards her boss’ office, glancing back at me with a wide grin the entire time. When she was out of sight, I dropped my smile and waited. I hadn’t bothered to ask the woman her name.

  The receptionist came back around the corner rather quickly.

  “Miss Jones said she’ll see you, but only for a few minutes. I insisted that it was vitally important that she see you. She will be done with her client soon. You can have a seat or you can stay here and talk to me.”

  “I think I’ll take a seat because you look like the kind of girl that can get an innocent man like me into trouble.”

  She shook her head energetically and lowered her voice, not hiding the fact that she was flirting. “I won’t be any trouble. I promise,” she said before placing the pen back at the corner of her lips and biting on it.

  Her ringing phone saved me from gagging on my own words. As I headed to my seat, I glanced back at her on the phone and winked while she was handling her caller. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman either. A sexy redhead with a nice small frame. The ring on her finger and the picture of a toddler between her and the man who was likely her husband I’d spotted displayed on her desk, revealed the rest of her story.

  Less than five minutes later, another woman came strutting from the back. Her navy designer business suit looked as expensive as everything in this place. Her gaze met mine and an immediate smile flashed across her face. She waved at the receptionist while passing her desk to head towards the exit.

  The receptionist remained on her call, but she pointed me towards her boss’ office, letting me know I could go back.

  I cruised down the first short hall, which had an office on each side. Since none of the nameplates on the doors indicated Megan Jones, I turned down a second hall and found several offices back there, each with what must have been other lawyers.

  The name of the place was Evans, Jones, & Carter, so Miss Jones was likely one of the partners. Miss Jones’ office was located at the far end of the second hall. I knocked softly on her door and waited until she invited me in.

  “Come in,” she called.

  When I stepped in, she stood, but her eyes were glued to some document in her hand.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Jackson,” she directed, but she hadn’t glanced up yet.

  I sat in one of the two brown leather chairs facing her desk and waited. Her office was as polished and sophisticated as she was dressed. Brown, black, and gray traces of leather were everywhere. Her desk was transparent, so I saw her black red-bottom pumps with a heel so high, it gave her at least five extra inches of height. She wore a red suit jacket, paired with a blue top that matched her blue skirt.

  I never understood the need for makeup and those extra pieces and parts women seemed to like called accessories. This Megan flashed many parts from her expensive necklace and bangles on her wrist, to the broach attached to her lapel, the multiple rings on her fingers, and the dangling earrings.

  I liked when a woman kept it simple like my Megan. No makeup, her natural hair, and no extras. It allowed me to see a true depiction of a woman and not the polished trophy she’d transformed herself into.

  When Miss. Jones placed the document on her desk and glanced at me. Her eyes scanned me quickly, much like the lady in the navy suit had. Miss Jones seemed to like what she saw, but unlike the other ladies, she at least attempted to hide it under a layer of professionalism.

  This Megan was nothing like mine. This one had a pale complexion with bone-straight dark brown hair and a model-slim frame. She was likely in her forties, but her heavy makeup and refined appearance had her looking in her early thirties. A small smile remained shining in her gaze, but it didn’t spread to her lips.

  “How can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m investigating a case that you may or may not have insight into. A piece of evidence in the case led me to you.”

  I had her full attention with those statements.

  “I don’t believe your personal or professional life has been compromised in anyway, however, I am searching for a woman that is or was using your name and address as an alias.”

  Her smiling eyes grew tense, and her posture stiffened.

  I handed her the driver’s license to see if a picture of Megan would spark any knowledge.

  “Do you know this woman?” I asked her, praying that she did.

  She shook her head as her eyes darted back and forth across the driver’s license. Remaining quiet, she placed her fingers up to her painted lips in thought.

  I could tell by that lost look on her face that she had no idea who she was looking at. I’d be willing to bet my next paycheck that this woman had been chosen at random for her name.

  I’d wasted my fucking time chasing a dead-end lead. My body drooped a bit. Hopefully, D would be able to find me another lead because the hunt for Megan wasn’t as easy as I’d assumed it would be.

  The Megan that stood before me asked, “May I ask why are you looking for this woman? More importantly, why would she be using my information?”

  “She stole something…” My fucking heart. “It was something of value that I’d like to get back. And, as I mention before, I believe your name was chosen at random.”

  Although Attorney Megan Jones and I exchanged numbers, and she made several calls to ensure her identity was protected, I was certain I’d never see the woman again after this day.

  5 Aaron

  I decided to stick around Texas for a few days. There had to have been a reason that Megan used a Megan Jones from Texas as her alias. Was she from Texas? Was she currently in Texas?

  The best of the roach motels was going to be my residence until I picked up a lead on Megan. I usually stuck out like a sore thumb inside the four and five-star hotels, so I didn’t bother with them. Just as my mind started to relax and my neck started to roll, D’s call sounded, and I jerked my head up with a start. I was talking before the phone reached my mouth and ear.

  “What do you have for me, man?” I hadn’t even said hello. D was used to my rugged demeanor and my usual aggravated tone.

  “I dug until I found out where those centers are located that are receiving Megan’s book sales profits. It looks like someone paid good money to keep this shit hidden, but there’s not much that stays hidden from me,” D stated, chuckling. He wasn’t being arrogant either. D had the ability to find shit that was meant to be buried and things that people assumed had disappeared.

  “The money is going to two places in Texas. Grab a pen.”

  Although it had led to a dead end, I was glad I’d decided to follow up on the Texas address from Megan’s driver’s license. It meant I’d already made a trip I was likely going to have to make anyway. After reaching atop the wobbly desk at the foot of my squeaky bed, I found a cheap, flimsy
pen.

  “I’m ready,” I told D, eager for another lead.

  As soon as I scribbled the addresses and ended the call with D, I went to my truck and input the information into my GPS. Since it was only two in the afternoon, I decided to go and check out the places D had provided.

  The first address took me to a place called The Kid’s Club, which was something like a knock-off Boys and Girls Club. The Crestwood neighborhood wasn’t the most glamorous environment, and I could tell right away that it wasn’t a place you wanted to be stuck in at night.

  Shabby and weathered buildings, littered streets, and graffiti-decorated walls filled my view. People hung out on the blocks, and I was sure they weren’t hanging out because they were enjoying the sun.

  My body jolted forward and rocked back after I slammed my foot on the brakes to keep from hitting a thin man that darted out into the path of my truck. The man was wearing a pink tank top and pale blue booty shorts holding up a flimsy cardboard sign that read, “Twerk it like you mean it.” I shook my head, attempting to rid my brain of the image I’d just seen.

  The location alone should have been enough to stop me, but in my opinion, this place was nothing but a flipside view of how I’d grown up in Copper County. However, in this area, I was the minority. I drove over the graveled parking lot of The Kid’s Club and walked up to the building that looked like it should have been torn down years ago.

  It was a brick building with burnt orange bricks missing from certain spots. Dirt had overtaken and was caked on a majority of the outside. The windows had bars that were breaking out of some of the crumbling bricks.

  There were kids running around on the dirty basketball court located to the right side of the building. The nets on the basketball goals were missing, and nothing but the rusted rims remained on leaning poles propped up with sandbags.

  On the far side of the building, I spotted sawhorses and equipment that indicated the outside of the building was in the process of receiving a long overdue makeover.

  A floral fragrance that covered the scent of dust and mildew greeted me when I stepped into the building. A six-foot-two white man covered in tats in what appeared to be a strictly black establishment had me sticking out like a big-ass neon flag. A few funny looks greeted me from some of the kids who walked by, but they didn’t voice their comments if they had any.

  Surprisingly, other than a few odd looks, no one stopped me from walking around observing as I searched for someone in charge of the place. Every room or open space was filled with toys, televisions, and computer stations for the kids.

  Finally, way in the back of the building, I found a small office. The door was open, but no one was at the desk.

  “Can I help you?” came a soft female voice from behind me.

  “Yes. I’m Detective Mark Griffin,” I lied easily. “I’m here on behalf of the Lincoln County Gang Unit.”

  I flashed my fake badge that the lady eyed suspiciously before I shoved it back into my back pocket.

  She pointed me into what must have been her office. She had to turn sideways to get behind the tight space of her desk. She hadn’t volunteered her name, but the nameplate on her desk said, Beverly Hudson.

  She had a messy ponytail piled high on the top of her head. The air conditioning only produced enough cool to stave off the worst of the heat, so her chocolate skin glistened with sweat. Like Megan, Beverly would definitely stand out in a crowd. It wasn’t hard to keep eye contact with her, that’s for sure. Her hazel eyes were in sharp contrast to her brown skin and forced you to keep your eyes on hers although it was easy to see she had a nice body.

  “How can I help you, Detective Griffin?”

  “We are trying to track down a woman that goes by the name of Megan Jones. She writes books under the same name, and some of the money from her books sales are routed to an organization that funds this facility. We are trying to find out who set up that fund since it appears that Megan Jones is an alias not only used in her writing career but apparently, in her everyday life.”

  At the mention of who’d set up the funding, Miss Hudson failed to hide that she’d become a little twitchy. She drummed her fingers over her desk as she avoided eye contact with me. And although I couldn’t see it, I picked up on the sound of her leg bouncing under her desk.

  “The fund was set up anonymously, so I know just as much as you do, Detective.”

  I wasn’t sure she’d even realized she had done it, but the way she’d placed a little extra inflection on the word detective indicated that she didn’t believe my cover.

  However, she continued without missing a beat. “The Phoenix Foundation distributes the money, but the donors remain anonymous. The foundation has been one of our sponsors since the doors on this place opened, and they never reveal to us who donates the money if the donor wishes to remain anonymous. Their goal is to find us funding, and they are not legally obligated to tell us who the donors are.”

  She was lying and using useless information to try to distract me. When you were a part of the underworld like I was, with strategic training in detecting deception from the military, you could spot a lie a mile away. It was too fucking bad I couldn’t tell when Megan’s ass was lying, though.

  Although I didn’t probe Miss Hudson for answers, I fully intended to keep an eye on her.

  My next stop was to the other address D had given me. After a group of kids pointed out Laura Parker to me, I didn’t approach her immediately. I took a moment to snoop around the center a bit.

  Laura, unlike Beverly, didn’t hide her disdain for me. Once she spotted me roaming inside her building, she stepped away from the group of kids she’d been talking to and approached me. She folded her arms over her small curvy frame and stepped in front of me.

  “Can I help you?” she asked after rolling her eyes so smoothly, I’d almost missed it.

  I fed Laura the same story I’d given Beverly Hudson, and Laura didn’t even bother glancing at my badge when I flashed it.

  “I don’t know who donates the money and even if I did, lawfully, I don’t have to tell you jack.”

  No amount of charm I thought I had would ever work on this woman. Laura was trouble, I could see it on her pursed lips, raised eyebrow, and on that I’ll-fuck-up-your-world-white-boy expression she showed me.

  Laura Parker and Beverly Hudson weren’t going to voluntarily tell me a damn thing. They were getting a substantial amount of donated money to keep the doors of their centers open, but neither woman claimed to know who the funds came from directly.

  After encountering the women, I intended to stick around Texas. My gut was telling me that Megan was somehow connected to these women or this area, and I was going to find out how.

  6 Aaron

  Beverly Hudson and Laura Parker. The first thing I did was send their names to D to check out their backgrounds. It only took D a few hours to find out that each of the women had grown up in the Crestwood neighborhood on the outskirts of Houston, Texas. Each had also spent some time in the foster care system like Megan had claimed she had. Had they been her foster sisters at some point in her life or maybe friends? Had they gone to the same school?

  D had also found an old address of Beverly Hudson’s that linked her to the neighborhood. Although D had given me their addresses, I didn’t feel the need to visit Beverly or Laura at their homes because they weren’t going to tell me shit.

  The Crestwood neighborhood ended up being only miles away from the centers where the women operated and worked at. Could Megan have been from the neighborhood too? It was too much of a coincidence that money from her book sales supported the organizations these women ran.

  Was I making too big a leap in thinking my Megan was connected to these women and this neighborhood? I didn’t know, but my damn instincts were telling me to check it out anyway.

  The black bill of my cap sat low over my eyes as I cruised down a block that resembled one of the hell-torn strips I’d driven along when I was on deployment in
Iraq. It was a bad idea, but I came to a stop in front of the dilapidated house of the address D had provided. It was Beverly Hudson’s old address.

  My plan was to see if I could find someone willing to volunteer the information I knew I wasn’t going to get from Beverly and Laura. Thankfully, I didn’t see anyone that paid much attention to me as I approached the shotgun-style house.

  The flimsy outer door to the place had a screen on the bottom, but none in the top portion of the door. You could stand on the weathered wood of the front porch and glance into the living room. The paint had peeled so badly off the outside skin of the house that you couldn’t tell what its original color used to be. The grayish color of the exposed wood was speckled with patches of mildew, and wild vines ran up the wood in certain areas.

  The porch held two splintering rocking chairs, so worn they were likely one rock from falling apart. A ceiling fan hung over my head, wobbling and thumping with every turn. When I raised my hand to knock on the door, a woman materialized out of nowhere.

  “What you want, white boy?” She leaned her head closer to the opening in the doorway and took a quick peek in each direction of her block before glancing back up at me.

  “If the wrong person spots you, it’s gonna be trouble for you. They’ll crumble your cracka ass ‘round these parts. I hope you got good sense enough to be packing?”

  After I raised my shirt to ease her mind, her gaze landed on the .45 I had tucked in my jeans.

  “Beverly Hudson or Laura Parker. You know either of them?”

  “What the fuck you want with them? Beverly is my niece.”

  I could tell by her clipped tone that this lady didn’t care that I’d shown her a gun. If I meant any harm to her niece, she probably had somebody on speed dial that would come and take care of me.

  “I don’t want Beverly or Laura, but do you know if they had another friend they used to hang out with?”