Toby looked toward Mitchell, weighing and considering. “You trust him?”
“Yes, I do. And so can you.”
“Are you going to be alright?” Toby asked her, his voice thick with the emotion he was feeling.
She turned away as grief rose up again. “I’ll let you know….” She spoke so softly he strained to hear the words. Reightman limped away to answer the questions that would be asked about the evening.
He watched her go, following her painful progress, and then faced the young officer. “If she says I can trust you, I will.” His eyes flashed an icy blue and the black rims seemed to enlarge to engulf their color. He blinked and turned his head to look toward Reightman where she stood, head bowed, as the uniformed officer spoke with her. “If she’s wrong about you,” he said still watching the Detective, “I promise I’ll make you wish you’d never thought of betraying her trust.”
Mitchell had only heard one voice as cold and as dangerous as Toby Bailey’s in that moment, and that voice belonged to the woman who’d just watched her partner shot down in cold blood. He looked into the other man’s eyes for a just a moment, and felt the intensity and determination in their depths. “She’s not wrong.”
Toby closed his eyes, as if in prayer, and when he opened them they were a little warmer. “Lead the way,” he said simply, and followed Mitchell to his car.
♦♦♦
A couple of blocks from where he had stepped out of the pickup, John Brown stopped into a small neighborhood bar, located just across the street from where he had parked his SUV. He strolled up to the bar, and pulled a couple of twenties out of his front pocket. He laid them on the counter and climbed up on a stool. “Bourbon, straight up,” he ordered from the bartender. He slugged back the drink and ordered another.
“Did you take in the fireworks tonight?” the barkeep asked as he set the fresh drink down.
“Sure did. They were something special.” He nursed his second drink for a while, and then counted out a tip and placed it under his empty glass. He folded the remaining bills and put them back in his pocket. John Brown picked up his black bag and waved at the man behind the bar. “Have a good night,” he said.
He walked of the door and noticed the patrol car driving slowly down the street with a small spot light sweeping the area. As the car approached, he raised his hand in a friendly salute. The cop nodded back and when the car passed, John Brown walked to his vehicle and opened the door. He threw the bag into the passenger seat and eased himself in.
When he pulled out and headed down the street, the patrol car slowed and the officer in the passenger seat motioned him past. John Brown gave an appreciative wave from the steering wheel as he drove by. He watched the lights in the rear view mirror until he reached his turn. John Brown headed home.
♦♦♦
Reightman sat huddled in the backseat of the patrol car which was taking her home. She kept her tear-ravaged face turned toward the window and watched the city slide past. She never noticed the black SUV which shared the highway beside them and it wouldn’t have mattered if she had. Her thoughts were turned back to the moment when she’d held Sam in her arms, and to the promise she’d made to him, and herself, as his blood flowed from his body, staining the sidewalk beneath.
“Melba, get the bastards,” he told her weakly; his eyes beginning to glaze with death.
“I’ll get them,” she promised him as she looked down on at his white, still face while walking by his side, escorting him to the emergency van which took him away from her, forever. “I’ll get the bastards.”
And she would.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing this book had been quite a journey. This started out as a simple little murder mystery, but when I started to put the words down, the characters had their own ideas about how things should unfold. My simple little mystery has turned into a series of adventures that will unfold as the Reightman & Bailey series continues.
I have learned more about the changing world of publishing in the past several weeks than I ever thought I’d need to know. There are a variety of traditional routes to follow: both traditional, and less traditional, emerging paths. Being the person I am, I of course, took the less traditional route. Thanks to the fellow writers and editors who provided feedback and shared their experiences so I could make the best choice for me.
Books might get written in isolation, but they don’t make it out of the computer and into a reader’s hands without the writer getting a lot of help and encouragement. I need to thank two dear friends: Dr. Rhea Ann Merck, and Julia Prater.
Rhea graciously read a couple of drafts and provided a lot of honest, constructive feedback. She read multiple versions of the draft and always had great suggestions which she shared with kindness and enthusiasm. Character developments related to the twists and turns of the human mind owe a lot to her.
Julia was also one of my first readers, and provided me with good food for thought. She made sure I didn’t have any dropped threads and pointed out those times my characters made awkward, unrealistic choices! They didn’t always listen, but when they did they become better than they would have been otherwise.
I’d also like to thank other good friends and supporters who listened me talk about this book, and the series, far more than I should.
Special thanks to Kathy LaLima of LaLima Design for the outstanding cover and for her patience with me during the process.
I need to thank mother for giving me a life-long love of reading. When I was very young she read to me and allowed my mind to stretch and grow until I was reading on my own, and indulged my lifelong passion for reading – sometimes to the detriment of other things.
Finally, I have to thank my husband and partner, who lets me read when I want, and write when I need to. He solves my technology and formatting problems and is the best friend and supporter I have. I couldn’t have done it without him.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JEFFERY CRAIG is the writing pseudonym of the author and is used for fictional works. Jeffery resides in the southeastern United States and shares his life with his husband and partner, and a menagerie of much loved pets. For several years he worked an executive providing technology and consulting services to help clients meet their business needs. He’s an avid supporter of the arts and co-owns a local art gallery/gift store that provides an outlet for area artists and craftspeople to showcase and sell their work.
When he isn’t writing, he might be found working on a painting or enjoying the covered porch of his historic southern home with a good book in hand. He can be contacted via his webpage (www.jefferycraigbooks.com) or on social media.
COMING SOON
HARD JOB
REIGHTMAN & BAILEY BOOK TWO
John Brown didn’t sleep after he made it home from the botched hit on Toby Bailey. He cleaned his gun and sat down in his favorite chair and just thought things over. “Everything got too complicated, too fast,” he told himself. He’d known it was risky, and he hated unnecessary risks. He didn’t like it when there were too many pieces in play, and right now there more than he thought wise. Last night had unfolded very differently than planned, and a simple drive by murder went to hell because of it. He wished they’d just called it off and waited for another opportunity. He wondered if he’d even hit the man he was supposed to take out. He got his answer when the phone in front of him buzzed.
U KILLED A COP
He stared down at the phone as he digested the words. He wasn’t sure what to say. It was unfortunate, but the screw-up wasn’t his fault. If his employer had listened to him, none of this would’ve happened. He was inclined to ignore the message, but if he did there’d be a high price to pay down the line. He thought it over some more, and decided he should at least respond.
SORRY, he eventually typed, adding a sad, frowny face after the word. When he didn’t receive a response, he typed a question. THE MARK? He waited.
ALIVE
Now John Brown was worried
he wasn’t going to collect his pay, and that wouldn’t do at all. He’d done his best, and he wasn’t about to let himself get screwed again by the person who’d hired him.
WHAT NOW? He typed, after thinking though the possible impact to their already hostile relationship.
The response wasn’t long in coming. WAIT
John Brown could do that. He put down the phone and got up from his chair. He had plenty of other things to do today, and there wasn’t any point in worrying about what might happen next. He didn’t like worry. It made things complicated.
He locked up his gun in the safe and headed for the shower. A shower always made him feel better. He emerged from the steam a few minutes later, fresh and clean, and took a look in the mirror. He liked what he saw.
His hair was a medium brown, neither to straight or too curly. His hazel eyes picked up the colors around him, but never caused comment. His body was good, but not overbuilt and or worthy of immediate notice, at least with his clothes on. He wasn’t model handsome, but that suited him just fine. Being too good looking wasn’t an asset in his line of work.
He changed expressions a few times and then grinned. He could be whoever he needed to be, and that was perfect. His grin turned into a smile as he studied his reflection. John Brown was ready for a new day.
♦♦♦
Tuesday morning, Melba sat on the edge of her bed staring at the alarm clock. She tried to summon up the inner strength to move, but she just couldn’t. She’d been sitting and staring at the clock for forty-seven minutes.
When she finally dragged herself into the apartment the night before – hurt and distraught over Sam’s death – she forced herself to walk painfully to the kitchen, where she pulled a bag of frozen peas out of the freezer. Needing something to dull her aches, she poured herself a glass of wine. After the first taste, she found she didn’t want it. She poured the liquid down the sink and slowly lowered herself to the floor of her small kitchen. She dug around in the cabinets until she located a dusty, old bottle of scotch – a holiday present from a few years ago. She pulled herself up from the floor using the edge of the counter for support. She filled the wine glass with several fingers worth of dark, smoky liquor and drank it down, choking once as it burned a trail down her throat. Then she filled the glass again.
Melba stuck the bag of cold peas under one arm, lifted the bottle with one hand and the wine glass in the other, and hobbled to her bathroom. There, she undressed, dropping her clothing to the floor and leaving the pieces where they fell. She eased herself onto the side of the tub and propped her injured leg up on the toilet, and applied the peas to the swollen knee. While the cold penetrated the puffy flesh, she slowly finished her second drink. After twenty minutes, she tossed the peas in the bathroom sink then carefully stood up and tested her knee.
She filled the tub and managed to maneuver her body into the water. There she sat, slowly washing herself as tears slid down her cheeks and eventually dropped, one by one, into the soapy, hot water. She stayed in the tub until the water cooled then pulled herself upright and placed her good leg on the bathmat. She lifted her other leg, using the back of the toilet for balance. She reached for a towel and wrapped it around her wet body and sat down.
She poured another inch or so of scotch into the glass and lifted it to drink. Before it touched her lips, she set it down on the bathroom counter. She heaved herself up from her seat and stood by the sink looking into the mirror. “Not much of a surprise, Reightman,” she said dully to the reflection in the glass, “but you look like absolute hell.” She considered her tear-ravaged face and her rat’s nest head of hair. She picked up a hairbrush and gave the graying strands a few half-hearted swipes before deciding she really didn’t care. She dropped the brush to the counter and picked up the wine glass and poured the scotch down the sink. She’d never cared for scotch.
Melba dried herself off and pulled her faded blue bathrobe from its hook on the wall and eased it around her body. After knotting the belt, she picked up the bottle of scotch and the wine glass and looked down at the now thawed bag of peas, trying to figure out how she could manage all three items. After giving the problem more consideration than it warranted, she wedged the wine glass in one pocket and the floppy plastic bag of vegetables into the other. With the scotch in one free hand she half hopped, half limped, back into the kitchen.
She filled a sandwich bag with ice from the freezer and looked at the peas. “What the hell?” she asked before pulling a plastic cereal bowl out of the cabinet. She ripped open the bag and poured the peas into the bowl, which she then carried, hobbling, to the sagging couch. Propping her leg up onto the coffee table, she balanced the bag of ice on her swollen knee and ate the peas with her fingers, one at a time from the bowl on her lap.
She sat on the couch for a couple of hours, staring at the empty cereal bowl and occasionally looking up at the dark screen as if there was something on that caught her interest, although the television was turned off. She felt like crying, but didn’t have any tears left. She took the melted bag of ice off of her knee and placed it into the cereal bowl, which she left sitting on one of the old couch cushions. She tested her knee, and decided the swelling had gone down a bit. She stood up and went into her bedroom and eased herself down on top of the covers.
She stared up at the ceiling in the dark room for the rest of the night, thinking about everything that had happened. She recalled the night she’d answered the dispatch call, and had walked into the Time Out Spa for the first time to discover Geri Guzman arranged on a massage table, his naked body marred by multiple cuts and slashes across his chest and around his neck. She remembered Toby Bailey has he’d been then, his innocent pale blue eyes, floppy hair and deceptively slight frame causing him to look younger than his actual years. They’d all been bewildered by how the murderer had made their way in and out of the room without leaving a trace. She was still perplexed, because that puzzle had never been solved. She reflected on the next day, when she’d met Madame Zhou, Toby’s seemingly ancient, incapable attorney, who’d surprised them all with her brilliant mind and inscrutable demeanor. She replayed the discovery of Lieberman’s involvement in a case that had since spiraled out of control, and the discovery of his death, by apparent suicide. She’d never believed the former City Coroner had taken his own life, but had yet to disprove it. Finally, she reviewed the last several hours, from the moment she and Sam had rushed to meet Toby and review the new evidence he had found in the lockbox Geri Guzman had rented and filled with a set of ledgers and photographs implicating some of the most prominent social and government leaders in the entire city. Try as she might, she couldn’t erase the image of bright lights rushing down the street, blinding her for moment as the gunman fired at Toby, but instead killed Sam Jackson, her partner of many years.
Over and over again, the image replayed in her mind, until she sat up and turned on the bedside lamp, and swung her feet off the bed. There she stayed; staring at the alarm clock on the nightstand, counting down the minutes until it would sound its wake-up call, signaling it was time to begin the day.
An hour later, and only through grim determination, she managed to wrap her knee to give it extra support, then dressed herself and hobbled to the kitchen. She poured a cup of extra strong coffee. Her phone buzzed in her purse and she reached across the counter to retrieve it.
“Hello,” she croaked, her voice rough and gravelly from screaming and fighting to get to Sam the night before.
“Detective Reightman, I am sorry to be calling you this early, but there is something we need to discuss.” Melba recognized Zhou Li’s voice, although the old woman sounded uncharacteristically gentle this morning.
“Yes?” Reightman’s voice was a bit clearer this time. Zhou Li continued to speak and Reightman listened carefully to her words, answering the few questions she was asked. “Alright,” she responded when the woman paused. “I’ll see you both at headquarters a few minutes before eleven.” Zhou uttered a few mo
re words, and then ended the call.
Reightman stuck the phone back into her purse, smiling a grim, wintery smile. She finished her coffee slowly, waiting for the caffeine to hit her tired, shocked system. She rinsed the cup and gathered her things. Thirty minutes later she walked through the glass side doors of Police Headquarters.
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