“I have a lot going today, and want to get an early start,” I said as I fumbled around in my make-up drawer in search of the perfect eye shadow.
He looked at me funny. “You’re not doing any extra primping for Michael, are you?” he said, breaking out in a smile.
“You know what? It was funny yesterday. It’s not today. Knock it off,” I said irritably. I was indeed taking a lot more time getting ready this morning than usual, and I denied to myself that it was because of Michael. I could tell by the look on Eric’s face that I’d hurt his feelings, which made me feel somewhat guilty. Eric even noticed that my long, blonde, hair, which is usually up or in a ponytail, was down and curled this morning.
In order to cover up my is-it-or-is-it-not guilt, I continued with the ineffective tactic of amping up my defensive attitude. “One day I feel like putting a little extra time into myself, and you walk in and jump all over me about it!” I said this to the drawer, knowing that if I looked at him he would see something abnormal in my eyes.
“I’m not jumping all over you. You look nice. I just merely made an observation.” He said this with a hurt look on his face.
“Leave your observing, cop-crap at work. I don’t need it this morning.”
Eric didn’t say anything. He just walked over to me, gave me a quick squeeze, and walked out of the bathroom, clearly hurt from my attack. I wanted to kick myself for treating him like that. I put my face in my hands and took a deep breath. This is only the second day of working with Michael and look how I’m acting, I thought. Eric and I go through problems like anyone else, and like this morning, I have my cranky moments. It bothered me that I had the teenage butterflies in my stomach at the prospect of seeing Michael. A feeling I was ferociously trying to battle away, I knew I needed to get stronger and grow up. To prove this to myself, I quickly put my hair in a ponytail and left for work.
As I neared the end of my driveway, something caught my eye. Off to the side was a dead animal. I couldn’t tell what kind of animal it was, and I couldn’t understand why Eric would push a dead animal from the road onto the side of our driveway. I called him from my cell phone.
“What’s on the side of the driveway?” I asked.
“A rat.”
“Oh my God!” I shrieked. I hated rats and mice more than anything else. “Since when are there rats around here?”
“Honey, we live in the state forest. There is everything around here. Get used to it,” he said calmly. “It was in the middle of the driveway, so I kicked it over. I don’t know how it died, though. It looked pretty mangled. I’ll throw it in the garbage when I get up later.”
“Just get rid of it,” I said, shuddering.
After I finished talking to Eric, I thought about the rat as I drove in to work. When I first saw it, I’d thought it was a ground hog; it was huge. I hated rodents; the thought of one that big around my house would keep me from sleeping that night. I was pretty sure of that.
Chapter Seven
By the time I got to my office, Michael was already there, to my pleasant surprise, waiting for me.
“Good morning, detective,” he said.
“Good morning. You’re here early, and Michael, you don’t need to call me detective. CeeCee will be fine.” I couldn’t help noticing how good he looked as I said this.
“I hope you’re hungry. I took the liberty of getting us coffee, scones, muffins, and doughnuts. I didn’t know what you liked, but there’s plenty to choose from,” he grinned, pointing to the large box of food on my desk.
“I’m not hungry, but thanks,” I said, even though I was starving.
I was a total slob when it came to eating, and it would have been impossible for me to eat a muffin or doughnut without scattering at least half of it onto the front of my blouse. Now I can’t eat in front of this guy?, I thought. Forget it.
“Actually, I might grab something after all,” I conceded graciously, grabbing the smallest muffin out of the box. I was as careful as I could be, picking pieces of the muffin off with my fingers and putting them daintily into my mouth. There now, see, I can eat in front of him and not care what he thinks. I sat at my desk and pushed the box aside.
Michael immediately turned his attention to the case, asking, “Where do you want to start?” In a professional way.
“We need to find out what we have missed, and where to go from here. Another detective, Jeff Cooper, is working on getting the still photos of the suspects circulated. You’ll meet him later. As for me, I have gone over everything a thousand times and feel like I’m up against a wall.”
“Nothing back from the old lady, Lily? She didn’t remember anything more?”
“No, and I don’t expect to hear back from her. She was the biggest break we’ve had in the case. I need to contact one of my snitches, not that I expect him to know anything, but we can start there, if nothing else.”
While we were on our way to Roseland, I explained to Michael the bargaining tools I had to buy and he laughed. Michael continuously seemed amused by everything, still drinking it all in. I kept coyly trying to ask him a few personal questions but he kept diverting the attention back to the case or me. I gave him a brief biography of Jarrod, explaining that he was most likely going to be a little prick to me, since I’m getting a hold of him, not vice versa. It took three calls to Jarrod before he answered his phone and he answered it sounding irritated. Of course, after I reminded him that I had two cartons of smokes, he eagerly agreed to meet at the abandoned house.
As I pulled into the driveway, I could see Michael looking over the broken-down shell of a house.
“How lovely,” he said. “Vacation getaway?”
“Believe it or not, this used to be somewhat of a decent house. I was working uniform back then and I am the one that served the bank foreclosure papers to the owners,” I told him. “The bank never put it up for sale and let it sit here and rot.”
“You actually wore a uniform?” Michael said, smiling.
I ignored the question, got out of the car, and saw Jarrod. He was walking up the driveway, obviously drunk. It was early, so either he’d started drinking early or hadn’t stopped since the night before. I was a little angry, knowing Jarrod would be an even bigger asshole, and in front of Michael. I don’t like talking to Jarrod sober, and when he’s drunk, I usually want to just smash his face in. Jarrod staggered up to the car. I could smell him five feet away.
“Hey, Gallagher, who’s the monkey?” he drawled, pointing at Michael, who just smiled at him.
“Jarrod, this is Agent Hagerman from the FBI.”
“Ooooohhhh!” Jarrod drew out this sound, which I supposed was an indication of disrespect, wriggling his fingers at Michael.
Jarrod could talk a little clearly, so he wasn’t overly drunk, a minor bonus for the day. I started walking towards the house with Michael and Jarrod in tow.
“Hey, Gallagher! When are you gonna start fuckin’ listenin’ to me? I told you I don’t have nothin’!” Jarrod complained.
I ignored him until we walked into the house. I had already decided how I was going to play this meeting. Once inside, Jarrod was standing next to an old lawn chair.
I walked over to him, grabbed him by both shoulders, and slammed him down into the chair.
“I’ll tell you, right now, I am tired of dealing with you, and even having to look at you. I have a dead cop. I think you know something about the dead cop, and you’re going to tell me about it today, without your smart-mouth or wisecracks, or I will kick your ass from here to Cleveland. Got it?”
Jarrod sat looking at me wide eyed, but then started laughing. “Gallagher, you ain’t going to do shit. The FBI is here! I call the shots! Not you! And because you wanna go and think you’re all that and threaten me, I got two words for you—Go fuck yourself, bitch!”
Before I could say a word, I saw a flash, and Jarrod was up off the chair, slammed against the wall, and then slammed, face down, on the floor. His teeth went through his botto
m lip and it started pouring out blood. The flash—Michael— turned Jarrod over onto his back and squatted over top of him.
“I’ll tell you something, you little punk-ass! You’re going to cooperate with this detective. You’re going to respect this detective. You’re going to tell this detective everything you know. Do you understand?”
I stood there stunned. I hadn’t had Michael pegged for a fighter, that’s for sure, but watching it happen spawned a whole new set of emotions from me. I wanted to run to him, rip his clothes off, and make mad, passionate, love right here on the floor of this crappy house. I didn’t care if Jarrod watched or not.
“Where do you want him at?” Michael said, snapping me back to reality.
At first, I thought Michael had said, “Where do you want me at?” and my heart skipped.
After I realized what he’d really said, I pointed to the lawn chair. “Put him back in the chair,” I told him, and he promptly lifted Jarrod off the floor and pushed him back onto the chair.
Jarrod started taking large, deep, breaths while holding his lip. He started jerking his chest out and I knew what was coming. Jarrod leaned over the side of the chair and vomited a bucketful of clear liquid. It smelled like Gin. I waited until he finished. It was the least I could do.
“Hey!” I half-shouted when he was good and done, snapping my fingers in front of his blood and puke-covered face.
“Man, can’t you see my fucking mouth is bleedin’ here!” he yelled.
“I don’t care about your mouth, other than it’s not telling me what I want to hear.”
“Here,” Michael said, pulling out a handkerchief and handing it to Jarrod. “Now, quit whining.”
“What do you want to know?” Jarrod mumbled, holding the handkerchief to his lip.
“Everything you’ve got. You know about these missing girls, West Virginia, and my dead partner. Nothing goes on around here that you don’t hear about.”
Jarrod let out a deep breath. “Can we go somewhere else? Like the police station? I don’t want to talk here. Pull the car around the back.”
We led Jarrod out the back door and he crawled into the back seat of the car, lying down across the seat. He acted paranoid that someone would see him the entire drive to the station. I tried to tell him that was unlikely.
“Everybody in Roseland knows your car, Gallagher! If they see me in it, they’re gonna know!”
“Just stay down in the seat and keep your mouth shut,” I yelled back to him.
At the station, we took Jarrod in through a basement door and up to the detective bureau, where we seated him in one of our interrogation rooms. He was whining again about his lip, and that he was hungry. Michael went into my office, grabbed the box of doughnuts and muffins off my desk, brought them into the room, and dropped the box on the table in front of Jarrod. He told Jarrod to enjoy and that we would be back in the room shortly; we had to talk.
Back in my office, Michael shut the door, walked over to the window, and looked over the city.
“I think we should get our heads together before we go in there,” he said quietly. “Obviously he knows something substantial.”
“You’re right. Off the subject, thanks,” I told him.
“For what?” Michael turned around and looked at me.
“For that nice body slam back at the house.”
“It was my pleasure, trust me. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the opportunity to get rough with someone, and it truly made my day,” he smiled, and it was a beautiful smile.
I started getting a visual of Michael pummeling Jarrod again and felt my face starting to get red. And now, here we were, alone, in my office. At that moment, Kincaid came barging in, without knocking. I actually welcomed the interruption.
“Door’s open, c’mon in,” I said.
She ignored me and stood there, looking at Michael. She looked at me, sitting at my desk, and then back at Michael, waiting for an introduction, which, of course, I wouldn’t make. I just looked back at her, not liking the way she was looking at Michael, and certainly not liking the way he was looking at her. Even though I couldn’t stand her, I could admit that Kincaid was very attractive, and men fell all over her until she opened her mouth. I knew she was twice divorced, but couldn’t imagine why, as I was surprised that her ex-husbands hadn’t committed suicide. Anyway, I was pretty sure she had a serious boyfriend.
Kincaid was only 37, four years older than I was, her hair was darker blonde, and she had a dark complexion. Men always noticed that she had very large breasts, which were probably natural (unlike mine—a Christmas present from Eric) Kincaid broke the silence.
“I’m Captain Naomi Kincaid, head of the Major Crimes Division. You are?” She extended her right hand toward Michael, flipped her hair back, and flashed a smile.
Was I actually witnessing Kincaid flirting? I didn’t know why I was shocked by this; she had slept her way up the ranks. I just hadn’t been privileged enough to see her in action until then.
“I’m Agent Hagerman, with the FBI,” he said, extending a hand. “Please call me Michael. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Oooh, Michael,” she gushed, “it’s verry nice to meet you! Welcome to our department. I hope Cecelia is providing you with everything you need.”
Not yet, I thought. Watching Kincaid put on her act for Michael had me floored, and she’d called me Cecelia. I wanted to dropkick her right out of my office. What is this?, I thought. Am I, I can’t believe I’m going to think it, jealous? I could see that by the way Michael was looking at her; he was playing right into her hands. To snap myself out of the rage I felt, I thought back to the day before when I’d first met Michael. He’d looked at me like that, too. One point for me, and one for Kincaid. I knew I would immediately gain points the minute Kincaid engaged in conversation. It didn’t get that far because she excused herself, saying she had an important phone call to make.
Michael looked over at me and I raised an eyebrow at him.
“What?” he asked innocently.
“Nothing,” I said, in a short tone.
He started to laugh. “Was it that obvious?”
“Any more obvious and I would’ve gotten out the bottle of wine and bearskin rug.”
“Now I think you’re exaggerating. There is clearly tension between you two; that was very apparent. Why, I don’t know, and I don’t think I want to know. I don’t know how she is, as a cop, but in the looks department, you’ve got her nailed,” he said smoothly, leaning on my desk.
“We need to get back to Jarrod,” I said, jumping up, my face red for the tenth time today.
I walked over to the doorway and stood there. I saw Michael looking at a picture on my desk of Eric and the girls with a curious look on his face.
“Why don’t we do this; you know Jarrod best,” he began, thankfully getting back on the case. I was starting to get the impression that part of Michael’s amusement came from toying with me, and seeing what kind of reaction he’ll get. “You go in first and talk to him. Be nasty. Threaten him with probation violation, children’s services, and jail. Work him over good. If he quits talking, I’ll come in there and act like his best friend. In the meantime, I’ll watch from the other side of the glass.”
I said, “Sounds good,” and headed to the room.
The box of doughnuts and muffins was almost empty, and Jarrod was still eating. He had smashed blueberries, crème, and crumbs on his face and shirt. Completely repulsed, I walked out of the room, grabbed a handful of napkins, brought them in, and put them in front of Jarrod.
“Here. Didn’t your mother teach you any manners? Clean yourself up.”
To my surprise, he started wiping his mouth off.
I began pacing back and forth across the room, preparing myself for the speech I was about to give Jarrod, knowing that Michael was on the other side of the glass watching me. Once I got going, I went through everything: how he had promised to talk if he was brought here, what would happen if he di
dn’t cooperate, and, when I got to the part about children services, I got the usual reaction.
“You can’t do that! You can’t fuckin’ threaten to take my kids away! You can’t do that!” he shouted, panicky, and began standing up.
“Sit down, Jarrod,” I said calmly. “I’m not done talking. It’s not a threat; it’s a fact. You being drunk all the time in front of your kids, and doing god-only-knows-what-else, is something children services might want to know about. I’ve already called your probation officer and told him you’ve been drinking. You’re cooperation here today will help him make the decision on whether or not he will violate you and send you back to county jail. You see, Jarrod, I call the shots. Not you.”
Jarrod looked at the floor in defeat. “Fine. I want it in writing that if I wind up in the local dumpster, it’s your fault.”
“I will think about it,” I assured him, and did, for about two seconds, then I snapped, “Let’s hear it.”
“I don’t have much,” he began. “I know you don’t believe that, but I don’t. There’s been a buzz around Little Kentucky for a while now about some bad dudes from West Virginia. There’s been a lot of people carrying around big money, people who don’t got jobs, since those dudes have been around. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of Karen Cummings, but I guess she worked for them dudes. No one’s seen her in a long time. I don’t even know if anyone reported it. Word was, she was hanging with one of them dudes, Big Al, or Allen, I guess. Everyone knew he was from West Virginia. He had that accent. She was showing him off to everyone, claiming he was her boss, but everyone knew she was fuckin’ the dude ...”
I interrupted him. “Tell me about Karen.”
“She’s a pathetic skank!” he spit out. “She’s so nasty even I wouldn’t fuck her! She was a loser who lived in some crappy shack at the corner of Belmont Avenue and Longview Avenue. She thought she was all that, but she wasn’t. She lived off social security checks that she got every month because her parents died when she was little, I guess. She lived with her grandma after that, and then she died, too.”
Murder Mountain Page 12