by BJ Bourg
“Detective Berger!” a shrill voice called from behind me. I turned to see Seth scurrying toward me, dipping in and out of human traffic. “What can I do for Magnolia’s finest cop? And a celebrity, I might add!”
I smiled, extended my hand.
Seth took it and pumped it with vigor. “It’s very good to see you, detective.” He looked around. “Where’s Detective Luke?”
I waved my hand in the air. “Oh, she had other stuff to do.” Fact was that Dawn was sick of his relentless pursuit of her. He’d asked her out on a date many times over the past few months and she’d politely declined the first dozen, or so, times. When that didn’t deter him, she became more forceful and had to be downright rude a few times. He’d get his feelings hurt for a while, but, like all good masochists, he’d come crawling back for another kick in the ass.
“Jeez, I saw the news about that murder case. I was glad to see you and Detective Luke were on it. I know you two will catch them.”
“Thanks, Seth. That’s actually why I’m here.”
Seth’s eyes grew wide. He looked around suspiciously. “Let’s go to my office where we can talk privately, one professional to another.”
I followed him through the store, rushing to match his pace. We finally darted through a swinging door at the back of the store and left the bustle of the customers behind. He led me down a long corridor lined with tall stacks of boxes. The smell of cardboard was heavy in the air. Every ten or so feet there was a narrow niche along the stack of boxes that revealed a door to an office. He finally stepped into one of those niches and pushed open the door. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said for the thousandth time since I’d been going there.
I dropped into a rolling chair and stared up at the familiar wall of monitors. The entire store and parking lot—except the bathrooms and fitting rooms—were wired into that location and fell under the watchful eyes of Seth Parker. There were at least fifty monitors on the enormous wall, all sporting split screens. A voyeur’s dream job, I thought.
He sat at his desk, leaned toward me. “Is there something I can do to help bring this case to a successful resolution?”
“As a matter of fact, there is.”
He wrung his hands eagerly. “I’ll do anything you need, and I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t.” I pulled a pen from my shirt pocket and grabbed a notepad from Seth’s desk and began writing. When I was done, I handed it to him. “I need all the footage from every surveillance camera for this day, between these times.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied the note. “Friday, from nine to five. That’s easy.” He looked up. “The only question is, VHS or DVD?”
I smiled. “DVD.”
“I’ll get right on it.” He turned and started punching buttons and spinning dials. One of the larger monitors blinked briefly and different footage began popping up. As he worked, Seth began talking about a shoplifting case he made a month earlier. “It was a big one, a felony. This Joker walks to sporting goods, grabs an ice chest, and pays for it. He stops by the front door and tells the door greeter he forgot something. He turns back and goes to hardware, grabs some tin snips, and pushes his buggy to electronics. Once there, he cuts the security wire on one of the laptops and drops it in the ice chest. You know what he does next?”
“What?” I asked.
“He walks out the other door and waves his receipt at that door greeter, who doesn’t have a clue what happened on the other side of the store. But you know what?”
“What?”
“I captured it all right here.” Seth waved his arms around the room. “I became alert when I saw him stop and turn around. After that, it was like following a snail trail to the gold.”
I started to ask him to explain his snail trail comment, but decided against it. Instead, I said, “Good job. How much was the computer?”
“Five hundred. It was my biggest catch this month.” Seth shoved one DVD after the other into the recording bay. As he’d pull one out, he’d label it and then slip in another. He did it four times. When he was finished, he shoved the DVDs into plastic sleeves and spun around in his chair. “Here you go, old friend.”
“Seth, you’re a miracle worker,” I said. “I’ll let you know how this helps me.”
He stood proudly to his feet and walked me all the way to the parking lot. I squinted against the bright sun and thanked him again before hurrying to my car.
“Tell Detective Luke I said hi,” he called after me.
I drove to the substation and pushed through the front door, waved at Becky. She’d been the front secretary for fourteen years and was the best at what she did. She could be sweet as a kitten or mean as a grizzly if needed, which was needed at that front desk sometimes.
“How’s Samantha?” she asked.
I walked around to her desk, smiled. “She’s good.”
“Are things any better with Debbie?”
I shrugged. “It is what it is.”
Becky started to say more, but the phone rang. She answered, listened a moment, then handed me the phone and mouthed, “Captain Theriot.”
I scowled, took the phone.
“What’re you doing?”
“Talking on the phone with you.”
“Alright, smartass, what else are you doing?”
I filled him in on what Dawn and I had found out, asked, “Have we received any tips yet on the baby?”
“Dozens. I’ve got Dudley and Karla running down those leads as they come in. We got some of the information on the baby from Dawn, but we need a picture to put out an Amber alert. Any idea where we can get a picture?”
I wasn’t surprised that he was taking an active role in the case. Anytime there was media potential, he suddenly found the energy to do his job.
“I wish I did,” I said. “The family should be on their way from Arkansas. Maybe they’ll have one.”
“Let’s hope so. We have to find that little baby. This is the kind of case that’ll really strike fear in the hearts of the people here. Someone goes in your house, where you’re supposed to be safe, and attacks you? Not good at all.”
I thought I detected a hint of fear in his voice. He said something more, but I didn’t hear him because a deputy walked up and handed me a stack of legal-sized papers that were stapled together. I glanced down and my heart turned cold when I saw the part of the caption that read, “You are being sued for divorce...”
CHAPTER 18
When I walked through the front door of the Seasville Boxing Gym, it was already filled with spectators. Some were standing near the beer coolers and others were taking their seats around the boxing ring. I was still angry at Debbie for playing the divorce card, but I was angrier at myself for trusting her. I’d often worried that some bad person would come along and try to take Samantha away to pay me back for doing my job—I just never dreamed it would be Debbie.
It wasn’t a good idea to fight angry, so I took a deep breath and tried to force Debbie from my thoughts and pushed my way through the buzzing crowd. As I headed to the far side of the gym where the other boxers were wrapping their hands, a familiar voice called my name. I turned to see Dawn sidestep between two rows of chairs and approach me.
I smiled. “I didn’t think you’d come!”
“And miss a chance to see you topless? No way!” She punched my chest and then shot a thumb over her shoulder. “Judge Landry’s here and so is the DA.”
I looked where she pointed, nodded when I saw the chief judge and District Attorney Ryder Crawford standing near the front row talking to the promoter and gym owner, Spencer Draper.
“Who’s the tree trunk next to them?” Dawn asked.
“That’s Tom Keller, a former professional boxer. He’s from Missouri or Illinois.” I shifted my gear bag to my other shoulder. “They say he had over a hundred amateur fights before turning pro, and all of his professional wins were by knockout.”
Dawn grunted. “I hope you aren’t fighting
him. I need you to stay awake long enough to help me with this case.”
I laughed. “He doesn’t fight anymore. He’s the trainer for the top tier boxers here.”
“Who trains you?”
I smirked. “I have to train myself. They know I’m too old to make much of a career as a pro, so they haven’t wasted much time with me.”
Dawn glanced at the back of the room. “So, if you’re not fighting ‘brick house’, who are you fighting?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Absolutely. I’m nervous every time I fight.”
“You don’t look nervous.”
“I hide it well.” I glanced around the room, shot my thumb toward the other boxers. “I need to change and wrap my hands. I’ll come find you after I fight.”
She turned, called over her shoulder, “I’m going to take a picture of your half-naked self and post it on the electronic bulletin board for all the girls at work.”
“Why, so they can see my disgusting scars?”
Dawn gasped, spun around. “That’s not what I meant!”
I laughed and walked off, left her standing there feeling bad.
Thirty minutes later I found myself standing in my corner staring across the ring at Cole Williams, the boxer I’d been assigned to spar. He’d had a dozen professional fights and won them all by knockout. Tom had said a dozen times that Cole was on track to be like him—undefeated with a one-hundred-percent knockout ratio. “Stay away from his right hand,” said the old timer working my corner. “And keep your hands up.”
“That’s all you’ve got?” I asked.
The man shrugged, stepped down from the ring’s edge. “If you make it through the first round, we’ll talk then.”
I bit into my mouthpiece, sucked air through my nose and nodded. I glanced around the crowded room, spotted Dawn to my left. She waved when our eyes locked. I winked, jerked my head around when the bell rang, and was just in time to see Cole shoot across the ring like a bull. I quickly sidestepped and slipped the straight cross he threw with bad intentions. He righted himself and we circled each other. I shot my jab a few times, but he deftly pawed it away. He countered with a jab that snapped my head back and then threw a straight right, left hook combination that landed on the outside of the sixteen-ounce gloves I wore. I responded with a flurry of punches. All but one or two were blocked, and he pounded me to the body. I felt the punches make contact, but my adrenalin was pumping and there was no pain. We traded more shots and maneuvered around the ring, each of us trying to gain positional advantage over the other, until the bell finally rang to end the first round.
“Keep it up for three more rounds,” said my corner-man. “You’re going toe-to-toe with a contender and you haven’t even broken a sweat.”
I nodded, took the sip of water he offered me. Tom Keller was barking orders in Cole’s face, throwing punches in the air to illustrate his point. I stood up before the bell rang and met Cole at the center of the ring, threw a four-punch combination like it was my job. It staggered Cole and he looked surprised. He recovered quickly and the rest of the round progressed like the first one. The third round brought more of the same, but my left eye was starting to swell from some of Cole’s punches that slipped through my guard.
When I got off my stool to start the fourth round, Cole looked surprised that I was still there, and Tom’s instructions seemed laced with desperation. I smiled to myself. I’m back!
Ding-ding!
I shuffled forward and shot my left jab to Cole’s chin, but it never landed. He slipped to his right and countered with a right hook that connected with my left temple. The punch itself was not as devastating a blow as I would’ve expected, but a sharp pain and a shock traveled from my neck down my left arm. My arm went immediately numb and fell helplessly by my side.
Cole seized the opportunity and landed some thudding shots to both sides of my head. The feeling came back in my arm, but I was already dazed and disoriented. The room was black, with the exception of a bright light at the center of my vision. I lifted my arm and shielded myself from Cole’s onslaught. I answered back with a few punches of my own, but there wasn’t much steam on any of them. I was relieved when the bell rang to end the final round, but disturbed by what had happened.
Cole walked up and slapped my back. “Good job, old timer. I can’t believe you stayed on your feet!”
I only nodded, looked out over the crowd and, through the haze, saw a concerned Dawn staring back at me. She met me at the back of the room while the other fights progressed. “Are you okay?”
My vision had returned, but my neck ached and my head pounded. “I’m fine.”
“You didn’t look fine in there.” She shot a thumb toward the ring.
I rotated my shoulder, trying to loosen it up. “It’s just a stinger. It happens.”
She eyed me suspiciously. “A stinger?”
“Yeah, it happens all the time—to everyone who fights. You take a punch at the wrong angle and it pinches a nerve. No big deal. It kinda gives you a little jolt, but afterward you’re fine.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded, but that didn’t seem to reassure her. She insisted on driving me home after a stop at the ER for good measure, but I flatly refused. After some back and forth, she sighed, shook her head. “You’re the most stubborn man I know, Brandon Berger. If you wake up dead tomorrow, I’m not going to your funeral.”
CHAPTER 19
Although it was a short distance, the drive home was a long one. As much as I hated to admit it, the doctors had been right—one of the bullets from the shotgun blast had torn through my neck and caused nerve damage. My surgeon had said there was a possibility it would never cause a problem and I could lead a normal life without ever feeling the effects of that fateful night. He had also warned if I took a blow to the head from the wrong angle it could cause permanent damage, with possible nerve impingement and destruction of the discs in my neck.
When I pulled into my parking spot at the apartment, I stepped into the warm night air and slammed the door shut. If I can’t box, what will I do to occupy my time?
I ambled up the sidewalk and reached for my doorknob, but Kristen’s door burst open and it was only then that I remembered our plans.
“Hey, Superstar!” she called. “I saw you on the news. Can you sign my shirt?”
I turned toward her and she gasped when the light caught my face. “What the hell happened to you?”
I hoisted my gym bag. “I fought tonight at the gym.”
She stepped close to me and used a finger to tilt my head from one side to the other. “So, what does the other guy look like?”
“Not as bad,” I admitted. I hesitated, said, “I’m not really in the mood to hang out tonight.”
She smiled and stepped back. “That’s cool. I understand.”
I eyed her with suspicion. “Are you mad?”
“Of course not. Why would I be mad?”
“We had plans and I broke them. I didn’t even call to say I was running late.”
Kristen pursed her lips, cocked her head sideways. “How can you call to say you’re running late when you don’t even have my number? Besides, you don’t owe me an explanation.”
My nose suddenly twitched and my stomach growled. It smelled like Mexican. “You cooked?”
“I told you I would. If you want, I can make you a plate to go.”
I stared into her pleasant eyes. “So...you would still hang out with me even though I stood you up?”
“Of course I’d hang out with you. It sucks drinking alone.”
I rubbed my hands together, caught a whiff of the stale sweat smell that lingered from my hand wraps. “Okay, do you mind if I go grab a shower first? I need to wash this blood and sweat off of me.”
She flashed a perfect smile. “I’ll be here waiting.”
Guilt tugged at my chest. Am I really interested in Kristen, or am I doing this to get back at
Debbie? Should I wait to see what happens between me and Debbie? I walked into my apartment and slowly stripped off my clothes. I thought about calling Kristen to cancel. What would Samantha think if she saw her Daddy with another woman? Would she think less of me? Would she hate me for breaking up our family?
I suddenly remembered being served with divorce papers earlier in the day. If she didn’t already know it, Samantha would eventually realize that Debbie was the one who broke up our family. I leaned against the counter and stared at my reflection in the mirror. My left eye was slightly swollen and there was a red mark at the outside corner. My nose was also red and dried blood was on my upper lip. I rubbed the blood away, straightened. “To hell with it! I’m doing this.”
I raced through my shower and dressed just as quickly. I pulled on some shorts, shrugged into a tank-top, and stepped into my sneakers. My hair was still dripping when I knocked on Kristen’s door.
“Come in,” she called from inside.
I let myself in and found her bustling around the kitchen. There were two pans on the stove. One had beef, bell peppers, and onions sizzling in it and the other was empty. A pack of flour tortillas was on the counter, along with a bowl of chopped lettuce, another with sliced tomatoes, and one with sour cream. A glass of wine was on the counter. It was half empty.
“So, what do I do?” I asked.
“You just sit there and tell me about the fight,” she said. “I’ve got this.”
I thought about arguing, but was a bit intimidated by the prospect of cooking something, so I just dropped onto a stool and watched her work. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a loose T-shirt, cotton shorts, and flip-flops. The nails or her feet and hands were painted bright orange and popped against her tanned flesh. She appeared very much at home in the kitchen. She grabbed one of the tortillas and tossed it into the empty pan, swished it around. She took a sip from her glass and looked up.