Jasmine (A Lt. Kate Gazzara Novel Book 1)

by Blair Howard

  Jasmine by Blair Howard

  Copyright © 2017 Blair Howard

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work.

  Disclaimer: The persons and events depicted in this novel were created by the author’s imagination; no resemblance to actual persons or events is intended.

  Product names, brands, and other trademarks referred to within this book are the property of the respective trademark holders. Unless otherwise specified, no association between the author and any trademark holder is expressed or implied. Nor does the use of such trademarks indicate an endorsement of the products, trademarks, or trademark holders unless so stated. Use of a term in this book should not be regarded as affecting the validity of any trademark, registered trademark, or service mark

  Jasmine

  A Lieutenant Gazzara Novel

  By

  Blair Howard

  This one is for Jo, as always

  Chapter 1

  It was a dark day for me, that Friday in July 2008, and not just because it was raining. That was the day Harry Starke walked out of the station for the last time. We’d been partners for almost eight years, but it was more than that. I was in love with the man, and he with me. Well, he was then; now… no. We’re still friends; I just got too used to having him around—and shoving him around, which he loves, though he’ll never admit it.

  He was always something of a loose cannon; he liked to do things his way, to be in control. But cops never are, not really. There’s always a procedure to follow, a superior officer to please…or not. That was why he left the PD—that and his constant bickering with the chief… but I’m rambling. This isn’t about Harry.

  We had planned to spend the weekend together at Harry’s condo on Lakeshore Lane, but I was on call and, sure enough, that Sunday evening I landed my first murder case. Well, not my first, but my first as lead detective. A couple years before, I’d made sergeant in the Major Crimes Unit, Homicide Division, Chattanooga Police Department. Until the day he left, I was Watson to Harry’s Holmes: his backup, sounding board, conscience, call it what you will. All of that left with him, and now I was on my own.

  We’d been to dinner at a fancy downtown restaurant and were out on the patio enjoying a glass of wine. Well, he was. I was on call, so I was drinking lemonade. We were watching the lights on the Thrasher Bridge and listening to something by Bach. The music seemed to suit his mood, and that of the quiet waters of the river.

  My iPhone buzzed. It was ten after ten.

  “Damn!”

  I answered the phone, “Kate Gazzara.” I listened, and then said, “Okay. Give me the exact address. Good. Thanks. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Harry just leaned back in his chair and watched, grinning at me, his eyes half-closed.

  “What’s so damn funny?”

  “Oh… I was just thinking of the good old days, when my phone used to ring at all hours of the day and night. But that’s all over now, thank God. I’ll see you… whenever?”

  “D’you want me to come back tonight?”

  He nodded, “You have a key. Whenever you get finished, just come on.”

  “Okay. Don’t wait up.”

  He just smiled mockingly. I rolled my eyes and left… Okay, maybe there was a little more swing in my step than usual. Sue me.

  ***

  When I arrived at the address on Bonny Oaks Drive, there was little sign that anything was amiss. It was pitch dark, and I wondered if I was in the right place. Then I saw an iron gate set back maybe thirty feet from the road. It was wide open, manned by a uniformed officer I knew well. He logged me in and then waved me through, up the short drive to the old sand quarry. There, it was a different story.

  The place had been abandoned for years, but now it was lit up like noontime by portable light towers.

  Jeez, somebody’s on the ball.

  That somebody was Mike Willis, our CSI supervisor. He was standing beside the beat up old Suburban belonging to Doc Sheddon, Hamilton County’s chief medical examiner. Doc, too, was obviously on the ball, though there wasn’t much of him to be seen. He was teetering on top of a small metal step ladder, which was propped against a large section of concrete culvert set on end, its mouth open to the sky. All I could see of Doc Sheddon were his white Tyvek-covered feet, legs, and backside.

  Doc’s not a big man, but he is a little overweight. The sight of him hanging over the rim of the pipe would, on any other day, have made me smile. That day? I could tell it was no laughing matter.

  He stood on tiptoe and leaned even further into the pipe. The ladder shook and I grabbed it, steadied it, and held on. He came down a moment or two later, puffing and blowing like an old steam engine.

  “Hey, Kate,” he said, as he stepped off the bottom rung. “Where’s Harry?”

  Oh boy. Please tell me this is not how it’s going to be from now on.

  “It’s a long story,” I said, dodging the question. “This one’s all mine. What do we have?”

  I thought for a second he was going to press me about Harry, but he didn’t.

  “It’s a nasty one. Go on up and take a look while I catch my breath.”

  I didn’t need to look to know what was in there; I could smell it. But I suited up, asked one of the uniforms to hold the ladder, and climbed up. Someone had set a mobile tower light close by, high enough that it shined down into the pipe.

  At first, I couldn’t tell what I was looking at. Then, as my eyes got used to the shadows at the bottom, I could see her. She appeared to be fully dressed: dark blue shorts and what once had been a white crop top. She lay on the dirt at the bottom, curled up in the fetal position, curving around the inside of the pipe. I couldn’t see her face: it was covered by her hair, which appeared to be moving, undulating. Maggots. The stench inside the pipe was overpowering. From what I could see of her arms and legs, she’d been inside that pipe for several days, at least.

  I descended the ladder and turned to the officer holding it steady for me.

  “Hey, Tom,” I said. “Who was first on the scene?”

  “That would be me. Marty arrived a couple of minutes later. The gate was chained. We had to use bolt cutters.”

  I nodded, “Who called it in?”

  “A kid. He wouldn’t give his name. There’s a bunch of ’em that use this place to ride mountain bikes. They noticed the smell and, being kids, they decided to investigate. They must have boosted one kid up to see down inside the pipe. That’s his puke there,” he pointed.

  “Probably puked on the booster too,” I said.

  Tom shrugged. “One of them made the call at eight-oh-seven. He just said there was a pipe with a dead body in it, and they were long gone by the time we got here. The only other pipes are two stacks of that black plastic drainage pipe over there. Obviously too small, so it had to be one of the concrete pipes. There are twenty-eight of them scattered all over the site, all different sizes, some lying flat, some standing up. Wasn’t difficult
to find her, though. The smell led us right to this one.”

  Together, we stood and stared at it. Someone had marked the dimensions on the side: forty-eight-inch diameter, six feet tall.

  “Better get the site properly secured,” I said. Then I had a thought, “How do they get onto the property? The kids?”

  “The property’s fenced. The gate is the only point of access for vehicles, but the quarry is surrounded by houses with yards that back right up to it. Hell, Sergeant. You know kids. If there’s a way in, they’ll find it.”

  I nodded, “I need to talk to Doc Sheddon. I’ll check with you before I leave.”

  I spotted Doc by his car, pulling off his coveralls. “Don’t even ask, Kate,” he said as I approached. “I couldn’t see a damn thing with her at the bottom of that pipe. She’s been there a while, though, six or seven days, and in this heat? Whew! Hey, Mike.”

  Mike Willis joined us. He too had on white coveralls.

  “You find anything, Mike?” I asked.

  He looked at me like I’d just spit in his hand. “What do you think? I’ve been here maybe thirty minutes and it’s almost midnight, for God’s sake. I can’t do anything until daylight. I suggest you secure the scene, Sergeant, and I’ll get to it first thing tomorrow. You’ll be removing the body, right?” he said to Doc.

  “Of course.” He looked at his watch. “The EMTs should be here any minute. We’ll do the postmortem tomorrow at 11.”

  Mike was right. There was nothing to be done until the site had been processed, so I wrapped it up for the evening. I told Doc I’d see him in the morning, and left.

  ***

  I used my key to let myself into Harry’s condo and looked at the kitchen clock. It was just after one in the morning. I shuddered, thinking about the day yet to come, then I took a shower to wash the stink from my body.

  I slipped naked under the covers and reached down for him.

  Good old Harry. You’re always there when I need you.

  “So,” he said, some thirty minutes later. Yes, he’s that good. “How bad was it?”

  “Oh, it was good. Very good.”

  Harry smacked me lightly on the shoulder. “Not that, dammit. The call out.”

  I took a deep breath, let it out. “It was pretty bad.” I spent the next five minutes telling him about it, but he was asleep before I finished. I set the alarm on my phone for six o’clock.

  I needn’t have bothered: Harry was up and out for his morning run by five-thirty. When he finally climbed out of the shower an hour later, I had coffee and bagels ready.

  “Harry,” I said, watching him over the rim of my second cup of coffee. “What are your plans? What are you going to do now that you’re no longer a cop? You can’t just sit around and mope. You need to do something.”

  He tilted his head slightly, smiled that annoying little smirk he uses when he thinks he knows something nobody else knows, and reached for his wallet.

  This time he really did know something I didn’t know. He flipped a business card onto the table. It read “Harry Starke Investigations” along with an address on Georgia Avenue and several phone numbers.

  “No!” I all but shouted the word. “You, a private investigator?” And I burst out laughing. Harry, that enigmatic little smile still on his lips, just sat there and looked at me.

  I stopped laughing. I looked at him seriously, “You’re not kidding?”

  “Nope.”

  “How long…. You’ve been…. Harry, you must’ve been planning this for a while. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  He shrugged, “I wasn’t sure about it until I left. As you say, I figured I needed to do something. The money won’t be great, but I don’t need a paycheck.”

  Harry’s father, August Starke, was one of the wealthiest attorneys in the country. Harry was, even in those days, very well off in his own right. So, no, Harry didn’t need a paycheck.

  “Look, Kate. I loved being a cop. I loved being an investigator. What I didn’t love was the politics, the back-stabbing… and the damn chief. It makes sense, the PI thing. I’ll be my own boss, hire my own people, find my own clients—which, by the way, I’ve already done. I have at least a couple dozen high-powered attorneys waiting in line, not to mention dear old dad. Now all I need is staff.”

  He was silent for a moment, watching me.

  He has the most intense blue eyes….

  And then I realized:

  You want me to work for you. Oh no. I love you, Harry, but no way in hell.

  “It’s not going to happen, Harry.”

  “Why not? We get along, we work well together, we always have. We make a great team.”

  I looked at my watch. It was almost eight: time I wasn’t there. Fortunately, I didn’t have to go home. I kept a change of clothes at Harry’s condo—well, more than one, actually—so all I had to do was drive to Amnicola and check in.

  “Let’s talk about it later, okay?”

  He shrugged. Nothing ever seemed to bother him. I’ve always hated that.

  I kissed him, pinched his cheek, and said I’d call him later. I left him staring into the depths of his cup.

  Chapter 2

  The following Monday morning, I was at my desk in the incident room, sipping on my third cup of what’s laughingly called coffee, when Chief Johnston leaned over my shoulder and dropped a slim manila folder in front of me.

  “Here you go, Kate.”

  “What is it?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I knew. I flipped through the file. Just a dozen or so sheets of paper—forms, statements—and a couple of photos of a beautiful girl who matched the stats of the body in the culvert.

  “It’s the missing persons file for a Jasmine Thomas. I’m thinking she’s the homicide you caught last night. If not, pass it along. But if it is, you’ve got a jump start.” He plucked a photo out of the file. “I just had a call from the mayor about this girl, Jasmine. She was reported missing two weeks ago and the case is getting a lot of media attention. I need it wrapped up ASAP.”

  Johnston never changes. He looks much the same now as he did that day eight years ago. Big round head shaved and polished to a shine, half-glasses, a pure-white Hulk Hogan mustache, and a chest like a barrel. He was also something of a martinet, a stickler for routine, a force to be obeyed instantly and without question. He was glad to see Harry gone, of that I was sure.

  “You’ll need a new partner,” he said. “I’m thinking Detective Tracy…. Now, don’t give me that look, Sergeant. He’ll do just fine. I’ve also assigned Detective Foote to you, temporarily. If you need uniforms, Captain Peck is your go-to. I’ve already let him know.”

  Dick Tracy? What did I do to deserve this?

  No, his name wasn’t really Dick. He’d been stuck with the nickname, partly because of the Chester Gould comic strip detective from the 1930s, but mostly because that’s exactly what John Tracy was: a dick. I hadn’t hoped for much in my new partner, but this….

  “Yes, sir. But, Detective Tracy—”

  “Good. Get it wrapped up, quickly.” He flipped the photo onto my desk, then left.

  Dick Tracy. I shook my head. This is not happening!

  Oh, but apparently it was. I heard the man himself call from behind me.

  “Hey, Katie!” Tracy swaggered around my chair, parked his ass on the corner of my desk, one foot on the floor, the other swinging back and forth, crotch on full display “Looks like it’s you and the Dick, huh?”

  The way he emphasized the word, the grin, and the look he gave me were sleazy beyond words. His right leg began to brush my thigh as it swung. I shuddered. And I knew right then I was going to have to shut him down, and quickly.

  I leaned back in my chair, pushed with my feet to roll away from the desk, and stared up at him.

  John Tracy was everything I disliked in a man: arrogant, lazy, indolent, sloppy, and the quintessential smartass. He was thirty-four, three years older than me, but he looked forty. He was also shorter than me by a
good three inches; he wore lifts to boost his five-nine a little. He was skinny, deeply tanned, and his shoulder-length brown hair was in need of a wash. He was wearing worn out jeans and a gray t-shirt—also in need of a wash—and Nike sneakers that had seen better days.

  He’d spent the past seven years in Narcotics which, I hoped, accounted for his appearance, if not his attitude.

  I looked around the incident room—my desk was in a small cubicle at the far end, under the window. Everyone in the room was watching; they turned quickly away, but not in time to hide the smiles.

  I tilted my head a little, crossed my legs, and looked up at him through half-closed eyes. “Hello, Detective Tracy. Yes, Chief Johnston did mention it. And I want to tell you…”

  Then, in one quick movement I rolled forward, grabbed his gonads, and squeezed. Hard. “Don’t ever call me ‘Katie’ again. You hear?”

  “Ahhh, oh, ahhh!” Tracy slid a little way off the desk and scrabbled at my hands. I twisted. He rose up onto his tip toes and had to grab at the edge of my desk to keep upright.

  “I repeat: never again. Do you understand?”

  “Ye-ah,” he howled, “I got it. I got it!”

  “Good.”

  Again, I glanced around the room. They didn’t even bother to look away this time, and some of the smiles had turned to open laughter.

  I turned back to him. “Now, detective,” I said ever so calmly, “here’s how it’s going to be. First: from now on, you will call me Sergeant. Is that clear?”

  He nodded frantically.

  “Good. Second: go home and take a shower. You stink like a sewer rat. Put on some respectable clothing and get your hair cut. How you made it here is God’s own mystery, but this is Homicide, not Narcotics, and you will dress and act professionally. Is that clear?”

  Again, he nodded.

  “Good. You have…” I looked at my watch, “until eleven. That’s two hours. I’ll expect to see you at the forensic center, where we will attend a postmortem. Now get out of here, and don’t be late.”