I hug the curb until I arrive at a dimly lit driveway, where the chain-link fence turns into a gate. It stands just as tall as the fence and is lined with the same barbed-wire crown, but it isn’t shaded with the plastic, so I’m able to see through it. My pulse spikes nervously as I take in the scene in front of me: a nearly empty parking lot lit up by one yellowing overhead lamp and a small shed sitting at the far end of the lot in front of yet another veiled fence, a faint light emitting from its one lonely window.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I mutter, eyes wide with uncertainty. This is the second time in as many weeks I’ve found myself searching for a man in a dark parking lot. It’s like I’m trying to earn my own Lifetime movie.
A light suddenly ignites from inside a pickup truck parked in the lot. A figure hops out, and even though it’s dark, I can tell by the broad, stocky silhouette that it’s Chavez. A relieved breath settles in my chest. Okay. Everything’s okay. He’s here . . .
He heads toward the gate, that damn smirk emerging through the darkness like the North Star, as he enters the spray of light pouring out from my headlights.
“Come on in,” he calls out as he swings the gate open.
I smile nervously and give a little wave as I pass by.
I park my car next to his, then quickly hop down onto the gravelly lot.
“Any trouble finding me?”
“Nope. It was easy,” I say. “Sorry it took so long—it’s a bit of a drive for me.”
“No worries.” He comes to a stop at my car’s rear bumper, while I instinctively hug myself against the crisp night air. “Did you bring a bat?”
“I did, but I’m not sure it’s the kind you had in mind.” I open the back door and pull out Avery’s old Wiffle ball bat that I dug out from the storage space above the garage. It’s yellow, made of cheap plastic, with a tip that’s roughly the size of my thigh, and if memory serves, it makes a sort of whistling sound when you swing it. “Will this work?” I ask, raising the bat up for inspection.
He strides over, his smirk giving way to a chuckle as he takes the bat from my hands. “Uh . . . no. But that’s okay. I came prepared.”
He tosses my bat back into the car, then heads over to his truck, where he pulls out a backpack and two aluminum bats from the cab. He straps the pack over his shoulders, then hands me one of the bats and says, “Now we’re ready for battle.”
I laugh nervously, squeezing the cold metal against my palm.
We’re going to battle?
We make our way across the lot to the little shed, where an older man, dressed in oil-stained mechanic coveralls, greets us from beneath the cover of his thick, bristly beard.
“What the hell are you doin’ here on Thanksgiving, Chavez?” he grunts through the narrow window, proving his facial hair isn’t the only bristly thing about him.
Chavez laughs. “How you doin’, Jessie? Everything good?”
“Good as it can be,” he huffs back.
“Okay if we go a few rounds?” Chavez asks, raising his bat.
The man shifts his attention to me, sizing me up with his narrowed gaze. I swallow hard and tighten my grip on the bat.
“Yeah, all right,” he snuffs. “But she’s gotta stick close to you. She can’t go roamin’ all over the place like that last chick you brought in here.”
That last chick.
Of course I’m not the only woman he’s brought here. Ladies’ men like Officer Poncherello are always on the move.
“Understood,” Chavez agrees with a nod.
“Head to the back forty,” Jessie instructs. “We just got a couple of cruisers in from the South Side that are still in pretty good shape.”
“Sounds good. Thanks a lot, man.”
Jessie signs off with another grunt, then presses a button on the wall inside his shed that prompts the gate in front of us to unlock and slowly slide open.
My eyes grow wide as I take in the sea of abandoned cars hiding in the shadows in front of us.
“Is this a junkyard?” I ask.
“Sort of. It’s where they take vehicles after they’ve been investigated. Like if they were involved in a fatal accident or a serious crime, the CSI team does their thing with them first, and then they bring them over here before they’re eventually shipped off to a salvage yard. We call it Smash Land.”
“Smash Land,” I mutter absently, my eyes growing wider as the reality of what I’m about to do starts to settle in.
We’re going to smash things . . .
“Come on.” He gives my jacket a little tug. “We’re going this way.”
The lot is illuminated by a few overhead lamps, so we’re able to safely navigate our way, though with the carpet of glass crunching under our feet, it feels anything but secure. My heart starts to pound a little faster.
We’re going to smash things!
“So, you have a good Thanksgiving?” Chavez asks as we round a bashed-in minivan and head toward the back corner of the lot.
“Yeah. It was gre—” I cut off my canned response with a sigh as I’m suddenly reminded that I don’t have to lie to Chavez. He’s the one person I can actually tell the truth. “No, actually it was pretty horrible. My entire family wanted to be somewhere other than at home with me. How was yours?”
He shrugs. “My dad ate too much and fell asleep in his recliner with his hand down his pants, my mom and aunt tormented my sister about her love life, and my nephew cried because he wasn’t allowed to watch the Snoopy special until after dinner. It was pretty magical.”
I chuckle, delighted by the enviable visual, and also the fact that he was with his family and not one of his many women. Though I’m not sure why I even care . . .
“Well, it sounds perfect,” I say, reclaiming my thoughts with a little shake of my head. “I’m sorry I interrupted it.”
“I’m not.”
I glance up at him. “No?”
He shakes his head, the dimple in his cheek deepening beneath his growing grin. “Not at all. In fact, I was sort of hoping you’d call.”
My breath catches with unexpected hopefulness. “You were?”
“Yeah. I’ve been dying to get back out here and beat something up.”
“Oh, right. Of course,” I say sheepishly.
Get your head on straight, Jane.
He’s here to work out aggressions—and so are you!
“Ah, look at those beauties,” he says.
We come to a stop in front of a pair of black-and-white police cars. One is tire-less, with a severely impacted rear bumper that accordions the trunk all the way through the back seat, and the other is missing both passenger doors, revealing a completely charred interior. The seats have a crispy sort of look to them—the singed vinyl peeling away in sheets like scorched skin after a bad sunburn—and the dashboard bears a striking resemblance to a melted crayon.
“What happened to these cars?”
“No idea,” he answers while peeling off the pack and setting it on the ground.
“I thought you were a detective.”
He smirks at my little jab. “I’m off duty.”
“Oh, right,” I say, smirking back.
With his bat in his left hand, he sidles up beside me and gives me a little nudge with his right shoulder. “You’re up, slugger.”
I swallow hard, excitement and uncertainty colliding in one massive knot in my throat. “Are you sure?” I tighten my grip on the bat while casting a nervous glance over my shoulder. “This doesn’t seem right.”
“Trust me, it’s very right. Go ahead,” he urges. “Just give it a whack.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere,” he says, amused by my nervousness. “Like this.”
He steps up to the tire-less car, raises the bat back behind his shoulder, and swings through—
“Huuugh!” he grunts as the bat smashes into the front passenger door. I reel back, startled by the sound, and by the huge dent he’s left behind. “Just avoid the windows, si
nce I forgot the goggles,” he adds over a satisfied grin.
“Okay. Right. No windows.”
My heart adopts a faster beat as I step up to the burned-out car.
Just whack it, Jane.
Just whack it!
I raise the bat—which is a lot heavier than the one I brought—and give it a little swing.
Thunk.
It smacks against the front fender, not even leaving a scratch.
“Ah, come on. I know you’ve got more in you than that,” he taunts. “Put some meat behind that swing.”
My cheeks flush at his playful banter.
I raise the bat and give it another try.
“Ugh!” I grunt.
BANG!
I hit the same spot, but this time I leave a dent. Not a big one, but it’s still there. About the size of a golf ball.
Pride swells in my chest and I grin.
“There she is!” Chavez crows. “There’s the little orange thrower.”
The little orange thrower.
I laugh at the nickname, but the reference instantly transports me back to the night I earned that moniker, to the feelings that brought me to that maddening place in time.
An image of Dan and Julian making out in his car suddenly appears on the cruiser’s hood. My lip pulls up into a sneer, and I raise the bat. With every ounce of strength in my body, I slam it down against the steel—
BANG!
My body shudders against the impact—like kickback from a rifle—causing me to stumble backward.
“Whoa, you okay?” Chavez is quick to stabilize me with a hand to the small of my back.
His fingers graze the narrow space of exposed skin that lies between the waistband of my jeans and the hem of my jacket. Unexpected flutters fill my chest, my nerves frustratingly delighted by the warmth of his touch, but I don’t have time to process what that means or why it’s happening. All I can focus on is the euphoria that’s thrumming through my veins. The exquisite release I feel from smashing that car.
“Yeah, I’m good,” I say, quickly righting myself and raising the bat again.
I’m very good.
Bang!
Agggh!
Crash!
Ugggh!
Boom!
Smash!
Over and over, I attack the burned-out car with my bat—slugging and swinging, grunting and yelping out my rage—while Chavez works over the tire-less car beside me, pausing every few minutes to admire my handiwork.
“Damn, girl,” he says when I finally drop my bat, too winded to continue. “I think you killed it.”
I’m hinged forward at the waist and panting, palms pressed against my knees in search of breath. I glance over at my car and grin. “Yeah, I . . . did good . . . didn’t I?” It looks like they pulled it off the set of The Walking Dead.
“Feel like you worked off some stress?”
I nod over a breathless laugh. “Oh my god, yes. That was amazing. Except I’m pretty sure my arms are going to fall off.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, you’re gonna be sore tomorrow. And the next day. And probably the day after that . . .”
I laugh again. “However long it lasts, it was worth it.”
“Good, I’m glad. I’ve got some water here, if you want any.”
“Yes, please. Water would be good.”
Who knew beating the shit out of a car would be such a good workout?
I join him where he’s unloading his pack at the base of a tower of old tires. Along with a bottle of water, he pulls out a small Tupperware container and two plastic forks. He unscrews the cap from the water bottle and offers it to me while he leans up against the tires with the container.
I take a long pull, savoring the rush of cold against my heated lungs.
“I’ve also got some pie here, in case you worked up an appetite.” He peels back the cover, offering me a glimpse. “It’s blackberry,” he clarifies, aware that it looks more like a pile of gloppy, purple slop than a piece of pie. “It tastes a lot better than it looks.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” He levels me with a playful glare. “Here.”
He hands me a fork and pushes the container closer.
I scoop out a small portion and with deliberate caution raise it to my mouth while he watches expectantly.
“Okay, you’re right,” I mutter over the surprisingly tasty bite. “That’s actually pretty good.”
He grins.
“Did your mom make that?” I ask.
“No, I did.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, I did. Does that surprise you?”
That image of him draped in Mardi Gras beads comes to mind, quickly followed by the bright-orange Hooters mug sitting on his desk.
“Yeah, actually it does,” I concede over a little shrug.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” I scoop out another helping and pop it into my mouth. “I guess because you’ve got this whole . . . vibe about you.” I motion up and down the length of him with my fork.
“Vibe?” He looks like he’s about ready to laugh.
Fighting my own amusement, I say, “Yeah, you’re like this macho ladies’ man who likes to party and bring women down to the station so they can check out your cool detective stuff.”
He snorts. “What are you talking about? I don’t bring women down to the station so they can check out my cool detective stuff. I work in cold cases. I don’t have any cool detective stuff.”
“Not according to Officer Bates. She said that women are practically lining up outside the station to visit you.”
Despite the limited light, I see a blush emerge across his tan cheeks.
“I’m right, huh?” I tease, giving his arm a playful nudge with my knuckle. “Come on, admit it. I’m right.”
He shakes his head, chuckling. “Sorry to disappoint you. But no. I’m not a macho ‘ladies’ man’”—he air quotes the words for effect—“and I don’t parade women into the office. Other than my family, you’re the only non-cop who’s ever visited me at work.”
I reel back. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why would Bates say that?”
His blush deepens as he returns his gaze to me. “I don’t know,” he moans. “Probably because . . . she likes me.”
My eyes snap wide and I gasp. “She likes you?”
I suddenly feel like I’m back in high school exchanging gossip in the hallway.
“Yeah. I think so,” he admits over a heavy sigh. “She . . . ugh.” He rakes his fingers through his crown of thick black hair, looking positively tortured by the words leaving his mouth. “She’s been asking me to do things with her for quite a while now—ever since I got divorced—and . . . yeah. She was probably feeling a little threatened by you or something.”
I blink hard, not sure which piece of surprising information to respond to first.
“You were married?” is what I end up going with.
“Six years.”
“Wow. What—um, what happened? If you’re comfortable saying,” I quickly add, aware that I may have overstepped my bounds.
He shrugs. “Nah, I don’t mind. It’s actually a pretty typical story for a cop. She hated the danger and the hours and the fact that I couldn’t tell her what I was up to—especially when I was working undercover”—a husband who doesn’t talk about his job all the time? If only!—“and then when I got shot, she pretty much called it quits—”
“You were shot?”
My outburst makes him laugh. “Yep. Right here.” He presses a palm to his chest. “The bullet went straight through my sternum and out the other side.”
“Oh my god.” I instinctively press my hand on top of his, saying, “Are you okay?”
His gaze darts down to his chest for a quick beat—long enough for me to realize how warm the coupling of our hands is—and then he returns it to me, saying, “Well, yeah. I am now. It’s been almost eight years.”
&nb
sp; “Right, of course.” I blow out a chagrined sigh while slowly pulling my hand away. “I just meant—”
“No, I know what you meant.” He smiles kindly. “I was in the hospital for a while and had to do PT for a few months because my back was pretty messed up. I’ve got a pin in it now, which makes it hard to do certain things, but all in all I got off pretty easy. Thankfully, I had a really good doctor; otherwise it could have ended very differently.”
Aware of the importance of a good doctor, I say, “Yeah. You could have been killed.”
“I know,” he says, his voice suddenly taking on a somber tone. He drops his head slightly. “My partner was killed that night. He took two shots straight to the heart.”
I gasp, clutching my own chest in horror.
“We were working undercover with some drug dealers, and things went south and . . .” He extinguishes a pained sigh while shaking his head. “It was pretty bad.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him again. “You two must’ve been really close, huh?”
“Real close. I was supposed to be the best man at his wedding, but he was killed just a week before, so it never happened.”
I wince. “That’s awful. His poor fiancée. She must have been devastated.”
“She was. We all were. Jay was such a good guy—honest, loyal, funny as hell. Shit . . .” He shakes his head, a grin reemerging as his thoughts undoubtedly wander back to memories of his friend. “The last time we hung out was for his bachelor party. God, that was crazy. We went down to New Orleans and dragged him to this strip bar—”
“Wait, is that the picture that’s on your desk? Where you guys are wearing all the beads?”
“You saw it?”
I nod.
Yeah, I saw it, all right.
And the bevy of scantily clad women—er, strippers—surrounding you.
“Man, that was a wild night,” he goes on, oblivious to my budding annoyance with the opposite sex. If they’re not ogling their ball buddies, then they’re eyeing some other buddies of the double-D variety! “That was a drag strip club, but he didn’t know it. We kept buying him lap dances, and he just kept saying, ‘You guys, Rochelle’s gonna kill me! She’s gonna kill me!’ and then, when we told him they were actually dudes, he got so embarrassed that he took off running into the street. He almost got trampled by one of those wandering street bands.”
See Jane Snap Page 16