by Trish Reeb
Until the moment he dismissed her, his decision remained cloudy. Though Ms. Tamburelli’s unconventional behavior could only be ruled unlawful, her explanation rang sincere. I wonder how she affords her coat and jeans on a teacher’s salary? He recognized quality, and their combined worth had to exceed his recently depleted savings. Enough to warrant keeping tabs on her? 'Tch, tch,’ a voice in his head said, sounding a lot like Desiree. ‘Not too hard on the eyes either.’
Okay, so he almost got lost in their green pools and he had to resist rubbing the smudge of dirt off her cheek. She reminded him of Desi. Not in looks so much as in her reaction to the unexpected. The image of a minx with an explosion of curly hair and honey-colored eyes produced a memory.
Soon after joining the police force, he’d been called to a bar on Seven Mile Road after a couple of drunks upset a party of women celebrating a friend’s twenty-first birthday. When he arrived, Desiree brandished a broken beer bottle, waving it in the face of the gorilla she’d cornered. Witnesses claimed the guy refused to take no for an answer. Cole sent the drunks home in a cab and warned the women about their choice of hangouts.
"Would you say that if we were men?" Desiree had asked.
"No, I probably would’ve arrested you."
She stuck out her hands. "Don’t let that stop you."
When he’d called her a few weeks later to ask her out, she accepted.
God, he missed her so much. If only . . . but no matter how many times he said it, nothing could’ve changed the outcome. He shoved the thought away and sent the guilt packing.
A few steps from room 142, Cole received a call.
Swearing to himself a minute later, he closed the phone.
Sergeant Nicholas Burkhart joined him. "What’s up?" At the end of his shift, Sterling Haygood’s friend and former partner had shown up at the same time Cole rolled in that morning. They’d strode to the crime scene together.
Grabbing Burkhart by the arm, Cole backed away from the door to let one of the crime techs through. "Lucas just called."
"What’s up with the boss?"
"Seems Taryn Richards’ father and the Chief go way back," Cole said. "Fraternity brothers at Morehouse."
A cloud skittered across Burkhart’s face before disappearing. "Puts some pressure on you, don’t it?"
"Damn straight."
"Don’t worry, kid. I’ll watch your back." Burkhart clapped him on the shoulder. "What’d you decide to do about Wonder Woman?"
Cole smiled at the appellation. "Nothing at the moment. I’ll keep an eye on her."
Burkhart grinned. "Bet you will. What’s her story?"
"Taryn Richards' best friend." He leaned against the wall.
"What do you have in mind for my boys?" Burkhart asked with a questioning stare.
Cole had two options: report the incident, knowing the possibility of a six month suspension existed, or chastise them. Since the crime scene had not been compromised, and the men didn’t deliberately neglect it, he favored the lesser of the two. "Give ‘em hell," he said.
Burkhart put a hand to his heart. "Phew. Worried you’d report it."
If he documented it, Burk’s men would’ve been the laughing stock of the department to say nothing of making their sergeant look bad.
"Thought you’d be in the land of nod by now," Cole said.
Burkhart ran a hand through the sparse white strands of his comb-over. "Needed to know which way you’d go." He paused. "Thanks. By the way, anything I can do to help?"
"Nah, I’ve got it covered."
"What about the vic’s residence? Need it secured?"
Cole intended to assign the task to one of the rookies, but since Burkhart volunteered, why not? He scribbled an address on a sheet of paper in his notebook. "She lived in the City of Westland." He ripped the paper from the spirals and handed it over.
Burk glanced at it before stuffing it in the pocket of his rumpled suit coat. "I’m on it." He hit the road and seconds later disappeared around the bend in the hall.
Nice of the old man to offer help. Had Cole imagined it or did the roadmap of lines etched on his face seem more pronounced today than usual? What did the guy need to worry about so close to retirement anyway? Wonder how it feels to be in a position where more years are behind you than in front? He couldn’t imagine it. Not at this point of his life. Though, truthfully, it felt as if his life ended three months ago.
CHAPTER 7
Alex finished the song and chortled at the image of the reporters' faces. She’d done Taryn proud. Needing a buffer for her unwanted thoughts and feelings, she reluctantly considered going home to her cats. But she knew better than to depend on them to help her through this nightmare. Hadn't that been the reason she liked having them around in the first place—because of their low maintenance? Not like dogs, requiring more attention than she had time for or wanted to give. Sid and Sami kept her company. Oh yeah, and they didn’t yap their heads off when someone came to the door.
Keeping her eyes on the road, Alex pawed through her handbag for the cell phone. Where the heck had she put it? She swerved to the curb and braked. "Oh crap." No one returned it, and she’d forgotten to ask. Forced to go back, she dreaded facing harassment from the paparazzi again. If they bothered her this time, she’d sing off key. She turned the car around.
When Alex arrived, the only vehicles in the parking lot belonged to police and school administrators. Surprised the vultures left, but happy to be free of their efforts at scavenging information, she headed to the door. She found it propped open by a rock. Morons. This happened all the time, before, during, and after school hours. Good for her, not so good for the security of the building. Certain the cops didn't want every Tom, Dick, and Harley intruding on their crime scene, she kicked the rock aside. Before entering the building, she stamped the snow off her boots then jerked the door closed behind her.
Alex hastened to the main office. The place deserted, she slipped behind the counter. After winding her way through the maze of secretary desks to the public address system, she snatched up the receiver. "Would the person in possession of Alex Tamburelli’s cell phone please report to the main office?"
Dr. Deidre Pearson marched through the door. "Ms. Tamburelli, who granted you permission to use the P.A. system?" she asked, patting the back of her perfect chignon hairdo.
Alex quickly repeated the message, but changed the meeting place to the gym. As she replaced the receiver, she said, "No one here to ask. Besides, since school’s not in session, I didn’t think it would matter." She advanced toward the exit.
"In the future, check with me or my secretary beforehand. Is that clear?"
"Crystal," Alex said, hand on the doorknob and her back to the principal. The door banging shut behind her, she stomped down the hall. What’s the big deal? During the school day, announcements interrupted the business of learning like commercials on TV.
Peeved and frustrated, Alex knew of only one way to blow off steam, short of flattening someone. She detoured to her office. Five minutes later, she unlocked the gym door using her master key and entered to the echo of a dribbling ball. Damn, she hadn't planned on sharing the court. She needed to work off the simmering anger—anger at the murder, anger at herself for not protecting Taryn.
Both from large families, they’d bonded almost from the beginning. Older sister to three brothers, Alex easily stepped into the same role with Taryn, the youngest of five. In the early stages of their relationship she, a former English teacher, mentored Taryn. They quickly upgraded to best friends once they channeled it beyond the classroom.
Alex bounced down the stairs to the girls’ locker room. She changed into a white tank top, black velour pants, and athletic shoes stowed in the duffle bag she’d nabbed from her office. In warmer weather, she jogged around the outdoor track several times a week and, in the winter, the indoor. Today she needed more.
Back upstairs, she stood on the sidelines. Substitute teacher, Vince Martindale, dreadlocks flop
ping against his white t-shirted back, dribbled the ball down the court. His calf muscles flexed with each step. Perspiration glistened on his cafe au lait skin. He shot the ball into a basket in the far corner, the sound echoing throughout the gymnasium.
Alex grabbed a basketball from the rack in the equipment room and trotted out to the floor. Ignoring the knot of anxiety in her stomach, she focused on the nearest basket. The textured rubber felt familiar beneath her palm and fingers as she dribbled toward her target. She forgot everything but the net waiting to receive the ball. The moves still there, it seemed like yesterday when she played ball with the older triplicate Humbarger boys. Globe-trotting to the goal, she dodged imaginary opponents. Tamburelli aims, she shoots, and scores for a two pointer! Alex sprinted to catch the ball before it hit the floor. A burst of applause resonated across the court.
She slowly turned on her heel to face her one person cheering gallery. "Hey."
"Hey, yourself," Martindale said. "Brave enough to go one-on-one?"
He's challenging me? A workout her objective, what better way than to play someone who needed to forget as much as she did? "Sure you can handle it?"
"I’ll take my chances." Martindale’s smile, though appearing genuine, clashed with the hard lines on his face.
They crossed the floor to meet in the center circle. When she passed the ball to him their hands touched, eyes met. Without saying it, they read each other's thoughts. Taryn. Even though they'd never talked about her, ever.
He tested each of the balls before choosing one and sending the other out of bounds.
After squabbling over the rules, they settled on a winning score of eleven.
Martindale offered Alex first possession.
She tossed him a sly smile. Okay, Mr. Chauvinist or Mr. Chivalrous, whichever your motive for letting me go first, you asked for it. Alex snatched the ball from him, pivoted, and dribbled toward the goal. With not enough time to reach it before Martindale overtook her, she stopped a few steps past the free-throw line. Inhaling deeply, she blew the air out. If she didn't time her next maneuver just right, she'd lose the point. Martindale would expect her to shoot now. She knew from experience she didn't have a prayer. He'd be on her seconds after the ball left her hands and intercept it. Not going to happen. She waited until he stood right where she wanted him, between her and the basket. Watching him closely, she faked a step sending him in the opposite direction. She quickly dribbled around him. A few bounces later, she closed in on the net. Halting, she aimed, shot, and scored.
Martindale took possession.
Alex sent a silent thank you to her teachers who unknowingly prepared her for this moment. Having learned to utilize her female intuition to second guess opponents' strategies, she used it now to her advantage. Her quick reflexes allowed her to stay on him, giving him little room to maneuver. Forced to take a shot from the side at an awkward angle, Martindale’s ball bounced off the rim. Alex intercepted it. This time, Martindale did not let up as she dribbled toward the basket. When her shot went wild, he seized the ball.
For a half hour, they played hard until Martindale won by one point. Winded, they bent over at the waist, hands on their knees, the perspiration flowing freely down their foreheads. Laughing, they straightened and rubbed sweaty palms on their shorts before high-fiving.
"Good game," Martindale said. "Gave me a run for my money."
"Sure did," came a voice from the sidelines.
They swiveled in unison to see Detective Grant propped on the bleachers. Long legs extended, he rested his elbows on the bench behind him.
Alex threw the ball to him. "Let’s see what you can do."
Catching it, he stood. "Afraid basketball’s not my game."
"Find that hard to believe, big guy like you," she said, hands on hips.
"Maybe. If you’re into stereotypes. Give me Lacrosse, and I’m your man." Detective Grant joined them on the floor.
"Gotta get going, Alex," Martindale said. "Thanks for the game." His jaw tight, the hard lines made impressions on his face.
"Best of three?"
"Another time maybe." He pivoted and headed for the stairs to the locker room.
"Didn’t catch the name," Detective Grant said.
The substitute teacher stopped. "Martindale. Vince Martindale," he said over his shoulder.
Detective Grant raised the scarred eyebrow. "Been questioned yet?"
Martindale did a one-eighty and nodded.
"Staff’s been dismissed. Why're you still here?" He handed the ball to Alex.
Martindale shrugged his broad shoulders. "Working out."
Detective Grant folded his arms. "Technically, this is part of the crime scene."
Martindale raised his hands. "Got it. I’m outta here soon as I change." He ambled to the locker room.
During the face-off, Alex pushed her troubles aside. Detective Grant’s appearance brought them hurling back. She thin-lined her lips and bounced the ball, once, twice, three times. She'd wanted a rematch.
Brightening, she said, "Wait, don’t move." She jogged to the equipment room and ferreted through the cupboards.
Rejoining him on the court, she said, "Look what I found." She waved a Lacrosse stick and ball.
Detective Grant smiled and accepted the equipment. "Seen better days." Placing the ball in the net, he gripped the stick with both hands, bringing the head next to his ear. Flicking one wrist, he pulled his other hand toward him and flung the rubber ball toward the nearest basket. It whooshed through the net without touching the rim.
Alex chased after it. Taking the stick from Detective Grant, she dropped the ball in the net and snapped her wrist. It sailed into the air and landed a few feet away. She huffed. "You made it look so easy."
Detective Grant laughed. "Takes practice. Trick is to follow through. Been doing this for years. First at Catholic Central, then at University of Detroit. Played on a league until recently."
Alex crossed her arms and realized she badly needed a shower. "Where's my phone?"
He extracted the cell from his pocket, holding it out of reach.
She extended a hand.
"First, your word you won’t crash any more crime scenes."
"Promise."
"Interfering in a felony is a crime."
"I got that."
Detective Grant handed her the phone.
"Thanks. I mean, for not arresting me."
"I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Tamburelli. It’s tough losing a friend."
She looked at him, her vision blurred by tears swimming in her eyes. Wiping them away, she swallowed. "Thank you."
They walked to the stairs leading down to the girls’ locker room. She flashed him a half smile before taking off down the steps.
CHAPTER 8
Cole picked up the Lacrosse stick Alex discarded on the bleachers, the splintered wood handle primitive compared to the titanium shafts Lacrosse players used today. He flung the ball at the basketball net and missed. Lucky shot earlier.
When Alex announced over the P.A. she’d be in the gym, it never occurred to him she might not be alone. Finding her in a basketball shootout with Martindale produced interesting questions. Were they an item? Or friends? Had they planned the rendezvous or had it happened spontaneously? And what’s up with Martindale? Cole sensed resentment. What's his connection to Taryn Richards, if any? Good questions to ask if and when the time came to put him under a microscope.
Back at the crime scene, Cole surveyed the room now that the techs had bagged the evidence and sent it downtown. Vibrant bulletin boards displaying students’ work and pictures of Black literary artists juxtaposed with overturned desks, fingerprint powder, and a chalk outline on the floor blatantly depicted a paradigm of good versus evil.
Early in his career, Cole adopted Sterling Haygood’s Three Faces of Homicide: the victim, the killer, and the investigating detective. Reconstructing a murder entailed infiltrating the head of the first two using the evidence, gut feelings, and h
is years of experience. Often during the reconstruction, a sense of what happened emerged from the physical evidence at the crime scene.
Lights off, Cole let his eyes wander the dim room before mentally stepping out of his size eleven shoes and into Taryn’s.
I breathe a sigh of relief as the last of my drama students file out of the classroom. Thursdays are long days. I’m ready to go home, get into my jams, and curl up on the sofa. Before I leave, I start to write tomorrow’s assignment on the board in case I want to hit the snooze button in the morning.
My back to the door, I hear a snap, like a rubber band. I whirl around and recognize my visitor. I laugh. "Are you trying to scare me to death?" The person doesn’t smile. S/he kicks the door shut, saying nothing, just stares at me.
The silence turns my skin clammy. Unease creeps into my stomach. I back into the board and drop the chalk. It shatters at my feet. An ice-like sensation crawls up the back of my neck and I shiver as if the temperature dropped twenty degrees. My eyes go to the intruder’s hands. Latex gloves. Intent penetrates. Adrenaline rushes.
The assailant stands between me and the door. I glance at the windows leading to an enclosed courtyard. A dead end. I’m trapped. My heart’s pounding like a timpani. Mouth dry, I can’t swallow. S/he charges toward me. I run to put student desks, my only allies, between us. S/he throws them aside as if they’re toys.
My eyes dart from the assailant to the scissors in the carousel on my desk. I’ve given away my next move. Desperate and out of options, I lunge for them anyway. My fingers barely touch the black handles before s/he grabs my hair, whipping my head back. I scream.
Clawing at the hand, I can't break the steel grip. My necklace snaps and tiny stars scatter across the desk top. I try again, but can’t reach the scissors. With nothing to defend myself, I kick, scratch, and scream.
The killer seizes my arms and throws me to the floor. S/he tapes my wrists behind me, binds my ankles. I want to ask why, but can't speak through the tape over my mouth. I’m as helpless as a baby bird. I don’t want to die. I’ve only begun to live, I silently scream. Tears stream down my face. I feel a prick in the fold of my arm. Wait, I never said good—.