Screaming To Be Solved

by Lauren Hope

  “What’s your pleasure? There’s Coke, tea, orange juice . . . sorry I don’t have any of the good stuff that’ll really make you forget tonight.” He turned and grinned over his shoulder, pulled a pitcher of tea out of the fridge for himself.

  She smiled, a laugh playing in her throat. “That’s okay. I don’t drink.”

  “Really?” He looked at her, surprised. “Me either. Haven’t met many like me.”

  “Same here.” She admired the rest of the large space, empty but for a small, square wooden table under a grand chandelier, but impressive, nonetheless. She pulled out a stool from under the island, scooted into sit while he poured himself a glass of tea.

  “Got any reasons or you just don’t like the stuff?”

  She shrugged. “A little of both. Don’t like the taste and I’ve seen too much that wasn’t good come out of it.”

  “The latter for me. Dad was a classic alcoholic.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault. Someone else’s,” he muttered as he replaced the tea. She didn’t know what that meant really, but he didn’t elaborate, so she didn’t prod.

  “Evan was too. But he was recovering. Six years clean when he died. It was a battle in college. Short lived but pretty vicious. We got through it.”

  “Good for you. And him. It’s hard to kick.”

  “Easier if you never get in to it I think,” she said, resting her chin in her hands. “Um, do you have any milk?”

  “Like regular old milk, the white kind?”

  “Yep,” she smiled. “I think that’ll do the trick for me.”

  “You’re easy to please,” he said, pulling the jug out of the fridge, pouring her a glass.

  “Thanks. It’s a southern thing I guess. Momma used to always serve it with peanut butter and jelly, or crackers, even spaghetti sometime.”

  “I’m a southern boy too, but spaghetti? Yuck.”

  She laughed, soft, but delighted. “It’s actually good. Promise me you’ll try it some day.”

  “Always try something once I guess.” He grinned, rested long arms on the island. “You make it, I promise I’ll try it. How’s that?”

  “Deal,” she said, before she realized he’d given himself an invitation for her to cook for both of them. Hoping to cover the embarrassed flush she felt painting her cheeks, she brought the deep blue to her lips, took a gulp of the cold milk.

  When she set the glass down, he was smiling at her. And for the first time, she felt that instead of being with a cop or someone she barely knew, she was sitting across from a friend. “How ‘bout that tour?” he asked, downing the last of his tea.

  She hopped up. “I can’t wait.”

  After he’d shown her the rest of the glorious rooms, much to her hearts enjoyment, they situated back in the living room. There were two pieces of furniture; she took the old, ratty green couch while he settled in an oversized tan chair.

  He whisked a hand over his brow as if wiping away an unwanted thought or a bad headache, looked at her with sober eyes. “I’m sorry about tonight, Marxie. I should’ve seen it coming.”

  “How could you?”

  “Could’ve been better at my job. I have a handful of other cases right now and I didn’t feel like I was giving you enough. I was right. I’m sorry for it.”

  “Don’t be. You’ve been wonderful. Staying with me, letting me stay with you,” she gestured around the room, “in your beautiful home.” She lowered her eyes, gave him a guarded grin. “Did you know I’d love it here?”

  “Had my suspicions,” he laughed. “Wasn’t for sure, but I’m glad to get your mind off of things for a while.”

  She turned serious now, her mind suddenly flooded with the images from her home. “Well,” she began heatedly, “it wasn’t you who busted up my place. You can’t take the blame for that. They were scum . . . whoever did that.” She shook her head now, feeling weary and wishing for that shower so she could let all the tears out. “I’m too upset to even think about the house now, or the safety of staying in it. I just wish they hadn’t taken the ring. Once I sit down, really get to think about it, I don’t know what I’ll do. It meant everything to me, Grant. He meant everything to me.” She swallowed the swell of emotion bulging up her throat. Pushed it back and saved it for later when she was alone.

  “It’s hard, losing someone,” he said, his voice low.

  “Yes. It’s the strongest pain I’ve ever felt. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

  “How long were you with him?”

  “Married? Three and a half years. Together, six. In love with him . . . about fourteen.”

  “Wow.” Grant chuckled, rubbed a hand over his chin. “Must’ve been some guy.”

  She sighed, remembering. “He was. Still is for me.”

  “Have you dated since?”

  “Not really.”

  He grinned now, fully amused and she relaxed a little, letting the hurt ease. “Okay, tell me something. How is a date ‘not really’? Either it is or it isn’t.”

  “Is. I’ve had a date.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He looked her over, a modest smile of appreciation playing at his lips. But it didn’t feel anything like when Rick Williams looked at her. Grant’s approval made her blush from mutual pleasure instead of hidden disgust. The way Evan had made her blush.

  “Not many though,” she clarified.

  He leaned back in the big chair, settled into it. “How many is not many?”

  “Two. Well, one technically.” She rolled her eyes. “I was dragged along with Liz on a double date. Her interest at the time—and I’ll add at the time—had a great friend that I just had to meet.” She smiled, twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “We met. And then we never saw each other again.”

  Grant let out a rich laugh that had her blushing again, smiling modestly into her refilled glass of milk.

  “Okay, that was a dud. What about the second?”

  “Second?”

  “You said two, one technically.”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t count the other because only one of us knew it was a date.”

  He eyed her curiously and she suppressed a grin. “The chief in Pembroke and his son, Beau, took great care of me after Evan died. They came to visit at my parents, made sure I was eating, sleeping, going out, everything. They even came a time or two after I moved to Savannah. Once, Beau came alone, asked if I’d eaten dinner. I hadn’t. He asked if I wanted some. I said sure. I went to get ready and fifteen minutes later he was in the living room with flowers and too many spritzes of cologne.”

  “Classic.” Grant rubbed his palms together. “Snuck in did he?”

  She nodded, rolled her eyes again.

  “I don’t like sneaky guys. I’m a lay your cards on the table man. If you’ve got intentions, give ‘em to me.”

  “Oh,” she waved a nonchalant hand, “he didn’t have intentions. Not strong ones at least. I told him over dinner I hadn’t expected flowers from a friend. I kept reiterating that friend part.”

  “Good move. He get the message?”

  “Yes.” She dismissed that quickly. “I don’t think I was really his type anyway, we kinda come from different places.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Families, money, you know,” she held up her hands to mimic quotations, “status. He has it, I don’t.” She grinned. “His real name is Beauregard.”

  Grant raised a dark brow. “People actually name their kids Beauregard? I thought that was a myth.”

  A giggle escaped from her throat and when he grinned at her she flushed. “The Raines did. His mother is steeped in her southern roots. She is the stereotype of old money. Wants everything to be just so and people from the outside to see it that way too. He’s running for Mayor this term.”

  “Sounds like an ambitious guy. Hard to believe he just let you go.”

  She resituated on the sofa, propped her arm up on a pillow. “It’s not like he was in love with me or anything
. He was Evan’s friend and mine. He was looking after me. Probably got infatuated with the whole knight in shining armor thing. You know, I was a grieving widow, young, displaced. He just got confused, that’s all.”

  Grant nodded. “It can happen.”

  “Oh, and I got a proposal today.” She sneered. “Does that count as anything on the date, relationship meter?”

  “Beau again?”

  “No. Rick Williams. Talk about sneaking in.” She rolled her eyes to reiterate her disdain. “Thing is, I’m thrilled about this client, this has been my biggest job—budget and work wise—but a part of me can’t wait till it’s over. That man cannot keep his eyes, and now his invitations, to himself.”

  Grant sat up a little in the chair and Marxie thought she saw his jaw tighten a fraction. “He make a move on you?”

  “‘Dinner tonight, Ms. Vaughn’,” she mocked. Widening her eyes she stuck her finger in her mouth, mimed gagging.

  “We’re on the same page then.”

  “I forgot, you don’t like him.”

  “Not a bit. He’s done too many women I know wrong.” The jaw muscle flexed again. “I don’t want you to be the next.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “And that quick, once again, you’re instructing me on who I should and should not speak to.”

  He sighed. “How is that instructing you? You said you didn’t like the guy.”

  Suddenly annoyed at how comfortable she was cozied up on his big old sofa, laughing at his jokes, blushing at his interest in her, she felt the need to argue, to muddy things up. “I don’t like him. But if I did, it’d be none of your business, would it?”

  “What’s wrong?” He narrowed his eyes, concern sparking in them. “You thinking about the house?”

  Because it wasn’t a complete lie, and it was easier than telling him what she was really feeling—which she wasn’t even sure of—she nodded. “Yeah. I am. I’m sorry to snap at you. I know you’re just trying to help. I guess I’ve been alone for a while now and it’s hard for me to adjust to taking someone’s opinion into account again.” She shifted, tucked her bare feet under her legs. “Right after Evan died I stayed with my parents for a few weeks. It was like being fifteen again. They were wonderful with sympathy and support and everything, but my mom looked over my shoulder like a hawk. Everywhere I went I had to call. If I was going to be late I had to tell them beforehand. I understood their position, but it was a hard transition. Ever since, I’ve really tried to stand on my own two feet.” Thinking of Liz and all she’d done in helping Marxie heal, she smiled a little. “I haven’t done a stellar job of it always, but I’ve tried.”

  “Looks like you’ve done well to me. Business of your own. Practically living alone.” He shrugged. “You’ve accomplished a lot in a short amount of time.”

  “Yeah, but Liz has been a big help. She’s as much to blame as me for my successes. Church family too. They’ve done a lot.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with leaning on someone. That doesn’t make you less able to stand on your own. It just means you need help walking every once in a while. Who wouldn’t with what you’ve been through?” He eyes met hers with a sincere sympathy and her heart did a little stutter. The discomfort of being too comfortable crept back in.

  “Yeah. You’re right.” She smiled and grabbed her glass of milk. “Um, I’m really tired.”

  “Oh, of course.” He stood, gestured down the hall to the guest rooms. “If you need me, I’m that way.” He pointed down the opposite hall.

  “Thanks,” she waved with her glass, “for everything.”

  “My pleasure. Hope you rest well.”

  “Yeah. See ya . . . in the morning.”

  “Yeah,” he called as she padded down the hall, “in the morning.”

  SEVENTEEN

  In the morning, he had much to do.

  Going to see the man who’d been charged with Evan Vaughn’s murder was one of them. His main priority in fact. With last night’s little—or big, more accurately—antics, he was kicking this investigation up a notch. Considering the break-in, the outing of the undercover work from Raines and a few other tidbits he’d neglected to tell Marxie yet, the Vaughn case was turning out to be much more than he’d bargained for. More at least than a simple bungled investigation. He’d called Chief Burns this morning and told him he was backing out of anything besides the Vaughn case. It needed his full attention.

  Grant reminded himself he was strictly doing that based on recent developments, not because he was playing the knight in shining armor bit as Marxie suggested others had. She could fend for herself; she’d advised him as much enough times. He needed to worry about solving this mystery, not about where she was every moment of the day. She had friends and family that watched out for her.

  It’s just that he knew he could do it better.

  With her off to work (with plenty of people around he’d been assured) and a visit to her parents house later, it left him a free day to hunt up some details that continued to nag about the night Evan Vaughn and Chaz Henry faced off. He didn’t expect to find out much today but he at least wanted to talk to the guy.

  As he pulled into the vast, mostly empty parking lot of the maximum security Georgia State Prison, he grabbed a handful of papers from the passenger seat, scanned them. Chaz Henry. White male. Twenty-one years old. Charged with two counts drug possession, one count theft, one count voluntary manslaughter.

  Grant was mostly interested in finding out exactly how voluntary that slaughter was. What had Chaz and his buddies done to Evan? (Because Grant was sure there’d been buddies involved). He would at least leave with that answer, he decided.

  He got out of his car, locked up. Walked up the paved path into the colorless, boxy building, showed ID, signed the necessary papers, had his pockets checked, and was in.

  The jail was just as he remembered it from past visits. Stale, harsh lights, loud voices, restlessness. It wasn’t a place he enjoyed. When he walked through a tightly secure area on his way to the visiting rooms, metal bars rolled over one another and clanged shut behind him. He flinched. No matter how many times he heard that clanking and click of the lock, even with the knowledge that he could get out whenever he wanted, he always felt a little suffocated, cut off from the rest of the world.

  As he strode down the sterile halls, heard voices yell, men curse, he wondered if that total isolation is what these prisoners felt everyday. And if so, did he really care? Did he have sympathy for these men? They hadn’t given their victims any consideration. Hadn’t stopped to ask them if they were comfortable, if they wanted to live or die. After taking a life, screwing someone out of their future, wasn’t it only fair that the perpetrator got the same fate?

  Looking straight ahead, hearing the violence and sensing the misery all around, Grant was glad he could say he’d been responsible for putting some of the men prowling inside the small cages just where they belonged.

  Okay, he had to stop. He always vowed his personal feelings, his past grievances, wouldn’t get in the way of the present or the future. But he couldn’t help himself wonder as he looked at a sea of faces, hardened from life and time behind bars, if one of them was to blame for the way his life and family had shattered. Was the man who changed the course of his life in here, behind these walls?

  Thick bars rolled open, leading to a small room with a washed out white table and four metal chairs. A guard came with him through the door and Grant made a point not to cringe as it clanged shut.

  Moments later, another guard that looked more like a giant of olden days than a human being escorted an orange jumpsuit-clad man into the room where Grant waited.

  Well, he was actually a boy, Grant observed, as he looked closer at the thin prisoner. Young face, fresh eyes still, even half a smile creasing his youthful skin. He hadn’t been in here long enough for visible effects. He might feel them, but it was yet to show on his face.

  The gigantic guard directed the boy to a seat, held
his arm as he plopped down into one of them. Grant nodded at the guard who’d escorted him in and he left while giant man went to stand watch in the corner.

  Grant pulled a chair out for himself, sat across from the slouching boy. He stared at Grant with big hazel eyes narrowed in suspicion. His full mouth stayed sober, displaying no emotion. His dark hair was oily and unkempt, his face baring a scratch or two. His nails were filthy and the sleeves of his jumpsuit were rolled up to display slender arms with boyishly cut biceps.

  “Chaz, I’m Detective Carter.” Grant held out a hand, waited for the boy to return the handshake. “You can call me Grant if you’d like. It’s easier, and I’ve grown kinda fond of the name.”

  “’Kay. Cool . . . Grant.”

  “I’m from the Savannah-Chatham Metro Police Department and I’m a cold case detective.”

  “Like on that TV show?”

  “Well,” Grant smiled, “kind of.”

  “Cool.”

  Grant sucked in a breath, kept his eyes on the boy and leaned back in his chair. “So I’ve been put on a case where a man was recently pulled out of a canal in Savannah. Thing is, he died two years ago, in an explosion. Burned up.”

  “He didn’t die in no explosion if you pulled him outta a canal.”

  “Exactly, Chaz. Exactly.” Grant leaned forward, rapped his knuckles on the table. “That’s why I came to you today. I thought you might know something about it. Maybe you could help me out?”

  “Naw.” Chaz waved a hand. “Wouldn’t know nothin’. I been in here ‘bout two years. Wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with it.” He paused, stared at Grant a moment. He was flustered now, losing his cool, indifferent demeanor, and getting nervous. “Can’t charge me for somethin’ else I didn’t do.” His back went up against the chair, his eyes narrowed, and Grant could tell he was not only becoming anxious, but wary. Grant needed to put a spin on this, and quick, before the boy clammed up and wouldn’t talk at all. He needed a tactic.

  “Oh no.” Grant waved that fear off. “I’m not here to do that at all. Just the opposite, in fact. Thing is Chaz,” Grant leaned forward, lowered his voice, “I’m not real sure you did all the things they say you did.” Chaz’s mouth curved up with cautious curiosity, but he didn’t say a word. Grant continued, “I wanna ask you some questions about why you’re here, what got you in here. You answer them for me, I’ll see what I can do about looking into your charges, making sure they’re all legit.”