Screaming To Be Solved

by Lauren Hope

  Chaz sat there, spine straight, staring at Grant. He shot a glance at the guard who didn’t seem to be interested in the least at what was going on at their little table. “Cool.” He shrugged.

  “Cool, so you’ll talk to me?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Chaz popped a shoulder back, began to relax again. “You’re the first cop person that’s really even come to talk me. Why not? I ain’t got nothin’ to hide. I’m already stuck here. Might as well talk. And you don’t look so bad. Least not like some of the others.” He tossed his eyes to the beefy guard.

  “Agreed.” Grant nodded. “And thanks for the compliment.”

  Chaz chuckled a little but sucked it in quick when the guard whipped his head their way.

  Grant clasped his fingers together, looked Chaz right in the eye. “What can you tell me about why you’re in here, Chaz? What happened that night you got arrested two years ago?”

  “Ain’t much to it. Police popped me in an old barn, took me down and nailed me for theft and possession. I had ‘bout an ounce of coke in my pocket’s why.” He laughed, whipped a hand over his nose. “Guess that get’s ya in trouble with the po-po’s.”

  Grant smiled. “Guess so.” He scooted forward in his chair, trying to relax. He didn’t want Chaz knowing his heart was rapping against his chest a mile a minute. He needed calm on the surface. He peered into the boy’s eyes, lowered his voice even further as if they were exchanging top-secret information. “And the other charges?”

  “The murder?” Chaz made a sound of disgust. “I don’t even know how they got that on me. I tried to ask that public defender man what was goin’ on and he didn’t tell me much. ‘Just shut up and look as innocent as you can’ is what he said. I sure didn’t mean to hurt nobody. The Guard and some of the boys just told me to burn a car. I didn’t know it had nobody in it, I swear. Really wouldn’t done it had I known it’d been Paul. Even though he was a snitch.”

  “The Guard?”

  “Yeah, the guy who handles all our stuff. Drugs in and out. Meetings so the cops don’t catch us. All’s I know him as is The Guard. We call him Guard, usually.”

  “And what about the barn?”

  “Oh, one off Short Gap Road, way out. Our usual meeting spot. Guard or one of his guys brings the stuff, we exchange cash. Night you’re askin’ ‘bout, Guard came, said the guy we knew as Paul ended up bein’ a cop named Evan, betrayed us all. Guard told us he’d take care of it, we left, and later they called and asked me to burn the car for a free ounce. I did, then went back to the barn ‘cuz they told me that’s where to pick up my stash.” Chaz scooted his legs out from under the table, propped a foot up on his opposite knee. “Not long after, the cops came and picked me up. Found the drugs, said I’d stole ‘em ‘cause I was afraid. They charged with me theft, then threw the murder on me.”

  Grant bit his lip, wishing he could jot all this down, but he had a feeling it would spook Chaz. This was man-to-man talk, friend to friend. He needed to look as little like a cop as possible. This boy had no trust in them now that they’d charged him with a murder he didn’t commit. “Can you tell me anything about this man . . . Guard? What he looks like, his real name?”

  “Naw, man. Thing is, he’s always got a hat on, glasses too. Know he’s white, ‘bout six foot maybe, I don’t know. Can’t tell much else about him. Never cared. He gave me my fix, know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Yeah, I know what you’re sayin’.” And Grant knew he probably wasn’t getting much more info than that out of Chaz. Soon, the boy would figure out he was talking more than he probably intended. Talking in the circles Chaz was from was not smiled upon.

  As Grant thought it, Chaz did too. He sat straight in his chair again, looked around the room as if more people might’ve appeared when he wasn’t looking. He stared at Grant, wide-eyed and spoke quickly. “But I don’t know nothin’ else. And I sure wouldn’t rat nobody out. I mean, I ain’t gonna be in here forever. When I get out, I can’t be called a snitch, know?” His nerves got the better of him again and he began to fidget with his fingers, pick at his dirty nails. “I can’t get that rep in here.” He shuddered, a quick tremor that he tried to hold back as soon as it started. “I’ve got in good with the boys so far, and I don’t want nothin’ messin’ that up, you got that, Detective Grant. So don’t go ‘round tellin’ people Chaz Henry talked. I helped you cuz you helpin’ me. Got it?”

  “Got it, Chaz. You’re right, I was here today for you to help me, and you have. I want you to realize, anything we say here is confidential. I’m not going to sell you out—to your buddies in or outta here. We clear?”

  Chaz nodded, surprise clear on his face. Grant cocked a half-smile, rose and pushed the chair back. It shrieked as it wrestled over the concrete floor. “I gotta go now and work on some things.” He stared down at the boy. “You helped me; I’ll come back and help you.”

  Grant turned, motioned to the guard he was ready to go. The doors slid open and the guard went to Chaz, hauled him up from the seat.

  “Grant?”

  “Yeah, Chaz.” Grant turned, stared at the boy who looked out the lone widow in the room thoughtfully, one of his arms gripped firmly in the beefy guard’s hand.

  “If what you’re sayin’s true, and that man, Evan, was pulled out tha river, that means when I burned that car, I didn’t kill nobody, right?”

  “Looks that way, Chaz. Looks just that way, doesn’t it?”

  Outside, Grant took a huge breath of fresh air in the late morning breeze. The sun felt good on his face, the pavement firm and assuring under his feet. As he drove away, he rolled down the windows and inhaled two more sweet breaths of freedom—one for himself, and one for a wrongly accused young boy.

  EIGHTEEN

  He was almost positive she’d be at the law firm. She wasn’t answering her cell—again—but that just meant that she was busy, not that she’d run off on her own somewhere without telling anyone. He hoped.

  He needed to see her. He was ready to run this info by Marxie, see if she had any additional ideas or memories to add or corroborate Chaz’s account. He’d stopped for a quick bite of food on his way back from the jail and jotted down most of what Chaz had said. He hadn’t wanted to forget any of it. Steering through light traffic, he took the notes laid in the passenger seat, scanned through them while he slowed to stop at a red light.

  Something wasn’t adding up about the whole night. By Chaz’s account, Evan’s real killer was still walking the streets. Was it this mysterious Guard? Or another random member of the drug group he’d infiltrated? Someone setting up Chaz perhaps, wanting their enemy to take the fall for a heinous crime? All plausible, but right now, not much of it seemed to be making sense.

  He might have to call Chief Burns, get his take on it. Or, he could finally make that trip to Pembroke, pay a visit to Chief Robert Raines. He should know more about this than anyone.

  He might also be able to explain those small . . . well, not so small tidbits Grant was able to dig up yesterday. Could be Chief Raines had good, plausible explanations for why the M.E. on Evan’s case was now head of the entire medical department in Atlanta where Raines’s son had just retuned from a fairly high-ranking position himself. Or why the first officer on the scene the night of Evan’s death had been shot to death (by an apparent mugging) nine months later.

  Could be he didn’t.

  Either way, it was time Grant paid the Chief of Pembroke PD a personal visit. While there, he’d gauge how he felt about the man and then decide what steps to take next. Grant was usually good with face-to-face meetings, he could tell a person’s character well. If they were honest, good, hiding something.

  That’s why he didn’t like Rick Williams, Grant thought, as he pulled into the parking lot of Monroe and Williams law firm. Face to face, the guy didn’t fare much better than his reputation. Glancing to the clock on his dashboard, Grant saw it was right at noon, which probably accounted for the mostly empty parking lot.

  He dis
covered the inside was much the same when he entered the outdated lobby. His lunchtime theory was confirmed from the sign posted on the desk: At lunch. Back at one. If you need assistance, dial 6 from the phone on the wall.

  He bypassed the phone and walked down the narrow hallway, passing glass-walled conference rooms and offices as he went. He could tell Marxie had her hands full here—the place was straight out of the eighties. And if he could see that, it must be really bad.

  He could also see she was already improving things. Outdated pictures were off the wall, propped against desks and laid on floors, ready to be hauled out; tables and shelves that he could tell used to be filled with things now stood empty, ready to be restocked with Marxie’s choices. She’d make it good in here, he knew. Nice, subtle, intriguing . . . just like she was.

  At the sound of a voice, Grant stopped in his tracks. He didn’t know why he felt compelled to stop, as if he were eavesdropping or snooping somewhere he shouldn’t. He had every right to be here. But he stilled, and listened. With silent steps, he crept closer to the slightly familiar, charismatic voice.

  Every office was empty and Grant noted Marxie was not in any of the ones he passed on his noiseless walk down the hall. He eased closer to the voice, stopped again at the frame of a doorway when the tone turned from pleasant to irritated.

  “No. And this is none of your business by the way. I ask out who I want, when I want. I always get the girl too.” The man’s voice hooted with laughter. “Not this time? Of course this time. Marxie Vaughn is one hot piece of female tail and I aim to have her.”

  Grant felt his blood surge. Williams. Oh how he’d like to take that guy’s face and turn it into something that would never get him ‘female tail’ again. He was talking about Marxie? To who? And why? Grant craned his neck as Rick’s voice resounded out the door.

  “What I wouldn’t like to do to her.” Rick laughed again. “Okay, okay. Settle down. I lay off the girl. For now. It’s not like she’s taken though. No harm, no foul.” Grant took a step forward, closer to Rick’s office. He stood, back against the wall and heard Rick flipping through what sounded like thick pages. From the corner of his eye, he saw the object tossed on the floor. One of Marxie’s design books.

  “No!” Rick spewed, suddenly angry. “Do you think I’m a total moron? I played dumb. Grabbed her dainty little unadorned hand, cooed a bit over whether or not she was single, why she wasn’t wearing a ring. I was very sensitive. A complete gentleman.” He paced now, and Grant heard his steps on the thick carpet, his suit rustling with the movement. “Ah, well, screw you too,” Rick growled. “Fine, I’ll leave the woman alone.”

  Rick slapped the phone shut and tossed it down with a clatter. “Stupid prick,” he muttered.

  Grant heard him clinking around for a drink and wondered briefly if what he was doing was completely ethical. Eavesdropping? Listening in on someone’s conversation that Grant had no reason to suspect of anything but being a creep? What were his investigating skills coming to? Were Marxie and this case getting to him more than he admitted? Was she bringing up long buried feelings, too similar to what had pushed him to devote his life to this line of work in the first place?

  Ethical or not, if he didn’t suspect Rick of anything before, he had reason to now. Who was Rick talking with about Marxie, especially about knowledge of her marital status? And why would anyone care if Williams hit on her?

  It was time to get out of there. Grant needed to find Marxie and make sure she did not come back here. He didn’t want her near these offices or the man until he figured out just what his motives were—and Grant felt there definitely were some—for hiring Marxie as his decorator.

  He walked swiftly out the door, heading for his Jeep. But before he got there, something caught his eye. The midday summer sun glinted off the item. His eyes scanned the ground. And he saw it.

  A glistening gem, beaming a bright, colorful spectrum in the sun’s rays. A perfectly round stone set in a mangled gold band. He picked up the diamond ring, examined it.

  Marxie’s. He knew it. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did. It was hers, and he was sure of it.

  But his interest didn’t revolve around why the delicate piece of jewelry caught his eye, or how he was so certain of its rightful owner. What Marxie Vaughn’s stolen wedding ring was doing in the parking lot of Monroe and Williams law firm was a mystery that overshadowed all else.

  He’d called her parents’ house first, found out she’d left a few hours ago. Then he tried her cell twice, with it going straight to voicemail, while in route to her house. She better not be there, he thought, pushing the pedal further to the floor. He and about ten other cops had warned her it wasn’t safe to enter that house. After break-ins people were likely to come back, get anything they left behind or were afraid would implicate them. He didn’t want her there if that happened. He really didn’t want her anywhere near the scene, period.

  Besides, she had already said she was staying at his place again tonight. If she’d changed her mind, he’d just have to re-convince her.

  Last night was one of the better nights of his life. Funny he should think that, being a healthy thirty-one year old man. The evening involved nothing sexual in nature and he’d had a ridiculously attractive woman sitting directly across from him most of the night. But Marxie was more than that to him. She was good company. Interesting conversation. And animated; how charming it had been when her face lit up, those eyes flitting from one place to the next as he escorted her from room to room in his home. She’d taken in little doses of shocked breath, expelled pent up ones in a big whoosh, and sighed a little when something magnificent caught her eye. It was intriguing to watch her. Just as it had been the night she’d shown him her workspace. She was so in tune with her materials, so involved and passionate about her work. It made him proud his home could give her the same reactions.

  When he pulled into her driveway, annoyance flared. Her car was parked smack dab in the middle of the drive.

  The police tape was still secured over the front door, so he was fairly certain she wasn’t in the house . . . at least by that point of entry. Maybe she was at the shop.

  He jogged over, entered through the tinkling door of E.M. Vaughn Design. Marxie’s voice floated to him, polite and efficient and his loosened a fraction.

  He rounded a corner filled with displays of colored tile and saw her leading a customer through the lighting section of the store. “Yes, Ms. McDaniel, you’ll have enough light to knit and sew with this overhead.” She smiled, put a hand on a bronzed circular cone. “Since it’s recessed, it won’t cast as many shadows. In fact, you’ll probably like it much better than the ceiling fan you’ve got.”

  The old woman smiled, asked more questions while Grant paced around the room. Finally, he heard her accept Marxie’s advice, make a purchase and say farewell.

  The minute the little bell on the door dinged, signaling she’d finally left, he bounded toward Marxie.

  “Hey.” She smiled. “What’s up?”

  “I went by the law firm, thought you’d be there.”

  “Checking up on me again? Well, I’m here, so no harm done.” She raised both hands, palms out.

  “I know, I’m glad. I thought—“

  “Oh,” she interrupted, slightly amused. “You thought I went in the house since my car is there. Well wasn’t your bubble burst when you found out you couldn’t bust me for it? I was right here in my little shop.” She smiled smugly and turned to put a handful of pens in a cup on the counter.

  “Marx, we need to talk. How soon can you leave here?”

  “Well,” she frowned, “I hadn’t planned on it anytime soon. In fact, I’ve got more client meetings here, then I have to go by and finish up some work at the firm. You missed me there by a couple of hours.” She pointed to the clock, smiled a little mockingly again.

  “No, I don’t want you going there.”

  “What?” She turned stern eyes on him, placed her hands on the c
ounter. “No, Grant, that’s my job. I have to, they’re expecting me.”

  “Well, make an excuse,” he countered back, placing his hands in front of hers and leaning in. “Don’t you have help or assistants or something that can do that for you?”

  “Yes. There’s a girl that was a few years younger than me in college, she comes to the store sometimes, mans it when I can’t. But I’m not calling her,” she said through clinched teeth. “I’m going to the firm.”

  He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice to commanding. “You asked once if I thought you in were danger. I do now. And I’m telling you not to go there.”

  Her face softened, surprise and concern evident in her eyes. “Okay. I guess I can check with her . . . if it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “It is.”

  She paused, considered. “Has something else happened? Did they find out who broke-in my house?”

  “No, to both. But I want you to promise me that you will not go to Monroe and Williams.”

  She sighed, pulled a black notebook out from under the counter. “Okay.”

  “Great.” He tapped a hand to hers, gave a quick smile. “Wrap things up here, and if you need anything from the house, call the station, they’ll send someone out to escort you in. Meet me back at my house when you can, got it?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ve got some things to do. We’ll regroup in a couple of hours. If you get there before I do, use this.” He fished in his pocket, pulled out the keys, and after unhooking his spare to the house, handed it to her. “This will get you in. Stay put until I get there.”