Jamie Hill Triple Threat (A Cop In The Family)

by Jamie Hill

  "Yes to both. Man, if I was six-foot-something I'd give that moron Zybowski a piece of my mind."

  She smiled at him. "If you were six-foot-anything you wouldn't be the man we all know and love."

  "Says the woman who's nearly that tall herself. You don't remember what it's like to be five-six, do you? You probably passed right by that height in elementary school."

  "I'm sure I did. Left it back there with size three clothes. Can't remember that long ago, little dude."

  At the end of the alley he lowered the yellow crime scene tape and they stepped over it. "You know you're the only person who gets away with calling me ‘little dude’, right?"

  "Right, and I promise not to do it in public unless you piss me off." She nodded to the uniformed officers who were keeping tabs on the alley and stepped up to her sporty black Murano. "You got your car?"

  "Yep." He nodded to his small electric Volt.

  Mel bit back a comment about the tiny powder-blue vehicle. Stone loved his eco-friendly car and as much as she enjoyed teasing him, she knew her limits. "See you bright and early."

  He waved his camera. "We'll download these pictures and get started."

  "Really looking forward to it." Mel sighed as she slid onto the leather seat and took a moment to inhale and slowly let it out. Ten years in Homicide had left her jaded, and hard to surprise. But with each dead body there was a moment when she let herself think about them—who they were, what they did, how they felt during their last moments on earth. Then she walled off her emotions and systematically solved the cases, one right after another, leaving more closed than open on the books.

  Her father had taught her how to do that. Thirty years on the force gave him license to teach her plenty about the workings of the WPD. When he was injured in the line of duty and retired at the rank of captain, Gene Curtis was much beloved by most in the department. Now he tended bar at the local cop hangout, Morgan's, more to keep in touch with everyone than for the pay. And he never let much time go by without reminding his daughter, "Every victim is somebody's child. Maybe somebody's parent. Try to remember that."

  "I remember, Cappie," she said to her father, or more accurately to the windshield as she drove. "I always remember."

  It was a short drive to her house, a three-bedroom ranch in a pleasant, older neighborhood with lots of tall trees. Two blocks from her father, who still lived in Mel's childhood home, they lived mere minutes from the cop shop, a feature which appealed to them both. Mel pulled into her narrow garage and pushed the button to lower the door.

  Inside the house, she tossed her keys on the buffet and secured her Glock 22 handgun in the top drawer. After leafing through the mail, a mixture of ads and credit card offers, she tossed the stack down and decided to deal with it later. She was suddenly very tired. A long day had become an even longer night. She glanced toward the kitchen where she'd been preparing some casserole meals to freeze into smaller portions for her and her dad when the call came in. She'd already refrigerated the food, everything else could wait. Tired. She headed down the hall.

  Mel pulled the ponytail holder from her long, light brown hair and tossed it on the bathroom counter. She took a moment to scrub the light layer of makeup from her face and brush her teeth. She peeled out of her clothes on the way to the bed, grabbing the oversized t-shirt she slept in and slipping it over her head.

  The last thing she noticed before turning out the light was the framed photo of her mom and dad on the nightstand. The poor victim's face from the alley flashed through her mind and she thought of her own mother, pictured in the photo as she liked to remember her—pretty and robust with dark brown hair worn in a shoulder-length bob. She'd lost her hair, most of her weight and all her energy when the pancreatic cancer zapped her. Cruel and efficient, the disease spread quickly and Frannie Curtis lived only three months after the initial diagnosis. It'd been a rough time for all of them, and even though it was eight years ago, Mel still thought of her mother daily. She knew her father did too. They talked about her often, and they were good memories now.

  Mel yawned and drew the covers up to her neck. 'Night Mama.

  * * * *

  Shortly before seven-thirty the next morning, Mel entered the WPD building and rode the elevator to the homicide division on the sixth floor. A latte in each hand, she butted the door open and nodded to the receptionist who was chatting with another detective. Not one for small talk and even less for gossip, Mel kept walking. Everyone in the office knew she was barely civilized in the morning until she'd polished off a caffeinated beverage of one type or another. This morning something light seemed in order, and she'd texted Stone, "latte?".

  His to the point reply "k" was all she needed. When he texted back "fried roll?" she replied "k." She hadn't heard her text notification buzz again but when she set the cups on her desk and pulled her phone from her pocket she saw the red light flashing. Mel worked the buttons and read the message as someone approached from the side.

  "What, were they out of fried rolls?" She asked as she read his latest text message. "Feebs." She glanced up at him questioningly. "What?"

  "Feebs are here," he replied in a hushed tone.

  Mel pocketed her phone and reached for her drink, taking a sip before answering. "Henry, it's been a short night and I'm slightly sleep deprived. What the hell are you talking about?"

  He nodded his head toward their boss's office.

  Mel followed his motion and spotted a tall man in a black suit talking to their captain, Hank Reeder. "Feebs?" She raised her eyebrows at Stone.

  "F-B-I." He waggled his brows.

  She took another sip and set her cup down. "You do realize it took more letters for you to text 'feebs' than had you just entered F-B-I."

  Stone reached for the other cup and punched the drinking spout in. "You're totally missing the point here. He's FBI and where there's one, there are sure to be others. You think they've been sent in to help with our cheerleader case?"

  Mel wandered over to Stone's desk and pulled a greasy fried roll and a napkin out of the sack she'd spotted there. She took a bite, savored the fattening, sweet glaze, and wondered briefly how many bites she'd take before guilt got the best of her and she tossed the thing out.

  "It has to be our case, there's nothing else much happening right now," Stone continued.

  She eyed the dark headed stranger, what little she could see of him from across the room, and shrugged. "Dunno."

  Stone's eyebrows continued to dance. "Wonder if he's got any cute, brunette special agents with him?"

  Mel grinned. "Like Shemar Moore?"

  He rolled his eyes. "I was actually thinking female, thank you very much."

  The captain exited his office with the suited man in tow, headed in their direction.

  Mel sputtered and wadded the rest of her roll into the napkin, tossing the whole mess in the trash can under her desk.

  "Hey!" Stone protested.

  "I'll pay you back." Mel turned away from the approaching men and checked her appearance in the small mirror she kept in her desk drawer. She bared her teeth and quickly scrubbed them with a finger before replacing the mirror and spinning around.

  "You look fine," Stone assured her.

  "Shut up," she muttered out the side of her mouth as her boss stopped in front of her.

  "Curtis, Stone, apparently the chief thinks we can use some help on the cheerleader case. He placed a call to the FBI. This is Agent—" he glanced up at the man who had several inches on him. "What did you say your name was?"

  The agent trained his gaze on Mel. "Supervisory Special Agent Nathan Willis. Nate." He extended his hand.

  She shook his hand, startled by the strength of his grip and, at the same time, the smoothness of his skin. She stared into his bright brown eyes and for a moment, couldn't speak.

  Stone cleared his throat and extended his hand. "This is Detective Melanie Curtis, and I'm Detective Henry Stone."

  The agent seemed reluctant to withdra
w his hand from Mel's but finally did, and turned to Stone. "Pleasure to meet you. I understand the two of you have been working the case. A third victim showed up last night?"

  Mel found her voice. "Yeah. It was late, so I'm not sure we have the report yet. But I've got pictures and details from the first two vics here on my desk."

  "I was just uploading the stuff from last night to my computer," Stone added.

  Willis nodded. "Do you have a room we can use? A small conference room perhaps, with whiteboards or bulletin boards?"

  "Sure." Reeder pointed a couple doors down from his office. "Make yourself at home. Let Curtis know if you need anything."

  Mel watched her boss retreat, his gait waddling, bald head reflecting the overhead fluorescent lights.

  "Let's take everything you have into the war room and get it organized." Willis looked at Stone. "If you could print out some pictures from last night that would be great. Do what you can, then bring them in." He turned to Mel. "Can I help you carry anything?"

  Still slightly flustered, she looked at her desk. "Sure." Scooping up an armload of folders, she handed them over. She grabbed her latte and smiled at him apologetically. "Sorry, I didn't know you'd be here."

  "No problem. I'm used to lousy coffee. The FBI doesn't make it any different than the police do."

  Stone appeared shocked. "Whatchu talking 'bout Willis?"

  Mel shook her head. "How long have you been waiting to say that?"

  "Since the minute I heard his name." Stone grinned.

  Willis stared at Stone coolly then finally let him off the hook and smiled. "I bet you think I've never heard that one before."

  Mel paused for a moment to admire the perfect smile—straight, white teeth and lips that curled ever so slightly. I could definitely nibble on those lips. Horrified that she was thinking such a thing about a fellow officer and hoping desperately she wouldn't say something outrageous, she tried to clear her head but her mind felt murky. Get a grip, girl! Shaking off the fog, she leaned in to the agent. "Sorry about that. Please, don't let the lack of a pocket protector fool you. He's a founding member of the Nerd Society."

  "And proud of it!" Stone nodded smugly. He nodded toward Mel. "And don't let the recently lightened blonde locks fool you—her nickname around here is 'Black Widow'. They say she kills after mating."

  Mel felt the blood drain from her face. How could he say such a thing? Didn't he sense the sexual tension between her and the FBI hunk? She faced Stone and the brotherly expression on his face answered her question. No, he did not.

  Sweet, sometimes naive, oblivious Stone. He didn't get caught up in the games people played, she wasn't even sure he understood them. But his investigative skills were top notch and she couldn't think of anyone she'd rather have watching her back. Letting him off the hook, she nudged his arm. "Moron."

  Stone's self-satisfied grin widened.

  Willis laughed. "Kills after mating, huh?" He shifted the load of folders in his arms and turned toward the conference room. "I'll keep that in mind," he told Stone, and winked at Mel before he walked off.

  Mel knew her face flushed bright red, but there was nothing she could do about it. He was gone, anyway. For the moment. As he retreated she couldn't help thinking of the line "hate to see him go, but love to watch him leave". His trim physique looked damned fine in a suit. She wondered how he'd look in a pair of tight jeans. Oh, I think I know. Once again, she had to shake her head to clear it.

  "Shoot!" Stone sat at his desk and fired up his computer. "I forgot to ask him if any more of his team are here."

  She watched Willis turn the light on in the conference room and begin arranging the furniture. "He didn't go very far. You can still ask."

  Stone nodded absently. "You know, he might not be so bad after all."

  Mel sipped her latte. "Smells like trouble to me."

  "Think so?" He inserted the memory card from his camera into the machine, and began uploading photos.

  No, he smells like Aramis or some other musky cologne I can never resist. Mel sighed, and headed into the conference room.

  Willis had dragged the bulletin boards and positioned them next to the white board. He'd lined up a row of tables underneath, leaving one lone table in the middle with chairs around it.

  "Taking that 'make yourself at home' comment to heart, I see," Mel said as she entered.

  He glanced at her and smiled. "We have a method that works pretty well. If you stick to an established routine, you spend less time worrying about the logistics of things and can devote more energy to the task at hand."

  "I see." She blinked, not sure she really did, but expecting she was going to find out.

  He fanned her folders out on the lone table with chairs. "Have a seat over here, and hand me what you've got on victim number one. Photos first, then I'll ask you for some information."

  Mel did as directed.

  Willis peeled off his suit coat and draped it over the back of a chair. He took the handful of pictures she held out and spread them across his table. He chose the mug shot of the woman and pinned it to the top row of the bulletin board. Below it he displayed the shots of her body at the crime scene. He moved to the white board and picked up a blue marker. "Name? Age?"

  Mel had been so caught up watching him dart around she wasn't prepared with the answers. She leafed through the files while he stopped and looked at her.

  "You don't know your victim's name?" he asked, sounding incredulous.

  "Of course I do. It's Rhonda something." She shuffled papers and felt the heat of another blush creep up her chest, past her neck, to her face.

  "Rhonda Something. Unusual last name." His voice was patronizing.

  "Look." Mel slapped her folder closed and caught his gaze. "I wasn't expecting this today. I was up 'till all hours with number three last night—"

  "I'm sorry." Willis put his hands on his hips. "Maybe we should put a notice in the newspaper, asking the killer to please do his dirty work earlier in the day because our officers are getting too tired."

  She stood to face him and realized they were very close to the same height. He was slightly taller, and for a second that threw her. Most of the men she worked with were shorter, and she knew she intimidated them. Nathan Willis was nowhere near intimidated. "Look, Agent, that's not what I meant."

  "Supervisory Special Agent," he corrected.

  "Supervisory Special Ass," she retorted. "Yesterday I was in charge of this case. Today, apparently, I'm playing second fiddle to you. Okay, fine, I appreciate the help, I really do. If you could just show some mutual respect and departmental courtesy, it might go a long way. Because I have to tell you, when you say 'Jump', not everyone around here is going to say 'how high?'."

  Willis appeared taken aback. "You weren't expecting me?"

  "God no!" She nearly added you were the last thing I ever expected, but she held back.

  He inhaled and blew it out. "Okay, I'm surprised here. The Bureau has to be invited in on a case. Our arrival is not usually a surprise."

  "My captain said something about the chief, so maybe he invited you. The field workers are apparently the last to know."

  He nodded. "Apologies. I get a little overexcited at times. These cases really get under my skin. I've tracked more serial murderers killing hookers than I care to think about, you might say it's my area of expertise."

  "Sounds gruesome."

  His brow wrinkled into a furrow. "It happens every day, somewhere. Hookers are an easy target. Half the time no one reports them as being gone, because they were already missing from their regular life. The rest don't have anyone who gives a damn about them. Which makes them what? An easy target."

  "Easy target," Mel mouthed the words along with him. "Sad."

  "Yeah, it is sad. And when I get to a police department and find that not everything humanly possible has been done to find the killer, I get annoyed … and angry."

  "I assure you, that's not the case here. I have the information y
ou need. Let's put whatever that was behind us and start over, shall we?"

  His eyes flickered interest.

  Before he could speak, Stone joined them.

  "I have the photos of vic number three. I called Martin with the CSI and he should have a detailed report to us by ten."

  "Good enough." Willis nodded. "If you'd like to have a seat, Detective Curtis was preparing to fill me in on vic number one, Rhonda Something."

  "Jensen," Stone supplied, and took a chair.

  A look of amusement passed between Mel and Willis. The tiniest hint of a smile creased the corner of his mouth. "I can see how you two complement each other."

  "We do." She sat and opened her folder. "Rhonda Jensen, age forty-four."

  Willis wrote what she told him on the whiteboard. "Last known location?" He glanced around. "Damn, we're going to need a map of the area."

  "Right here." Stone shuffled through one of the folders and produced a folded map. "We've marked the last knowns and body dumps on here."

  "Excellent!" Willis opened the map and pinned it up. He looked at Stone. "You know Wichita better than me, can you mark the last knowns with the red map tacks, and the dump sites with the blues?"

  "Sure." Stone did as instructed.

  Willis made notes on the board with all the information Mel offered him. "She was found wearing an old cheerleading uniform, white with red trim, with a small cardinal mascot on it?"

  "Yes." Mel read through sheets of information. "Polyester fabric popular in the seventies. The uniform was homemade, no tags of any kind."

  Willis nodded as he wrote. Finally satisfied, he moved on to victim number two.

  "Donna Leonard. Age forty-nine." Mel read statistics while Willis copied them down. "Blue and gold cheerleading uniform. Some type of tag in the skirt, but it was old and faded. Fabric seems to be from the same era. She was also found in an alley near Oldtown."

  Stone marked the location on the map.

  "Which brings us to victim three." Mel rifled through the photos Stone set before her. "Obviously we don't have a name, yet. She's approximately the same age as the other two. Another white uniform, red trim, another cardinal mascot."