Murder Mayhem and Mama

by Christie Craig

  ”Yeah, we get a kick out of going to women’s apartments and tossing their underwear around.” His gaze moved to the panties on the toe of her shoe. “We didn’t do this. We got a call earlier from one of your neighbors. Looks like your boyfriend decided to come calling again. But the million-dollar question is what are you doing here?”

  Why did she feel as if she were being chastised? “I needed to grab a few things.”

  “And what if he’d been here waiting?” His eyebrows rose accusingly.

  “What am I supposed to do? All my clothes are here.”

  His blue-green eyes tightened in a frown. Not that the expression looked out of place. There seemed to be a permanent worry line pinching his brow.

  He took another step. “I’m sure someone told you if you needed anything from here to call the police and they’d send someone over.”

  “No. I don’t think anyone told me that. But it’s the middle of the day. I should be okay.”

  He shuffled his fingers through his dark brown hair. “People die just as easy in daylight as they do in the dark. You’ll need to go to the precinct to fill out a report.”

  “Can’t you just report it?”

  His frown tightened. “Did your boyfriend tell you he beat up his last two girlfriends? Real sweetheart, that guy. Do you really want to run into him again?”

  Cali opened her mouth to speak, but zip came out. Stan had beat up two women? She didn’t want to believe it, but she did.

  “Guess he didn’t mention it, huh?” He stepped closer and exhaled. “Look, I’m just trying to help. Grab what you need then I’ll follow you to the station. We’ll fill out the paperwork.”

  She remembered her appointment with her mom’s lawyer. “I can’t.” Moving to the closet, she pulled out her small black suitcase and a couple of outfits. His dead-on stare followed her. Nervous, she started picking up panties and bras scattered around the room. Instantly, her chest became crowded with too many emotions. Her apartment was a mess. Her life was a mess. And Mr. Looking-Good-in-Leather treated her as if was all her fault. And, yeah, part of it was.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Does it matter?” she asked, feeling overwhelmed.

  “It should.” His authoritative voice hacked away at what little self-confidence she had. Then his gaze shot to a pair of lacy panties next to his shoe and he looked ready to pick them up.

  She surged forward and snatched up the panties herself. “I have to be somewhere else.”

  His frown grew more pinched. Then she remembered Tanya’s nickname for him—Mr. Little Dickhead.

  Ignoring his ever-present scowl, she snatched up her pink bra, which was also on the floor. She folded the panty and bra and set them on top of the other items in her suitcase.

  “Look.” He moved to stand beside her and his shoulder accidentally brushed against hers. “You need to get a restraining order. You need to make a report.”

  Unnerved by his closeness, she shifted to the side and reached to zip the suitcase. It stuck and she jerked at it. He moved in, gently brushed her hands aside, and zipped the case with ease.

  “Thanks.” The word naturally slipped out of her mouth.

  “Don’t be stupid,” he said.

  She stared at him, dumbfounded. Hadn’t she said thanks? Where was the normal reply, You’re welcome? How did thanks wind up with a comeback of, Don’t be stupid? Jeez, he really was a dickhead.

  “You need to get a restraining order,” he said again.

  “I’ll go later.” More bitchy. She remembered her dream. She crossed her arms over her chest. “And I’ll talk to someone else. Not you.”

  His eyes widened. “You got a problem with me?” He reached down and picked up a pair of black panties.

  She raised her chin a notch. “Yeah, you’re rude. You treat people with total disrespect. And . . . you’ve got my panties.” She blushed when she realized what she’d said and held out her hand. “I’ll take those.”

  He handed her the underwear. “I’m rude?” he asked. “And here I didn’t think you were very discriminating about the men you hung out with.”

  His remark hit with precision; her throat knotted. She saw regret flash in his eyes, but it was too late. Instinct told her to walk away, but bitches always got the last word. “I am discriminatory. Stan took nine weeks before he got ugly; you’ve beat his record hands down. I don’t like you.” She grabbed her case and started out.

  “Hey,” he called, but she didn’t look back.

  ~

  “Sorry,” Brit muttered to himself. He watched her roll the suitcase out then listened while it thumped down the stairs. Each thud hit against his conscience. Her insult stung like hot sauce that came with a warning on the label. It burned going in, burnt when it hit his gut, and was gonna burn his ass when it exited. If it exited. He had a feeling this was going to hang around his conscience for while, because she was right, he’d been rude. Hell, he’d been more than rude, he’d been an ass.

  Regret pumped a little acid to his gut. He’d been trying to help. And did it badly, his conscience countered.

  Pressing his palms into his eye sockets, he tried to get a grip on his floundering emotions. Inhaling, he coughed when the air reeked of cigarette smoke. Jeez, was she a chain smoker? Oddly, he hadn’t smelled it on her. She’d smelled soft and sweet enough to taste. His gaze went to a pair of panties she neglected to grab from the floor. But holy shit, he needed to get a hold of himself.

  Storming out, he shut the door. Realizing she hadn’t locked her apartment, he frowned. Then he remembered her broken window. He walked down the steps, headed to his car, but hesitated when he saw the front office. She wasn’t his problem.

  He took another step toward his car when someone touched his shoulder. He swung around, but no one was there. Brushing his shoulder where he still felt a crazy sensation, his gaze shot to the office door again.

  “Shit!” He gave in. Maybe Anderson was right. He was a softy. No, softies weren’t rude assholes.

  He stepped into the office. A young brunette, dressed in a mini skirt that looked like she meant to hit the bars after work, stood up.

  “You need to fix the window in apartment 215,” he said.

  Miss Hot-To-Trot smacked her gum. “Who are you?”

  “Police.” He flashed his badge.

  She blew a pink bubble with her gum. It popped. She peeled it off her nose and poked it back into her mouth. “I called someone to do it earlier.” She flipped out her hand as if she’d done her duty, and all deals were off.

  The deals weren’t off. If Cali decided to ignore his advice again and came collecting an extra pair of panties, he didn’t want her ex waiting on her.

  Stepping closer, he scowled. “If something comes up missing from her place, the owners could be held liable. And I’ll stand up in court and say I told you. So call them again.”

  He left, but not before he caught the glare she shot him. Lately, all he got from women were glares. Didn’t women used to smile at him? Then he remembered what Cali had said. You’re rude. Hell, maybe he needed to work on that.

  Crawling inside his SUV, he stared out at nothing. How could he not be in a piss-poor mood?

  What kind of a homicide cop was he if he couldn’t find his own partner’s murderer? The guilt ate at him like vultures picking at a kill. Soon, he would be nothing more than a pile of raw flesh.

  His cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his coat pocket. “Yeah?”

  “It’s Duke.”

  Brit recognized the voice of the detective who had landed Keith’s case. “What’s up?”

  “I just got a call from one of my informants,” Duke said. “Got a location on Payne. Mark and I are headed over there right now. Thought you might like to help us question him.”

  Brit fired up his engine. “Hell, yeah!”

  ~

  Cali made her two o’clock meeting at the lawyer’s office. Attorney Calvin James, a big man stuffed into a black suit,
shuffled documents in front of her. A few crumbs from his lunch fell from his red tie onto the desk and he simply brushed them off. In spite of his less than professional appearance, she trusted the man—probably because her mom had trusted him. Feeling emotionally rung out, she signed without doing much reading.

  “All together, your mother left you close to a hundred thousand dollars,” Mr. James explained. “That’s not including her house, which is paid off. It should make things a lot easier.”

  Easier? A spark of bitterness bubbled up inside her, but the concern in his eyes tempered her anger. “Mama went over all this with me.” She fought the desire to stand up and stomp her feet like a two-year-old and demand somebody bring her mother back. She didn’t want her mother’s money—didn’t want to dream about her at night. She wanted her mama. Alive. And without cancer. She didn’t want to be alone. Tears watered down her vision.

  “It’s hard. I know.” He pushed a box of tissues her way. “Maybe you could take some time off from work. You can afford to.”

  She ignored the tissue offer and took a deep breath of resolve. “Work helps.” And it did. At school, she managed to forget about her own problems. Maybe because she worried about the students having oral sex, smoking pot, getting into gangs, and quitting school. And their mothers dying of cancer. Her throat grew tighter.

  “Are we finished? Because I need to run.” It wasn’t a lie. She needed to go make a report to the police.

  An image of Detective Lowell flashed in her mind, and she hoped she didn’t have to see him at the police station.

  Rain and cold greeted her when she left the lawyer’s office. The drops pelted her face while questions pelted her mind. Where had the blood come from last night? Had Stan hurt himself trying to shoot in her apartment door? Why did her mom have to die?

  She stopped by her car, not caring that her new sweater jacket grew rain heavy, or that the Texas-size downpour soaked her hair, or that goose bumps made her skin crawl with the cold.

  Nothing mattered. She stopped to dig out her keys, feeling the water wave over the edge of her shoes. She glanced down at the black shoes. Her favorite, most comfortable pair. Maybe she cared a little about them. She moved out of the puddle of water. Remembering her search for her keys, she commenced to digging around in the bag’s contents.

  “Hate this purse,” she mumbled. Her keys always fell to the bottom. Frustrated, she slapped her wallet on the hood, and dug deeper. Tampon, check book, mints. The rain started falling harder.

  Finally, she gripped her keys in her hand.

  She inhaled, tried to relax, but the air carried the oddest scent of cigarette smoke. Oh, Baby. Her mom’s voice echoed in her mind at the same time someone wrapped their hand around Cali’s arm. Her breath hitched.

  “Hello, Cali.” Stan’s large frame pressed her against the car.

  Chapter Seven

  Brit parked his SUV on the side street and ran through the sheets of rain to where he spotted the other two detectives. As he drew closer, he saw Duke had Payne up against a fence in a strip center’s alley—the man’s arms and legs spread wide as Duke searched his pockets. Duke looked back when Brit’s footsteps echoed louder than the rain.

  “Look at this,” Duke said. “He’s got weed on him.” Duke dropped the plastic bag on the ground. “Oh, that’s not good.”

  Brit crossed his arms. “Nope, not good.” Cold rain beaded on his leather jacket.

  “Come on, guys.” Payne tried to pivot. Duke slammed him against the fence. Mark, Duke’s partner, stood a few feet away as if blocking onlookers from coming down the alley.

  “It’s not mine,” Payne said as a slice of lightning lit up the dark gray sky.

  Brit stepped closer. “What do you know about a cop killer? Start talking and we might be inclined to overlook things.” Thunder boomed in the distance.

  “I don’t know shit!” Payne tried to jerk away.

  Duke slammed the man against the fence again. “Either you’re going to sing, or I’m going to make sure you’ll be humming a tune to about five years up in Huntsville. I heard you didn’t do so well up there on your last visit.”

  “I sing, I die,” Payne said. “Besides they won’t put me away for that little bit.” The storm’s fury swallowed his words.

  Brit leaned his shoulder against the fence, so Payne could see him. “He’s right.” Brit spoke to Duke, but focused on Payne. “He won’t go down for that bit of weed.”

  “Then you want me to beat it out him?” Duke leaned his shoulder on Payne’s back.

  Payne’s eyes hardened. “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “You’d be amazed what we’ll do when a cop killer is involved.” Duke snarled the words.

  Part of Brit knew Duke wasn’t joking. And as much as Brit wanted it, he couldn’t allow it. But he wasn’t above trying something else. Brit held up his hand. “Beating him is too easy.” Brit looked back at Payne. “Besides, some things are worse than a beating. Things like going back into the joint. Right, Payne?”

  “That ain’t gonna get me no time.”

  The rain beat down harder. Brit had to speak louder to be heard. “You’re right.” Another bolt of lightning sizzled through the air. “But I can fix that.” Brit wiped the rain from his face. “Assaulting an officer is serious.”

  “I didn’t assault anyone.” Payne bumped his head against the fence like an angry child.

  “Oh, yes, you did,” Brit said. “You see, Duke here has some mean fists. And instead of letting him use them on you, I’m going to let him use them on me. Then I’m going to say you did it. With the weed and assaulting an officer...you’re going down.”

  Duke leaned on Payne’s back. “I’d rather hit this jerk.”

  Brit blinked the rain from his eyes and looked at Duke, so he’d know how far Brit would play this game.

  “We can’t beat him. It wouldn’t look good.” Brit’s words almost got lost in the sound of the rain. “Cuff him so we can get this over with.”

  Duke cut his questioning gaze to Brit. “You’re serious?”

  About Duke hitting him, he was damn serious. About going through with the threat if Payne didn’t come through. That was yet to be seen. “Cuff him,” Brit ordered as the thunder rolled. “We don’t want him getting away while you’re beating the shit out of me.”

  Snapping the cuffs from his back belt loop, Duke fit them on Payne’s wrists and gave the man a shove. Payne dropped on his ass in the mud and stared up at the two of them.

  “This ain’t gonna work!” Payne shouted.

  Brit wasn’t sure it would either, but he was fresh out of ideas.

  “I’m not talking,” Payne belted out.

  Brit ignored Payne and stared at Duke. “Hit me.”

  ~

  The storm raged in Cali’s ears. She felt Stan press closer, and a sick feeling hit the pit of her stomach.

  “Why did you call the police?” Stan’s unshaven face pressed against her cheek while lightning danced overhead.

  “Because you shot at me.” She tried to pull away. His grip tightened on her arms and she jerked, slamming her knee against her car. The pain made her flinch—that was so going to bruise. Having taken a few safety courses, she tried to remember what she should do if someone attacked her. Stop, drop, and roll. No, wrong crisis. Scream, kick, scream.

  He swung her around. “I didn’t shoot at you.” His words smelled like beer, but another smell, hideously ugly, clung to his clothes. “It wasn’t me.” His grasp inched down her arm to her wrist. “Where’s the bracelet?” His grip tightened.

  “I took it off.” The thunder matched the beating of her heart. “Let me go.”

  He ran his free hand over his face. “Look, baby. I need your help. But you can’t call the police. No police.”

  She wanted to scream she wasn’t his baby; that she’d been one woman’s baby, but her mom had died. Before she opened her mouth to speak, his head descended, and he kissed her.

  The second hi
s lower lip moved between her teeth, she bit down.

  The taste of blood flavored her tongue and she gagged. He yanked back. “Fuck it, Cali! Why are you doing this?” He reached for his lip.

  She bolted.

  His footsteps chased her. Close. Too close. Fear clawed at her. Then his fingers snatched a handful of her hair. The pain sent chills through her skull.

  Chapter Eight

  It’s okay. Cali’s mother’s voice echoed inside Cali’s head. Help’s coming.

  “Miss McKay? You forgot...” The lawyer’s secretary came jaunting out into the storm, an umbrella held overhead.

  Stan shoved Cali into a parked BMW. Its alarm started blaring when she hit. Stan tore off running through the parking lot toward his truck.

  Tears filled Cali’s eyes. The taste of blood, his blood, spread to her throat. She leaned over, heaved, and threw up all over her favorite shoes.

  ~

  “I’m serious,” Brit said. “Hit me.”

  Duke shook his head. “I’d rather hit this scum.”

  “No! Hit me. Come on.” He eyed Duke.

  Payne shook his head. “You two are idiots.”

  “Yeah,” Brit answered the man sitting on the ground. “We are.” Brit gave Duke a jab in the chest. “We’re big enough idiots to carry this off. Hit me,” he told Duke, and he hoped the cop would play along.

  Duke’s eyes grew round. “You’re really serious?”

  Brit nodded. Lightning flashed. “Make it look bad. He’s going down for this.”

  Duke drew his fist back, then pain slapped Brit in the mouth. The punch slammed him against the fence, and he slid down beside Payne. The moment his butt hit the pavement, the cold rain soaked through his jeans.

  “Damn.” Duke rubbed his knuckles. “You got a hard chin.”

  “Christ!” Payne said.

  Brit wiped the blood across his lip, wanting Payne to get a good look. The storm had lost some of its fury, but droplets rolled down the arm of Brit’s leather sleeves. He looked at Duke standing over him. “Is this going to do it? Or should we go for more?”