Murder Mayhem and Mama

by Christie Craig

  Not that he had any overwhelming love for his mother, or his old man who’d died instantly of a heart attack, but he couldn’t imagine losing his sister, Susan. Then he thought about losing Keith. That pain had been quick, deep, and while it still hurt like he’d been gut-shot, he hadn’t had to watch his friend die slowly.

  “We could do this later,” he said, regretting being a dickhead.

  She looked up, pain in her eyes. “No.” Fitting the key inside the front doorknob, she opened it and walked inside.

  The first thing Brit saw were the black footprints trailing across the beige carpet. His black footprints. Guilt made him want to remove his shoes now.

  Moving like a robot, she picked up a lamp from the floor and set it on a table. She went to the back window, covered with a piece of wood that he’d found in the garage last night.

  “I could call someone to fix it.” He pulled out his phone. “And to clean the carpet. I think that might have been us that left—”

  “No. I’ll call someone later.”

  He looked at his cell phone. “Do you have a cell phone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m going to need that number.” He turned on his phone. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know it. I just got a new one.” She took off down the hall.

  He snapped the phone shut. Did she not want to give him her number, or did she really not know it? He heard her opening the door to the master bedroom. He thought about the hospital bed, the oxygen tank, and the cold feeling of a terminal illness he’d gotten from the room last night.

  Slipping the phone in his pocket, he went to join her. She sat on the edge of the hospital bed. He expected to see tears, to hear the sniffles that she’d let out this morning when he’d held her. Her eyes were dry, but he saw pain in her expression. He felt it. Grief. It dominated the room like a living, breathing animal. He stood there, sensing her pain seep into his skin and curl up into his chest. Odd how there was even any room in him to feel her pain when he had so much of his own.

  It hit him then. They shared the same monster. This was probably why he felt so connected to her, why he couldn’t stop himself from caring or from being so damn pissed off by the thought of her allowing some man to abuse her.

  And because she’s so damn sexy. But deep down he’d known it was more than the attraction he felt. Hell, he’d dealt with dozen of cases involving beautiful women before and managed to treat it like a job and not a personal agenda.

  “Do you see anything that’s missing?” he asked, wanting to get her out of here.

  She looked around and then met his eyes. “My mom.” She bit down on her lip, slipped off the bed, and followed the black footprints he’d left on her mom’s carpet last night.

  He stood in the room, listening to the soft thud of her footsteps moving away from him. The hospital smells seemed to evaporate, replaced by the smell of cigarettes. He looked around. Had Cali’s mom smoked while using oxygen? Shaking his head, he went to find Cali. She waited on the sofa, eyes still dry, sitting with her hands clutched in her lap. One look at her and he knew she was lost in her private world of grief. Damn if he didn’t know how she felt.

  He had the urge to pull her up and into his arms. To hold her like he did earlier. She’d felt good against him, soft in all the right places. But it hadn’t just been her being female or soft that made it feel good. It had felt…right somehow.

  But it wasn’t. As tempting as it was to give in, to make this more than just a case, he couldn’t. He couldn’t for a dozen or more reasons. And whether he wanted to admit it or not, he wasn’t a hundred percent sure he believed Cali wasn’t just a tad like his dear ol’ mom. Too nice. Too willing to be some man’s doormat.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She shot up, walked out, locked the door after he exited and then climbed in his SUV without saying a word.

  He didn’t know if she was back to being mad at him, or just mad at the world. Either way he could understand. Grief did that to you.

  He drove back to the school where he’d left her car but he needed to ask her more questions about Stan. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but it was his job.

  His stomach grumbled and felt as if it was gnawing on his backbone for nourishment. He pulled into a coffee shop. “I need to ask you some questions about Stan. And I’m starving.”

  “Haven’t we already tried to do this once?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” He shrugged and felt the guilt sitting on his shoulders. “Just a few questions. And I’ll stop being a dickhead. Scouts’ honor.”

  She looked suspicious. “You never were a boy scout, were you?”

  He grinned. “Touché. But you have my word.”

  She inhaled and then nodded. A wave of relief washed over him and he again found himself wanting to stop fighting the attraction, to see where it took them. But damn, where was his willpower? Probably off in some corner of his empty gut dying from hunger and lack of sleep. After some food and rest, surely he’d be back on top of his game.

  He went to remove his keys from the ignition when his cell phone rang. Pulling it out of his pocket, he saw it was Quarles. He looked at her. “Sorry. I have to take this.” He answered it. “What you need?”

  “Hey,” Quarles said. “Where are you?”

  “Right outside the beltway. Why?”

  “You need to come in.” Bad news shadowed Quarles’ tone.

  The feeling rumbling in Brit’s empty gut reminded him of how he’d felt when Adams had called him about Keith. He prayed he was wrong. “Why?” He gripped the phone harder.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “There’s been another shooting,” Quarles said. “Another officer. The same MO as Keith’s.”

  Brit’s hold on the phone clenched. His lungs held on to the oxygen of his last breath as he put out the one—word question. “Who?”

  Quarles cleared his throat before speaking. “Mike Anderson. The kid who worked that domestic violence case with us. He’s dead.”

  “No, it can’t be him. He’s in Galveston with his girlfriend.” Brit got a vision of Mike standing at his office door, holding a bag of cat food, and beaming about his plan to have sex on the beach. Brit’s mind refused to believe the kid with such a zest for life and a soft spot for strays could be gone. Gone like Keith. “He’s with his girlfriend,” Brit repeated.

  “He never picked her up,” Quarles said. “When he didn’t show up, she assumed he was mad. But when he didn’t call, she finally went over to his place. She found him in his garage. Two shots to the head.”

  The truth kicked Brit in the gut. He didn’t want to believe. But refusing to believe something wasn’t going to change a God damn thing. He’d proved that the hour he stared at Keith’s body in the morgue, swearing it wasn’t him.

  “Christ.” Brit slammed his hand on the dashboard. “I’ll be right there.” He dropped the phone in his lap.

  Cali stared at him with questions in her eyes. “Something wrong?” Her voice radiated concern, tenderness.

  “Yeah.”

  “With my case?”

  “No.” He didn’t say anything else. He couldn’t. He put the car in drive and started back to the school.

  ~

  Cali watched Lowell’s SUV pull away. His silence as they’d driven back to the school had left her with the impression that something terrible had happened. When he’d turned to say goodbye, her breath had hung in her throat. The pain darkening his eyes was too familiar—like looking into a mirror. Currents of empathy flowed through her heart. It was as if whatever was affecting him was the same thing that was hurting her right now. Grief. Of course, in her emotional state, her ability to read emotions could be impaired.

  She recalled how it had felt to be in her mom’s home. To be able to smell the perfume she once wore, to sit on the bed where she’d taken her last breath. “Miss you, Mama,” she whispered.

  Turning back to her car, she remembered that only a few hours ago, the window
had been smashed. Whoever Lowell had called had come out and done a fine job. The next time she saw him, she should remember to tell him thank you. Then it hit her. There might not be a next time.

  He’d come for the bracelet, and he had it. He’d said he had more questions, but maybe not.

  When that thought sent a vibration of disappointment rattling around her chest, she chased it away. Any emotional involvement right now would be a big mistake. Wrong time. And, oh yeah, wrong man. In spite of being attracted to him, in spite of him having moments when he came across like a hero, he was still a bit of a dickhead. A little one. A smile somehow broke through her emotions as she recalled how he’d laughed when she told him his nickname.

  She got into her car. For just a second, she had a crazy feeling of someone watching her. Twisting around, she checked the parking lot. Nobody. Taking a deep breath of resolve, she spotted his jacket in the backseat. She’d forgotten to give it to him. Reaching back, she snagged it. She brought the worn leather to her nose. It smelled like rain, and like him. She recalled with clarity how good it had felt to be in his arms.

  Realizing what she was doing, pining over something that she couldn’t, or at least shouldn’t want, she dropped the jacket in the front seat and started the engine.

  Now, if she only knew where she was going.

  ~

  An hour later, Brit joined the crowd in the meeting room at the precinct. Sergeant Adams, his thick brows puckered into one line of worry, paced in front of the room. He and Anderson’s lieutenant had called a meeting. “Here’s what we know. It’s the same MO as Keith Bolts. Possibly the same gun…we’re checking ballistics.”

  Adams’ gaze cut to Brit. “We’ve got a good lead. Sounds like we might be after a gang. Last year there was talk about a pop-a-cop initiation. This could be that.” The man curled his hands into fists. “The informant said a young gang member, we think belonging to the Blue Bloods, was bragging about one of his buddies taking out a cop. We’ve got to find these guys.” He stopped pacing. “I know we’d like to push everything else aside. But we can’t shelve our other cases. I got upstairs to agree to pay overtime. So let’s do this. Go find these punks. But don’t forget your other cases.”

  A few more words were tossed out by Anderson’s lieutenant. Brit could hardly focus. Finally everyone stood up. No one spoke. What could they say? Another one of their own had gone down. Grief and a need for vengeance hung like fog in the air; fear made the fog denser. Who would be next? No one in the room would admit to being scared, but Brit saw it in their eyes. He remembered Keith saying that only the stupid weren’t afraid.

  Sometimes Brit admitted to being stupid—especially since Keith’s death.

  Brit spotted Logan, Anderson’s partner. With a hitch in his throat, he put a hand on the man’s back. “We’ll get them.” He didn’t wait for Logan to reply. Brit knew how Logan felt. Less than a month ago, he’d been Logan—a cop without a partner. A cop with the need to kill whoever killed his friend. Hell, he still was that man. Nothing had changed.

  Suddenly needing his own space, Brit lit out of the room. He stormed into his office, and the first thing he saw was the cat food. Grabbing two cans, and his thin coat, he took off to the parking lot.

  Outside, he pulled the metal tabs and set them down on concrete. Thoughts of Keith and then of young Mike Anderson, both animal lovers, ripped at Brit’s heart. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the building. Emotion gripped his chest so tight, he longed to scream. Instead, he let himself slide down the brick wall, and sit on the cold pavement. Elbows perched on his knees, he buried his face in his hands. He dragged one deep breath after another into his lungs, hoping to loosen the godawful pain.

  The touch against his ankle brought his head up. Mama cat, with her missing ear and gold eyes, stared at him with caution. Brit swallowed the lump down his throat. “You’re stuck with me. Seems only the good die young.”

  She let out a meow and tapped his leg again with the side of her face. Brit wanted to reach down to stroke her, but instinct told him she’d run. “I gotta get you off the streets.”

  Footsteps sounded on the concrete. The cat jerked back and darted off.

  Quarles walked over, eyeing the cat food cans. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” Brit got up and masked his emotion behind a frown.

  “Good,” Quarles said. “Because I just got a call from a buddy of mine, a homicide cop with Clear Lake. I think we’ve got a break on the jewelry store case.”

  ~

  Nothing smelled quite like days-old death. The smell permeated the hotel room. Brit looked around, but hung close to the door. He’d seen worse, but not by much. A huge red stain had dried into the motel’s worn beige carpet. Ditto for the specks of gray brain matter mixed with blood spattered on the pale yellow wall behind the bed. Two bodies. The one missing the top of his head from a gunshot got the credit for the wall decor. The other with his throat slit had added the coloring to the carpet. And as hard as it was to look at it, it was even harder to smell.

  On the bed were plastic bags with the jewelry store logo and a bank deposit bag. Against the wall leaned a guitar.

  “Our guys.” Quarles’ eyes were only a shade darker than his green-tinted skin. When Brit had pulled up a few minutes after his partner, he’d found Quarles standing beside his car, hurling his lunch on the pavement. Obviously, his new partner had a weak stomach. Not that he could blame him. Thankfully, Brit didn’t have any lunch to lose, or he’d be out there now doing the same.

  “What do you have?” Brit asked, after one of the Clear Lake officers walked up and Quarles introduced them.

  “Looks like the murders took place late Tuesday. We spoke to the hotel manager, and he said some guy came in and out of here this afternoon. Big guy, black hair.”

  Stan Humphrey. Then Brit remembered the blood. He looked at Quarles. “Did CSI get some of the blood off McKay’s door?”

  “Yeah.” Quarles wiped a hand over his mouth and seemed to think. “You think the blood at her house is from this crime scene?”

  Another detective walked up. “I hear you might have something on these guys,” he said as he pinched his nose.

  “Yeah.” Quarles turned back to the open door as if to get a breath of clean air.

  Brit tried not to breathe through his nose, but air filtered through. Oddly, the first scent he got was cigarette smoke.

  The other detective continued, “We found a cell phone in the bathroom. The last call made was about one o’clock today. Possibly from that Humphrey guy. I don’t think either of these guys made that call. What kind of sick fucker stays here in this?” The officer shook his head.

  The same kind of sick fucker who would beat up women, Brit thought.

  “Maybe he came back here looking for something,” Quarles said.

  Brit tried not to look at the dead man’s face. God knew he already had enough images to keep him awake at night. “Where was the last call to?”

  “Here’s a weird one. It was to Wells High School.”

  A cold chill drummed through Brit’s body. Cali. He stared at his watch. Four. He’d dropped her off at the school around two. What if that bastard had been waiting for her?

  He looked at Quarles. “I just remembered somewhere I need to be.” As he lit out to his car, he saw an image of Cali McKay’s sweet face and prayed he wasn’t too late.

  ~

  He never stopped for a light. He wasn’t sure he ever hit the brakes the whole drive. He kept remembering how she felt up against him. Warm. Soft. Alive. Her car wasn’t in the school parking lot. Only a couple of cars were left in the lot. “Damn.”

  He parked in front of the school and ran to the front. He jerked on the door, but it didn’t budge. Locked. He banged on the glass then caught movement in one of the open office doors. He pounded the door harder, louder. A dark-skinned woman, wearing a business suit, finally peeked outside the main office.

  He snatched his badge from his pocket and pre
ssed it against the glass. Surprise widened her almond-shaped eyes, then she hurried to the door.

  “I’m trying to find Cali McKay,” he said. “I need her cell number.”

  “I’m Mrs. Jasmine, the principal. Is she in trouble? She’s such a sweet girl. I can’t—”

  “No. She’s not in trouble. I just have to find her.”

  He followed the woman back into the office, and she told him again how sweet Cali was, how Cali loved her job, how good she was with her students. At last the woman pulled open a file cabinet and thumbed through the folders as if she had all the time in the world. “A...B...” He wanted to nudge her aside and find it himself.

  “Here.” She pulled out the file. “Her home number is—”

  “I have her home number, I need her cell number.”

  Her brightly painted fingernails trailed down the paper. Then she glanced up. “Her cell number is scratched out. I remember now. I tried to call her last week about her mom and it was disconnected.”

  “Fuck!”

  The woman flinched.

  Brit held up his hand. “I’m sorry.” Then he remembered the other teacher from this morning. She might know where Cali was. “What about the other teacher, the young brunette who teaches in the classroom beside her?”

  “You mean Tanya Craft? Bright, colorful dresser?”

  “I guess.” He didn’t remember what she’d been wearing. Didn’t care. “Give me her contact information and address.”

  The principal turned back to the file cabinet and opened the drawer. “A... B...”

  ~

  Tanya Craft wasn’t answering her phone. He tossed the phone in the passenger seat and squealed off the school grounds. Ten minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of her apartment building, praying he’d see Cali’s silver Honda. Nothing. He parked and took off in search of apartment 105. Music blared behind the door. He knocked. Hard.