by Debra Webb
Just like that, Tyrone turned and walked out. His bodyguards glared at Ricky before doing the same.
When the door banged shut, Ricky sucked in a ragged breath.
He was so fucked.
If he got into the middle of this war between Braddock and Tyrone, he would end up just like Shelley.
If her smart-ass sister didn’t know it already, she’d better figure it out in a hurry.
Shelley was a casualty of war.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
3021 Appleton Street, 12:30 AM
Braddock was still reeling from the events of the past two and a half hours.
Had he lost his fucking grip on reality?
Apparently.
He damned sure had lost all semblance of self-control.
The forensics tech was almost finished upstairs. The perp had entered the house through the unlocked window in the bedroom. All the windows in the house were unlocked. It seemed that before the perp had finished his task, the worn-out window sash had dropped unexpectedly and shattered the glass. Braddock couldn’t say whether the perp had been too rattled to simply kick through the wooden sash and climb back out the window or if he’d intentionally mowed CJ down to frighten her.
Whatever the case, if they were lucky, some of the prints lifted would give them a match. But they’d have to be damned lucky. Shelley had entertained lots of guests in her bedroom. Even with eliminating the prints they’d collected immediately after her murder, they could be interviewing matches for weeks. And if the perp had worn gloves, as Braddock imagined he had, the whole exercise would be a colossal waste of time and manpower.
CJ had refused to make eye contact with him when she’d finally emerged from the bathroom wearing a big, fluffy white robe he recognized as one of Shelley’s. She’d stayed in the kitchen since. He’d smelled the coffee brewing but didn’t dare invade her space. As much as he would have loved a cup of coffee, it wasn’t worth the backlash that was surely coming.
She already despised him. He doubted she liked him any better now, no matter how amazing the sex.
He took a breath. He could still smell her scent on his skin . . . on his clothes.
No matter what he wanted to feel, he recognized what had just happened for what it was: big-ass mistake.
“All done,” Greg Day, the evidence tech, announced as he descended the stairs. “I’ll try to have something for you on the blood by noon. The prints”—he shot Braddock one of those looks—“will take some time.”
“I appreciate the priority status.” If that blood was human, Braddock wanted to know ASAP. “If the blood turns out to be human, compare it to Shelley Patterson’s.”
No one fucks with me.
This had to be Nash’s work. Bastard.
Day gave him a salute and headed for the door.
“You’ll call me when you get the lab results?”
“Definitely,” Day called over his shoulder as he exited. Braddock turned to find CJ lingering in the doorway leading into the kitchen. A rap on the front door waylaid what he needed to say. He held up a hand for CJ to hold on.
He’d called in back up. Braddock wanted to make the necessary introductions and get the hell out of here before he said or did something else stupid. “Sorry to drag you out of bed,” he said to the newest detective on his team. Jenkins was a good man. A little young, fresh off the beat, but a damned quick study and ambitious as hell. Braddock was reasonably sure CJ wouldn’t want him hanging around here tonight.
“Dr. Patterson”—he kept the introductions formal—“this is Detective Wesley Jenkins. He’ll be right outside the rest of the night if you need him.”
“Detective Braddock gave me your cell number, ma’am,” Jenkins offered. “I put through a call to your cell so my number would be handy. Don’t hesitate to contact me if you have any questions or if you hear or see anything you feel isn’t right.”
“Thank you, Detective Jenkins,” she said.
A but was coming. Braddock could feel it.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine now.” She lifted her chin in defiance of what she likely knew Braddock was thinking. “The doors and windows will be locked. I can slide the bureau in front of the broken window.”
No, he wasn’t the one out of his mind. She was.
“Thank you, Jenkins,” Braddock said, dismissing the detective. “I’ll check in with you on my way out.”
Jenkins gave CJ a nod and made his exit before the shit hit the fan.
“You listen to me,” Braddock said before she could hurl whatever explanation she’d concocted at him. “This is no game.” He pointed to the stairs. “Just because the guy who did this didn’t gut you or slice your throat doesn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. That writing on the wall”—he stabbed his finger toward the stairs again—“is a warning. Tyrone Nash knows you’re here and he’s watching you.”
CJ looked him straight in the eye. “Just because I fell apart and let you inside me doesn’t mean you know me.”
The words were so cold, so emotionless, he flinched.
“I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing that for a very long time. So don’t go all martial law on me.” She pointed at the door, mimicking his gesture. “You can leave now. I’m finished with you.”
The rational argument he’d planned to throw at her, the hard-ass cop attitude he’d been prepared to exhibit, fled for parts unknown.
He’d expected her to be pissed. To yell, maybe stomp her feet. But he hadn’t expected a total stone-cold lack of emotion.
Months of frustration and anger mounted. No matter how many times he’d tried, no amount of apologies got through to her. He was wasting his time.
“Well, all right, then.” He strode to the door, that anger building with each step. He hesitated, turned back to her. “Jenkins will be right outside. You can throw me out, but the street is public domain. He isn’t going anywhere.”
He didn’t wait for her comeback. He walked out. The door slammed behind him. He listened for her to engage the lock before walking away.
She wasn’t going to make any of this easy. And he was going above and beyond the call to fuck it up even further.
He gave Jenkins strict orders not to move unless she did. As he walked to his G6, his cell vibrated, and he almost hated to check it. Knowing CJ, she could very well have called the chief already to report his indiscretion and his overbearing tactics.
Thankfully, it was his partner. “Braddock.”
“Our boy got a late-night visitor,” Cooper reported.
When Braddock and Cooper had parted ways, he was to check on the Patterson house and CJ while his partner tailed Banks.
“Nash paid him a visit, did he?” No surprise there. The question was, how had old Ricky boy held up under the interrogation?
“He did,” Cooper confirmed. “Nash must’ve pissed him off good. Banks roared off in that shitty Charger as soon as Nash was out of there. I followed him to that shack they call a cantina on Drake. Maybe if he gets drunk enough I can extract a little information.”
Braddock knew full well that Cooper could take care of herself, but some of those joints in what was fondly referred to as Little Mexico were damned dangerous for a woman. “I could use a beer myself.” That was a hell of an understatement.
“No way, man. He won’t talk to me if you’re around. Go home, get some sleep. I’ve got this covered.”
He could argue, but it wouldn’t do any good. Cooper was as hardheaded as she was smart.
“All right, but don’t take any unnecessary risks. I kind of like what we have, too.”
Cooper laughed before disconnecting.
Braddock exhaled a lungful of frustration. Sleep would be impossible. But a shower was absolutely essential. He had to wash CJ off his skin. He couldn’t let anything, not even her, distract him from getting the job done.
And he damned sure didn’t want to be responsible for any more pain in her life.
He’d already caused more than enough.
CHA
PTER FOURTEEN
3021 Appleton Street
1:40 PM
CJ swiped the strands of hair that had fallen free of her pony-tail from her damp face, then plunked her hands on her hips. Her T-shirt clung to her sweaty skin. She’d been at this for hours. First thing when she’d gotten up that morning, she’d taken Jenkins a cup of coffee and asked him if it would be okay to clean up Shelley’s room.
Jenkins had checked with Braddock, who’d given his okay. The forensics guy likely wouldn’t be back.
CJ had begged off breakfast with Edward. He’d been disappointed, but she had needed to do this. And, truthfully, she hadn’t been able to face him after last night. He’d always believed in her, trusted her to be smart and do the right thing.
Last night had been more than a mistake. It had been wrong on so many levels, she couldn’t begin to label them.
She had made the mistake of trusting Braddock once. That wasn’t happening again. Last night had been some kind of mental meltdown. Otherwise she would never have allowed him to touch her, not in a million years.
Focus, CJ. Clues. She needed clues. Where was her sister’s cell phone? Braddock had said that Shelley’s cell hadn’t been found at the scene. Where the hell was it? Shelley never went anywhere without it.
She blew out a disgusted breath.
First thing, she had opened every window to air the place out and get some relief from the heat, then she’d gone through the entire house. Every shelf, every drawer, every hiding place they had used as kids. She’d basically turned the house upside down, then slowly put things back in a slightly more organized manner. Gloves and about a gallon of bleach had cleaned up the biggest part of the mess on the wall in Shelley’s room. CJ shuddered. It would take stain blocker and paint to finish the job.
If Banks and Nash thought they could scare her off that easily, they could think again. She wasn’t going to be run out of her own house.
So far her work had proven futile. The cell phone was nowhere in the house. She’d found no notes, no anything relevant to what had been going on in her sister’s life the past few days or weeks. All she’d discovered was the obvious indication that her sister was eating better than she had in the past. There had even been empty milk containers in the trash. Shelley never drank milk.
Had someone else been staying here? There were no clothes or toiletries that would point to that being so.
Frustration wound CJ a little tighter.
Why hadn’t Shelley talked to her about this change?
Regret and guilt tied big knots in CJ’s stomach. Because her sister knew that she wouldn’t believe her. She’d promised to get clean too many times.
Dammit. There had to be something here. This was Shelley’s home. Her haven. A scribbled note, anything, indicating what had turned her around. Made her want to give up the drugs and pull her act together. She’d been trying to get clean for years. What had suddenly made it happen? Even if only for a few days.
CJ turned to leave her sister’s bedroom, but stalled at the door.
Wait. Wait. Wait.
The bathroom.
CJ hurried down the hall to the only bathroom in the house. She stared a moment at the antiquated medicine cabinet that hung over the wall-mounted sink. How had they done this?
Open the door first or don’t open it? She couldn’t recall.
Screw it.
CJ grabbed hold of the glass door, a hand on either side, and pulled. She pulled so hard she stumbled back and hit the wall when the cabinet pulled free so easily. The contents jangled around inside the cabinet.
“Damn.” Using her foot, she closed the toilet lid and placed the metal and glass cabinet on top of it. She’d already gone through the contents of the cabinet. Aspirin and miscellaneous store-bought pharmaceuticals. Nothing CJ didn’t know about already. Her sister kept an array of over-the-counter pain killers and sleep aids on hand at all times.
Holding her breath, CJ tiptoed, leaned over the sink and peered into the wall cavity. A smile stretched across her lips. “Ah ha!”
When she and Shelley were kids, they had discovered quite by accident that the crosspiece that was supposed to support the worn-out medicine cabinet was actually six inches too low. They’d been fighting over who got the last pink Flintstone vita-min and had ripped the medicine cabinet right out of the wall. Evidently there had been a longer cabinet there at one time or another. Either that or the carpenter who’d installed it hadn’t bothered with proper brace work. He certainly hadn’t secured it properly.
Anything they didn’t want their mother or any of her “friends” to find, they’d hidden in that cavity.
Holding her breath, CJ reached in. Three items sat on the aged two-by-four crosspiece: a bottle, what appeared to be a business card, and a folded piece of paper.
Anticipation sent her pulse into a faster rhythm. As a doctor, she couldn’t help herself. She looked at the bottle first. Large. Vitamins? Then she read the label and the attached prescription sticker.
Prenatal vitamins.
CJ’s chest tightened.
Did this mean . . . ?
The business card wasn’t a business card. It was an appointment card. Shelley had had a doctor’s appointment at the village clinic at the end of next week. CJ dropped the vitamins and the card onto the counter and focused on the paper. Hands shaking, she carefully unfolded it. Standard clinic visit form. Shelley had seen the doctor at two o’clock on July thirtieth.
Friday.
The day before she was murdered.
Diagnostic code . . . Adrenaline pumping through her veins, CJ scanned the form until she found the entry she sought.
Positive pregnancy.
Shelley was pregnant?
That ferocious pounding that accompanied her treatment of every trauma victim rushed into the ER erupted in CJ’s chest now.
Her sister had been pregnant.
CJ sagged against the doorjamb.
No wonder she’d been so excited when she called and left that voice mail. She wanted to share the news with CJ.
So . . . who was the father?
Ricky Banks?
Did he even know about this?
Oh, God.
The form fluttered to the floor. CJ shoved the medicine cabinet off the toilet and yanked up the lid.
She heaved again and again though she’d eaten nothing but toast this morning.
CJ collapsed onto the floor, flinching when her knee hit the corner of the medicine cabinet. Medicine bottles were scattered over the battered linoleum. Dust and grime had collected on the baseboards and in the corners. The wallpaper that had been there for as long as CJ remembered had faded and wrinkled, peeling away from the wall here and there.
All those insignificant details inventoried in her stunned mind as she grappled with this new truth.
Shelley had been pregnant.
It didn’t matter at the moment who the father was.
It only mattered that the killer had murdered two people.
CJ staggered to her feet, washed her hands, and threw cold water on her face in an effort to snap out of the daze this news had induced. She stuck her face under the stream of water and rinsed her mouth.
When she’d pulled herself back together she reached down and picked up the form and the appointment card.
These were evidence. Sort of. Of course the autopsy would reveal that Shelley had been pregnant. But the fact that she had known before she was murdered could be significant. Especially since she’d obviously felt the need to hide the evidence of her pregnancy.
Why would she have done that unless she’d feared repercussions?
CJ had been wrong. It did matter who the father was. If he was a married man or just a jerk who didn’t want children with—CJ swallowed hard—a known prostitute and drug addict, he may have taken matters into his own hands.
She should call Braddock.
CJ hesitated before reaching for her cell phone. The thought of talking to him . . .
CJ made it as far as the living room before her knees gave out on her and she dropped into the closest chair.
She closed her eyes and fought the overwhelming ache twisting in her chest. This was so unfair. Shelley had talked about wanting a kid. On one of those rare occasions when she and CJ weren’t fighting, she’d enthused wildly about how she would never be like their mother. She would stay clean and be a good mother. Her baby would never do without the most important element of childhood—loving attention from his or her parents.
That was the deal. Their childhoods hadn’t been so screwed up because they were poor or lived in a less-than-desirable part of town. Their childhoods had been unstable and scary and miserable a good portion of the time because no one had been there to see after them.
CJ had done her best to be both mother and father, starting at age ten. But it hadn’t been enough.
Agony throbbed inside her.
Everything Shelley had ever set out to accomplish had blown up in her face. A lot of her choices had been bad ones, leaving no one to blame but herself. But sometimes fate just cheated her.
Like this time.
Anger propelled CJ to her feet. She could sit here feeling sorry for her sister’s misfortunes and guilty for not being better at taking care of her, or she could find out who killed her.
By the time CJ had snagged her bag, grabbed her keys, and stormed out to the car, she was damned pissed off.
Other than a decent burial, this was the one thing CJ could do for her sister.
Keep looking until she found Shelley’s killer.
Mill Village Medical Clinic
The clinic was closed.
CJ stared in disbelief at the opening hours. Since when was the clinic open only two days per week?
Wednesdays and Fridays only?
What were sick people supposed to do the other five days of the week?
CJ knew the answer: wait until they were sick enough to go to the ER. It cost everyone four times as much and the hospital ended up unable to collect.