by Debra Webb
Bad business all the way around.
Dammit.
Frustrated, she started back to her car. Detective Jenkins had parked across the street. She refused to be intimidated by his presence. He could follow her around twenty-four/seven and she wasn’t going to do anything differently. Braddock could kiss her—
A Camry turned into the parking lot. CJ hesitated before opening her car door. Someone else who didn’t realize the clinic wouldn’t be open. The vehicle was a little upscale for any of the village residents. Well, except maybe for the crime lords and slumlords. They generally drove nicer vehicles.
Maybe she could at least get the name of whoever was running the clinic. The physician’s signature on the patient visit form was impossible to make out. Big surprise there. If she had to track down the doctor in charge at home or at another clinic, she would.
A woman emerged from the Camry. “The clinic’s closed,” she announced without preamble.
Hello to you, too. CJ was in no mood to take any crap. The lady would just have to deal with it. “Yeah, I see that.” She took a couple of steps toward the Camry. “Can you tell me the name of the doctor who runs the clinic?”
The woman stared at CJ across the top of her car. Her gaze narrowed. “CJ Patterson?”
CJ tried to place the woman’s face. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Long brown hair, round face. Boxy frame, not exactly fat, just square. Medium height. “Yes. I’m CJ Patterson.”
She was just about to ask the woman’s name when the woman spoke up again. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
The fact that her expression had grown colder with the statement didn’t bode well for getting information.
“I’m sorry.” CJ shook her head. “I’m really bad with names.” That wasn’t generally the case, but the other woman didn’t have to know that.
As if the woman had decided the conversation wasn’t worth pursuing, she reached back into her Camry and withdrew with a large shoulder bag and an armful of files. She bumped the car door closed with her hip.
“Like I said”—she sent CJ a pointed look—“the clinic is closed.” She tossed her head, sending her hair flying over her shoulder, and marched toward the clinic’s entrance.
Wait. There was something familiar about that move—the whole tossing-her-head thing, as if she’d just dismissed CJ. “Juanita.” CJ recognized her now. “Juanita Lusk.”
Key halfway to the door’s lock, the woman’s hand stilled. “I guess you’re better with names than you thought.” She shoved the key into the lock without a backward glance.
It was all coming back to CJ now. Juanita had been a junior when CJ was a freshman at Huntsville’s University of Alabama. Juanita had been in pre-med, too.
Carter Cost.
Yeah, CJ remembered. He’d dumped Juanita for a brief fling with CJ. Her first and only mistake with men—until Braddock.
Evidently Juanita still held a grudge.
CJ bolted into action, catching the door before it closed behind Lusk. She parked herself in the threshold and didn’t budge.
“I already told you,” Juanita snapped, “we’re closed.”
“I’ll only take a minute of your time. Please,” CJ urged, “it’s really important.”
An indifferent huff previewed the lack of compassion that claimed Lusk’s face. “Get out of the way and let me lock the door before the whole fucking village shows up.”
CJ stepped around her and waited while she locked the door. Lusk didn’t switch on the lights, just turned and headed through the lobby. CJ stayed right on her heels.
The clinic looked exactly as it had when she was a kid. Same scuffed tile floors and worn-out waiting room seating. The TV and VCR were new to the clinic but far from newly purchased. Beyond the lobby there appeared to have been a halfhearted face-lift in the last decade. Still three exam rooms to the right, a toilet, lab/supply room, and office on the left. Straight back at the end of the corridor that divided the rear section of the clinic in half was an emergency exit, the one the staff generally used to come and go.
Inside the cramped office Juanita dumped the load of files on the already cluttered metal desk and dropped her bag on the floor. “What do you want?” She plopped unceremoniously into the chair behind the desk. “When I get finished here I have catching up to do at the Downtown Clinic too.”
CJ didn’t sit. Mainly because the only other chair was stacked full of files. She could do this better standing, anyway. “My sister, Shelley, was a patient here. I’m sure you’ve heard that she was murdered over the weekend.”
Lusk’s indifferent expression didn’t alter in the slightest. “Yeah, I saw the two-liner buried in this morning’s paper.”
Anger unfurled in CJ’s belly. “You know, college was a long time ago and I’m really sorry you haven’t gotten past it, but my sister is dead and I really don’t give a shit if you didn’t get the guy.”
Lusk’s face softened just the tiniest bit. “The way I remember it, you didn’t either.”
CJ’s shoulders sagged as the fight drained out of her. “True.”
“Look, Patterson.” Lusk waved a hand around the tiny office. “I have a lot of work to do. I’m sorry as hell about your sister, but that’s the way it goes around here. What is it that you want from me?”
“She had an appointment with you next Friday.”
Lusk flipped through the dog-eared appointment book on the desk, stopped on the appropriate page, and scanned the names. “Yep. Two o’clock.” She grabbed a pen and scratched out Shelley’s name.
CJ flinched. Tears stung her eyes, but she wouldn’t let this grudge-carrying witch see it.
“According to the clinic form I found at the house,” CJ continued when Lusk didn’t offer any information, “Shelley was pregnant.”
“If that’s what the form says, then that’s the case.”
“How far along was she?”
Lusk twisted the pen in her fingers and appeared to consider the question. “I believe I estimated six weeks, probably based on the date of her last period. She was supposed to come back for the vaginal exam. I could look up her file, but, as you can see”—she waved her hands over her desk—“I’m little overwhelmed at the moment.”
CJ shook her head. That wasn’t really her concern. “Did she mention to you or any of the other staff who the father was?”
Lusk cocked her head. “Are you seriously asking that question?”
CJ blinked. “Yes. There’s a murder investigation, and—”
“Maybe you’re in denial,” Lusk interrupted, “but your sister spent most of her nights working the streets as a prostitute.” She held up a hand when CJ would have blasted her. “Fortunately, she’d started cleaning up her act. She’d been drug-free for nearly two months. And she was clean, no STDs. She was a work in progress. I’m not judging; I’m simply making an honest statement.”
CJ moistened her lips, tamped down the emotion swelling in her throat. Emotion aside, she recognized that Lusk had a point.
“The father could have been any one of a number of men.” Lusk lifted her linebacker shoulders and let them fall. “She didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask. Most of the young women who come in here are working girls. I test them, treat what ails them, and don’t ask questions. They don’t talk.”
“Could she . . .” CJ worked at steadying her voice. “Could she have talked to anyone else here?”
Lusk opened her arms wide. “I’m it, Patterson. The clinic staff begins and ends with me right now. Both the nurse and the receptionist quit a week ago. I shouldn’t even be operating this clinic without one or both, but then the folks here go without medical attention.” She braced her elbows atop the stack of files. “Maybe you’ve forgotten how it is around here since you landed that prestigious residency at Hopkins.”
Now the real issue surfaced. Lusk was jealous. Did she have nothing better to do than to keep up with a former classmate’s career? What was wrong with this wom
an? CJ’s sister was dead!
“I’m sure you won’t mind if I see her chart.”
A guard went up as visibly as if Lusk had pushed CJ out of her office and slammed the door. “What does her chart have to do with her murder?”
CJ shook her head. “Nothing. I just wanted some insight—”
“Whatever. I’ll dig it up. Obviously I have nothing better to do.” She pushed to her feet. “Just give me a minute. I don’t think I filed Friday’s charts.”
“Thank you.”
CJ rubbed at her forehead. A long-overdue headache was brewing. No sleep, no decent food, way too much caffeine. And Braddock. A recipe for trouble.
While she waited, CJ surveyed the office. Lusk was right. She was way behind on paperwork. If she was running this clinic alone even for one week, she had to be overwhelmed. CJ moved closer to the wall where Lusk’s credentials hung. University of Alabama in Birmingham. Surprise flared at what she didn’t see.
“That’s right,” Lusk said from the door.
Feeling like she’d just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar, CJ turned to face her.
“I didn’t get MD behind my name.” Lusk shoved the chart at CJ. “I had to settle for being a nurse practitioner. Which means I do twice the work you do and get paid half as much.”
CJ wanted to ask what had happened, but she was pretty sure Lusk wouldn’t want to discuss it with her. What could she say: I’m sorry or Sucks for you?
“I have a son,” Lusk explained as if she’d read CJ’s mind. “He needed me. Try surviving your residency with a baby on your hip.”
Wow. Even surviving nursing school with a kid had to be tough. Tack on the additional requirements for practitioner and that was saying something. “How old is your son?”
Lusk hesitated, then said, “Nine.”
“Pictures?” CJ knew the interest on her face looked fake, but it was the best she could do.
“I don’t think you seriously want to see a picture of my kid.” Lusk settled behind her desk once more. “Look at the chart. I have work to do.”
CJ skimmed Shelley’s medical chart. Nothing she hadn’t expected. Shelley had been in several times for STDs. Tests to ensure she did or didn’t have one or more on different occasions. A follow-up to the concussion and fracture she’d gotten from that worthless asshole Banks just over a month ago. Same old Shelley. Lab results from last week. CJ didn’t know what she’d expected to find, but she hadn’t found it.
She passed the chart back to Lusk. “Thank you.”
“Yeah.” Lusk tossed it onto the pile of others.
CJ hesitated a moment, felt like there was something more she should say. Take a step toward mending that bridge, maybe. After all, this woman had taken care of Shelley’s medical needs.
“Use the back door.” Lusk didn’t bother looking up again.
CJ didn’t bother taking that step she’d considered. Instead, she walked out.
How was it that she’d been gone for seven years and no one or nothing that mattered around here had changed?
Absolutely nothing.
Except her sister was dead.
CJ would know the reason her sister had been murdered.
She glanced back at the run-down clinic.
Maybe she already did.
That was exactly why she was going to visit the one person who knew Shelley almost as well as CJ did: Ricky Banks. This time the police weren’t coming between them.
CJ wanted him all alone.
Ricky and his scumbag cronies weren’t the only ones who could play games.
She was about to show him she hadn’t forgotten the lessons she’d learned as a kid.
CJ Patterson could lie, cheat, and steal . . . if it meant finding her sister’s killer.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Juanita Lusk didn’t move for a long time after Patterson left. She stared at the mound of files on the desk, her mind frozen yet somehow spinning wildly.
She had work. A ton of work.
She should get started.
“Oh, God.”
Shelley Patterson was dead.
A tremor of uncertainty quaked through Juanita, shattering the quivering mass of stalled thoughts.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
She glanced around her office. Tried to think what to do.
This really had nothing to do with her. Nothing at all.
Shelley was dead because she didn’t know how to stay out of trouble. She was always . . .
Fuck.
Who was she kidding?
Juanita needed a cigarette. Grabbing her bag, she plopped it on top of the mountain of work. Fished around inside until she found her Marlboro Lights. Lighter. Where was that damned lighter? Her hands shook.
“Shit!” She turned her bag upside down, let her stuff tumble over the desk, onto the floor. The lighter fell into her lap. Hand still shaking, she snatched it up and lit the Marlboro.
She didn’t care that it was a smoke-free environment.
She had far bigger problems.
Juanita dragged in a lungful of smoke, savored it for as long as she could before allowing it to escape.
She’d promised her son she would quit.
Maybe when this was over.
Fear wrapped around and around her heart, tightened like a threatening serpent.
What had she done?
Christ. She’d made the mother of all mistakes.
How was she supposed to know the son of a bitch would go this far? Yeah, he dabbled in drugs. Had himself a regular little habit going on. But with all he had going for him, who would have imagined he would do this?
Shelley was dead.
Juanita clasped a hand over her mouth to hold back the desperation rising in her throat.
This couldn’t be happening.
Okay, okay. Don’t panic. She shoved the half-smoked cigarette into the abandoned Coke can on her desk.
No one knew. It was her secret.
“You’re okay.” She pulled in a deep breath. “Just do your job, Juanita.” She braced her hands on the desk and let the air seep slowly into her lungs. “No need to panic.”
Nobody would ever know.
She shook her head.
No way.
This murder had nothing to do with her.
She hadn’t killed anybody.
She had nothing to worry about.
A stillness crept over her, narrowed her view until one vivid truth filled her consciousness.
No, she had nothing to worry about except . . .
CJ Patterson.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
815 Wheeler Avenue, HPD, 2:55 PM
Braddock reclined in the uncomfortable metal chair and propped his feet on the table as two uniforms delivered Banks to the interview room.
Banks, looking exactly like a man with a hellacious hangover, stared in bewilderment as the door closed. He’d still been in bed when the cops arrived.
“What the fuck?” He turned around, stumbled back a step as his gaze landed on Braddock. He held up his hands. “I done told you everything I know.”
“I wish that were true,” Braddock said as he dropped his feet to the floor and stood. “But, you see, I know you’re lying.” He walked around the table and pulled out the other chair. “Have a seat.”
Banks glared at him for about ten seconds, then swaggered to the chair and plopped down in it. “What the fuck do you want?”
Braddock had waited until Banks was in the room to do this part. He picked up the small roll of blue paint er’s tape from the table, pulled the chair he’d vacated across the room, and stepped up onto it. After tearing off a strip of tape, he plastered it across the camera lens and stepped down from the chair.
“What the fuck?” Banks mumbled.
Braddock pulled his chair back to the table and took a seat. He shoved the roll of tape back into the table’s only drawer, then reached beneath the desk to turn off the microphone. “Now. I understand you had a few beers with my partne
r last night.”
Cooper had called Braddock at three-thirty this morning to say she’d delivered Banks to his house since he was shit-faced. She’d learned a couple of interesting tidbits, nothing case-breaking, but enough to give Braddock some leverage.
“Your fucking partner,” Banks said, his speech still slightly slurred, “set me up. That’s called entrapment.”
Braddock turned his palms up. “Prove it.”
Banks puffed out a breath. “Fuck you.”
“The problem is . . .” Braddock sat back, studied the scumbag. “You’re the one who’s fucked.”
The other man’s gaze narrowed. “How do you figure that?”
“Considering two uniforms picked you up at your house this morning and hauled you in—not to mention my partner took you home in the wee hours of the morning—I would say Nash has concluded that you’re cooperating with the police.”
Banks laughed. “I ain’t doing shit with the police.”
“You know that,” Braddock allowed, “and I know that, but Nash doesn’t.”
Fear made its first appearance in the scumbag’s eyes.
“Detective Cooper reported that you kept talking about Nash having a plan to have his revenge with me. Why don’t you start with telling me about that?”
“I was drunk. I don’t even remember what I said. But I don’t know nothing about what Nash does. I told you that.”
Nothing Braddock hadn’t expected. Shelley had warned him that Banks wouldn’t talk without some major motivation. Braddock stood, sending his chair scraping across the tiled floor. “You see, Ricky”—he leaned forward, braced his hands on the table, and put his face in the other man’s—“that’s just not acceptable to me.”
“Ain’t shit you can do about it,” the bastard had the balls to say.
Braddock smiled. “That’s where you’re wrong.” His smile vanished. “I will watch every move you make. Have you hauled in every single day until you wish you were anybody but Ricky Banks. I’ll put the word out on the street that you’re a snitch. You won’t have a customer left in this county or the next who’ll do business with you. And you’ll be so sick of seeing my face that you’ll want to take that unlicensed Glock of yours and put yourself out of your misery before someone else does it for you.”