Everywhere She Turns

by Debra Webb

  That was the thing his partner didn’t understand: The only way Braddock would be off this case was if he stopped breathing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Village Medical Clinic, 7:18 PM

  CJ paced the pavement between her rental car and the clinic’s rear entrance. Where the hell was Cost?

  She’d called him half an hour ago. How long did it take to get from Governor’s Bend to here? Ten, fifteen minutes, tops.

  The entire day had passed with her combing the city for Celeste Martin. CJ had started with a door-to-door search in the village. No one admitted to knowing the woman, much less having any idea where she might be.

  Jenkins or one of his colleagues had followed her every step of the way. She’d gotten worried that no one would talk to her with him around, so she’d given him the slip.

  It hadn’t been easy. She’d had to park down a narrow little road that only longtime residents of the village knew about. It paralleled the train tracks off the west side of Holmes. She’d waited a good twenty minutes and then she’d taken a back way through Huntsville Park to get back to the village.

  It infuriated CJ that no one would open up to her. Every damned one she asked pretended not to know Celeste. That was bull. The girl had been working the streets around here for months. Prostitutes were like actors or secretaries or any other group of professionals: they chatted amongst themselves about work.

  She’d questioned folks at the Kroger parking lot. Then she’d moved to the Wal-Mart lot across the street. She hadn’t bothered with the mall across the parkway—too much security for any of Celeste’s friends to mark that territory.

  How could the girl have simply disappeared?

  It wasn’t possible.

  Unless . . .

  Guilt congealed in CJ’s gut.

  That girl was missing or in trouble because of CJ’s meddling.

  Ricky Banks was dead. CJ had pushed him for answers about Shelley’s murder. Celeste Martin was missing. CJ had questioned her extensively. The girl had been too trusting or naive or maybe just desperate for someone to care not to realize her mistake until well after she’d made it.

  Dammit.

  CJ folded her arms over her middle and fought to contain her emotions. Her sister was dead. The police had no idea who had killed her. CJ’s efforts to solve the mystery were only causing more trouble.

  Braddock had begged off the briefing he’d promised her. He and his partner were busy with this latest homicide. CJ understood. She’d decided to try to locate Celeste.

  Celeste wouldn’t be missing if it weren’t for her . . . would Ricky be dead?

  CJ had no idea what she was doing.

  Edward’s words echoed amid the whirling thoughts.

  This is clearly further indication that you should go back to Baltimore. There’s nothing more that would prove constructive you can do here.

  He was right about one thing. This morning had been a warning. She hadn’t told him about the cat’s blood. It was bad enough she’d had to explain about the rabid addict at the clinic. He’d noticed the bandage on her throat.

  But last night had been about her work at the clinic yesterday. She was certain. Tyrone wanted CJ to know that her digging around in this investigation was not appreciated.

  Next time she might be the one to bleed.

  Celeste had told her that the first transgression wasn’t so bad, but the second was far worse, and the third time Tyrone was disobeyed . . . someone got dead.

  Maybe she should just bury her sister and walk away.

  Seeing that the killer was brought to justice wouldn’t change the fact that Shelley was dead. Wouldn’t resurrect Ricky—even if he deserved a second chance. And it wouldn’t find Celeste.

  CJ had almost convinced herself to get back into the rental and drive away when Cost’s BMW rolled into the lot.

  Renewed anticipation rallied her determination. She couldn’t go back to her life in Baltimore and pretend none of this mattered.

  That was the bottom line.

  A realization hit CJ—an obvious fact she was more than aware of but one she hadn’t seen in exactly that light before.

  She and everyone in this village had been doing that for decades: pretending the things they thought they couldn’t change didn’t really matter, turning their heads and backs, walking away, moving on. It was all the same.

  And it had to stop.

  It might as well start with her.

  “What’s so important it wouldn’t wait until the clinic opened tomorrow?” Carter asked as he emerged from his luxury automobile. The BMW’s headlights flashed and a distinct tone confirmed that the security system had been activated.

  “There’s something I have to check on a patient I saw yesterday.” No reason to tell him what she was really up to. Required too much explanation. She wouldn’t have had to call him at all if Lusk had gotten that key back to her. She’d picked it up yesterday since she needed to get a duplicate made. CJ figured by now that if she got it back she’d have to come to the clinic tomorrow while Lusk was in and remind her.

  Carter grinned as he fished through a ring of keys. “You always were dedicated.”

  A compliment? Maybe. Sometimes it was difficult to read what Carter Cost meant by his words or his actions. There was an arrogance about him. Probably seeded by his family’s money and a lifetime of being the only son. Not to mention being the only male of his generation in the whole Cost family. His settling down and producing heirs, male ones in particular, was essential. It didn’t take a lot of imagination to comprehend that he’d been given anything he ever wanted by all who entered his world, however briefly. Including any number of college girls like herself and Juanita Lusk, who’d been charmed by his handsome looks and fancy car.

  “I appreciate you coming, Carter.” He’d done her a favor. No matter that part of her understood perfectly what he was—a rich, self-centered playboy—she was grateful for his effort.

  He opened the clinic’s back door, reached inside, and flipped the switch. Fluorescent bulbs flickered, then glowed, lighting the corridor inside. “Not a problem.” He flashed her that sexy grin that had lured many an innocent virgin to her deflowering. “Besides, I have an ulterior motive.”

  Of course he did. “Oh yeah?” Feigning surprise was better than telling him she’d expected as much. After all, she wasn’t inside the clinic yet.

  “Dinner?” He held the door open while she passed through.

  “I’m sure your calendar has been booked for weeks.” Don’t tell him no yet! CJ hurried toward the office and the filing cabinets waiting there. “How could you possibly have time to fit me in?” She smiled sheepishly and waited for him to unlock the office door.

  “CJ.” He slid the key into the lock but hesitated before making the turn. “We haven’t seen each other in years.”

  Ten, to be precise.

  “I cleared my schedule just for you.” He turned the key, opened the door.

  She didn’t wait for him to move aside; she slid sideways past him. “That was thoughtful of you.”

  She went straight to the stack of charts on the desk. Staying late last night to chart her notes had paid off. She’d stacked the charts in alphabetical order for Lusk’s convenience. CJ would have filed them, but she’d been concerned Lusk or the preceptor, the kindly Dr. Cost, might need to review them first. Besides, the neat, alphabetized stack she’d left was a major step above the disorganized piles of paperwork lying about the office.

  “P. F. Chang’s is great.” He settled a hip onto the edge of the desk. “Unless you’d prefer a more intimate setting without all the social expectations.”

  CJ pulled Celeste’s chart from the stack, scanned for the patient’s home address. Got it. She returned the chart to the proper place, then smiled at Cost. “You’re too sweet, Carter. But I’ll need a rain check.” She posted a sad face. “Tomorrow’s the autopsy and I’m not really feeling social. Is that okay?”

  He sighed
, adopted his own sad expression. “You’re breaking my heart, Patterson.”

  She gave him a punch to the arm. “Come on. I’ll bet you’ve got a whole list of hot babes lining up for their chance at dinner with you. You’re one of the most eligible bachelors in Huntsville. Any young, single woman alive would jump at the chance to become Mrs. Carter Cost and mother to your heirs.”

  The faux sadness vanished with one downward sweep of his thick dark lashes. He stood. “A rain check is fine.” He glanced around the untidy office. “If you’re done here, I should get going.”

  The change was more than just his eyes. His face, his posture, all of it shifted. Gone was the flirtatious doctor of charm. Had she hit a sensitive spot?

  It didn’t matter. She had what she’d come here for. She should just go. Dr. Womanizer would be fine. It would take a lot more than CJ’s snub or anything else she said to injure his massive ego.

  At the door, she hesitated. “Seriously, Carter. Thanks for coming.”

  He suddenly noticed the healing cut on her throat. She’d ditched the bandage today. “What happened to you?” One corner of his mouth lifted in a halfhearted smile. “That looks like something I would do trying to shave with a massive hangover.”

  “Only I wasn’t the one wielding the blade.” She told him about the incident and how he would find a report in that pile of files.

  He complained about how the lack of needed security at the free clinics continued to be ignored by the powers that be, then seemed to get distracted by the piles of files.

  “Thanks again,” she said, moving toward the door.

  He gave a nod. “Goodnight, CJ.”

  She walked to her rental, got in. The clinic door closed with him still inside. Maybe since he was here he’d decided to do a little catching up. Judging by what CJ had seen so far, the clinic’s paperwork was seriously behind.

  Still, she couldn’t shake the notion that she’d said something that hit a nerve.

  whatever. Keeping an eye out for her tail, she drove through the back alleys to 3805 Beacon Street—the village address Celeste had listed on her personal data form. CJ parked in front of the duplex. She’d been to that door already. The woman inside had insisted she had no idea who Celeste Martin was.

  Either the woman had lied or Celeste had. It was remotely possible that Celeste had lived at the address and then moved since yesterday, but CJ didn’t believe that to be the case. Not to mention the woman occupying the address would have had to move in today.

  Not plausible.

  CJ pounded on the door. Until now, she’d knocked quietly in deference to anyone who might be sleeping. Now she didn’t care. Music blasted loud enough to wake the dead, anyway. A couple more hard pounds and the door opened.

  “What?” The woman visibly stiffened when she realized it was CJ again. “I done told you they’s nobody named Celeste living here.”

  “One of your neighbors says differently.” CJ wasn’t taking no for an answer. “She’s not in trouble. I just need to speak to her.”

  The woman looked past CJ as if making sure there was no one else with her. “Look, you get on outta here. I don’t need no trouble.” This time she spoke quietly, her voice barely audible with the music so loud.

  “Please.” CJ eased a few inches closer. “I really need to find her.”

  The woman tortured her bottom lip, her face a study in uncertainty.

  “I swear,” CJ pleaded, “I won’t tell anyone you helped me. All I need is a location where I can find her.”

  “Celeste didn’t come home last night.” The woman’s lips trembled. “You wrong about her not being in trouble. She fucked up bad. If she ain’t hiding, then she . . .” The woman caught herself. “She ain’t here.” Head shaking adamantly, she prepared to close the door.

  “Did she get into trouble with Tyrone for talking to me?” CJ’s abdomen tightened at the idea. She hadn’t meant to get the girl in trouble. “She didn’t really tell me anything. We were just chatting. I haven’t lived here in a while and I was only catching up.”

  “I can’t say no more.”

  The door started to close and CJ blocked it with her shoulder. “I know you’re scared, but if Celeste needs help, I want to help her. Just tell me where she is.”

  “Don’t you get it?” the woman hissed. “I don’t know where she is. She ain’t here. If she ain’t working the street, and I know she ain’t, then the only other place she could be is under the bridge.”

  “Under the bridge?” Where the hell was that?

  “Governor’s Street overpass. She might be hiding with the homeless.”

  Ricky’s aunt had said he might be there. CJ should have remembered that. If Celeste was scared, she would do what Ricky had done—go into hiding in a place with people no one cared about.

  “Thank you.” CJ understood the risk the woman was taking even being seen speaking to her. And Tyrone seemed to have eyes everywhere she turned in this village. “I’ll look for her there.”

  As CJ was about to walk away, the woman said, “If she ain’t there, then you know she’s probably being punished.”

  CJ’s gaze meshed with hers.

  The woman’s dark eyes confirmed CJ’s worst fears. “Some don’t come back.”

  Corner of Governor’s Drive and the Parkway

  CJ parked in the lot on the west side of the Medical Plaza. East of the overpass where the homeless gathered at night, Governor’s Drive flourished with massive, prestigious medical clinics and plazas. The overpass served as a kind of border. To the west of the overpass it was like crossing into another country. Dive businesses. Rundown housing. Nothing pleasant or attractive.

  When had the parkway become that dividing line? The wealthy and socially elite built enormous mansions on the east side, the ritziest of retail shops and restaurants were erected on that side.

  Misery and poverty survived on the west. The landfill, most of the homeless missions . . . all on the west.

  Wasn’t anyone out there paying attention?

  CJ checked her pockets. Keys and cell phone in the left, pepper spray in the right. The sun had dropped behind the mountains, leaving the city of Huntsville cloaked in dusk, and still the heat simmered from the concrete and asphalt. Sweat dampened her skin. Moments from childhood: running barefoot down the street, the sun baking the asphalt that in turn broiled her and Shelley’s feet. But they didn’t care. It was summer, no school, and all the kids in the neighborhood were outside from daylight until well after dark.

  Her chest ached with the memories. Even in the clutches of poverty, life had been so simple then.

  The future had been an open window of possibilities. They could be anything, could go anywhere.

  Except Shelley was dead.

  Murdered.

  CJ’s jaw tightened. She prayed her determination to avenge her sister’s murder hadn’t caused the death of another woman.

  One who had already suffered far too much.

  Tyrone Nash had to be stopped.

  Another memory flashed across the screen of her retinas. Tyrone cornering her in her own house. Her mother passed out on the sofa. Shelley locked in her room crying with the music blaring because of something Tyrone had said to her at the bowling alley. CJ had confronted him. He’d backed her into her own living room and tried his best to rape her. Her mother hadn’t heard a thing. Shelley hadn’t heard a thing.

  But unluckily for Tyrone, CJ’s mother always kept a butcher knife on the floor just beneath the skirt of the ratty old sofa. When he’d thrown CJ to the floor, ripped off her shirt and started dragging off her shorts, her fingers had sought and found that knife.

  The slice across his cheek had been a mistake. She’d meant to cut the son of a bitch’s throat. He’d let her go, grabbed at his face. She’d scrambled away from him and threatened to do more damage if he didn’t get out. He had stomped out, cursing her and threatening to come back and finish what he’d started.

  But he never had.
r />   From that day forward he’d stayed clear of CJ and her sister.

  Until a few years ago, after CJ had moved away.

  She wondered now if Tyrone had lured Shelley in just to get back at her.

  Nausea roiled in CJ’s stomach at the idea. Leaving had been the best thing for her . . . and the worst for her sister.

  Twenty-five, thirty women and men, mostly men, sat or stood around under the bridge. Some were eating the leftovers they had probably discovered in trash cans; others were drinking from bottles camouflaged in brown paper sacks. Conversations lulled as she walked past the huddles. No one said anything to her, just looked. The fingers of her right hand were tucked in her jeans pocket. The cool, metal cylinder was comforting.

  The roar and bump of the traffic overhead was rhythmic, almost soothing. Was that why, other than the obvious shelter from rain, the homeless gathered here?

  So far, she hadn’t seen Celeste. CJ’s pulse kicked into overdrive. This wasn’t exactly the place to be at night, but she had to find that girl. Had to know she was okay.

  A wild mane of red hair drew CJ’s attention to a huddle on the opposite side of the underpass. Her heart rate picked up, urging her pulse to skip. Dodging traffic she darted to the other side. The girls in the huddle stopped talking and stared at CJ.

  “Hey, ladies.” CJ walked right up to the group as if she belonged. Her heart sank when she could see that the redhead was not Celeste. “I’m looking for a friend of mine.”

  “What the fuck you doing under this bridge, bitch?” one of the women demanded.

  Was she deaf? “I’m looking for a friend.”

  Another swayed her shoulders side to side and made a sound of disbelief. “Do any of us look like we roll that way? I don’t think so. You take your lesbian ass some place else.”

  Stay cool. “No, I’m not looking for sex,” CJ explained. “I’m looking for Celeste Martin. She’s a friend of mine and I need to give her back that twenty I borrowed from her the other day.”

  “Here, girl,” the largest of the skinny group said as she held out her hand, “I’ll give it to her.”