Last Call

by Libby Kirsch

  The Crown Vic wasn’t brown or tan, but a murky color in between. As Janet pulled open the passenger door, she saw the black leather seats, which would be hotter than an iron against skin in this weather. Luckily, she wore jeans, but she still let out a low groan when she sat as the heat seeped through the denim.

  “We get most of our cars at auction. Nobody else would take this beauty, so it’s been mine for the last two years.”

  “Lucky you.”

  They drove in silence until Janet’s curiosity got the best of her. “How’s the investigation going?”

  “Still lots of questions and not many answers.”

  “Have you spoken to Elizabeth?”

  “Nope—no answer on her cell or at her apartment door. You heard from her?”

  “No. Nothing.” She tapped her fingers lightly against her thigh. O’Dell’s curious stare was more pronounced this time, and she felt her cheeks heat up under his scrutiny. “These people we’re going to see,” she said, “do they know why we’re coming?”

  “Not exactly.” He turned his attention back to the road. “But I hear that Margaret and Dan Daniels are sharp people; I’m sure they suspect my visit has something to do with their son.”

  Janet nodded slowly but kept her eyes trained on the scenery outside. For all her bravado, she wasn’t looking forward to getting close to this family’s emotional turmoil.

  As they pulled up to an average-looking brick colonial in a neighborhood full of average-looking brick colonials, O’Dell turned toward her. “You’re just here to watch and listen. You’re not a detective, you know?”

  “You invited me!” She crossed her arms.

  “I know, but leave all the talking to me, okay?”

  Janet nodded again and followed him up the front walk. Lush greenery surrounded them on all sides, including a stunning flowering plant bigger than she was. Even the buzzing of the bees seemed louder here. The sound of Detective O’Dell’s fist against the door was practically absorbed by the house.

  After just a moment, a woman answered. “I’m Margaret. You must be the gentleman from the Knoxville Police Department?”

  As O’Dell introduced himself, Janet assessed the woman. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting—perhaps some sort of grief-ridden, devastated mother. Instead, a sprightly, energetic, strong, and muscular woman stood before her. Yes, her hair was gray, but she was taller than Janet and far from stooped over; she had the lithe, long, taut arms of someone who practiced yoga for three hours a day. When O’Dell introduced Janet as his associate, Margaret kindly invited them inside.

  “Dan!” she called as she motioned for Janet and O’Dell to follow her down the hall. They found a man sitting in a blue wingback chair in the living room. He couldn’t have missed them when they’d walked up to his home—his chair faced a huge picture window that looked out over the street—but he looked up, surprised.

  His eyes were sad and weary as he stood to welcome them. He shook hands with O’Dell first, then Janet, and when he reached out for her hand, she saw scratch marks on his arm.

  “Rosebushes won,” he said, then shrugged his cuff down and circled around to his wife’s side.

  Where she was strong and tall, he was beaten and stooped. Life had chewed him up and spit him out, and it was clear that Ollie’s father was only barely hanging on. He had a pasty complexion, and his hair, which according to a family photo on the wall used to be jet-black, was now a shocking silvery white, as if grief had leached all the color from his person.

  O’Dell cleared his throat and Janet jumped. “What?”

  “I was just telling Margaret and Dan that you and I are both newer to Knoxville. They’ve lived here their whole lives.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I’ve been here about two years.” When everyone continued to stare at her expectantly, she added, “It’s hot.”

  O’Dell gave her a funny look before clearing his throat again. “Thanks for seeing us on such short notice. I wanted to let you know, in case you hadn’t heard yet, that Ike Freeman is dead.”

  Margaret sucked in a sharp breath and instinctively flung an arm around her husband just in time to guide him back to his chair. He collapsed into it, his shoulders shaking as he sucked in great gusts of air. She looked up and motioned O’Dell and Janet and toward a door before murmuring something into her husband’s ear and following them into the kitchen.

  “I’m so sorry. We talked last night about how your visit might have something to do with our son’s death.” Her expression turned dark. “It’s always a blow to hear that man’s name in this house. My husband has never gotten over it, of course, nor have I.”

  O’Dell patted Margaret on the shoulder. “I wanted to be the one to break the news to you, so it wouldn’t hit you unexpectedly while you were out and about.”

  “I do appreciate it, Detective. What happened?”

  O’Dell told her about the murder investigation while Margaret bustled around the kitchen making tea. He left out many details of the crime but let her know they hadn’t yet arrested anybody.

  Margaret nodded, not exactly in satisfaction, but as if she was accepting the inevitable. “I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead. He changed our lives forever.” She dropped a tea bag into a mug and set it on the counter, then took a pint of milk from the refrigerator. She finally turned to face Janet and O’Dell. “When Ollie was killed, it—it was just awful, you think it’s the lowest moment in your life. But then when that man got off without a single charge . . . well, it was like losing Ollie all over again.”

  “What happened?” Janet asked.

  The kettle whistled, and Margaret poured boiling water over the tea bag before answering. “Ollie and one of his roommates were riding to class that morning. This was before everyone started wearing helmets, but I’m not convinced a helmet would’ve helped,” she added, her cheeks flushing red. “Plastic and foam are no match for tons of metal and pints of alcohol.” She dunked the tea bag in and out of the water and stared blindly through the window above the sink. “Ollie was in front and had just enough time to yell out a warning to his roommate. Ike missed the other boy by inches—Ollie saved him.

  “The rest isn’t part of the official record, but it’s what we’ve been able to piece together. A friend of Ike’s in the police department was the first on the scene, and he sent Ike home without a Breathalyzer. Ike got an extra eight hours before he was called downtown for questioning. By then, he was sober and Ollie was dead.”

  She took the tea bag out of the mug, set it in the sink, and poured in some milk and sugar. “I’m going to bring this to Dan. Thanks for stopping by with the news, Detective. Good day.”

  When they were back in his car, O’Dell asked, “What do you think?”

  “I think Ollie’s family is still angry.”

  “With Ike?”

  “Well, yes, but also with your department.”

  “Grief can do interesting things to people,” O’Dell said.

  “Do you believe them? That a cop kept Ike from getting in trouble that day?”

  “I don’t know,” O’Dell said, starting up the engine. “It’s hard to imagine it happening. I’d never help out a friend that way. Would you?”

  Janet looked out the window, considering his words. Instead of answering she asked another question. “Have you seen the original police report from the accident?”

  “No. But I’ll check it out, see who was on the call.” Janet nodded and he changed the subject. “Forensics found two sets of fingerprints on the knife that killed Ike: Ike’s and someone else’s, which are not in the system.”

  “Do you suspect one of Ollie’s parents of killing Ike?” Janet asked, suddenly wondering why they’d really come. “Dan Daniels probably couldn’t deliver a deathblow, but Margaret looks tough.”

  He shook his head. “It’s just interesting to know that whoever else handled Ike’s knife isn’t a hardened criminal. Your boyfriend’s never been arrested, either, has he?”
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  She pinched the bridge of her nose and released it before turning to face O’Dell. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

  He eased the car to a stop in front of her house. “Just that it’s oddly convenient that a secret, hidden camera that hardly anyone knew about was tampered with before a man was murdered outside your bar. Pretty lucky for the killer, huh?” Janet stared at him, stunned by how baldly and arrogantly he’d stated the accusation. “It’s your duty to help us with any information you have about this crime, Janet. Don’t forget.”

  The nerve of this cop. Had today’s excursion all been a sham to get her reaction to his baseless claim against her boyfriend?

  Her face felt tight. She climbed silently out of the car, then slammed the door with extra force. She was done being helpful—especially if the cops were going to start making wild accusations.

  The sound of O’Dell’s engine faded away as he drove down the street. She straightened her shoulders and walked slowly up the path to her house, still simmering.

  She only had one job—no, make that two—and she was failing at both lately. She ran a bar and she was a landlord. The bar didn’t open for hours, but she was going to landlord the shit out of her tenants before she went to the Spot.

  Chapter Eleven

  She stalked into the house, aware that she needed to calm down before she spoke to the renters. As much as she hated to admit it, Jason was right: she could easily fly off the handle if she wasn’t careful. She headed right for the minibar in the main room and filled a glass with ice before drumming her fingers against the countertop and looking over her choices. She finally pulled a bottle of gin off the shelf, took the tonic from the small refrigerator under the counter, and lined up a lime and a knife on the cutting board. Her finger gave a throb, though, and she hurled the lime into the trash.

  “Are you going to get that checked out?” Jason asked. “Oh, and darlin’? It’s two thirty in the afternoon. Are you sure you’re ready for that?” Janet tilted the glass to one side and assessed her finger. “Is this about the renters?” he asked, nodding at her drink. “Sometimes people just need a second chance, Janet.”

  She huffed a frustrated breath out her nose. Detectives were zeroing in on this kind man as a murder suspect. It was insane. She didn’t want to tell him about the accusation, though, so she latched onto his assumption. “It’s not a charity, Jason, it’s a business. You’re too soft.”

  “Soft?” he asked, taking several slow, deliberate steps toward her until they were standing toe to toe. “There’s nothing soft about me.”

  Janet gulped as he clasped his hand over hers and slowly lowered the drink to the counter. When she let go, he gently set the highball glass on the table behind them.

  Again? her eyes asked, and he smirked. Even though they’d been together for eighteen months, her heartbeat quickened at his expression: it was scalding hot.

  With a flick of his wrist, he sent the remaining items on the counter flying into the sink; the sound of the cutting board and knife clattering into the stainless steel basin barely registered, though, as he slowly pressed his body closer to hers.

  He walked her back until she was snug between him and the countertop, then he slowly lifted her onto the bar, their bodies rubbing together deliciously, before he settled between her legs. Jason nipped her earlobe as his hands worked to untuck her tank top, and he finally splayed his fingers across the skin of her stomach. The streaks of desire shot all the way down to her toes and fingers.

  “I love this bar,” he said, undoing the clasp of her bra and sliding one strap down her arm. “It’s so convenient.”

  Convenient. That’s just what Detective O’Dell had said about the killer. Janet huffed out a breath and reluctantly stopped Jason’s hands from exploring. “We need to talk.”

  His eyes still smoldered, but he leaned back a fraction. Before she could explain, the doorbell chimed.

  “Hold that thought, darlin’,” he said as he walked to the door, “because I’m holding mine.”

  Janet took a shaky breath before sliding off the countertop and reclasping her bra. By the time Jason opened the door, she was leaning against the leather club chair, looking, she hoped, reasonably presentable.

  It was Mel and Kat.

  “Sorry to intrude,” Mel said, looking uncomfortably between Jason and Janet. “We wanted to introduce you to Hazel.”

  She stepped aside, and Janet gasped as a baby became visible in Kat’s arms.

  “You have a baby?” she asked, flabbergasted. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “We just got her,” Mel said with a slight smile. “Kat is on the foster list for the county, and Hazel was found yesterday. A caseworker came by last night, approved our new place, and another delivered the baby this morning.”

  “Found?” Jason asked, crossing his arms. “What does that mean?”

  Mel frowned and Kat put a hand on her arm. “It’s a sad story,” she said. “Her mother was arrested. Apparently, she’d left Hazel home alone to run some errands—”

  “Errands? She was out buying drugs!” Mel interjected angrily.

  “—and got arrested,” Kat finished, as if Mel hadn’t interrupted. “She didn’t want to get in even more trouble for leaving Hazel home alone, so she just didn’t tell anyone she had a baby. It took the neighbors two days to call the police about the crying.”

  “God,” Janet breathed, looking at the peacefully sleeping baby with a mix of horror and awe. “She’s okay?”

  “She is now. She was in the hospital overnight until doctors could regulate her temperature and get plenty of fluids in her little body,” Kat crooned. “Now she’ll be okay—we’ll keep her safe.”

  “We wanted to let you know some friends are going to drop off a crib,” Mel said. “They might block the driveway while they unload—we just didn’t want you to think we were being inconsiderate.”

  “Speaking of inconsiderate . . .” Janet looked meaningfully at Jason, but he just grinned.

  “Welcome home, little Hazel,” he said before turning and walking into the kitchen.

  “Mel, can I have a word?”

  “Get Hazel back inside—I’m worried the sun is too bright out here,” Mel said before watching Kat walk to their half of the duplex. Only when the door closed did she turn back to Janet. “I know—you don’t have to say anything. I’m working on it.”

  “Working on what?”

  “On getting a job. I came into the bar yesterday to tell you the check might bounce, but I’m working on it. We knew Hazel was coming, and I intend to do right by her, but I just need a couple of weeks to make it work.”

  She held Mel’s gaze for a moment before nodding once. “Two weeks. This isn’t a free hotel.”

  “I know—and thank you.”

  Janet watched Mel walk into her house and then shivered when she felt hot breath on her neck.

  “I knew you wouldn’t do it. You talk a tough game, Black, but you’re a big ol’ softie on the inside.” Jason was grinning when she turned toward him. She unsnapped his jeans and lowered the zipper. His smile widened.

  “Shut up.”

  Neither spoke, then, as they picked up where they’d left off on the bar.

  Hours later, Janet pulled up to the other bar in her life, the Spot. She groaned when she saw Larsa sitting on the parking block by the Dumpster, her candles already flickering and the tinny sound of spiritual music audible over Janet’s engine.

  She slammed her car into park and cursed under her breath. There it was again, that feeling that things were spiraling out of control. Her chest felt tight; the tension Jason had so kindly worked out of her body at home was coiling back around her. She rolled her shoulders, trying to recapture some of the glow she’d enjoyed just moments ago.

  “I hope you’re having a blessed day,” Larsa said as Janet climbed out of her car. Listening to her dreamy voice was like eating cotton candy, and it was starting to give her a toothache.

  “It�
�s been an interesting one, that’s for sure,” she said as she walked to the front door. Larsa turned off her speakers, so the only sound was the jingle of Janet’s key ring hitting the metal frame as she unlocked the door. She crossed the threshold and paused, took a deep breath and blew it noisily out, then finally called over her shoulder, “Well? Are you coming?”

  Larsa quickly blew out the candles but left them on the curb. She shoved the speakers into her oversized bag and scuttled into the bar behind Janet.

  “Interesting is good,” she said. She was pale and sweating again, and Janet held out a glass of ice water for her when she passed.

  “How many days now?” Janet asked, thinking the woman looked closer to five days sober than eight and a half years, or whatever she’d told Nell the number of days was earlier.

  “Huh?” Larsa stared back before blinking in understanding. “Oh, today is day two thousand four hundred fifty-eight. I’m so blessed.” She took a long pull of the ice water on her way back to “her” table.

  Janet’s nose scrunched. She was certain Nell had told her that Larsa’s sobriety number was in the one thousands.

  She took out her cell phone and her free hand clenched when she saw that the Wi-Fi wasn’t working again. She checked the computer in the office, and sure enough, the Internet was completely down. She texted Jason, then opened the calculator app on her phone as she walked back out into the bar.

  Larsa had originally told her that she’d been sober for eight and a half years.

  365 × 8.5 = 3,102.5.

  But just now she’d said 2,458 days, and now that Janet really thought about it, Nell had quoted Larsa as saying 1,827 the other night. Which was it? In her experience, alcoholics were very precise about that number, sometimes down to the hour of their last drink.

  She headed over to ask Larsa, but the other woman spoke first. “What made it so interesting?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Janet said, “I went with the police to talk to Ollie Daniels’s family.” Distracted by her numbers query, Janet suddenly worried that reopening old wounds might jeopardize Larsa’s sobriety—however long it had been. Then again, Larsa was sitting in her bar, hoping to find her father’s killer . . .