In the Belly of Jonah: A Liv Bergen Mystery

by Sandra Brannan

  My head was swimming. “I got her killed with that suggestion?”

  He shook his head. “De Milo would have no idea we’re on to that lead. You were right about the water being the murder weapon. The coroner is doing further lab tests to confirm the speculation.”

  “So it wasn’t in her files? The files that were compromised?”

  “We don’t think so,” Agent Kelleher said. “What we’re missing are her latest additions to the profile she completed last night. The one that Agent Pierce read. We believe de Milo deleted Lisa’s updated report from the computer.”

  It was hard to imagine de Milo having been right here. In my living room. Standing a few feet from where I was sitting, hunched over the computer in broad daylight, deleting Lisa’s files from her laptop. Murdering Lisa in this house, my home.

  I buried my head in my hands and cried, finally feeling the gravity of this situation.

  Between sobs, I heard Agent Kelleher say, “Computer forensics will be able to recover what she typed,” and “They think they might have a partial fingerprint lifted from the bathroom sink,”and “But you’re in no danger of de Milo coming back here again.”

  I didn’t want to hear any of it. I understood now why Detective Brandt had called this afternoon, why he had sounded so strange. I understood why Agent Pierce moved out and found a new location to call headquarters, an undisclosed location, because clearly they could be in danger of being targeted by de Milo too. I understood why Agent Kelleher was here to protect me. I understood why Lisa hadn’t answered my call.

  I just didn’t understand the destruction, the senselessness of murdering good people like Lisa and Jill.

  I didn’t understand why God made people like de Milo.

  THE LIVE BAND’S BASS pounded just like his heart had mere hours ago when Agent Lisa Henry put up the fight of her life. She was something. She had punched him in his jaw harder than any man had ever hit him. And the clawing she did on his neck and cheek had left angry marks. He’d been careful to conceal the bruising and scratches with makeup, but it stung.

  Tonight his head pounded with exhilaration. His sensitive fingers slipped into his pocket, seeking his trophy. His fingertips brushed against the jagged edges of the crystal, the rock he had lifted from Liv Bergen’s dresser earlier that day, just before the photo shoot of Awakening. It felt solid, fragile, healing, and dangerous.

  The strobe light blinked in time with the melodic thump, and his bar-stool vibrated, sending an erotic wave through his body. That, coupled with the gyrating movements of the patrons on the dance floor, most of whom were scantily clad summer school students, made his excitement grow. His eyes were fixed on Shelby’s tight ass and round tits, bouncing, rotating, spinning. The beauty of youth and twenty-year-old bodies, he thought. They were all splendid desserts for an insatiable appetite.

  “The gang’s all here,” he shouted, lifting his glass of water with a twist of lime toward his friends, who were all out on the dance floor.

  They responded with loud whoops and hollers, lifting their beer bottles and tumblers toward him.

  Life was good. So good.

  Agent Streeter Pierce was probably beside himself tonight. Blaming himself, cursing de Milo, pacing the floor as if that would provide him with the answers he needed. He hoped William Tell and Awakening had been lovers and he’d just killed Tell’s only reason to live. He hoped Tell would be so distraught over Awakening’s death that he’d collapse in a heap and die. But that would be too good for him. He’d hoped he could have sampled a little of Awakening, just as he’d wanted to with Nutrition. But he was smarter than that. He would never indulge his desires with his subjects, his models for the masterpieces. Not only would it lead them to him were he to leave such DNA evidence, it might alter the models and ruin the purity of their expression. For a genius such as he, work always came first.

  What he really wanted was for William Tell to be his seventh work of art, right alongside Awakening on his wall. Awakening was such a beauty, and thanks to the makeup he’d borrowed from Liv Bergen, she looked nearly perfect in her pose.

  Just as he envisioned what William Tell would look like on his wall of fame, the door to the bar opened and in he walked. Agent Streeter Pierce, soon to be his William Tell.

  Streeter stood inside the doorway, daring the bouncer to check his ID and allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness and the strobes. How he despised the life of a barfly. The dark, the smoke, the noise, the crowds, the desperation. He thought of the many nights he’d spent in bars after Paula died, how desperate he’d been to find the answer to life’s mysteries by looking into an empty shot glass. Or more like how he’d used that shot glass as an escape hatch from reality, the sequence of chutes sending his player slipping farther from the finish line rather than climbing the ladders that would help him win the game.

  He hadn’t been in a bar for years, either to socialize or to drink away misery. But he had spent his share of nights in places like this, working the crowds in search of that special rock to turn over and see what slithered out from beneath.

  Handing the bouncer his credentials, rather than his license, Streeter glared at the meaty young man. “You’ve got regulars?”

  Baby Bull Bouncer nodded. His neck was thick, his hair cropped short. His eyes had brightened when he returned the credentials to Streeter. He was more than the typical bored big boy seeking a job that required little exertion, some authority, and the perk of sleeping in. This brawny youth liked security, Streeter figured, and he would work it to his advantage.

  “I need your help,” Streeter said in a lowered tone.

  Baby Bull leaned toward him, excited, yet trying to pretend he was disinterested in case others were watching. Streeter figured him for not much older than twenty-four or twenty-five, probably from a farm, or he might just be a hobbyist mechanic, given the callused hands.

  “Jill Brannigan,” Streeter said, scanning the room. “Is her circle of friends here tonight?”

  Baby Bull nodded again and stuck out his hand, palm up. Streeter hadn’t a clue what he wanted. Was he expecting a bribe?

  “We’ve got a five-dollar cover charge. You just want to fit in, right? Pay or my boss will be on me like flies on shit. He’ll want to know why I gave you special treatment, and he don’t like cops or giving up any information on our patrons. So keep up appearances for me and I’ll do you a favor.”

  Streeter nodded and reached for his wallet, fishing out the necessary bill.

  As he did, Baby Bull put his thick hand in front of his mouth as if rubbing his nose and cheeks, covering his words. “See the chick on the dance floor with the cutoff shorts and orange tank top? The one with the blonde hair piled high on her head?”

  Streeter said, “Mm hmm.”

  “Her name’s Shelby. One of the most sought-after chicks in Jill’s clique. But if you ask me, all of them are babes. And Jill was the best. A natural beauty. Didn’t need all that makeup or skimpy clothes. Best because she was sincere, not a flirt like the others. Good-looking.The guys ain’t bad looking either, if you swing that way. I don’t.”

  Streeter handed him the five-dollar bill and said, “Thanks.” For added measure he asked, “Ever think of applying at the Bureau?”

  The kid’s face lit up, his hooded eyes brightening. “Think I should?”

  Streeter nodded once and walked toward the least crowded end of the bar. He ordered a Wild Turkey on the rocks and sipped the elixir, keeping his eyes focused on the activities of Shelby: who she talked with, how she approached them, and her body language and facial expressions with each individual she came in contact with during a series of five dance songs, one of which she had chosen to sit out to talk instead to two guys sitting at the other end of the bar. Those two were part of Jill’s circle of friends, as were the two girls next to Shelby on the dance floor: the brunette with braids and the Dolly Parton look-alike.

  The man Shelby had been dancing with most of the time must have been some
one she didn’t know as well, judging by the distance he kept from her clan. She appeared to be playing coy, yet never let him out of her sight. A hard-to-get flirtation. Contradictory. Three other men and a woman with short black hair in a pixie cut sat at the table next to the two guys at the bar and were guarding Shelby’s drink, presumably so it wouldn’t get spiked by someone with ill intentions. But it was all speculation by Streeter. Five men, four women.

  Kari had told Streeter about Micah and Shelby, the only two of Jill’s friends she had ever met. Julia confirmed having met those two as well. From their descriptions, Streeter realized that Micah was the one with long braids, the exotic-looking young woman dressed in tight jeans and a sleeveless floral blouse. He wondered which of the five men was named Jonah. He was about to find out.

  The band had just announced they were taking a short intermission, giving themselves and the strobe lights a quick break. A soft yellow glow settled on the patrons in its place. Micah, Shelby, and Quasi-Dolly found their seats at the table with the four others; the two guys remained perched nearby on their barstools.

  Streeter drained his glass and flagged the bartender with a folded bill, leaving it on the bar to square up his tab. He rose and walked to the other end of the bar, pulling up a chair to the table of six. They all stopped talking and stared at him.

  Streeter had to shout over the noise of surrounding bar tables. “You’re all Jill Brannigan’s friends?”

  The pixie snarled, “What’s it to you?”

  Streeter reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his credentials. “I’m investigating her murder. Mind if we talk?”

  Pixie’s eyes widened and her mouth formed a small circle. “Sorry.”

  “Not a problem,” he said, looking at all nine of the men and women in turn. “Is this everyone?”

  They looked at each other and nodded.

  “Mind if we step outside, where it’s quieter, and talk for a few minutes?”

  One of the pimply-faced boys whined, “We’ll have to pay the cover again.”

  Pixie hit him in the arm and said, “Geez, Jackson. This is for Jill. It’s worth another five bucks, you tightwad.”

  He rubbed his arm and Pixie motioned toward the door, “Let’s go, gang.”

  Streeter kept his eye on Pixie, the obvious leader of this clan. They waited for Streeter to lead them out the front door. He winked at Bouncer as he went by, slipped him a fifty, and said, “Mind if I borrow these guys for a few? This pays their way back in, okay?”

  Bouncer grinned and held up the fifty. “No problem.”

  The night was cool and fresh, stars blinking in the dark, cloudless sky above. Traffic was light and the downtown area sleepy compared to what he imagined took place during the regular school year. Streeter gathered the group around a bus stop bench under a streetlamp, away from the front entrance, the noise, and the watchful eye of the bar’s manager.

  Two of the men sat on the bench, motioning the women to sit beside them or on their laps. Micah and Pixie sat on the bench; Quasi-Dolly and Shelby each took a lap. The other three men lingered behind the bench, Pimply Face slouching against the lamppost.

  “My name’s Special Agent Pierce,” Streeter said.

  “FBI. Cool,” one of the guys said.

  “I’m the lead investigator on Jill’s murder and I would like to ask you some questions. Mind if we start by introducing yourselves to me?”Streeter pulled out a notebook and pen, unaccustomed to writing notes during an interview but having to, because of the sheer numbers.

  Pixie leaned forward and stuck out her hand. “I’m Christina Jensen. I just met Jill this semester. We were in a class together. And I hope you nail the bastard who did this to her.”

  Streeter shook her hand. Her handshake was firm and confident. “I do too.” Shelby waved. “And I’m Shelby Goodman. I’ve known Jill since freshman orientation two years ago. We’ve hung out ever since.”

  The good-looking young man beneath Shelby had been wearing a dopey grin on his face ever since she’d plopped onto his lap. Shelby elbowed him playfully to indicate it was his turn. “My name is Grady. I met Jill through Shelby about a year ago or so.”

  Shelby jerked a thumb his way and added, “Grady Mullany.” Streeter wrote it down as Shelby spelled it for him. Grady flicked the long dark bangs away from his eyes when Streeter looked up at him and smiled.

  Micah rose to introduce herself. She extended her hand toward Streeter, her slender warm fingers wrapping around his hand in a light, sensual handshake. Her aqua eyes were large and smoky.

  “Micah Piquette. Jill’s friend for the past two years. And thank you for finding whoever did this to her.”

  Streeter gave Micah a nod. “Haven’t found anyone yet.”

  “You will,” she responded.

  Sincere, polite, polished. Not flirtatious. Mature.

  The Quasi-Dolly wiggled her fingers and said, “Alicia Smith. I’m a freshman, and I just met Jill this semester too. Same time Christina did.”

  The young man supporting Alicia in his lap nearly spilled her onto the sidewalk when he rose to shake Streeter’s hand. He was the tallest of the bunch, hovering over Streeter by a few inches. “I’m Andrew Peterson. Nice to meet you.”

  Streeter shook his hand, a strong, confident embrace. “Likewise. How did you know Jill?”

  While Andrew spoke, Streeter wrote, thinking, No Jonah yet. He was down to three men.

  “I met her during rush last year and we’ve been friends ever since.”

  Streeter asked, “Jill was in a sorority?”

  Andrew shook his head. “She never pledged. She decided it was too much with her class schedule and with basketball.”

  Andrew motioned Alicia to take his seat on the bench and he remained standing.

  The guy behind Alicia stuck out his fist and Streeter bumped it. “Cameron Kelly. Senior. I met Jill through Andrew. We share an apartment.”

  The shortest male in the group, which wasn’t saying much, since all of them were taller than Streeter, waved. “Zack Rhodes. Grad student. I’ve known Jill for about seven months. I met her in a class I was helping teach.”

  “Are you a TA?” Streeter asked, already knowing the answer.

  Zack nodded.

  “What class?”

  “Sculpting 101. For beginners,” Zack said.

  “Was she any good?” Streeter pressed.

  A smile reached the corner of Zack’s mouth. “Yeah, very good.”

  The others snickered. Zack’s cheeks reddened.

  Streeter studied him for a moment. He wore his long, black hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a skullcap was perched on top of his head. He donned a loose, button-up bowling shirt, baggy shorts, and Birkenstocks with wool socks. Every inch the art student. By the way Zack was talking about Jill—or, more important, avoiding the subject—Streeter was hoping this was Jonah.

  “What kind of sculpting? Clay, wood?” Streeter asked.

  Zack perked up. “Wood, technically, is carved, not sculpted. For sculpting, we use traditional clay materials.”

  The others shot a glance toward Zack, who reluctantly added, “But we do sometimes carve rather than sculpt.”

  The twitch on Zack’s lip was unmistakable. Reflecting on the one-piece crutch that had been used to prop up Jill’s corpse, Streeter focused on Zack’s sudden nervousness. He was about to probe deeper with his questioning when Pimply Boy, who was still holding up the lamppost, shivered and griped, “It’s colder than shit out here. Can we get this thing over with?”

  Or maybe this was Jonah and they could all go home now, Streeter thought.

  “Shut up, you big baby,” Christina shouted at the peevish group member. “That’s Jackson Whaler. He’s a complete ass, so just ignore him.”

  The others laughed. Streeter noted his name, wondering if Whaler had anything to do with the moniker Jonah, the biblical Jonah having been swallowed by a whale. It was a long shot, but hearing no one’s name remotely close to J
onah, he had little else to go on.

  “Nice to meet you, Jackson. And I’d love to get this thing over with, but I need your help. Okay?”

  Jackson shot him the peace sign. Streeter gave him a nod.

  “Is this everyone?” Streeter asked again.

  “Everyone?” Christina asked.

  “The circle of friends you hang out with,” Streeter asked. “Is everyone here tonight?”

  Andrew said, “The gang. Yeah, this is everyone. I mean we all have our own friends outside this group, roommates, high school friends, other classmates. But this is the gang.”

  “Jill’s gang?” Streeter asked again.

  They all nodded.

  Cameron poked Zack in the ribs. “Except Dr. Jay, right?”

  Zack jabbed him back. “I’m not his keeper.”

  “The professor?” Streeter asked. “Dr. Bravo?”

  “Yeah,” Cameron said. “He’s cool. That’s where we all met, really. We all took Dr. Bravo’s art class this spring. Some of us have been friends longer, but we weren’t a group until this spring.

  “And then we started a business together.”

  “What kind of business?” Streeter asked, noting Zack’s blanched face.

  Andrew explained, “It’s cool. Nothing serious. We carve walking sticks and sell them on commission through all the convenience stores, gas stations, and tourist stops throughout the Rockies.”

  Streeter noted Zack visibly shrink into the crowd of his friends. “And is the business doing well?”

  Jackson piped in, “Selling them as fast as we can make them.”

  “But we don’t make that much money on them,”Cameron added. “Just spending cash for pizza. And looks great on our résumés.”

  Streeter’s mind was racing. “Okay, let me see if I’ve got this straight. You meet in beginning sculpting class. And you’re the teaching assistant for Dr. Bravo,” Streeter said, pointing to Zack. “All of you, including Jill, were in that Sculpting 101 class this year, from January to May. And then you started a business selling hand-carved walking sticks.”

  They all nodded.