by Liliana Hart
“Did he say who it was?” Jack asked.
“No, and I didn’t ask. It was just conversation to fill the time, you know? He just said a big white Cadillac ran him off the road.”
“You know I won’t stop until I find the people responsible,” Jack said.
“I know. But that doesn’t bring him back.” Vaughn stood and tossed his empty bottles in the trash before shrugging on his coat. “I need to get going. I’ve got to open the store tomorrow. Thanks for the sandwich and the beer.”
We sat in silence after Vaughn left, and I could feel the awkwardness between us creeping in. I tried hard not to think of the things Vaughn had told me, and I tried even harder not to remember what that initial spark between Jack and I had felt like. It was getting harder and harder to ignore.
“You know I’ve got to put Vaughn on the short list of suspects,” Jack said. “I don’t think he was a part of this, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t follow up.”
“Sometimes our jobs suck.”
“There ya go,” he nodded. “Tell me about our victim.”
“You’ve got a thirty-six year old male who’s 6’5” and weighs 230 pounds. He’s in good shape. I found evidence of knee replacement surgery from several years ago, and Vaughn confirmed he was a runner, so that explains that. But he was taken down with a hypodermic needle filled with Diprivan. It would have rendered him unconscious in seconds, and he wouldn’t have been able to fight back. By the time he regained consciousness—somewhere between six and eight hours later considering the dosage—he would have been well restrained and too groggy to put up much of a struggle.”
Jack took out his notebook and started writing.
“The needle mark was on the right upper shoulder and slanted outward,” I said. “The trajectory makes the attacker right-handed. There was also considerable bruising to the muscle, so he jammed the needle in quick and hard.”
“I went to his house earlier,” Jack said. “No signs of a struggle or forced entry. Nothing out of place. He lived simply and frugally. The bed was made. Old coffee sat in the pot. There were two cups in the drain pan, both of them already washed. We found a few stray fingerprints, but I don’t think they’re going to belong to our suspects. Only sign of struggle was less than a thimbleful of blood in the dirt behind the house.”
“So what did you see that’s not on the surface?” I asked.
“I want to take another look at it anyway. Want to come along?”
“It beats the hell out of staying here.” I grabbed my coat and buttoned it up tight over my sweater and jeans. Jack didn’t say anything when I got my Beretta out of the drawer and slipped it in my pocket, but I knew he’d noticed. The man noticed every damned thing.
“I was wondering how long it’d take you before you changed your mind about staying here,” he said, putting his hand on my lower back to lead me out the door. I knew what he was doing. Little touches here and there to get me used to him. Like I was a stray dog or something. I hated to admit that it was working. The sickness didn’t come like it had with Vaughn, but I had something other than nausea to worry about now. I walked quickly to the passenger side of his cruiser and got in.
“I could live here if I really wanted to,” I said. “But the more I think about it, living in the funeral home doesn’t really fit my new image.”
“What new image?”
“My bad girl image.” I buckled my seatbelt and could practically feel Jack roll his eyes. “I’ve decided since everyone’s already made up their mind about me that I should live up to their expectations. Maybe I’ll dye my hair crazy colors and wear black lipstick.”
“Yes, I’m sure that will scandalize the whole town.”
“Well, I could come up with something. It might draw in some business.”
“So your goal is to shock people into keeling over with a heart attack? That doesn’t sound like a good business model to me.”
“Shut up,” I said, lips twitching.
“Why don’t you sell the cabin? The cash would give you some breathing room while you decided what to do.”
I’d already thought of that, but that was before I’d found one of my parents’ hidey-holes and the boxes of papers and records the FBI never discovered when they’d raided the property after my parents’ death. There was no way in hell I was going to sell a property that had a million dollars hidden somewhere on the premises. The only problem was I couldn’t find it. The clues had been vague at best.
“I’ve thought about it,” was all I said in response. “I think I might stay at the B&B for a couple of days. The heater isn’t working right at the funeral home,” I lied. “I’ll never get to sleep if I’m freezing to death.”
“You’ll also never get to sleep with the rats and that clingy scent of death that is soaked into the walls. Living at a funeral home is creepy. At least you’ve come to your senses. I wasn’t looking forward to it.”
“I thought you said the exterminator took care of the rats?”
“You know they never get them all. I say we let the rats have the third floor all to themselves. And since you’re in such a sensible mood, I’m sure you’ll be much more agreeable when I suggest you stay with me instead of paying for a room at the B&B. You know Wanda will snoop through your things while you’re gone. She has a duty to report the goings-on of the people she boards when she gets her hair rolled every Thursday at Betty’s Beauty Parlor.”
“Jack—” I said, shaking my head.
“Don’t argue, Jaye. I’m way more stubborn than you are. You’ll have practically the whole second floor to yourself. And before you say it, I don’t care that everyone in town will be talking. They’re talking anyway. I say let them.”
I hadn’t thought about gossip in that area. Me living with Jack, even on a temporary basis, would have tongues wagging. But he was right. They could talk if they wanted. Nothing I could do would stop them.
“Geez, Jack. I guess you feel pretty strongly about the whole thing. I guess I should just say thanks and be grateful.”
“You’re a perverse creature, Doctor Graves. I don’t know why I like you.”
“I can think of a million reasons. One is because I never told your mother when you got that tattoo. And another is because I never told Mandy Howe that you broke your date with her to watch game seven of the World Series with me.”
“It was a good game,” he said soberly. “And if you think you’re going to blackmail me by telling my mom about that tattoo then you can think again. I’m not scared of her.”
“Sure you’re not. And the tattoo is in such an interesting place,” I said, fluttering my lashes.
His hands tightened on the wheel as we wound our way through the mostly empty streets into King George Proper. “If you get me in trouble, just know I’m bringing you down with me. You’ll have to admit to my mom that you’ve seen me naked if you squeal about the tattoo. She’s probably going to have a lot of questions about that if I know her.”
Oh, boy, had I seen Jack naked. It wasn’t something I was likely to forget. I’d officially lost this round since anything else I said would only get me deeper into trouble. The sexual tension in the car notched up to where I had to reach over and shut off the heater for the first time in as long as I could remember. I ignored Jack’s chuckle of triumph and tried to think about anything besides tattoos and nakedness.
Reverend Oglesby had lived in one of the older areas of King George Proper. It was a mish-mashed area where quarter-million dollar homes were interspersed with doublewides or run down frame houses. There was a good bit of privacy to be had, as the lots were large and there was good tree coverage. The roads were difficult to maneuver, especially now that it was dark, and we almost missed the turn into Oglesby’s place.
Jack’s headlights flashed on a small neat square of a house with white siding and blue shutters. The porch was miniscule, and the only thing that made it at all interesting was the yellow crime scene tape across the door. The
driveway was loose gravel and there wasn’t a garage or portico to park a car under.
“It’s quiet out here,” I said as we got out of the car. “No neighbors peeping over fences.”
“Yeah. The killers would have come in broad daylight, since they had to catch him before he left for his trip. We knocked on doors all along this road, but no one remembers seeing an unusual car at that time of day. Most people weren’t at home for various reasons, but everyone had nice things to say about Reverend Oglesby. They talked about how he’d help out neighbors by doing yard work or running errands if someone was struggling. He’d run this road and loop around the three miles every morning at six o’clock, seven days a week. One of the ladies down the street said you could set your clock by him.”
We walked up to the porch and Jack opened the deadbolt that had been placed on the door to keep the curious out. The house smelled musty from emptiness as we stepped inside, and Jack flipped on the lights. A fine sheen of black powder from the fingerprint dust coated everything, but underneath was the smell of lemons and clean. It was a small space—a postage stamp sized living room and a kitchen with worn laminate floors and yellow-flecked Formica countertops. A short hallway led to two tiny bedrooms and a bathroom. The furnishings were spare, and a few bills sat on the little table in the entryway, addressed, stamped and ready to be mailed.
“No signs of a struggle,” I said. “Not even a little one.”
“Yeah, which leads me to believe that only one person was here to administer the drug. There just aren’t enough fingerprints belonging to other people. We got a hit off of one set from his cleaning lady. She’d spent some time in jail a few years ago, but she said the Reverend wanted to give her a chance to make an honest wage. I believed her, but we’ll run a deeper check on her just to cross our t’s. No women are going to be involved in this. This is a good ole’ boys club. Women are as much of a minority to them as anyone.”
“I can’t see him opening the door and inviting in a group of men without some hesitation,” I said.
“No, but I could see him opening the door for one man. Especially if it was someone familiar. By all accounts, Oglesby was devoted to the church and his job of helping people. He wouldn’t have thought twice about getting a late start or his trip being ruined.”
Jack walked around the small space of the kitchen, painting the scene as I stood there quietly and let him think. It always amazed me that he wanted the slower pace of this job, because he was just so damned good at it.
“Oglesby was a friendly guy. He’d want to put his guest at ease.” Jack gestured to the two white coffee mugs. “The killer would want to get it done quickly though. The others were waiting on him, and there was always the chance a neighbor could come by. And the longer the perp waited, the more likely Oglesby would feel something was off. You can feel that kind of buzz in the air. So when Oglesby turned away to grab a couple of mugs and pour the coffee, he was given a quick injection to the back shoulder. He’s down before he can feel the sting.”
“There’s no way Oglesby could be moved by one man,” I said.
“No, that’s when the others showed up.” Jack walked to the back of the house and I followed. “They would have pulled the truck back here,” he said. “The treads match the ones we found at the dump site. They were gloved and they came up the hall to the kitchen to grab the body and take him out back. We found soil in the carpet in the hallway. They didn’t leave everything as tidy as they thought. I’ve got that blood sample taken from the ground. I’ll send it off to the lab in Richmond to see if it matches Oglesby. If it doesn’t, it could belong to one of our killers.”
I nodded as I followed him out the back door and down the three wooden stairs that led to an unfenced pack yard with patchy grass and plenty of shade trees. Jack turned on his flashlight and the beam settled on the ground not ten feet from the door. The tire tracks weren’t deep—just an impression surrounded by dozens of footprints in the dry dirt—but they were visible.
Jack stood with his hand on his hip with his jacket pushed back over his weapon so it didn’t get in the way. He shook his head and said, “All they’d have to do is throw a tarp over him until they reached the place they tortured and killed him. A three-man job. Two in the cab of the pickup and then the one who delivered the injection drove his own car. The whole thing wouldn’t take fifteen or twenty minutes from start to finish.”
“Something else about the drug they used on him,” I said. “Diprivan is only used during surgery by anesthesiologists. It can’t be acquired over the counter, and I’ve never heard of it being sold black market. There’s no demand for it.”
“So I’m looking for a doctor?” Jack asked.
“I’d say it’s a good possibility one of the killers has access to a hospital.”
“That’ll be fun,” he said. “Doctors are usually assholes. No offense.”
“Can’t argue with the truth.”
“We’ll hit the hospitals tomorrow. I can’t fit much more into one day. Let’s pack it in for the night.”
We headed around the side of the house and Jack relocked the front door with the deadbolt and made sure the crime scene tape was secure.
“You left all the stuff for S’mores at the funeral home,” I said once we were back in the car. “Don’t think you’re getting out of that one, my friend. I demand S’mores.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I dropped those specific ingredients off at my place before I came out to drag you away from the rats.”
I buckled my seatbelt and adjusted the heater as Jack did a u-turn on the graveled drive and headed towards his place. “Pretty damned sure of yourself,” I said.
“What can I say, babe? When you’re good, you’re good.”
Chapter Ten
The next morning, I had a sugar hangover that would’ve done any teenaged boy proud. My teeth felt gritty, and little men were dancing across my skull. I couldn’t narrow down the reason for the headache—there were many possibilities. One of which could have been the wine I’d used to chase down the S’mores.
I’d taken the upstairs guest bedroom that looked out over the trees and all the way down to the water line. Mostly because I thought it would be nice have something to look at as I waited for night to pass. I messed up the covers a little so Jack wouldn’t worry, but I’d sat most of the night in the overstuffed chair next to the windows. I’d dozed off and on like normal, but real sleep was a thing of the past. It didn’t help that I could hear Jack tossing and turning in the room next to mine.
As soon as the sky started to lighten, I headed into the shower and tried to do some damage control with makeup so the dark circles under my eyes wouldn’t be so prominent and people would stop commenting on them. My face was pale and my cheeks gaunt, and if I stared too hard I could still see the bruises the exact size of fingerprints around my neck. I stood back and looked at myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. I was too thin. I traced the outline of my ribs, almost as if it were someone else’s body instead of mine.
I put the thought out of my mind and hopped in the shower under the hot spray, hoping when I got out and stared at myself again I’d look a little more like a human instead of a day old corpse.
When I padded out of the bathroom wrapped in a thick white towel, the duffle bag I’d left in the back of the Suburban was sitting on the bed.
“Oh, shit.” I’d completely forgotten about the boxes I’d brought home with me. They weren’t safe for public consumption, much less Jack’s law-abiding eyes. I needed to get to them fast and get rid of them like I’d planned before I’d gotten distracted by murder and S’mores.
I dressed hurriedly in jeans and a soft, button-down grey shirt the same color as my eyes. Thick socks and my worn boots came next. I shoved all my belongings in the closet to tidy up, ran my fingers through my hair, and called myself presentable enough. The smell of coffee greeted me as I opened the bedroom door, and I headed to the kitchen to get that first
rush of artificial energy.
“You’re up early,” Jack said, cracking eggs into a hot pan on the stove. He turned and gave me a once over from head to toe while I went to the cabinet to get the coffee mug I always used. It was an oversized black mug with a white chalk outline of a body and yellow crime scene tape.
“I don’t know if up is the correct term,” I said. My voice was always at its worst first thing in the morning, and it was hard to live with such an in your face reminder of something I’d just as soon forget.
I shuffled to the coffee pot and poured the hot, black liquid all the way to the rim. I didn’t blow on it or let it cool. I just drank it down and waited for the life to come back into my body.
Jack brought plates to the table and we both sat cozily in the little nook, our knees touching companionably. My stomach growled loudly at the sight of eggs, sausage and toast. My arteries might hate me later, but the rest of me was grateful he’d decided to forgo his usual oatmeal. He never even put sugar on it. I shivered at the thought and took another drink.
“Have you thought about going to talk to someone?” Jack asked, blindsiding me while my mouth was full.
“About what?” I evaded.
The look he gave me was patient, but also a bit frustrated. I just kept shoving food into my mouth and hoping I could escape soon. I needed to get to those boxes. Then I remembered I didn’t have my car with me, and I was at Jack’s mercy for the time being.
“You’re not sleeping well at night,” he pushed on. “Don’t you think you need to see a doctor? Or talk to a counselor about what happened to you?”
“Sleeping pills won’t make the nightmares go away, Jack, and I don’t need some quack to tell me I need to open up about my feelings. I know perfectly well what my feelings are. I have more goddamned feelings than I know what to do with.”