A Whole Latte Murder

by Caroline Fardig

  I got an uneasy feeling in my gut. “I’ve noticed that.”

  —

  We were both uncharacteristically quiet on the drive over to our next destination, the run-down bar on Elliston Place where Kira’s boyfriend worked. Several blocks of Elliston Place had recently gone through some extensive gentrification. The bar was located in one of the blocks that hadn’t been worked on so much yet. Parking was a nightmare, as was the norm in our crowded university area, so Pete had to park a couple of blocks away.

  On our way in, I said, “Hey, remember Martin knows us. Don’t go all Kojak on his ass like you did with the greasy talent agent.”

  Pete narrowed his eyes at me. “If I hadn’t, we wouldn’t have found out jack shit.”

  I needed him to dial it down. “Why don’t we have a drink and relax before we start our next interrogation? I think we’ve earned it.”

  He ignored my offer, instead scanning the room and pointing to a skinny guy with floppy blond hair behind the bar. “There he is.”

  Pete barreled through the room and bellied up to the bar, taking the stool directly across from where Martin was standing. I followed reluctantly and sat next to him, hoping he didn’t cause a scene. The clientele in here looked like they wouldn’t hesitate to jump headfirst into a bar fight, if only for fun.

  “Hey, Martin. Remember us?” Pete asked, at least pretending to be jovial.

  Martin shrugged, his lip curling up slightly. I didn’t care for Martin. He was always rude. And he came across as thuggy, but didn’t have the muscle mass to back it up.

  “Pete and Juliet from Java Jive. Where your girlfriend works?”

  “Kira ain’t my girlfriend no more,” Martin sneered in his fake street voice.

  “Oh, that’s sad,” I lied. “When did you two split up?”

  “A while back. Why do you care?”

  “Kira’s been through a lot, and we’d like to help her out.”

  His eyes became slits. “What’s that got to do with me?”

  Pete said, “When was the last time you saw her?”

  Martin shook his head, making his too-long bangs fall into his eyes. “Is that bitch missin’ again?”

  With exaggerated patience, Pete replied, “No, and please don’t call her that.”

  Martin scowled. “Did you come in to talk or to drink?”

  “Do we have to pick one?”

  Martin stared at him for a moment. “Yeah.”

  Glancing over at me, Pete replied, “We want to talk.”

  “Well, I don’t got nothin’ to say.”

  Pete frowned and took out his wallet. He laid a twenty on the bar and pushed it toward Martin. “Got anything to say now?”

  “I might,” Martin said, snatching the money and shoving it in his pocket.

  “When was the last time you saw Kira?” I asked.

  He thought for a moment. “I don’t know. A week ago. Before her bitch roommate got whacked.”

  I could sense Pete was about to go off on the kid, so I laid my hand on his to stop him. Now that Martin was a little more agreeable, I didn’t want anything to derail our conversation.

  “Have you spoken to her since?” I asked Martin.

  “No. She told me to get lost, so screw her.”

  “So she broke up with you.”

  Martin glared at me. “Did I stutter?”

  Pete had had enough. “Listen, you punk-ass, Eminem-wannabe dipshit. You need to take a serious look at how you speak to and about women. The whole angry gangbanger thing might be working for you right now, but when it’s time to grow up and become a productive member of society, you’re not going to be able to cut it.”

  “Nobody asked you, old man.”

  Pete jumped to his feet. “Old man? Who you calling an old man?”

  I sighed. “Boys, let’s not turn this into a bar brawl, shall we? I’m too tired. Look, Martin, here’s the bottom line. You once cared about Kira. And now we have reason to think someone has been abusing her.”

  His eyes wide, Martin turned to me. “Someone’s hurting Kira? Who is it? I’ll kill ’em!”

  “We don’t know who it is—that’s what we’re trying to figure out. Kira won’t talk to us. It’s like she’s protecting someone. Do you have any idea who it could be?”

  He wiped at a permanent stain on the bar top. “No. I had the feeling she was seeing someone on the side, and when I asked her about it, she dumped me. She said she needed a real man who could take care of her. Like I’m not a real man.” His faux-rapper dialect had all but vanished, as had his swagger. “When I heard she was missing, I looked everywhere for her. I was in a pretty bad place until she turned up. I called her a bunch of times, but she won’t return my calls.”

  I could sympathize with that. “So you don’t know who she might have been seeing? Any reason why you thought she was stepping out on you?”

  He shook his head. “Just a feeling. She got distant and I could tell she was holding something back from me.” He scrunched up his face, like a thought had hit him. “I told a bunch of this to a cop. Shouldn’t they be taking care of this instead of you two?”

  I frowned. “Like I said, Kira won’t talk. And she won’t file a police report, so they can’t do much.”

  “Typical Five-O bullshit.”

  Like he knew. I’d bet this poser had never had so much as a parking ticket. I played along, though. “Right. Since no one else is doing anything, we are.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t be more help.” He reached behind the bar, pulled out two shot glasses, and filled them with tequila. “Here you guys go. On the house.”

  “Thanks.”

  As Martin wandered off, Pete and I threw back our shots. Pete said, “What was with that guy?”

  “He’s a kid who doesn’t know who he is. Cut him some slack.” I looked over at him thoughtfully. “Is something up with you? You’re all testosterone tonight.”

  “I thought you liked your men like that.”

  It seemed that Sarcastic Pete was poised to make a return. I wasn’t in the mood.

  “You mean Ryder? He can make it work sometimes, but you can’t.”

  His jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. You’re the boy next door, so cut this shit out.”

  After glaring at me for a beat, he said, “Maybe we should call it a night.”

  “Fine by me.”

  I followed Pete out of the bar and down the street, wishing I knew what had crawled up his ass. When we were crossing Louise Avenue, I heard the roar of an engine. A car with its lights off was barreling our way on the narrow street.

  “Pete, watch out!” I cried, running at him and shoving him with all my might.

  Before I could take another step, the corner of the front fender grazed my left thigh. Pain radiated throughout my leg, and the force of the hit sent me spinning as I was knocked aside. Disoriented and off balance, I crashed to the ground, unable to even get my hands out to break my fall. I landed on my side, the rough pavement ripping a fiery swath up the length of my arm as I skidded to a halt.

  “Juliet!” Pete cried, at my side immediately. He cradled my face and brushed the hair out of my eyes. “Are you okay? Can you move?”

  “I think so,” I croaked. I rolled onto my back and groaned as a wave of pain coursed through my left leg.

  Pete was already calling for help, gazing worriedly at me as he spoke into his phone. Everything hurt, especially my arm, which felt like it was on fire, and my leg, which felt rather numb. I hadn’t hit my head—at least I didn’t think so. I peered around as best I could, but the car that had hit me was nowhere in sight. The son of a bitch ran me over and went on about his day.

  Once he hung up, Pete took my hands gently, his eyes filling with tears. “Jules, I’m so sorry. I was being awful to you, and you saved me. I had my head up my ass and didn’t see that car coming. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—” His voice broke, which made tears spring to my eyes.

  “Pete, stop.”
I propped myself up on my non-scraped elbow. “I’m okay, just a little banged up.” His face started swimming above me. “Ooh, dizzy…”

  Pete put his hand under my head and gently laid me back down on the pavement. “Don’t move, okay? Can I do anything for you?”

  “You can quit looking at me like that.”

  “I’m sorry. I just saw you get hit by a car. I’m a little freaked out.”

  “And while you’re at it, you can quit telling me you’re sorry, too. You weren’t the one who ran me over.” I turned my head toward the empty street. “Speaking of which, where is that asshole? There’s no way the driver didn’t feel me bouncing off the car.”

  Pete grimaced. “Or hear it. The thud was sickening.”

  I didn’t remember hearing anything, but I was sure that my body smacking the car’s fender had made a noise, not to mention a dent.

  A siren wailed in the distance, growing louder by the second. Since we were only a stone’s throw from more than one hospital, the ambulance got to us in no time. EMTs swarmed me, pushing Pete back and asking me all kinds of questions. They put me in a neck brace, which I thought was total overkill, but I didn’t have the energy to protest. The police arrived as they were strapping me to a gurney, and I saw them pull Pete aside. As they were loading me into the ambulance, Pete broke away from the two police officers he was speaking to and raced over to me.

  “I want to ride along in the ambulance,” he said to one of the EMTs.

  Before the woman could reply, I said, “No, drive your car over or we’ll be stranded at the hospital. I want to go home as soon as they get done patching me up.”

  Pete gave me another of his worried stares. “I don’t want to leave you.”

  I looked up at the EMT standing beside me. “Would you please tell him I’m not going to code during the two-minute drive to the hospital?”

  She smiled. “We’ll take good care of her, sir.”

  He frowned. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Chapter 25

  After I’d been poked, prodded, and questioned within an inch of my life by nearly every doctor, nurse, and policeman in the area, I was wiped out. I’d been wheeled all throughout the Vanderbilt ER, subjected to X rays, blood tests, and an MRI, and then some poor nurse had to come in and pick several thousand minuscule rocks out of the bloody mess that ran from my shoulder to my wrist. Pete hadn’t left my side the entire time, even though he was getting a little green watching the nurse work on my arm.

  “Pete, why don’t you go get some air? You’re not looking so good,” I said.

  “I’m fine,” he choked out, gagging a bit.

  My nurse gave him a mom glare. “Go get yourself some water and take a break. I’m not cleaning up vomit, too.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said weakly, hurrying to the door.

  “Thank you,” I said to her. “He’s driving me nuts.”

  She smiled. “Oh, let your boyfriend dote on you. After you’re old and married and have a few kids like me, there won’t be any time for that.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Really? Could have fooled me.”

  She continued her picking, which didn’t hurt thanks to some local anesthetic. However, the thought of her removing rocks from my ripped-up flesh was, at best, quite off-putting.

  There was a knock at the door, and Stafford stuck his head in, eyes squeezed shut. “Hey, Juliet. Are you fully clothed and up for a visitor?”

  I laughed. “Yes, if you don’t mind a little raw arm flesh.”

  He opened his eyes and came in, whistling as he took a long look at my arm. “Impressive road rash. You okay otherwise?”

  “I sprained my knee pretty good, and I’m probably going to have a bruise the size of Tennessee on my thigh, but other than that I guess I shouldn’t complain. I walked away, sort of.”

  Stafford pulled up the chair Pete had vacated and sank into it, crossing his long legs. “I’m happy to hear it. I found out down at the station about your little incident and wanted to come see for myself.”

  “I’m glad you came.”

  It was so sweet of Stafford to make the effort to come check on me, but it made me wonder about Ryder. If my accident was common knowledge at the police station, was he aware of it and chose to stay away? Admittedly, we were broken up, but still. Didn’t he care just a tiny bit?

  He grinned at me. “How does it feel to be a hero?”

  “Painful. Next time Pete’s on his own.”

  Stafford chuckled. “At least you have a good attitude about it.”

  “Not really. Unless they can find who hit me, all this is going to cost me an arm and a leg.”

  “Pun intended?”

  “If I don’t laugh, I might start crying.”

  My nurse cut in, “Well, I’m done with your arm, so that should make you happy. I’ll let the doc know and maybe we can work on getting you busted out of here.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. I could think of nothing better than going home and sleeping this off.

  When the nurse bustled out, Stafford asked, “So you really didn’t see who hit you?”

  I sighed. “No, not at all. I heard the car, and I noticed its lights were off, but nothing else really registered except the overwhelming urge to get out of the way.”

  He nodded. “I didn’t expect you to remember any details. It was a big shock, both physically and emotionally. If you ever need to talk, you know you can call me.”

  Smiling, I replied, “Thank you, John.”

  “Tell me, do you think this was a random act, or might it have had something to do with you playing private eye again?” he asked with a knowing smile.

  My breath caught in my throat. Pete had pretty much spilled the beans earlier in front of him, and he’d had plenty of time to put it all together. Who knew? Maybe he’d followed us. Even to cover my ass (and Pete’s), it was inexplicably impossible for me to consider lying to Stafford.

  As I was opening my mouth to tattle on myself, he said, “Never mind. I think I already know the answer. I’ll cut you a break this time.” He winked at me. “You know, you’re going to be out of commission for a while. I’m sure being forced to do nothing will probably get on your nerves.”

  “Actually, I’m looking forward to the rest and the drugs.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “That’s one way to think about it. But seriously, keep on top of the pain. Trust me, road rash is no picnic. I crashed a four-wheeler on a gravel road when I was a teenager. Not pretty.”

  “Ouch.”

  Pete came back in the room looking much more like himself. “Hey, Detective. Doing another round of questioning?”

  “No, this is a social call. I’m only here to check up on our fair heroine.”

  Pete smiled at me. “If it weren’t for Jules, we’d probably be in matching body casts right now.”

  “Or body bags,” I heard Stafford mutter as he stood and headed for the door. “I’ll get out of your hair so you can get ready to go home. Juliet, you feel better, okay?”

  “I will. Thanks for looking in on me.”

  As soon as the door clicked shut, Pete said, “He likes you.”

  “Yeah, I like him, too. He’s very kind, especially for a detective.”

  Coming over to sit in the chair, he said, “No, I mean he likes you.”

  I shook my head. “He was just being nice.”

  “Jules, it’s one in the morning, and he came to visit you in the ER.”

  “So? He keeps weird cop hours like they all do. Time means nothing to them.”

  He held up his hands. “Whatever you say.” Thankfully dropping the subject, he asked, “So how long ’til I can take you home?”

  “The nurse said soon.”

  “That could mean hours,” he complained, his face suddenly seeming haggard and drawn.

  I smiled. “You don’t have to stay. I can call a cab to take me home.”

  “Are you kidding?
Never! And you’re coming to my house, where I can take care of you.”

  “I can take care of myself, and I want to go home.”

  He shook his head. “I’m betting you’re not going to be able to walk so good. And if you think I’m carrying you up the flight of stairs to your apartment, you’ve got another think coming.”

  “I’m sure they’ll give me some crutches.”

  “You suck at crutches. Remember your junior year?”

  —

  Several bad things had happened to me during my junior year, but this one was definitely the most painful—physically, at least. There was quite a bit of celebrating that had gone on the entire month after my twenty-first birthday. However, the partying ended abruptly when I literally fell down drunk in the street. I sprained my ankle and had to hobble around campus on crutches for weeks.

  It only took a couple of days to figure out I did not possess the coordination to walk on crutches. I’d caught the bottom of my crutches going through several doorframes and had nearly fallen every time. Then one afternoon in the music building, the unthinkable happened.

  Pete was carrying my backpack for me as I navigated my way down the stairs. “Hey Jules, you’ll never guess what happened in my music history class today.”

  Huffing and puffing at the physical exertion, I asked, “That’s the one with the awful teacher who’s here while Dr. Shavitz is on sabbatical?”

  “That’s the one. We were having a great discussion on Schoenberg, and then the woman suddenly starts into this dissertation on how to make bagels.”

  I stopped partway down the stairs to take a breather. My brow furrowed. “Bagels? What do bagels have to do with dodecaphonic serialism?” Gathering my strength, I soldiered on down the stairs.

  “Don’t ask me. She’s nuts. I’m getting a C in that class because of her.”

  “Oh, no. The Bagel Bitch is going to ruin Perfect Pete’s GPA.”

  I chuckled at my own joke, and karma caught up to me. One of my crutches slid off the edge of the next stair, and I started falling forward. Luckily, Pete was watching out for me (as always) and I was only three steps from the bottom. He caught me before I landed in a heap at his feet.