CJ touched the scabs covering one side of his face. "Nothing permanent. Should have seen the black eye a few days ago."
"I did, remember? Have to admit, you looked worse then. How's the shoulder?"
"Not bad. I've got ninety percent of the mobility back."
"I understand it didn't affect your aim."
"No," was all CJ could say. He didn't know if she approved of what he did or not.
"I haven't much time as I leave within the hour to escort Alexandria's body back to Indiana."
Whatever words CJ had planned for this moment when he faced Gianna were suddenly lost. There simply were no appropriate words. I'm sorry for your loss seemed lacking on so many levels. "I'm so sorry, Gianna," he said. "I...."
She held up her hand. "I can only take so many so sorrys in a day, CJ, and from you I don't need to hear it." She moved toward the sofa on one side of her office and sat. CJ sat next to her.
"I can see it all over your face, as bad as if you'd lost Trish," she continued. "I admit that I was angry with you, however, it was because you were convenient. Tommy Clark killed her because of you, because of some twisted thing he had against you that was absolutely no fault of your own. As a matter-of-fact it was because of something you did right, because you were a good private investigator trying to right a wrong. I can't fault you for that, nor can I blame you. I am still angry, no doubt, and will be for a long time, but I've learned to redirect my anger to where it belongs, on Tommy Clark."
She stood and walked over to the window. "I'm a criminal attorney, CJ, sworn to defend the innocent and the guilty without prejudice. I've always believed in the phrase, innocent until proven guilty." She turned around and looked directly at CJ. "Tommy Clark was deserving of death. I'm glad that you killed him. My only wish is that I could have had the opportunity to pull the trigger myself." With that she turned back to the window.
"You and my sister are the only people who will ever hear those words come out of my mouth."
CJ nodded to her back. "I understand."
"I hope you do, because I will forever deny that I ever said them."
She pulled a Kleenex out of a fancy box on her desk, dabbed at her eyes and returned to where she'd been sitting. "I'm running out of time so let's talk business. I came to your aid pro-bono when you were in jail. Now I ask the same courtesy from you."
"Name it."
"Alexandria's father walked out of their lives five years ago, at least that's what I think he did. Alexandria's mother, my sister, thinks otherwise, that something happened to him."
"Why would she think that?" CJ asked.
"He gambled; got in over his head. She thinks someone killed him and buried his body somewhere."
"If he owed money, what would be the advantage in killing him?" CJ said.
"Exactly."
"Has she ever been contacted by anyone wanting her to make payment on his debt?"
"Not that I know of." She reached across her desk and picked up a white envelope. As she handed it to him she said, "This is the information you'll need. My sister's number, friends, business associates, etcetera."
"I'll do everything I can."
"When I say pro-bono, I'm referring to your time only. If you have expenses, such as travel to Indiana, or anywhere for that matter, I expect to be billed. Is that clear?"
"Certainly."
"No stone unturned."
"You want him found no matter what."
"Exactly. There's no rush, though. Alexandria's funeral is in two days. If he walked out, he doesn't deserve to be there. If he's dead it won't make any difference. Take the time you need to be with your family. Get started when you're ready. Give my sister a couple of weeks, though, to get through all this."
"Thank you, Gianna. I'll get started toward the end of the month."
"Is Trish going to go back to school?" she asked.
"She says no, but I'm pushing her to transfer down here. The death of her friend and then how she was treated has left a bad taste in her mouth. Stella and I are going to fly up and gather her belongings and then either bring her car back or sell it. That'll depend on whether the locals will release my car or not."
"The University of Arizona will be good for her, especially with family around," Gianna said.
"She'll have to deal with her mother, though."
"Things will work out as they should."
"Maybe."
"I understand there might be something brewing between you and Stella," Gianna said, her voice taking on a happier note. "There may be a wedding in the future?"
CJ's jaw dropped open. "Where did you hear that?"
"Sorry, I cannot divulge my sources."
"We're kicking around the notion, but no plans have been set."
"Whatever. I expect to be on the guest list."
CJ stepped out of the office complex and breathed in the humid air, a somewhat foreign concept in Tucson. A series of Southern Arizona monsoons had rumbled through Pima County during the night and the morning air had that fresh, clean feel.
CJ took another deep breath and returned to the thoughts he'd been having while waiting for Gianna, that of giving up the PI practice, surrendering his license. For right now he'd put the notion aside and do this thing for Gianna. Meanwhile he had to eat, and so did Stella. He really didn't want to tap into the inheritance money anymore. In addition to the two new clients, Stella had told him that there were a couple of inquires on his answering machine. He had yet to listen to those. He'd also have to get back to city hall to ensure Desert Investigative Services was still on the subpoena call list. He'd need to get his gun back from police custody. He wondered what kind of paperwork nightmare that'd be. Josh was returning to Denver in a few days and CJ still had his Glock. He felt under his shirt to where it rode comfortably on his hip. Maybe Josh would let his dad keep it for a while. In the past CJ only carried his weapon when he was serving subpoenas or thought he could possibly enter a dangerous situation. Now he found he couldn't go out the door without it.
Stella had watched him put it on as he was dressing, before going to the office and then meeting with Gianna. She didn't say anything about the gun, but she did make the comment about the shrink. He knew it wasn't rational to have the need to carry it.
He touched it again.
It was time to get back to work.
Maybe he'd go see that shrink.
Or maybe he wouldn't.
Gianna had it right. Tommy Clark was deserving of death.
********
Thank You...
...for reading Deserving of Death. If you enjoyed this book, please consider Lost & Forgotten. Imagine waking one day with a new face and no memory, an opportunity to pick a new name and start a new life; a clean slate. Orphaned as children, separated for 22 years, Melissa is intent on finding her identical twin, Marissa; however Marissa is now Mariah and not who she used to be. Melissa’s search brings her to Los Angeles, crossing paths with Tyron, the only person aware of the truth, a person with immoral intent. As Melissa searches for her twin and Mariah searches for who she was, they are both faced with first time romances. Their brief crossing of paths and wisps of twin psychic connections provides one hope, and the other confusion. Tyron hatches a plan to bring them together, for a price that includes more than just their money. Lost & Forgotten is story of wealth and poverty for far from pretty identical twin sisters as one meets evil in her search for her other half, and the other struggles to start a new life and find out who she was.
And now, the first two chapters of Lost & Forgotten...
Chapter 1
May 15
“When I grow up I’m going to be beautiful.”
“No you’re not.”
“Yes I am. We’re both going to be beautiful.”
“We’re always going to be ugly.”
“Don’t say that! Momma says ugly is a bad word.”
“Bad or not, it’s still true.”
The two girls began slowing their
swings, still in perfect rhythm, forward and back, side-by-side. Without being consciously aware, they dropped their feet at the exact same time and brought the swings to a perfect stop as though part of a choreographed routine.
“But I know we’re going to be beautiful some day.”
“Maybe you will, but I won’t. I’ll always be ugly.”
“No you won’t. When I become beautiful, so will you. It always works like that because we’re identicals.”
“Identicals is not a word.”
“I know, but it’s what Momma always uses. We’re her identicals.”
“It’s a silly word.”
“Sometimes silly is fun.”
The girls fell silent as Becky Farsi appeared out of the school doors and started toward them. Her head was down and she was walking fast. Thirty feet from the two girls she looked up. Her surprise was brief before she put on her ‘I’m superior and beautiful and you’re not’ look, and cut a wide berth around the playground swings. The twins looked down at their identical shoes until Becky was out of sight.
“Becky made me sad and angry today.”
“I know.”
“Where were you?”
“In the library. Where were you?”
“In my classroom.”
“We were far apart.”
“It’s getting stronger, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. She made fun of our scarves, didn’t she, Marissa.”
Marissa looked at her sister. “I didn’t tell you that. How did you know? Did you actually see it happen in your mind?”
“No. I just felt your sadness and then you got angry, and then I knew.”
“Like we had become one.”
“What does that mean?”
Marissa thought for a second. “It’s like our minds merged into one big brain. It’s been happening for a while. Haven’t you felt it? When we were in the math bee, we helped each other.”
“I didn’t give you any answers.”
“No. That’s not what I mean. We were like one very powerful brain that we both could use.”
“Weird.”
“I know.”
“Is that why nobody likes us?”
“That, and because we’re ugly.”
“No. That can’t be it.”
“Because we’re different.”
“We’re special. That’s what Momma says.”
“I don’t want to be special anymore.”
“We’re twins. Identicals. We’ll always be special, Marissa.”
“Sometimes I wish you’d go away.”
Melissa looked at her sister in shock. “You don’t mean that!”
Marissa sighed. “No, I guess I don’t. But don’t you sometimes wonder what it’d be like to be by yourself?”
“No. I’ve never thought of that. I can’t imagine ever being without you.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that you can’t be mad alone, that I always know what you’re feeling?”
“I’ve never thought of it as being a bother. It’s nice to share.”
“Pretty soon we’re going to be able to read each other’s minds and then we won’t have any privacy.”
Melissa hopped off her swing and looked at Marissa. “You really don’t want me around anymore, do you!”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Yes you did. You said you wished I would go away. Well, what if I did? Who’d brush your hair? Who’d you talk to just before you fall asleep? Who would you have when Becky Fart-face starts picking on you?”
Marissa giggled. “That’s what we should do. Start calling her Fart-face. Becky Farsi Fart-face.”
“Yeah! That would be funny.”
Marissa stood up and together they picked up their identical backpacks and started walking in the direction of home. In the background of the warm May afternoon was the sound of a commercial airliner lifting off the runway two miles away. It was a sound heard often by those in the upwind path, a sound mostly ignored.
“How did you do on the math test?”
“Why do you ask me? I always get them all right, just like you.”
“Just wondering. I figure one of us has to make a mistake eventually.”
“What?” Melissa shouted. The two girls, in identical blouses and identical skirts, turned their identical misshapen faces toward the huge passenger jet. Melissa pulled Marissa to the ground and they covered their heads with their backpacks and cowered against the roar that shook their little bodies.
At barely two miles off the end of the runway, commercial airliners normally have more than sufficient altitude to avoid scaring the daylights out of a couple of ten-year-old girls on a school playground. Above the girls the airliner was at 200 feet and losing altitude, the pilot having already frantically reported to flight control that there was a hydraulic failure. One of the seven people who survived out of the 159 on board—they would become known as the miracle seven—would remember looking out the window and being surprised at seeing the girls lying on the ground, just before realizing that there was something deadly wrong.
Two blocks beyond the girls, the jet slipped below 100 feet. Instead of trying to regain hydraulics, the pilot was unsuccessfully attempting to steer the massive flying machine toward an open field. He felt a shudder on contact with the chimney of one house, thought of his wife and child, and saw a woman run out of the next house and look directly at him, and then draw her last surprised breath.
The girls jumped to their feet and watched the tail of the huge plane disappear beyond the oak trees and tops of houses, and then heard the explosions and saw the horrendous fireballs in the sky. They took off through the opening in the fence, across the street and down the avenue that ran directly to where they lived. People were coming out of their houses and running in the same direction, toward the flames and smoke shooting high in the air. The girls ran and ran and ran. More and more people were running with them; women were screaming and crying. Two men ran past them, shouting, and there were sirens.
And then they stopped.
They moved no farther than the corner sign marking the cross streets of Berry Lane and West Third Avenue. They were holding hands and staring. Their hearts raced and tears streamed down their misshapen cheeks. It was not the raging fire that stopped them. It was the fact that the house, which they called home since the day they were born, where Momma sang songs and called them her identicals, was gone. They also knew that so was Mamma. Today was her day off from work. What they had yet to know was how totally alone they were yet to become.
Chapter 2
August 28
Mrs. Frank Croons dried her hands, flipped the towel over her shoulder and picked up the portable phone. “Croons residence,” she said with her usual upbeat, happy voice. She listened to the caller and then said, “Yes, this is Patricia Croons.” She didn’t recognize the caller’s name, but her tone and the words, child welfare, were enough to dampen her cheerfulness. She eased down onto the sofa and listened to the reason for the woman’s call. It was short and to the point and Patricia had no more to say than, “I see. I understand.” She glanced at the mantel clock. “Sure. I’ll have her ready. Why so little time?” The only explanation she was given was that adoptions at that age were hard to find, and sometimes, when a good placement pops up, quick action was warranted.
“What about family?” Patricia asked. “Hasn’t there been anything?”
“Afraid not,” the woman said. “As you already know, the father died in a hunting accident when they were two. There are no living relatives.”
Patricia Croons returned the phone to its cradle and remained sitting. When she finally pushed herself up, the clock read 5:15. Frank would be home in fifteen minutes. The agency would be here at 7:30. She returned to the kitchen, dropped the towel into the sink and looked out at the girls in the backyard. A thunderstorm had rolled in an hour before. After the thunder and lightning were gone, leaving a steady rain, the girls put on their yellow rain slickers and went ou
t and sat on the bench next to the flower garden. There they still sat like two canaries enjoying the rain. But there was no enjoyment in their lives and every day that Patricia watched them her heart ached for their sadness. She and Frank did everything foster parents can imagine to make their lives happy. But there was only so much they could do. It was time that would heal, and for Melissa and Marissa she had a terrible hunch that that time would be very long.
And now it was going to be even harder.
One of them—she had yet to be able to tell them apart—was being adopted. Not both of them. That would be too much to wish for, wouldn’t it? They were going to be split. Who was it that decided what’s best for these girls? Patricia slammed her hand down on the counter. “Why! Won’t they be better off anywhere together, than anywhere else apart?”
But of course there was no answer to her question. She picked up the towel, uselessly wiped away her tears and then retrieved her own rain slicker and stepped out to talk to the girls. They were only days away from celebrating their eleventh birthday, as though the word celebrate had returned to their vocabulary. It was to be a backyard party. As Patricia hunched down in front of the emotionless faces, she understood that there would be no point in a big party, especially for just one. Such a party would only enhance the level of abandonment they already felt.
To mask her tears Patricia left the hood of her slicker back and let the rain beat upon her face. She knelt before Melissa and Marissa and forced a smile. They gave her a slight smile in return, maybe amused by the water running down their foster mother’s face. Hell, she thought, I’d run naked and throw myself in the mud with everyone and anyone watching if it would make them laugh.
She gulped down a lump of something stuck in her throat and then hated herself for what she was about to say. She hated the aviation people. She hated the government bureaucracy. She hated the situation God had thrown these little girls into. She hated the fact that she had chosen to become a foster parent. She hated having to pretend as though it was a happy day for these two unfortunate little girls.
“I have good news!”
About the author
A retired graphic designer, James Paddock lives in Florida with his wife, Penny, a retired teacher. Novel writing, which keeps his sanity, if there is such a thing, is his passion and gives Penny, an avid reader, something to look forward to every few years. Together they claim five children and many grandchildren, and they, of course, are all beautiful and highly intelligent.
Deserving of Death (CJ Washburn, PI Book 1) Page 30