I’d opened the door to be on the lookout for Jazz. When his car pulled up, Rocky peeked his head out the door with me. “Rocky, you’re not going to say anything to him, are you?”
“I sure am.”
“But, Rocky…”
“What’s your job, babe?”
I grumbled. “Play hard to get.”
“Excellent!” he said. He sounded just like Mike Myers in Wayne’s World.
Jazz swaggered to the door. Heavens to Betsy, I could eat him up like a bag of M&M’s. I unsuccessfully tried not to grin. Suddenly I felt as girlish as a teenager, which Rocky happened to be treating me like.
I’d let my hair down, and the braids hung in soft black waves to my shoulders. I’d lost the dropped-waist dress and had put on a wine-colored velvet shift, which I’d absently packed with no real intention of wearing. I borrowed an embroidered shawl from Elisa, a fabulous piece that matched her artsy personality.
Jazz shook Rocky’s hand. If I hadn’t believed in miracles before, I’d changed my mind. They did the complicated soul handshake. I didn’t even know Rocky could shake like that. He’s white! I decided complicated handshakes must be some primal urge men as a sex shared.
Jazz gave me a quick glance—head to toe—and a half smile, and I knew my appearance pleased him.
He didn’t reach for my hand. Greeted me with a nod. “Jane.”
“Hello, detective.”
Rocky looked at me, confused. “Are you sure you didn’t change your name to Jane?”
“Just for him,” I said.
“Is that some kind of married thing I should know about?”
Jazz raised an eyebrow. “The last thing you want to do is get marriage tips from either of us.”
“Actually,” I said, “I can give great marriage tips in my office as a practicing psychologist. I just don’t seem to be able to implement those positive behavioral choices in my own life.”
Rocky turned to Jazz. “I expect you to have her back by dinnertime.”
“Yes, sir,” Jazz said.
“And don’t try anything sneaky, like pretending you’ve run out of gas or something.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“This is supposed to be a business meeting. I expect you to conduct yourselves with the utmost professionalism and—”
Jazz interrupted him. “Rocky, we’re going to talk a little business, and then I’ll promptly bring her back. Don’t say any more, because I can hurt you.”
Rocky’s face reddened. “Right.” He still didn’t look ready to surrender me. He paused. “This is, like, so trippy, isn’t it?”
I could tell Jazz still wanted to throttle him. “It’s trippy. May we go now?”
Rocky stood back. Sighed. “Be good, young lady.”
“I will, Rocky,” I said.
Jazz extended his arm, and I went to him. He placed his hand at the small of my back and led me to the Crown Vic.
Like so many other times when he touched me, my feet didn’t touch the ground.
I thought he’d take me to Starbucks or Seattle’s Best, but leave it to Jazz to take me somewhere off the beaten path. He’d found a coffee shop called Espresso Royale. It had more local color and better parking, and best of all, we didn’t have to brave the crowds of slick Ann Arborites barking orders at baristas they’d deemed too slow in delivering their grande Caffè Mochas.
I sat across from him, trying not to stare at his beauty. Of course, several other women in the place didn’t share my reticence. I half expected one of them to walk up and slip him her phone number. He disappointed them all. He only had eyes for me.
“So, what have you got?” he asked after we’d sipped what amounted to a cup of hot milk for a while.
“Jazz, what do you think about the possibility that Nikki’s babies really died of SIDS?”
“My mom is Alpha Kappa Alpha. Her sorority sponsored a workshop on SIDS in the African-American community. She came back fired up about saving babies. One thing she mentioned is that our babies have a higher incidence of SIDS deaths.”
“That’s true; just like African Americans have higher incidence of certain diseases: cancer, high blood pressure, et cetera. But what are the chances, statistically, that she’d have two babies die of SIDS?”
“It could happen.”
“You’re right. In rare occasions, lightning really does strike twice. However, Nikki seems to leave a trail of bodies behind her wherever she goes.”
“Do tell, Jane.”
“I never got to tell you this, but at the funeral, Nikki’s former friend told me that Nikki had lost two babies to SIDS, oddly enough, right after she’d had enough of her current boyfriend and after her previous boyfriend had mysteriously died. An alleged suicide. Inconclusive.”
“Not good, Jane.”
“And Ezekiel Thunder’s wife died shortly after Nikki and Thunder had their affair. He said she got sick and sort of wasted away. Joy, who was good friends with her, didn’t think so.”
“Go on.”
“Thunder also told me he’d gotten Nikki pregnant, and that, like David, he lost his infant. I thought about that Bible story and finally looked it up. Are you familiar with it?”
“Very. Remember, until we found out Kate’s baby wasn’t mine, I thought I had my own ‘dead baby as punishment’ story.”
“And you know I’ve got mine. Well, at least I thought it was punishment at the time.” I shuddered to think of the horrible tale of David and Bathsheba’s loss, told in 2 Samuel. “The prophet Nathan told David that he’d given his enemies great occasion to blaspheme the Lord, and his child by Uriah’s wife would surely die.”
Jazz shook his head. “It’s kind of a trip that he called her Uriah’s wife. By then, Uriah was already dead and she’d become David’s wife.”
“It was a pretty fearful judgment. I admit I don’t understand those kinds of God things.”
Jazz reach across the table and took my hand. “I grew up doing church two different ways. One way tried to make God fit into man’s ideas, the other accepted God as a mystery. You can’t make mystery manageable—at least not the God kind.”
I looked down at the table. He lifted my chin.
“Bell, David’s sin is not our concern, neither are the sins we committed a long time ago and have long since repented of and been forgiven for. Dr. McLogan said our babies are perfect. And we’re not going to worry about them. We might be dumb, but we got married, then made those babies…” A shadow crossed his face. “Because we love each other. No matter what. We haven’t given up on each other, have we?”
“No, Jazz. We haven’t.” I straightened my back. Squared my shoulders. “But don’t call me Bell.” I winked at him. “I’m Jane.”
I’d never tire of seeing him smile at me. “So, Jane,” he said, “in the Bible story, the baby was born, then died a little bit later. Right?”
“Exactly. David’s baby got sick and died in seven days.”
“How did Thunder’s baby die?”
“That’s just it. He didn’t say. At the time I thought he may have been speaking metaphorically. I figured the baby could have been stillborn or she could have aborted it—any number of things. SIDS didn’t readily come to mind.”
I went on. “David’s baby got sick. But what if Thunder’s first baby with Nikki didn’t? How could someone murder a baby and make it seem like the child had been sick?”
“I think we’re on the same page, Bell. I was thinking about how Nikki’s rousing speech at Zeekie’s funeral garnered her instant celebrity status of sorts. And how anytime a woman is pregnant or has lost a baby, she gets all of this attention.”
“Exactly!”
“That’s like that weird mental illness. What’s it called? They showed it in The Sixth Sense.”
“Munchausen syndrome by proxy.”
“What is up with that?” His eyes sparkled. He loved it when I did my psychologist thing, that is, except for when I used my skills to torture hi
m.
“Many professionals view MSP as a form of child abuse. The parent’s MO is pretty much to make the kid sick so they can get the attention of doctors, neighbors, and concerned coworkers. It’s like, ‘Wow. Look at what a great mom Psychotica is. She’s so dedicated to that sickly child. Poor Psychotica.’”
Jazz rubbed his chin. “That’s freaky weird. And what do you say about all this, Jane?”
He’s so good-looking, I hardly noticed I’d slanted my body so Jazzward that I had to rest my forearms on the table. A curtain of braids swept down my shoulder, and I took great pleasure in whisking them back like I’d turned into one of Charlie’s Angels. I could tell by how he narrowed his eyes and parted his lips a bit that he took great pleasure in the gesture.
“Did I tell you how good you look today, Jane?”
I tapped my index finger to my temple. “Hmmmm. I can’t recall. Perhaps you should do it again.”
“You look gorgeous today, Jane. Now hurry up and ask me your question before I take you home and get us both in trouble.”
I hesitated. On purpose.
He cracked up. Licked his lips and made me want to never ask that question. But I had to play hard to get.
“The question…” I said, with a big-time pause…
He slouched in his seat and scowled at me. “Tease.”
“The question is, Who do women kill?”
Jazz didn’t hesitate. “They tend to pick victims who are close to them. Husbands. Children. Strays they pick up whose social security checks they cash while the missing person rots underneath their rose bushes.”
“Exactly! Now, let’s isolate the victims. How do women—mothers—kill their own children?”
He effortlessly rattled off the answers. “They abandon newborn babies in garbage bags, they drop, shake, beat, poison, suffocate—”
“And drown.”
A thoughtful look softened his features. So, you’re thinking Nikki has this Munchausen syndrome by proxy?”
“Maybe I’ve been around you long enough for you to rub off on me, but…”
Jazz took a sip of his honey steamer. We’d both ordered them—he to stand in solidarity with me and to help me act like I wasn’t drinking a cup of hot milk. “Uh-oh,” he said. “Don’t tell me I’ve corrupted your good manners.”
I considered that. Shoot. In some ways, he had. “In this instance, through all the stories you told me, not to mention the warnings you frequently give me, you’ve actually given me a different perspective of murderers.”
“Yeah. The world is no joke. There are a lot of nutjobs out there.”
“That’s precisely what I mean, detective. Maybe a few months ago I would have seen a woman with Munchausen’s and thought she was some poor soul who’d been horribly abused or neglected in childhood and lacked the appropriate skills to empathize with others.”
“Yeah, blah, blah, blah, yakety smackety.”
I laughed. “I found out Friday that Rocky’s parents completely emotionally neglected him, but he’s one of the most empathetic people I’ve ever met.”
Jazz grudgingly agreed.
“And Nikki Thunder is, according to every report I’ve gotten—with the exception of her husband’s—completely attention seeking and narcissistic, with no concern for anyone but Nikki Thunder…”
“You used the ‘N’ word. So, besides being a narcissist, with a capital ‘N,’ you think she’s got this Munchausen’s thing?”
“I don’t think she’s got Munchausen’s at all.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do tell, Jane?”
“I think she’s the ‘P’ word and the ‘S’ word.”
He leaned across the table and gave me a delicious grin. “You’re a lot of fun, Jane.”
“You think so, detective?”
“Tell me what the ‘P’ and the ‘S’ words are.”
“Lieutenant Brown, it’s my professional opinion that Nikki Thunder is a psychopath and a serial killer.”
That whole serial killer thing killed our flirtatious, playful mood. Jazz retreated inward, saying little while he sipped his steamer. I didn’t try to fill the quiet with idle chatter. We’d long grown comfortable with silence. If only we could become comfortable with more than just silence.
When we got back to Jazz’s car, he kept up his good manners. He opened the door for me, seated me, and didn’t try to flirt with me. He took me back to the Rock House well before the dinner hour. Walked me to the door.
I almost wished I’d saved my assessment for later. I enjoyed being Jane for him. I enjoyed having overpriced milk and honey with him. Shoot. I enjoyed him, and I didn’t know how to extend our evening and not disappoint Rocky or renege on the promise I’d made him.
As if Jazz read my mind, he drew closer to me. Hemmed me against the front door of the house. His scent filled me, with no hint of alcohol, only a faint trace of cigar smoke and Irish Spring soap. He bent to kiss me, and I put my index finger on his lips.
“No mixing business with pleasure, detective.”
He gently took my hand away and held it. He pressed his body close to mine. “May I speak to Jane?”
“This is Jane.”
“I want full-time wife and mother Jane.”
“Jack Daniel’s ran her off.”
“Touché. I haven’t had a drink all day.”
Goodness gracious, he stood too close. He made me feel all tingly. I wanted to touch him.
“Come back home,” he whispered.
I turned my gaze away from him. Stared at the ground. He didn’t lift my head this time. He grazed my cheek with his own. Stubble had just begun to emerge, and the friction felt so good that I had to stuff my hands in my coat pockets to keep from laying them on him.
He whispered, “I’m sorry I got drunk.”
“I need to work through something, Jazz. I can’t come home.”
Maddening man! He kept murmuring—his soft, sexy voice and warm breath tickling my ear. His hands found my waist.
“Come home with me. Don’t even get your stuff. Let’s go.”
“I want to…”
“Then let’s do it.”
“The way you’re pushing up on me, I think you want to do more than go home.”
“I’m not drunk, and that’s exactly what I want to do.”
“Jazz you need to listen to me.”
“I did listen, Bell. I’m not drunk on anything but the vanilla and sweet amber I smell in your hair.”
I couldn’t help myself. I swept my hands up and down his cheeks and let them make their way to his curls. He turned into a beast, furiously kissing me.
“We should stop.”
“We’re married.”
“We’re having—”
“A really good time, as soon as I get you home. Let’s go.”
“Jazz, that isn’t going to solve our problems.”
“It’ll solve one of mine. Come on.”
I didn’t answer. Let his kisses carry me someplace I’d been before, but didn’t stay nearly as long as I should have. I ached to return. “Okay,” I said.
He stopped. Stared at me, his expression almost comical. “Did you say ‘okay’?”
“Yes.”
He grabbed my hand and got me off that porch like it, not him, was about to explode. I trailed a little bit behind him. He didn’t seem to mind until we got to the car. He went to open the passenger-side door, hesitated, and looked at me. He took his hand off the door handle. “I know you want to go.”
“You’re right, Jazz. How could I not?”
“Give me another chance, Bell. I won’t disappoint you.”
“I said okay.”
“Okay is different than yes.”
“Semantics, Jazz.”
“Touché.”
“Why do you want me to go?”
He sighed. “You’re my wife, and you belong with me. My babies belong with me.”
“Will you start pounding your chest like King Kong, shouting what belongs
to you? I am alpha male. Hear me roar?”
His features darkened in anger. “Do you have to ridicule me?”
“Jazz, I’m not trying to ridicule you. It’s just that sometimes you say things that…”
His mouth tightened in a flat line. “Things that what?”
I paused, debating whether I should say it. I decided to be honest.
“Things that remind me of Adam.”
I couldn’t have surprised him more if I’d slapped him. “Adam? The nutjob who beat you? Do I need to remind you that I’ve never laid a hand on you?”
“Sometimes you make me sound like inventory. ‘You’re mine. Do this. Do that.’ Even the way you said, ‘Come home with me.’ A demand. You didn’t really ask.”
He leaned against the car. The cold and his anger reddened his cheeks and nose. Even angry he looked beautiful. For a long time he didn’t say anything. Then finally, “You told me that there is a serial killer in that house. I’m going to say this one more time, Bell, because sometimes in life you have to act and you can’t coddle and placate. You have to say, ‘Move!’ or ‘Watch out!’ And you may lose your decorum in that instance. You may have to physically remove the person against protest. But you do it so you won’t have to scrape them off the bus tires.” He gave me a look as hard as the one he’d given me on our wedding night before he stormed out of my life.
All that, and I hadn’t even told him about the threat she’d made. He went on. “If you don’t get in that car and come home with me, I promise you, I will call my lawyer as soon as I get home, and when the time comes, I will sue you for custody of my children.”
I could feel the rage coiled tight as a spring slowly unfurl. My legs trembled and my hands burned to scratch or slap or punch him. I tried not to think about the fact that he’d just threatened to take away my children. A number of unpleasant names crouched at the tip of my tongue. I dared not speak because I knew if I did, something would come out and do the kind of damage one can’t easily undo.
If felt like my throat was slowly closing. My lungs hurt to breathe. I lifted my head and looked at him, and his expression had turned from anger to alarm. I began to count to calm myself enough to be able to speak and put an end to this conversation, put an end to the fiasco we’d called a marriage. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five…
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