The Southern Comfort Series Box Set

by Clark O'Neill, Lisa

  “Somebody’s in for it,” he heard Jim murmur when Jordan began to push his way through the crowd.

  Yes, Jordan thought, and felt the simmering frustration of the day click to boil beneath his skin. Somebody is. But he tried to remember to keep it cool, keep it civil, as he made his way to Simpson’s table.

  The laughter that bounced around the booth like a silver pinball died as Jordan stepped up.

  “Miller.” Jordan greeted the man from SVU and nodded to the blond, who looked barely old enough for his beer. “Sorry to interrupt.” Social niceties aside, he shifted his gaze toward Simpson. “Detective. I’d like a word with you.”

  The surprised annoyance that had flashed over the other man’s face slid into an amused mask. “Imagine that,” he said to the table at large. “A lawyer who claims he can get a point across in just one word. I thought y’all needed a press conference for that. But come to think of it, you didn’t say much more than no comment this afternoon. I guess the fact that the sick fuck that murdered Sonya Kuosman and two other women hanged himself in his cell was too complicated for you to get out.”

  So Simpson didn’t want to play nice. That was fine, more than fine with Jordan. “Unlike you, I prefer to have my facts straight before I start flapping my mouth to the press.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking –”

  Jordan slapped his hands on the table. “Yes you do.” Leaned in. “I’m talking about the fact that you tried to discredit me by leaking rumors about my health. And Lauren Ashby, Simpson? Makes you wonder which one of us is brain damaged.”

  “Hey, I’m not the one who started spouting all kinds of behavioral voodoo after getting clobbered on the head. Hell, Fuller asked for forgiveness, the sonofabitch, before stringing himself up. What more do you want?”

  “Um, gentleman…” Detective Miller began when several heads turned their way, the tables near them falling silent. “I don’t think this is the place –”

  “Oh, but Jeff has made it the place, haven’t you, Detective? Just like you made the jail the place this morning by tipping off the press before I got there.” Jordan angled his head. “Why the smear campaign, I wonder? Why make that preemptive strike?”

  “I told you, I don’t know –”

  “If you’re going to stab someone in the back, Simpson, at least have the balls to admit it was your hand on the knife. I think you’re afraid. You read that profile. And you realized, when you saw Fuller’s message, that it was one more piece that didn’t fit. You knew I’d see it, too. And because you were afraid to lose face in front of your colleagues, maybe even in front of the city, you tried an end run around me. Discredit me, so that if I happened to point out that we have more questions than solid evidence, it would come off as… what? Post-traumatic stress? The incompetent ramblings of a damaged brain? It was a concussion, Detective. And while I may have suffered double vision for a couple days, I still recognize an asshole when I see one.”

  “Uncle Jeff,” the blond kid said nervously as Simpson pushed to his feet, and Miller jumped up to get between Jordan and the other detective.

  “You’re going to want to take it down, both of you.”

  “It’s okay.” Jordan was already stepping back. And met the fury on Simpson’s face with equanimity. “I’ve said everything I needed to say.”

  JORDAN lobbed the tennis ball as hard as he could and watched it soar toward the velvet black. Stars, like glitter spilled from a jar, winked against the night sky. The ball seemed to hang among them before arcing down toward a racing Finn.

  From the dark came the solitary heartache of a street musician’s sax.

  The game, the dog, the lonely concert in the park soothed the little licks of temper that still wanted to bubble. Until he had it under control, Jordan figured he wasn’t fit company for man or beast.

  Well, for man anyway, he amended as Finn trotted back and dropped the ball at his feet. The beast, he was stuck with.

  “Slobber face.” Jordan scooped the ball up and felt it drip. “At least it keeps you quiet. Maybe I should get one of these for Simpson the next time he runs his mouth.”

  The image of the detective, his bulldog face full of tennis ball, amused Jordan momentarily. Smiling, he threw the ball again, and indulged himself in the visual. Until instead of the ball, it was the man’s own tongue Jordan pictured choking him, his mouth red and gasping as he drowned in his own blood.

  Not a big leap, he supposed even as he felt his amusement fade into disquiet. To superimpose the image of the detective in charge of the investigation with the way the three women had died.

  But because he had, and because it disturbed him, Jordan’s mind clicked over to the murders.

  The women’s tongues hadn’t been recovered. Trophies, Clay said, to feed the killer’s fantasy. Help him relive the kill. To remind him of the power he had over those women. Clay considered it the killer’s signature, and possibly indicative of verbal abuse as a child.

  What, Jordan mused, if that was more important than they’d realized. If the three dead women – whom the police had been unable to link in any tangible way – were selected because of something they’d said. An argument, a putdown. Something controversial, something mean. Maybe they’d threatened the killer somehow.

  Or maybe they’d sung nursery rhymes in public. How could he guess what made a psychopath tick?

  Not that it did him much good to wonder over it in any case, Jordan admitted. In all likelihood the case would be officially closed. But he would call Clay later, run it by him for the hell of it.

  And because those three women deserved as much.

  Finn dropped the mangled ball again, but Jordan’s cell phone rang before he could lob it.

  “Wellington.”

  “I guess that concussion wasn’t enough for you, so now you’re picking fights in bars.”

  “Ah, Evan.” Jordan winced as he recognized the private investigator’s voice. “How the hell did you… no, no don’t answer that. Your freakish ability to ferret out information is the reason I called you in the first place.”

  “And here I thought you wanted to ask me for a date.”

  “Only if you wear the dress.” Jordan hesitated, because several things had changed between the time he’d left the message for Evan and now. His schedule had lightened, rather unexpectedly, with Fuller’s death that morning. And he and Ava had made love.

  He’d like to think that meant they’d reached a new level of trust in their relationship, and she would simply tell him what he wanted to know. But because he remembered the nerves she’d tried to hide when she’d seen that smiley face carved into the electrical box, and the way she’d all but leaped out of her skin when he’d told her he loved her, he decided to go with his original plan. If Michael Sheppard was behind Ava’s troubles, Jordan would find out soon enough.

  “I’ve got somebody I’d like you to look into.” Jordan threw the ball, dropped onto a bench while he gave Evan the rundown on Ava’s ex. “I’ve covered the basics – address, employer, criminal record – but I need to get an idea of what this guy’s like. Any suspicious behavior, especially. He’s got a white Acura registered to him, but I want to know if he has access to a black, late model T-bird. Maybe a friend’s, relative’s, whatever.”

  There was a pause as Evan considered. “I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask you what this is about. I know it’s not for the office, since I’m persona non grata there.”

  Evan had been a member of the SCMPD’s counter narcotics team before an injury sent him into the private sector, but because he did so much work for Jordan’s brother Jack – the defense attorney – a lot of people on the other side of the courtroom held Evan in contempt.

  “I’ve got a friend who’s been having a little trouble lately.” Jordan watched his dog race across the grass, flashed back to the first time he’d taken him to Ava’s clinic. One small stone tossed in the pond, he thought. So many ripples from it. “She won’t say who, but this She
ppard guy’s her ex. Maybe it’s him, maybe it’s not, but I want to know either way.”

  “So you know whose ass to kick. Got it. This… friend. Would she happen to be short, dark-haired, curvy? Likes to play with animals?”

  Jordan managed a half laugh and dropped his head back against the bench. “Pulling a card from my lawyer deck, I’ll have to say no comment.”

  “Speaking of cards, I hope we’ll see you next week. Now that Copeland’s gone I need another sheep to fleece. Give me a few days on this, Jordan. I’ve got a couple things coming to a head, but should be able to clear some time by the middle of the week.”

  “Thanks, Evan.”

  “Never a chore to do business with a friend.”

  Jordan pocketed his phone and took advantage of his seat to watch the oak leaves above him shudder in the stingy breeze. Clouds crept over the stars, and the air took on the sort of weight that suggested a storm would roll in before long. Finn came over, but when he dropped the ball this time he growled.

  Jordan felt it. That sly prickle across the skin that came from a different sort of weight in the air. The kind that came from another’s presence. From someone watching.

  Because the concussion – and what had followed – was an experience he didn’t care to have repeated, Jordan reached down for the ball Finn dropped.

  Fool him once, he thought. And slid the pistol from its holster on his ankle. The next time he wasn’t going down so easy.

  “Stay,” Jordan said to Finn. He didn’t want his dog haring off after whoever he’d sensed lurking in the bushes. Jordan couldn’t know if their visitor was armed. And because he couldn’t, he very casually eased off the bench, then did a quick roll until his back was against the tree. Finn whined, but Jordan had a moment to feel thankful that he’d followed the command. Then getting himself into the strongest defensive position he could manage, scanned the edges of the park.

  Shadows danced. The crescent moon cast its waning light. Near the path the streetlights glowed artificial white, but nothing moved near them that Jordan could see. At the far end of the park something shifted, walked away, but from the movement of the figure, of the dark shape it carried, Jordan took it to be the man with the sax.

  Packing up for the night. Heading home.

  A car drove past, and Jordan looked at the make, looked at the license plate, but it was neither domestic nor had a chain link holder. Nor was it blue, for that matter. Not that the perp couldn’t have switched cars, but he figured he had to draw the line of paranoia somewhere.

  And was he being paranoid, he wondered?

  Shifting, he noted another car – silver Taurus – and a van parked along the street. Some kind of service vehicle, though he couldn’t quite make out the signage. He moved a little, trying to get a better look, when the sudden explosion of sound had him whipping around.

  A crash, and Finn barking like a mad thing as he flung himself toward the hedge of azaleas. Jordan heard footsteps, running footsteps, heading in the opposite direction, and gained his feet to follow after the little coward.

  But the yelp of pain from his dog had him swearing and turning back.

  Crouched low, weapon aimed, he jumped behind the azaleas.

  “Aw, Finn. You’ve got to be kidding.” The animal sat shamefaced, his nose lodged inside a can. And squatting down, Jordan studied the label. “Vienna sausages, huh? Glad to know where I rate in the scheme of things.” With one last scan over his shoulder, he holstered the pistol, worked the can away from his dogs snout.

  And after ruffling the animal’s fur, thought things over.

  Whoever’d been watching realized he’d – or she’d – been made. That seemed clear enough, Jordan thought as he looked around. Maybe saw the gun, wasn’t prepared for it. So had cooked up a little distraction by tossing the empty can into the bush.

  Jordan walked over to a clump of what looked to be Chinese Photinia, saw the overflowing trash can on the other side. And squatting again, looked at the imprint of a shoe in the soft dirt. Boot, he thought. And judging by the size, probably a man’s.

  Straightening, Jordan frowned toward the direction he’d heard the footsteps as the man ran off. Could have been nothing, he admitted. A kid messing around, who’d gotten scared by Jordan’s behavior. A vagrant. A would-be mugger. Nearly anyone. But Jordan had gotten that prickle along the skin, and he’d learned not to take any chances. So he dug his cell phone out of his pocket.

  Then grabbed Finn’s collar before he could nose in the dirt.

  “No. Sit.” He didn’t want the dog to mess with any evidence.

  Jordan dialed Chip Coleman’s number. “Detective,” he said when the man answered. “If you’re not too busy, I’ve got something I’d like you to see.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “HELLO, gorgeous.”

  Ava blinked when Jordan slid into the pew next to her. Candlelight flickered across his face as he inclined his head toward the burning votives. “Any of those yours?”

  “Uh…” she glanced at the cabinet beneath the statue of the Blessed Virgin. “One of them is for my mother.” She’d lit one for her father, too, in the hope that he might find the strength to seek penance. To stand against his brother at trial. And one for herself, as well, asking for guidance through her current mess.

  But given that a big part of her mess had just plopped down beside her, that wasn’t something she was going to mention.

  “I’m sorry.” Jordan’s hand slid over hers. “Sorry that you lost her. I never asked how she died.”

  “She, uh…” unsettled by the question, by his presence, Ava turned to meet his eyes. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, Jordan. But what are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  “This is a church.”

  He angled his head to the side. “And because I’m not Catholic I’m not welcome?”

  “What? It… no. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Okay.” And now he nodded. “I won’t if you won’t. This is a church, Ava, and one that appears to be part of your life. In case you misconstrued our conversation the other day, I’m interested in spending time with you outside the bedroom.”

  “Jesus.” Chagrinned, Ava squeezed her eyes shut. “I mean jeez. Sorry,” she said in the direction of the altar. “Um, how about if we go outside if you want to talk? I stay in here any longer and I’m bound to get myself in trouble.”

  The evening air was a balm, soothing the sting of embarrassment that wanted to stain her cheeks. Which was ridiculous. It wasn’t like they’d been caught groping each other in the nave. But because she could still see Sister Mary Katherine’s disapproving scowl as clearly as if she’d been suffering through parochial school just yesterday, Ava walked an arm’s length away from Jordan.

  Until he slipped one of those arms around her waist. “Pretty night,” he commented, and guided her toward the Lafayette Square fountain. The water sparkled, pure against the lights, and his hand slid warm down her back. He smelled good – soap and man – and embarrassment was shoved aside by simple pleasure. Giving into it, into him, she leaned her head against his chest. His arms came around her and tightened.

  “I’ve missed you the past couple days.” He pressed his lips to her hair.

  Guilt took a greedy bite out of her pleasure. She’d seen the press conference he’d given, knew he’d been upset that morning when he left, but had been too cowardly to reach out to him and offer an ear. Not that she expected him to tell her anything, she admitted. Because deep down, he’d been right in his assessment. Despite his words, despite everything he’d shown her, a small, nasty part of her didn’t believe it was more than sex.

  That a man like him could care enough about her to really stick.

  But that was the thing, wasn’t it? She’d never known a man like him.

  “I saw you on TV,” she managed.

  “Ah.” And the arms around her stiffened. “Not my favorite part of the job.”

  “You were up
set when you left that morning, and I figured…” Ava took a deep breath. “I figured out later that you must have gotten word about that man’s suicide. I won’t ask you for any details, but I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for whatever part of that disturbed you. Another death, or the fact that you weren’t really able to do your part to give those women justice.”

  Easing back, Jordan framed her face in his hands. “Have I told you that I’m crazy about you?”

  “You might have mentioned something like that.”

  He touched his lips to hers, then sank in, until Ava’s head was spinning. “Both of those things disturbed me. There’s a lot about this case that disturbs me.” He brushed a thumb over her cheek. “Most people would have just said that I should be glad the bastard’s dead.”

  Because she knew too much about what most people would say, Ava turned, strolled over to the fountain. And watched her reflection shimmer in the water. “If he killed those women, and it was like the papers said, there’s no question society is better off without him. But…” she cast a glance over her shoulder. “That reporter said he wrote forgive me, in blood.”

  “He did.”

  “Maybe he was sick.” Ava thought of her father. Of the grief that had caused him to snap. “There’s a difference, I think, between sick and evil. Not that I’m a bleeding heart, or in any way excuse what he may have done, but I think people don’t see the gray. It’s either black or its white, and sometimes that’s true. But there are a lot of shades in between. If you take the time to look.”

  Jordan raised a brow. “That’s a very… well, I guess you could call it a very liberal viewpoint, though it so happens that I agree. For a prosecutor, I tend to hover closer to the center than some would like. But you’re right. I think that Elijah Fuller was sick. However, whoever killed those women was evil.”

  “What?” Puzzled, Ava sat on the fountain wall. “I thought –”