Red Fish, Dead Fish

by Amy Lane

  “Because Jackson Rivers’s name is on the mortgage,” Jade snapped. “And you fuckers have been trying to kill him for years.”

  Campbell recoiled. “That’s hardly fair—”

  “Who do you think shot the place up?” she demanded. “The guy’s partner’s in jail—it was a big ol’ thing in the press. Don’t tell me you didn’t know!”

  Campbell’s mouth opened slightly, and he stuttered. “I just transferred in from the Bay Area, Ms. Cameron,” he said. “There is stuff here I didn’t know.”

  “Then ask me.” Sean Kryzynski sauntered up to them. Ellery had seen him and his partner putting Jackson’s victim, er, assailant, in the back of their unit.

  “Or me,” Ellery muttered, not looking at the young police officer.

  “Is there anything else I need to know?”

  “My firm—Pfeist, Langdon, Harrelson, and Cooper—is representing one of the perpetrators,” Ellery said, rolling his eyes. No, he didn’t want to help the vicious little scumbag. Yes, if this was a crime ring, he wanted to get the head guy so Jackson didn’t feel compelled to come here and do this again.

  “Only one?” Campbell and Kryzynski asked, surprised.

  “These guys apparently work for a bigger operation,” Ellery said. “He’s hoping a decent lawyer will make a decent deal, and we can get whoever it is out of this neighborhood.”

  Kryzynski and Campbell looked at each other—one of those mind-reading sort of glances that good colleagues had. “So, a sting operation? Like, something you’d need help with?”

  Ellery felt his mouth purse up sardonically and couldn’t make it stop. “Did we get a nice promotion after the Chisholm case?” he asked sweetly.

  Kryzynski nodded. “You betcha—as soon as Abrams retires next month, I’m out of blues and wearing a cheap suit. I sure would like in on whatever you’ve got.”

  “Ditto,” Campbell chimed in. Then he shrugged sheepishly. “I’m a little long in the tooth, but I sure would like to move up too.”

  Ellery grimaced. “Not that I don’t applaud ambition”—because Lord knows he had his share—“but your promotions are not my priority right now.”

  “We get it,” Kryzynski said quietly, and Ellery met his eyes for the first time.

  “Really?” He didn’t actually believe they did.

  “You just care that we have his back.”

  Oh. “Bingo. Now, do you need anything else? I need to talk to Ms. Cameron for a moment.”

  “I said I was sorry,” she muttered, but both of them were watching Jackson, leaning his head against the side of the ambulance while the paramedic cleaned him up.

  “And I said I wasn’t mad.” He wasn’t. Jackson’s family had looked after him for a long time before Ellery showed up. Being Jackson’s primary support person was going to take time.

  “Then what?”

  “Is there any way you could take his car to work? I’ll take you back home. I really need to talk to him on the drive.”

  Jade’s expressive brown eyes widened. “Do I need to know what about?”

  And Ellery told her about the morgue.

  “Oh….” She sucked air in through her teeth and shoved her hair back, pulling it away from her face in a cloth band. When Ellery had first met her, she’d worn it in microbraids, dyed bright magenta. The contrast against her rich burnt-sugar skin had been striking. She’d since had the braids taken out, and it was now in soft waves around her shoulders with magenta streaks from her temples. Ellery had never given thought to how women wore their hair, but having known Jade for the last three months, he wished he could find the words to tell her that the magenta was perfect in either incarnation.

  He’d never met a more vibrant woman.

  And now, even when she was pissed off and rumpled, he was grateful to her. She was, if nothing else, practical, and her desire to see Jackson in a good place was only slightly less imperative than Ellery’s own.

  “When?” she asked after she’d thought for a moment.

  “Toe-Tag said the body came in at 1:00 a.m. He called Jackson when he was on his way over here.” Ellery assumed. He remembered Jackson’s kiss on the temple—an unlikely gesture but welcome—and then Jackson had left. Toby “Toe-Tag” Tagliare had called Ellery about five minutes later.

  “How’s he going to do the ID?” she asked, still gnawing on her lush lower lip.

  “Toby offered pictures, but Jackson said in person.”

  Jade growled. “Jesus. Talk about a person who can do more harm dead than alive.”

  Ellery let out a frustrated breath, and they watched Jackson slump dispiritedly against the ambulance while the paramedic finished taping up his shoulder and cutting off his sleeve. He used his good hand to shove his dark blond hair out of his eyes, and he leveled a quiet, reassuring smile their way, winking when he caught Ellery’s eye.

  And that quickly, Ellery was up for the fight.

  “I’ll go get his keys.”

  When Ellery walked up, the paramedic—a squat man with a broad ruddy face and thinning brown hair—was giving Jackson instructions as though Jackson was listening.

  “Now, I gave you tape and gauze there, but given how much damage I can see was done recently, you’re going to want to go in for X-rays and an ultrasound to make sure all that good work didn’t just get ripped to shreds.”

  “Groovy,” Jackson said, tugging at his blue SCPD sweatshirt sadly. Worn and faded, Ellery imagined you could only get one of those attending the academy—one of the few good reminders of Jackson’s short time on the force.

  “I’ll make sure he goes,” Ellery said, and the paramedic looked at him gratefully.

  “Good. I ran a quick reaction test on the wound. Mr. Rivers here said it burned, but I didn’t get any drug reaction from the blood on the shirt near the wound. Hopefully when you pulled the knife out, you washed away some of the bad shit. You should never do that again, by the way. Next time you’ll probably bleed out. Do you remember your last tetanus shot?”

  “Three months ago,” Ellery said quickly.

  Jackson scowled. “How in the world do you know that?”

  “Because you got it shortly after surgery, and it was in your right arm, and you bitched about it for hours.” Ellery’s icy control was slipping. He could hear the anger roiling in his voice.

  “Sorry,” Jackson muttered. “I’m just a big old pain in the ass. You should dump—”

  “Don’t finish that sentence. I draw the line at two passive-aggressive breakup attempts before breakfast.”

  “I’m not trying to break up with you,” Jackson shot back, annoyed.

  “No, you’re expecting me to break up with you. Can we just say it’s not happening and move to the big old fucking fight we’re going to have in the car on the way home?” The flush of Ellery’s anger warmed him in the chilly November dawn.

  Jackson looked at him sideways. “We’re going to have a—”

  The paramedic handed Ellery a series of fliers he’d pulled from the door. “Mr. Rivers declined to be taken to the hospital, and he’s already signed the AMA—”

  “I’ll take him to the hospital,” Ellery said shortly. “And make sure he’s treated appropriately.”

  The man smiled, obviously relieved. “Good, because I’m worried about what might have been on the knife. If he said it was burning, that’s a bad thing.”

  “There were enough drugs in there to fund a coup,” Ellery told him, trying not to let his own skin crawl. “My lungs are burning just thinking about that.”

  “Yeah—these places get pretty nasty. Do you know if they’d been cooking in there?”

  “They tried,” Jackson said with a snort. “I saw the pan. It was like they looked up SparkNotes for how to cook meth. They were missing some of the details that would have made it anything other than crystalized drain cleaner.”

  The medic rolled his eyes. “If you cook it, someone will try to shove it up their nose. Just as good you shut this place down.”r />
  “This place,” Jackson said, voice bleak, “used to be my home.”

  Ellery couldn’t help it. He put his hand on Jackson’s good shoulder and squeezed. “We won’t leave it like this,” he promised. He didn’t promise Jackson would move back in—he couldn’t. That’s not what he wanted to happen, and he wasn’t going to make it easy.

  But Jackson must have heard a promise he liked, because he briefly covered Ellery’s hand with his own and squeezed.

  “So, if I’m promising to take him to the hospital, can he leave?”

  “Yes, sir. If you can, get him there early. Here—how about I’ll make the appointment myself.” He picked up a tablet and began to tap in information. “Davis Med Center?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good, you’re set. Doctor Creedy. Eight thirty.” The medic ripped off an appointment reminder and thrust it into Ellery’s hand.

  “Thanks.” With a courteous head bob, Ellery offered Jackson his hand and pulled him up from the back of the ambulance.

  After giving his own mumbled thanks, Jackson followed him toward their cars, still parked nose to nose.

  “Give me your keys,” Ellery said. Jackson pulled them out of his pocket and handed them over, no questions, because, see? There was trust. “Hey, Jade!” Ellery called. Mike had moved over to talk to Kryzynski, and Jade stood there, hand absently at the small of his back. She looked up from the conversation, and Ellery tossed the keys over the heads of the cops and right into her hand.

  “What in the fuck?” Jackson jostled Ellery with his elbow—and hurt his shoulder at the same time. “Dammit!”

  “She’s bringing the CR-V to work,” Ellery snapped, unperturbed.

  “But I’ve got something to do at the hospital after my appointment, and you’ve got to—”

  “I can defend your scumbag from the toilet with my iPhone,” Ellery said crudely and hated himself a little because Jackson’s smirk made him feel better. Damn this impossible man.

  “Is that what takes you so long? I thought you were getting rid of—”

  “Yeah, yeah—the stick up my ass. I know what you have to do at the hospital, Jackson. Now get in the damned car.”

  He opened the door and shooed Jackson in, slamming the door when he was belting up. He thought it was a sign of profound trust that he didn’t do the seat belt himself.

  He’d started the car and done his own seat belt before Jackson asked quietly, “How did you know?”

  “Check your phone. Toe-Tag tried to call you about two minutes after you left.”

  “I turned my phone off,” he said reluctantly.

  Oh, I just bet you did. “Why on earth would you do that?” Ellery asked sweetly. C’mon, Jackson… let’s talk real.

  “I wasn’t thinking,” Jackson said with visible reluctance. “I just wanted to… to get those fuckers out of my house.”

  Ellery grunted. “Were you ever going to tell me?” he asked, the bitterness hurting his throat. “Or were you just going to drive to the morgue and make the ID yourself?” Jackson didn’t actually have to go to the morgue. He could have looked at pictures. Toby told Ellery he’d originally offered to send a policeman to his house with stills.

  “There’s no reason you had to get sucked into this,” Jackson said. He leaned his head heavily against the window, but he sounded strong and resolved.

  Ellery planned to show him what strong and resolved really looked like.

  “Jackson, she’s your mother—”

  “My mother was Toni Cameron—”

  “Okay—so she was your progenitor, who had legal custody of you for sixteen miserable fucking years! Maybe you even wanted her dead. I don’t blame you!”

  “I didn’t want her dead,” Jackson said, but he sounded surprised, so Ellery wondered if he’d ever dreamed about it when he’d been younger. Ellery would have killed her himself if it had been legal. Fuck moral—ridding the world of Celia Rivers was a goddamned benefit to society.

  “Then you’re going to have something to grieve,” Ellery said, trying not to be too gentle. Probably failing.

  “Fuck that. Not fucking grieving. Not pulling you into the fucking sludge pit of my family. Dammit, Ellery, can’t you just let me do this alone?”

  Ellery thought about it. “It would be easier,” he conceded. Then he started the car and backed it up before shifting gears and driving. “But no,” he said decisively. “No. You’re going to make my life fucking miserable for the next few days—or weeks. Whatever. But no. Would you like Starbucks?”

  “God, yes. And one of those chorizo egg sandwiches? And a croissant? And one of those toffeedoodle cookies?”

  Ellery looked at him sideways and wondered if his eyes were dilated. “And a blood test for meth?”

  “That shit in the pan wasn’t meth,” Jackson said disdainfully. “No, this has nothing to do with getting high from a switchblade wound and everything to do with adrenaline dump.” Ellery heard him swallow, and he stuck out his hand for them both to study at the light.

  It shook slightly.

  Ellery let out a breath and turned toward Arden. “Nearest Starbucks, coming up.”

  The car idled at the drive-through before Ellery could speak again. “Why?”

  “Hunh?”

  And there was Ellery’s least favorite word in Jackson’s vocabulary. “Why wouldn’t you tell me? About any of it? The squatters, your mom. Why?”

  He didn’t answer for a long moment. His answer bruised Ellery’s heart.

  “It would be nice,” he said idly.

  “What would?”

  “Having something to bring to this relationship.”

  Two months earlier, Jackson had delayed his full recovery by putting his car in the way of a drunk driver. He’d been on stakeout without Ellery’s knowledge, getting information to discredit the prosecution’s key witness.

  Mission accomplished—the guy couldn’t have possibly seen their defendant committing a crime when he was one shot away from alcohol poisoning—but to prove that, Jackson had needed two weeks of recovery, most of it on a beach in San Diego.

  Only one of it in good enough shape to take advantage of resting on a beach in San Diego.

  It had been a gift, of sorts. Like a cat leaving a dead mole or a rabbit on your porch. Jackson had left his brand-new car in the shop and his body bruised and battered and said, “Here, look what I did! A gift for you!”

  Ellery had tried to take it in the spirit in which it had been intended—but he’d spent his own two weeks counting Jackson’s bruises, sick to his stomach.

  “You’ve got you,” he said now.

  “Your mother bought me a car.”

  “Which you promptly wrecked—yes, to help me. It’s why I paid for—”

  “You keep paying for shit.”

  “If you move in, you can pay part of the mortgage.” He froze. Oh God. What had he just said? To Jackson. Right now?

  Jackson’s bitter laugh assured him that his fuckup was complete. “I can’t afford even a tenth of your mortgage. If I get a renter in the half a crack house I own—”

  “Heroin.”

  “Illegal narcotics house, I can maybe pay a third. And I’m just enough of a selfish bastard to think about doing that to you, you know? But now Celia’s tits up and you’re all, ‘Oh my God, Jackson, let’s have a purge of your negative feelings!’”

  “I never said that.”

  “And I’m like, ‘I’ll bet other guys, healthy guys who don’t wake up in a cold sweat once a month—’”

  “It’s twice a week, baby—”

  “See? Normal guys don’t do that. What on God’s green earth makes you think I can deal with this… this dead-junkie-mother bullshit when I can’t even sleep through the goddamned night?”

  “Hi, welcome to Starbucks. Can I take your order, please?”

  I’d like two Xanax a day and a shrink, please?

  But Starbucks probably couldn’t provide that, so Ellery just gave them his order
, plus Jackson’s insane amount of food, before moving up in the interminable line.

  “Decaf might help,” he muttered after a moment.

  “What?”

  “Decaf. I just ordered you a Venti quad-shot latte. Do you think maybe you’d sleep better if you went to chai tea?”

  Jackson’s chuckle warmed him inside and out. “If I ever go for chai tea, we’re probably at the Starbucks in hell, ’cause—”

  “You’d have to be dead first. I get it.”

  Ellery kept his foot on the brake and moved his hand off the wheel to brush his thumb against the corner of Jackson’s smiling mouth. “I like you alive,” he said softly. “I have money. I don’t know the value of it. I don’t care. You, not having to sleep alone—that I care about. Please… please stay in my home with me while you figure this out. Please don’t feel obligated or in debt or anything fucking noble like that. Just… just stay.”

  Jackson sighed and caught his hand—and kissed his knuckles. “I’m not going to grieve,” he said gruffly.

  “I’ve got no problem with that.”

  “I want to spend hours of the firm’s time tracking down the assholes who pay the assholes who broke into my house.”

  “Sounds like fun!” Because truthfully, it did. Ellery would have done it on his vacation just to watch Jackson bully, slither, and snark his way through a case.

  “And you’re going to have to let me spend hours of my own time tracking down the stupid cockroach who murdered the junkie in the morgue.”

  “Your mother was murdered?” Ellery’s voice cracked obscenely on the word as he let the car jerk to a halt in front of the window. “I thought she OD’d!”

  “Twenty-two ninety-seven, please,” the clerk chirped.

  “And you’re going to have to let me pay for breakfast,” Jackson finished savagely.

  “Sure.” Ellery’s smile held more than a hint of angry evil. “All you have to do is pull your wallet out of your sweats.”

  Jackson made a sound that drew a sympathy yelp from the poor girl in the Starbucks window, and Ellery paid for breakfast.