Simple Misconception (Jordan James, PI Series)

by Rachel Sharpe

  “Sleezeball?” A slight smile curled his lips. “I don’t think I’ve been called a sleezeball since seventh grade. That’s . . . cute.”

  “Oh, believe me, there are plenty of other words I could use, but you’re not worth it.”

  “I’m not?” I had turned to leave. He blocked my path. “Then why are you here?”

  “I . . .” My mind felt fuzzy. The band began to play a Beyonce song I had been hearing on the radio since October. It might have been a good song, but I was sick of it. I mean, come on! Is it really hard to play more than five songs a day on repeat? That’s why people keep signing up for satellite radio. Taking a deep breath, I tried to collect my thoughts. “Just . . . shut up. All right? Shut up.” I met his gaze. The smug smirk remained. “Ugh, you’re such a jerk! Just get out of my way!”

  For some reason, this maddening exchange was destroying my buzz and starting to ruin my evening. I wanted to take the nearest drink I could get my hands on and pour it over his jerk head. I wanted to wipe that smirk from his face. But I didn’t. I was not feeling like myself. That’s when I remembered Natalie.

  Scanning the darkness, all I saw was a mob of faceless fun, moving to the music. I saw this, but no Natalie. Her friend Cash was also missing. I blinked. A terrible thought crossed my mind. Did she ditch me? She had done it before. Never on purpose, but she always was a spur of the moment type of girl. If you’re not there when her moment is spurred, you’re outta luck.

  “What’s wrong?” I heard his annoying voice interrupt my thoughts. I ignored him and continued to search. “Your friend left you?”

  “You, shush.” I waved my hand at him. I scanned the crowd. Still no sign of her.

  “Shush isn’t a word.”

  “Um, yeah, it is. If I used it, it’s a word.”

  “Interesting logic. How many have you had?”

  “I don’t know, a few.” I glanced back. He was standing beside me. That was so annoying. “Go away.”

  “Gladly.”

  It took me a minute to realize that he had walked off. For some reason, that annoyed me even more. He didn’t have the decency to let me have the last word in this argument. Frustrated, I squeezed through the crowd. I headed for the door. Stepping outside, I was greeted with my first blast of fresh air in hours. A slight breeze floated by. Moving forward, I forgot there was a step down and when I went to place my foot on a ground that was not where I expected it to be, I came crashing down.

  “You’re embarrassing yourself.” With those harsh words, I felt a strong arm pull me to my feet. The jerk stared at me, his left hand gripping my arm. When I realized it was him, I slapped the hand away.

  “You-You’re such a jerk!”

  He just stared at me. Shooting him a dirty look, I turned away. I searched the crowds wandering the streets for Natalie. “What are you doing now?”

  “None . . . of . . . your . . . business,” I replied, careful to articulate the words.

  “Your friend’s gone.”

  “What?”

  “She’s gone.” He paused, watching me. “Skinny blonde you were dancing with? The one with that perm-headed tool hanging all over you both?” My expression must have confirmed his query. “They walked out when you started hitting on me.”

  “I was not hitting on . . . ” I stopped. Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I tried to clear my head and think. “Where did they go?”

  “How should I know? I was with you.”

  “You’ll never be with me,” I said, clearing my throat. “Where’d they go?”

  “Here’s a thought.” He clasped his hands together. “Instead of asking stupid questions, why not call her? On the phone. You do have a phone, right?”

  I blinked. I wanted to tell him off, but his suggestion was good. I should have thought of that in the first place. Fumbling, I felt my pants, locating my cell phone in my back pocket. I had just pulled up my list of contacts when it happened.

  A shot rang out. It sounded like a firecracker. With all the noises emanating from the various bars and restaurants, I wasn’t sure at first that was what I had heard. It was the screams that followed that confirmed my suspicions. That, and the mass exodus of people running away like a herd of wild buffalo during a stampede.

  I don’t know what came over me. Common sense would have me join the throngs running from the incident. Self-preservation should have kicked in. I should have gotten out of there as fast as I could. After all, I had already been shot once this year. And then had another bullet barely miss me at Natalie’s. Did I really want to risk the odds again?

  “What are you doing?”

  I heard him yell at me as I ran in the direction of the gunshot. Fighting to get through the people running in the opposite direction was difficult, especially when I was having trouble maintaining my balance. I didn’t have far to go. Less than a block later, I saw it. Or rather, I saw him.

  Lying on the ground with a small crowd beginning to form around him was Natalie’s friend, Cash. A dark-red stain began to saturate his light-blue shirt, just below his chest on the right side. I knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse. There was one, but it was faint. A wave of nausea washed over me, sending cold sweat pouring down my face and body. I climbed to my feet, uneasily, and backed away. Suddenly, I remembered Natalie.

  I scanned the crowd, but she was nowhere to be found. My heart began pounding so fast I wondered if it might explode. Swallowing hard, I tried to force myself to calm down, to focus so I could figure this out. Unfortunately, my body wasn’t cooperating.

  “What happened?” I heard someone ask as the sound of sirens grew near.

  “There was this girl with him,” I heard someone else say. “These two guys came up and it looked like they were talking. Then they started arguing and one of them pulled out a gun and shot him.”

  “Where’s the girl?”

  “I don’t know. I guess they took her.”

  10

  “I guess they took her.”

  Those words were set on repeat. They sent my mind reeling. I knew I needed to do something. To find her. To help her. But I couldn’t move. I felt frightened, nauseous, sick. Every nerve in my body was on fire, the adrenaline pumping through my veins. Everything inside me was ready to act, but my mind wouldn’t focus.

  You’re an investigator! my brain screamed. You do this for a living! You help people! So help!

  I’d handled missing person cases. I’d handled kidnapping cases. I even solved one in a foreign country, for crying out loud! How was it that I couldn’t figure this out at home?

  “Come on.”

  I felt myself being pulled away from the crowd, away from Cash. It took me a moment to realize the strong hand that gripped my arm and tugged me down the street was the jerk from the bar. When I finally made that connection, I yanked my arm free. I felt more focused than I had in hours.

  “Back off,” I snapped, glaring at him.

  “You don’t wanna get involved, trust me.”

  “Um, excuse me? Just who are you to tell me what I want to do?”

  “Five more minutes, that place is gonna be crawling with cops, most of them rookies, all looking for the quickest way to close another homicide.”

  “What?”

  “Or, a scene like that is gonna lead to more violence. Maybe even a riot. Either way, unless you want to end up dead too.”

  “He’s not dead!”

  “Great. Then you shouldn’t feel bad about walking away.”

  “Walking away?” I glared at him. I pointed in the direction we had come. “My friend is missing! She was kidnapped!”

  “You know that for certain?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Maybe she just left you. She seemed . . . flighty.”

  I stared
at him.

  “All right, let’s say she was kidnapped. I know these cops, okay? I know what’s gonna happen here if you start nosing around. They’re gonna get you tied up in some long, convoluted investigation that’ll lead to nothing and waste time.”

  “Sounds like someone has a beef with the police.”

  “You’re damn right I do.” Slowly, his expression softened. “If something did happen to your friend.” He paused. “Yeah, it sucks. But things happen here. It’s better not to—”

  “What are you saying? I should just walk away?” I glared at him. When he didn’t answer, the realization hit me. “Oh my. Are you . . .? What’s wrong with you? That’s how you treat your friends? You’re such a . . . No wonder you’re alone on a Friday night.”

  His jaw clamped shut, his eyes steeled. For a moment, I almost felt bad. I almost felt like my words had actually reached him, had hurt him. That feeling was short-lived.

  “Listen, babe, I’m being nice here.”

  “Babe?” I repeated, feeling a sudden and strong desire to slug him. “This is what you call nice?”

  “You don’t like my nice?” He crossed his arms, revealing well-defined biceps. “Fine. I could tell you it’s your own damn fault, both of you, for getting wasted on Bourbon Street.”

  “I’m so not wasted.”

  “Just the two of you, a couple of girls, alone . . .”

  “We weren’t alone.”

  “. . . and expecting everything to be all peachy keen.” He paused, his eyes focused on mine. “Do you have any common sense at all? Any clue what goes down here? Where’re you from, anyway?”

  “None of this is any of your business.” I felt my face flush. “Who I am, where I’m from, none of it has anything to do with you! While I’m standing here . . . trying to just . . . justif . . . explain myself, my friend, one of my best friends, could be in extreme danger. Or worse. I can’t let that happen. I have to help her. It’s my job!”

  “Your job?”

  I didn’t respond. All I needed was to have him start heckling me. Our entire exchange had been a waste of time. I had no intention of letting some smart-mouthed jerk distract me any more while Natalie needed my help. I brushed past him, hurrying toward the cops who had begun to secure the perimeter as the paramedics began to secure Cash to a gurney.

  Whatever fear was caused by the initial gunfire was replaced by curiosity at the sight of a real, French Quarter crime. People are attracted to the macabre. The thought of death fascinates them. Anytime any crime occurs, a crowd will soon appear. It reminded me of the faceless characters in a book by Dean Koontz I read while I was stuck in the Newark airport with a six-hour layover. In it, these creepy characters fed on the air of death that surrounded those nearing the end. Similarly, people feed on the fear, or the thrill, brought on by death, or at least by close calls.

  “Miss, I need you to get back,” a middle-aged officer with deep wrinkles framing his tired face said with a sigh. “This is a crime scene.”

  “That’s a friend of mine,” I protested, my heart pounding as I watched a young female paramedic roll the gurney carrying Cash, and my best shot of finding Natalie, toward the awaiting ambulance. The officer glanced over at Cash, then back at me.

  “You know him?”

  I nodded, hopefulness washing over me like a wave.

  He glanced over at his senior officer, who was interviewing a woman wearing a hot pink cocktail dress with a sash across her chest that read “Bride.” The cop turned back to me, asking, “What’s his name?”

  “Cash.”

  “Cash what?”

  “Uh . . .”

  I thought back. Had Natalie told me his last name? Maybe on Wednesday night, but I was almost positive it hadn’t been mentioned tonight. The officer must have seen the confusion on my face. Shaking his head, he pointed at the group of spectators who, while still focused on Cash, had also taken an interest in my exchange with the cop.

  “Miss, I’ll only say this one more time. Move back. Now.”

  “But-But . . .” Panic set in as I watched the gurney being rolled inside the idling vehicle. I couldn’t hear anything over the engine or the music emanating from a bar across the street, but I was almost certain I saw Cash’s eyes flicker. “I need to talk to him! He’s the only one who can help me find—”

  “Find what?”

  I met the officer’s gaze reluctantly. For some reason, my outburst had gotten his attention. My normal reaction would have been to tell him about Natalie. I would have shown him my PI license, explained that she may have been kidnapped, and asked to speak with Cash in order to determine what might have happened to her. But I didn’t.

  I could say the reason for my hesitation was the fact that I’d had one too many. I could say it was because I was still in a state of shock. I mean, realizing that a guy I spent the evening with was now lying on a gurney with a bullet wound in his right lower chest area was kind of shocking. I could say any number of reasons, but in reality, there was only one real reason that gave me pause.

  A dark-haired, blue-eyed reason whose words “They’re gonna get you tied up in some long, convoluted investigation that will lead to nothing and waste time” kept repeating in my head. As I considered my options, I realized the officer was still staring at me, growing more suspicious by the second. As much as I hated to admit it, I knew the jerk was right. If anyone were going to find Natalie, it wouldn’t be the cops. It’d have to be me.

  “Miss?” The officer studied me, leaning closer. As he did so, I thought I saw his hand move to his belt where his gun was located. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” I blinked, trying not to let the fact I was now on this cop’s radar spook me. “I’m fine.”

  “What did you need him to help you find?”

  “I . . .” I may not have been in the best state of mind to talk to an officer of the law, but I knew enough to realize this one was beginning to question me, possibly even want to search me for drugs or something. “Uh, he’s the only one who can help me find the bathroom. I really need to go.”

  “The bathroom?” After a moment, a tired frown crept across his chapped lips. “Miss, there’re public restrooms in Jax Brewery off Decatur. That’s a couple blocks that way.” He pointed. “Now, I’m going to have to insist, you need to move back.”

  I glanced behind him. I had looked up just in time to see the doors of the ambulance swing shut and the vehicle pull away. It was dark, but I recognized the ambulance as one belonging to Pelican Paramedics. Feeling frustrated, and a little lightheaded, I stumbled back away from the crime scene.

  “Miss?”

  I turned back to the officer.

  “Do you really know him?”

  “Well, I just met him tonight.”

  I could tell he wanted to ask me something, but must have decided against it. Nodding once, he turned his attention back to crowd control. Feeling shaky, I stumbled across the street. I leaned against the wall next to the open doorway of a daiquiri shop. I tried to collect my thoughts, to think about what I should do next. That’s when I saw someone in my peripherals lean against the wall beside me.

  “That was some serious detective work.”

  I didn’t have to look over to know who it was. Shutting my eyes, I said a silent prayer he would go away. Far, far away. No such luck. Instead, I heard a lighter click and the woody aroma of tobacco filled my nostrils.

  “If you’re into playing investigator, I’d say you’re more than qualified to join the ranks of these fine officers. Maybe even become their chief.”

  I ignored him. I watched as a group of women, possibly in their mid-forties but who dressed like they were in their twenties, stumbled past, giggling as they clutched plastic cups and rubbernecked to get a view of the crime scene. When they realized all th
at was there was blood stained pavement, they moved on. The last in the group tripped over a loose red brick near me, stumbled forward and grabbed hold of the nearest object, me, to regain her balance.

  Luckily, I was close enough to the wall to grab the doorframe before she could take us both down. She didn’t fall, but did manage to spill some of her fruity drink on me. Instead of apologizing, she burst out laughing and scrambled clumsily to catch up to her friends, who hadn’t even bothered to wait for her. Staring down at my wet shirt, I cursed under my breath.

  “Looks like you’ve had some night.”

  “Is there a reason you’re still here?”

  He puffed his cigar, smiling. Apparently, my frustration amused him. I really wanted to hit him.

  “Free country, babe.”

  Groaning, I stumbled forward to get away from him.

  Surveying the area, I studied the few people still there. The cops had interviewed almost everyone they could, but at the thought of being subpoenaed for trial, most hurried away. Among those who remained were a couple of college kids smoking, an elderly couple taking a sick selfie with the crime scene behind them, and a guy in his mid-twenties wearing a worn poncho and strumming on an acoustic guitar on a street corner opposite the scene. Of them all, something struck me about the guitarist. I decided to start my investigation there.

  “Hey,” I offered, stopping in front of him.

  His long, dirty-blond hair shaded his face as he played, a folk-style melody rising from the nylon strings. He sat cross-legged, his back against the wall and his eyes closed. He didn’t look up at my greeting. Instead, the song he had been strumming transformed into a slower, softer one. I recognized it as a local classic, “New Orleans ladies.”

  He had a beautiful voice, rich and vibrant. Almost mesmerizing. I wanted to just sit down and listen as the tune enveloped me. But I couldn’t. I had to get answers. I had to help Natalie.