John Worthy aroused briefly from his sleep. His heart ached. He knew Jane was downstairs pacing.
Although he felt deeply for his wife, he had no desire to go to her, to try and give her comforting words. He was overcome by his own grief. He also knew his life with Jane would change for the worse. She would never draw a peaceful breath. There would be an all-out crusade against law enforcement, gun control, and God only knew what else. John wished they could grieve together, find strength within each other, and continue their life, but Jane had never been like that. Once she was secure in marriage and family, a focal point in society, and being a doctor’s wife, her existence was defined by luncheons, bridge, golf and tennis at the club. An interpretation of God’s law as He really meant it to be. He prayed she would stay out of the media, unlike during her sojourn against abortion. If she wasn’t picketing alleged abortionists in front of reporters, she was marching to Washington in support of pro-life laws. John, a quiet, middle-aged man who devoted his time to his practice, prayed his overzealous wife would not drag out their son’s death through championing another cause. He tried to visualize the last meeting with his son. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember how long his hair was or how tall he was. He did remember Jeff’s first bicycle, a red Schwinn. Jane hadn’t known about it and wasn’t pleased. It wasn’t Jeff’s birthday or Christmas. He just had wanted to surprise his son. Jeff was bowled over. His mom was irritated because it wasn’t her idea. John never surprised his son again, nor his wife. He could hear her sobbing downstairs. He rolled into a fetal position and, while thinking of Jeff on the red Schwinn, eased back into his drug-induced sleep, something he would become efficient at.
CHAPTER 8
Ginger’s Bar and Grill was a small hole in the wall that was comprised mostly of old domino players who strolled in early for coffee and stayed until noon, followed by whatever Drummer decided to cook up. The afternoons were slow until about five, when the regulars would wander in from work for happy hour, talk shop, and play three-ball. Usually by eight, the bar was nearly empty. Hopkins was among these drop-ins. Dot pretty much ran the bar. It was her family; she was divorced with grown children. At Ginger’s, she could keep in touch with former coworkers and do pretty much as she pleased. There was talk of hiring someone else to help, maybe a younger girl to bring in a few new souls, but that was mostly her idea.
Dave followed Hopkins through a wooden screen door in the back, walking past Drummer, who was cleaning up.
“Hey, Drummer,” Hopkins said, “you save me a turkey leg?”
“Just the bone, Rick.” Drummer smiled. “Just the bone. Who’s your shadow?”
“This is Detective Dave Edmunds.” Both men reached out their hands. “Dave, this is Charles David Drummer, esquire.”
“Just call me Drummer. Everybody else does. I’ll call you Shadow, because I like that name and I’ll get a kick out of calling you that.”
“Nice to meet you, Drummer.” Dave looked at Hopkins, who was smiling. Drummer smiled and strolled outside to his Chrysler and home to his wife and grandkids.
“Come on, Shadow, meet some more characters.”
They entered the smallish, semi-dark saloon. There were three walls of paneling with posters of “blues greats”: Guitar Slim, Gates Mouth Brown, Freddie King, Buddy Guy, and Muddy Waters. A bar constructed of the same stained wood, topped with new black Formica, separated the kitchen. Four sets of eyes looked up; heads nodded “hello.”
Hopkins introduced Dave. They fielded questions about the latest crime wave, carefully skirting specifics, painting a general picture to satisfy the curious. Dot served them two beers and a bowl of peanuts. Dave was grateful that Hopkins didn’t refer to him as a rookie and treated him as a fellow detective.
Halfway through their first beer, another man entered through the back. Dot smiled a “hello boss” while the boys chimed in with, “Hey, Ginger.”
Hopkins didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he complained loudly that the bar was too hot. Dave looked at Ginger as the man opened himself a beer and started around the bar. He was of average height and weight, with fine brown hair combed straight back, extending over his jacket collar. He climbed atop a black vinyl stool next to Hopkins.
“I believe you’re right, Holmes. It is a tad warm. How did you arrive at this conclusion?”
“Elementary, my dear Watson, elementary.”
Both men broke into a broad smile.
“Why aren’t you home with Linda and the brats?”
“Sleuthing!”
“Ah, yes, so I can sleep better at night.”
“But of course.” Turning to Dave, he said, “Detective Dave Edmunds, this here be the proprietor of the joint, Ginger Bread Mason.”
“So this is the upstart who’s impressed you so much.” He extended his hand. Dave, embarrassed at the compliment, shook the hand quickly and nodded hello.
“He’s too young to be any good. Throw him back.”
“Ignore him, Dave. He fancies himself a writer. However, the only thing he has published is a hot check. And he had to plagiarize that.”
Everyone laughed, including Dave.
“Well, Dick Tracy, did you solve the latest crisis?”
“Didn’t have to. Witness on the scene played hero.”
“Oh?’
Hopkins spoke in a lower voice, summarizing the events of the past twenty-four hours.
Ginger scowled.
“What?” Hopkins asked.
“Nothing, really. Something just strikes me as odd.”
“What do you mean?”
Dave leaned in, trying to listen to the conversation.
“It just doesn’t sound believable. Something is missing. Sounds too perfect.”
Hopkins shook his head. “Too perfect? You’ve been at the boob tube again. This ain’t Murder She Wrote.” He looked at his watch and motioned to Dot for more beer.
“What’s wrong, Ricky? Got to go to your mom-in-law’s for turkey?”
Hopkins grimaced. “Don’t remind me. Want to come?”
“If only I could, but as fate would have it, I’m destined to dine with the few haphazard drunks who stumble in.” He looked at Dave. “And what about you, lad? Family live here?”
Dave nodded, “Yes, I—”
“He’s married with a newborn. First Christmas for both occasions,” Hopkins interrupted, defending his young protégé.
“Congratulations!”
“Thank you. Do you have kids?”
“Well, I—”
“Hell no. Just dogs,” Hopkins interrupted again.
“Do you mind?” Ginger stared at Hopkins. “We’re quite capable of having a conversation without your footnotes.”
His longtime friend ignored him. “Hell, Ginger can’t find a woman who’ll put up with him for more than a few months. Isn’t that right, Dot?”
Dot gave a short, abrupt scoff. “Few months, my ass. Maybe a few weeks at the most.”
Everyone in the bar laughed. Even Ginger had to laugh.
“With friends like these, Dave, I don’t have a chance with a woman. They scare them off before they really get a chance to know me. What do you think about that?”
“Humanitarians, I guess.” The laughter echoed.
“Oooh, that hurt, Dave. I thought you were going to be different. Guess you’ve been around Hoppy too long.”
Before the chuckles had died out, the front door gave way to a petite young woman about thirty, with coal black hair that hung to the small of her back. She had a dark complexion, even though summer was long past.
Her eyes were deep and dark, like the sky on a moonless night. She was headed toward Ginger and she wasn’t smiling.
Everyone looked at Ginger, then at each other and snickered.
Hopkins made eye contact with Ginger. “Remember, Pard. The best defense…”
“Right! Is a good offense.” He jumped from his stool with a frown. “Where have you been, Bev? I was starting to get worrie
d. You were supposed to be here over an hour ago.” He looked at his watch.
“Me?” She almost shouted. “You shit! You were supposed to pick me up at eleven-thirty. I promised my mother I would bring you by. Now we’re late.”
“Hey, don’t blame me. I’ve been sitting here waiting. I told you Mark was borrowing my truck.”
“You did not!”
“I most certainly did. This morning, before I left your apartment. You said, ‘Okay, baby, I’ll be there.’”
“Really? I did?”
Ginger turned, acting hurt, and eased back between Hopkins and Dave. The young woman followed him, suddenly aware that she may have been wrong. She put her arms around him. “I’m sorry, honey, I must have been asleep. I don’t remember.” She kissed him on the neck as everyone watched intently, waiting for the final curtain.
“Great impression I’ll make with your parents,” Ginger whined, definitely playing to his audience.
“Don’t worry, hon. It wasn’t your fault. Besides, we’re not that late. I’ll explain to them.”
“Why don’t you call and explain so your mom won’t worry?”
“Maybe I should. I’ll use your office.” She dashed off through the kitchen, then turned around. “I’m sorry, guys. Sometimes I’m such a bitch.” She shook her head and walked to the office.
“You’re such an asshole! Sometimes I could just strangle you. That poor dear.” Dot shook her head in disbelief. “I give up on you.”
The men were shaking their heads too, shaming Ginger, but snickering at the same time.
“You’re all assholes,” said Dot, “the whole lot of you. I’m finished.”
Hopkins spoke up. “She’s right, you know. And I for one would like to ask Dot for forgiveness.” He paused. “And one more beer.”
Everybody laughed. Dot smiled and handed Hopkins a Miller Lite. “You’re a brat. Go home!”
“I’m on my way.”
Dave glanced at his watch. He knew he should be leaving, but he was feeling good and accepted, so he stayed for one more.
Bev returned with all smiles.
Ginger prepared to stand. “Are we ready?” he asked.
“No hurry! Mom is running late, too. Won’t be ready until three. Can I have a beer?” she giggled. Ginger gave up his stool as he accepted a kiss from the girl.
Hopkins looked at Dave, shook his head, and laughed. “Let’s get out of here while we can.”
CHAPTER 9
The day after Christmas was Friday but felt like Monday. Hopkins awoke with a sinus headache trying to settle behind his eyes. He took a pill, which wasn’t working. He sat at his metal desk shuffling through papers, trying to form a complete synopsis to present to Captain Edwards. He had statements from all officers, the coroner’s reports, ballistics’ reports, and a statement from Joe. He remembered Ginger’s words: “Something is missing. Sounds too perfect.” His eyes began to throb. He was checking out for the weekend. The captain could issue a statement to the press on Monday.
Dave strolled in the office, carrying a notepad and a Big Gulp. “Sarge, you look awful. Did you go back out last night?”
“Hell no. I wish I had. It’s sinus, I think. Linda’s mother’s fireplace doesn’t draft very well, and we stayed over there forever.”
“Did you watch any football?”
“Yeah! Father-in-law is a big fan; high school, college, pro. You name it, he watches it. What did you come up with?”
“Everything seems to check out with Mr. Brown killing Jeff Worthy, then robbing and killing Juan Fuentes before Cooper axed him.”
“I knew that,” he snapped. “I mean, what else was missing at the Worthy’s?” Dave’s eyes bugged. “I’m sorry, Dave. Damn headache has got me on edge. That and the damn media pestering me.”
“Yeah, they’re everyplace. What should we do?”
“Bullshit about the ongoing investigation. Terrible tragedy… doing all we can… statement on Monday.”
“What about Cooper? They’re asking about a civilian, a hero who saved the day.”
“Keep his name out as much as possible.”
“Because of what Ginger said?”
“Ginger doesn’t know shit,” he paused. “But sometimes he is the luckiest SOB in the world. But I’m sure it’s pretty cut-and-dried.”
“Yeah, I think so, too,” Dave agreed. “What about the Worthys?”
“He was quiet, distraught, not very talkative. She was hysterical.”
“Really upset, huh?”
“Yes, but not so much heartbroken as in a rage about how this could have happened.”
“Justice and all?”
Dave shrugged, not knowing what else to do.
“And the neighbors?”
“Her followers. How public-minded she is. What a good wife. What a good mother. You know.” Dave thought a minute. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“Check out Sunday’s editorials. Television will be bad enough, but the print media will be after us for months. Long, drawn-out articles about the inefficiency of the police, lack of protection, blah, blah, blah.”
“What could we have done?”
“Nothing. This just gives people something to bitch about, blame others. It’s our job to serve, to protect, and we failed… on Christmas Eve. It’s as if we know each criminal personally and should guess their every move.”
“Yeah, right, that’s impossible.”
“Welcome to a new world, Dave. You’re no longer chasing DUIs, you’re following leads, taking notes, checking serial numbers, talking to the next of kin, listening to informants who want to be paid for useless information. And it’s a pretty thankless job. If there’s little crime going on, do we get credit for curbing criminal activities? No, we have a cushy job. Someone commits a crime, we should have been there to stop it, we were sitting on our asses at a donut shop, not earning our pay.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I don’t know about you, but I quit! Let’s go.” He started walking away.
“You serious?”
“Hell, yeah.” he smiled. “At least until Monday.”
Dave laughed. “I’m with you. I quit too.”
“So where’s Ginger?” Hopkins asked, walking into the bar from the back.
“Feeding his dogs. Should be back any minute. Want lunch?” asked Dot.
“Just a beer and some aspirin.”
Drummer walked out of the bathroom. “Hey, Rick. Where’s your shadow?” He chuckled, looking around.
“He’ll be here in a few minutes. Checking something out.”
“Seems like a pretty good boy.”
“Yeah, he’s going to make a fine detective.”
Drummer retreated to his kitchen and Hopkins swiveled to watch a foursome playing moon. Midway through his second beer, Ginger could be heard in the kitchen with one of his labs.
“Buckshot! Come on, boy. Come see old Drummer.” The yellow lab obeyed happily, grabbing at the man’s long, slender hands playfully. “Where’ve you been lately, Buck?”
“He’s been servicing some lady friends.” Ginger smiled and walked out.
“You old hound, you. You’re just like your daddy.” He ruffled Buck’s ears. “How ’bout old Drummer fixin’ you something to eat? Maybe there’s a turkey leg stuck back someplace just for you,” he laughed, heading to the refrigerator with Buckshot on his heels.
“Well, Detective, what’s the latest with the murder game?” Ginger fetched himself a beer.
“Get me one. Seems one of Drummer’s brothers got himself killed by an unseen witness.”
“Ain’t my brother,” came from the back.
“Read today’s paper?”
“Not yet. What does it say?” Hopkins asked, more concerned than he sounded.
“Well, we have a near-hero in town, a brave citizen who stopped a potential mass murderer.”
“I can guess the rest. Our hero risked his life and limbs while the police were doing last-minute Christmas shop
ping instead of patrolling for potential crimes.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“Did they mention the hero’s name?”
“No.”
“They will by tomorrow.”
“How will they know?”
“They’ll find a way. I sure would like to talk to him again before he’s swamped by the hordes.”
“You think he’s just going to walk in here?”
Hopkins looked up from his beer with a scowl. “Dave went by his motel room to leave a message.”
“Motel room? A real solid citizen.”
“Roofer. Chasing storms.”
“Think he’s still here?” There was concern in Ginger’s voice.
“I certainly hope so.” He wasn’t sure how that would play out, but before he could debate it, Detective Edmunds came through the front door. He had thought about going through the back, but without his superior, he thought it best not to. He wasn’t among the select. Yet.
Hopkins swiveled, leaned against the wooden rail with his arms crossed.
Dave began immediately. “No one was there. I talked to the manager. He was no help. Said Cooper had been there about two weeks. Paid on time. No problem. I left a message with him and also a note on the door to call you. And I got a patrol to keep an eye on things.”
“Any reporters?”
“No. Expecting any?”
“Word’s out there was a hero. Tomorrow they’ll be camped out for live interviews. It would be nice to beat them to it. If not, they’ll be saying we can’t even catch the good guys.”
“Yeah, I see what you mean. I think I’ll go back by, maybe get lucky.”
“Want me to go?”
“Nah, take care of your headache. I’ll check back in a while.” He turned to leave, only to be greeted by Drummer and Buckshot.
“Hey, boy!” he said to the dog. “What’s your name?”
“This is Buckshot,” Drummer said proudly. “Say hello to Shadow, Buck.” Buckshot gave a polite bark.
“You’re a good-looking dog, Buckshot.”
“He’s been celebrating. He’s been out getting him a little,” informed Drummer. “He and Satin already have some pups, and he’s going to give me one, aren’t you, boy?” Buckshot agreed with another bark.
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