by Vella Day
A van, traveling along the cross street going super fast ran the red light then slammed on its brakes. Tires squealed as the huge vehicle swerved left and then right. Not having enough space to stop, it crashed into the side of Audrey’s small car.
Metal crunched, sparks flew. Oh, shit.
Audrey’s Bug got squashed.
“Noooo.” Morton ripped open his door refusing to believe the two people he’d wanted to protect the most might be dead.
1
Four years later
“Ohmigod,” Chelsea said. Waiting for the Blue Moon’s Bar to open, the waitress hopped up on the barstool and spread the Tampa Tribune on the shiny bar. “Listen to this, Tessa. A woman was shot to death in her car two nights ago on Bayshore Boulevard.”
Tessa Redman looked up at the waitress and stopped polishing the counter. Bayshore was less than two miles away. “How horrible.” Thinking about a killer on the loose caused a chill to race down her spine. “Maybe I’ll ask Judd if I can beef up the lights in the parking lot.”
Chelsea’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “Great idea. I hate going out by myself at night. It’s creepy sometimes.”
“Tell me about it.” Tessa returned to disinfecting the bar, wrinkling her nose at the strong bleach smell. Her mind reeled with the horror the woman must have experienced in the last few seconds of her life.
Tessa finished cleaning and tossed the rag into a bucket of soapy water, and then stacked the liquor bottles behind her. The crinkling of the flipped page brought Tessa back to the incident, and she stepped in front of Chelsea. “Do the police have any leads?”
The waitress ran a bright red, well-manicured nail further down the newspaper column. “Not really. All it says is the time of death was around midnight.”
“Hmm. Even at that time, I’m surprised no one heard the gunshot.”
“Maybe everyone was sleeping.”
“Or no one could be bothered.”
Chelsea bobbed her head up and down. “I can see that.” A hint of regret filled her tone. “Hey, maybe the guy used a silencer.”
Before Tessa could speculate on the series of events, the doublewide front doors opened, sending in a shaft of bright sunlight through the dimly lit restaurant, silhouetting a large man. Cool, salt air from the bay filtered in along with him.
“We open at eleven,” Tessa announced.
“That’s all right,” he replied as the doors swung shut behind him. “I just need some information.”
As he neared the bar, last night’s peanut shells crunched under his commanding steps. He looked down, and then returned his gaze to her face. A narrow cone of light from the overhead lantern illuminated the angle of the man’s face. Whoa. The sharp plane of his face and powerful shoulders caused her breath to catch, and her heart did an unexpected flip—a sensation she hadn’t experienced in...forever.
He held up his police badge, and her heart almost stopped before it raced. Blood rushed from her face. “What do you want?” The panic in her voice made her sound guilty, even to her.
“I’m Detective Dominic Rossi with the Tampa PD. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The detective’s piercing gaze had Tessa grabbing for the edge of the bar. “What about?”
“A woman was killed near here two nights ago. We have reason to believe she might have visited the bar before she was murdered. Were you working Wednesday night?”
Tessa nodded to Chelsea. “Would you mind seeing to the table set ups?” Her heart continued to pound.
“Okay,” Chelsea said, pursing her lips, clearing wanting in the action.
Tessa turned back to the cop, and a lump formed in her throat. “Yes, I was here.”
The detective plucked an envelope from his shirt pocket, stepped closer to the bar and slid a photo toward her. “Do you recognize this woman? I’m sorry it’s rather graphic.”
Tessa let out a pent up breath. Apparently this cop only wanted a name. She’d be happy to help any way she could and leaned over to get a closer view. The bone-white face of the woman resting against a half open car window grabbed the breath out of her. A trail of blood ran from the woman’s blond hair ran down to her neck.
“Ohmigod.” Unfortunately, the angle of the photo failed to give Tessa a good look of the woman’s face. She tilted the photo toward the light hoping for a better view. “She's kind of familiar, but I can’t place her.” Her heart thudded at the gruesome scene.
“Her name’s Keri Wilkerson. We found a set of matches on her front seat with the Blue Moon’s name on it.” He pulled out a notepad and flipped to a yellow Post-it tab. “It also had a phone number inside. 813-555-8395.”
Her number. Goose bumps raced up Tessa’s arms. “I remember her now.” She’d told the distressed woman if she needed to talk to call her at home. “She was here Wednesday night.”
“Do you remember if she was with anyone?”
Tessa visualized where Keri sat at the bar. “No, she was by herself. I don’t remember her talking to anyone but me.”
“How did Mrs. Wilkerson seem?”
Tessa pictured the woman—shoulders slumped, mascara blurred under her eyes, but dressed in designer jeans. “Sad, confused, angry.”
“Did she say why?”
The larger-than-life cop lifted a lean hip onto the stool and focused on her face as if memorizing it. Tessa didn’t like the scrutiny and forced a calm she didn’t feel.
“Her eyes were red, and her face was splotchy when she arrived. I could tell she’d been crying. The woman, Keri, came in and ordered a double scotch on the rocks. She downed her drink in a few chugs and ordered another. I couldn’t forget her. For quite a while Keri just stared, not saying a word. After about an hour, I asked her if anything was wrong, and she blurted out she’d caught her husband in bed with a man.”
His brows arched. “You sure she said a man?”
“Yes. Keri suffered from overwhelming guilt, as if she was somehow to blame for her husband’s deception and change of lifestyle.”
The detective neatly printed her information in his pad. “Do you remember what time Mrs. Wilkerson left?”
“Not exactly, but I think it was a little before midnight, right before we close.”
His face remained unreadable as he continued to jot notes. “May I have your name?”
“My name?” Her heart stuttered.
“Yes.”
Did she dare tell him? “Why?”
“For the record.”
“Oh. Ah, Tessa.” His hand stilled in mid air, obviously waiting for her last name. “Redman. Tessa Redman.”
His pen went to work again, and she prayed her name wouldn’t ring a bell.
“Are you the owner?” He glanced up, his piercing blue eyes locking onto her face.
“No, my half-brother, Judd Redman, owns the Blue Moon.”
“Was he around Wednesday night?”
Her stomach turned queasy thinking about Judd’s condition. “I’m afraid he’s been in and out of the hospital for the last few weeks.”
“I’m sorry.” His sincere tone surprised her. “What time did you leave here that night?”
“It was after one. I stayed to work on the books since Wednesday is my bookkeeping day, or rather night.”
“Can anyone vouch for your presence?”
“No.” She tried not to show her annoyance. “What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything, ma’am, just doing my job.”
As if she’d have anything to do with a murder. Please. Tessa glanced over to Chelsea cleaning a tabletop a few feet away, no doubt listening to every word.
The detective looked down at his hands for a split second. “I know you’re not open for business yet, but could I have a drink?”
His abrupt shortening of the interview threw her. What was he up to? Was he just another cop needing to take the edge off the horrors of his job? Or was he here for another purpose?
“I’m sorry. I don’t serve on
-duty policemen.”
He lifted his head and seemed to fight a smile. “I meant a Coke. I’ll pay.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. “Sure. Sorry.”
Some psychologist she was going to be. She needed to be more careful about jumping to unwarranted conclusions.
Tessa drew the drink from the tap and handed Detective Rossi the glass. Their fingers touched for a brief moment causing a shock of electricity to bolt up her arm. She jumped back so fast, she felt like a fool.
The cop’s long, broad fingers had unsettled her, reminding her of someone else. Tessa choked back her anxiety, picked up a clean rag, and began to polish the spotless, wooden bar again, hoping the detective wouldn’t notice her discomfort. The last thing she needed was the exposure of a criminal investigation.
The detective took a large gulp of soda and eyed her above the lip of the glass. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“N-no.”
Chelsea sauntered up to the detective, slid onto the stool next to him and leaned close. “Got any other cases you need help with?” She ran a nail down the Pledge can, slow and easy.
Tessa made a silent promise to give the girl a bonus for distracting the policeman.
The detective scanned Chelsea from head to toe before turning back toward the bar. “No.”
“Tessa,” one of her cooks called, sauntering out of the kitchen, the swinging double doors clacking close behind him.
“Excuse me,” she said to the detective, relieved to get away from him. “And Chelsea? Work awaits.” She turned and strode toward Roger. “What is it?” She failed to keep the exasperation from her voice.
Roger shuffled his feet from side to side and stuck his hands in his pockets. “We’re out of chicken,” he announced in the slowest southern drawl she’d ever heard.
“You’re kidding. That’s like a bar being out of beer. How could this have happened?” she whispered, not wanting the cop to overhear their conversation. She didn’t need this aggravation.
“I dunno. Walt does the ordering.”
She checked her watch. “And where is Walt?”
His lips firmed for a split second before shooting his gaze shot to the floor. “Not here.”
Obviously. “So what would Judd do in this case?” she asked, praying Roger would offer a quick solution.
“Get some more?”
Duh. “Look, we open in forty-five minutes. Can you run down to the store and buy whatever we need?”
Roger let out a long breath and rolled his eyes. “I suppose so.”
The kitchen help around here sucked. What had her brother been thinking when he hired these guys? She made a mental note to speak with Judd. On second thought, maybe not. He didn’t need the added stress when he was so ill right now. She’d have to handle the crisis herself.
As soon as Roger disappeared into the kitchen, she looked up Walt’s number and called him. She kept her back rigid and turned away from Detective Rossi.
“Uh-huh?” Walt answered.
Oh God, she’d either woken him up or he had a hangover. “Walt, where are you? It’s after ten already.”
“Who’s this?”
“Tessa. Your new boss. Remember?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “You’re supposed to be at work.”
“I quit yesterday.” He yawned loudly into the phone. “Charley was supposed to tell you.”
Charley, her taciturn bartender, wouldn’t bother telling her if the restaurant was on fire. “Why didn’t you tell me? Did something happen?” If she could understand his dilemma, she might be able to help.
“I’m moving back to Alabama. Sorry. Didn’t my friend show up? He needs a job and I told him to stop by.”
“No.”
“He’s a good guy and really needs the work. Just don’t judge him by his past. Listen, I gotta go.”
“I don’t—”
He hung up on her. Damn it. Tessa dropped the receiver back onto the cradle and swiveled on her heels. She was half way back to the cash register to check on the change drawer when the phone rang again. She threw up her hands. “What is this? I-4 in rush hour?” she mumbled as she marched back. “Hello?” This time she didn’t sound so nice.
“Ms. Redman, please.”
Tessa glanced toward the detective, wondering what was going through his mind and why he was still here. His elbows were planted on the counter, his gaze solidly fixed on her. Not a hint of expression laced his face.
“This is she.” She kept her voice low. Maybe it was Walt’s friend telling her he’d found another job. Wouldn’t that suck?
“Ms. Redman. This is Grady Jankowski from the Jankowski Development Company.”
Her body tensed, ready for battle. She’d needed the caller to be the cook, not the jerk who kept bugging her every few days about selling the place. She had to believe her brother would recover soon. He loved the Blue Moon and he didn’t need some sleazy developer to come in and liquidate his pride and joy.
“Mr. Jankowski, as I’ve told you before, the restaurant’s not for sale. Please don’t call here again.”
“Thanks for the Coke, Ms. Redman,” the detective called out as she pressed the disconnect button. She whipped around to face him. He smiled and her heart sped up. “Seeing you at work has been an enlightening experience.”
Before she could question him what he meant, he tossed a few dollars on the counter and walked away.
“Rossi,” Dom’s partner, Phil Orloff, sang out as he walked into his office and tapped him on the shoulder.
“What?” Dom swiveled in his desk chair to face Phil.
“We have a homicide to solve, or don’t you remember?”
Dom remembered all right. He wished he could forget the way the black gunpowder stippled the Wilkerson woman’s temple or the angle at which her head slumped against the steering wheel. But he couldn’t. Her vacant eyes kept haunting him. They were so much like his mom’s eyes after the burglar killed her and Dad. The memory of the bullet hole in each of their heads made his stomach sick.
“Yeah, what about it?” Dom said between clenched teeth.
“Did anything at the restaurant pan out?” Phil leaned against the gray metal desk and crossed his arms, reminding Dom of a damned commando—tough and ornery.
Dom relaxed. “We were right about the victim visiting the Blue Moon the night she was murdered. Ms. Redman, the bar’s manager, told me the Wilkerson woman said she found dear hubby in bed with another man the night she died.”
Phil whistled. “Now there’s something we didn’t suspect.”
“No kidding. Dom drew the keyboard closer to him, ready to work on the report.
Phil leaned closer. “I know the look on your face. What aren’t you telling me?”
Dom sat up. He knew Phil’s bulldog tone meant he’d never leave him alone until he gave up the info. “Ms. Redman isn’t coming clean. I can feel it. I tell you, Phil, the woman looked downright scared the moment I walked into the bar. I’ve never seen such wide eyes. Talk about being fidgety. She couldn’t wait to get rid of me.”
“Well, that’s because of your ugly mug,” Phil answered without a trace of humor in his eyes.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He flashed a smile then sobered. “Did you run her name?”
“Of course, but nothing popped up.” Dom leaned back in his chair. “Did you check to see when the autopsy would be back on Keri Wilkerson?”
“I did. You should have the results by the end of next week.”
“Next week?”
“The woman’s only been in the morgue two days,” Phil said. “You know how overloaded they are.”
“I know, but just this once—” Dom waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind. Did you get anything on the victim’s relatives?”
Phil straightened, pulled out a notepad and riffled through the tattered pages. Dom shook his head. The guy needed to get some kind of PDA.
“It’s here somewhere,” Phil said then
smiled. “Yup. Here it is. Only living relative in the area was her husband, Taylor Wilkerson, aged forty-five. I checked out his alibi. He was at the Tampa Art Museum fund raiser until 10:30 p.m. before heading to a party on Davis Island until 2 a.m.”
Dom whistled. “On a Wednesday night? Even I’m too old to be partying that late on a work night, and I’m ten years younger.”
Phil chuckled. “You? Party? When was the last time you had fun? As in F-U-N?”
Ever since Lisa died Phil worried about him, but he wouldn’t confide in his partner if he ever did go out. The whole precinct would have a memo detailing his actions by morning. “None of your business. What else you got?” Dom kept his tone even.
“I can take a hint,” Phil said. His grin did nothing to calm Dom’s stomach. “Let’s see.” He ran a finger down the pad. “Jimmy finished canvassing the neighbors, but as you might expect, nobody saw anything.” Phil looked up.
“No surprise. See what dirt you can dig up on Wilkerson’s love interest.”
“I’m on it.” Phil shoved off Dom’s desk and strode back to his own.
Dom studied Keri Wilkerson’s file again. There wasn't much he could do until the reports came in. As his palm brushed his short-cropped hair, he contemplated his next move.
The smell of burnt coffee wafted over to him. What he wouldn’t give for a cup of his specially mixed Kenyan blend right now. Guess he’d have to settle for the sludge Sergeant Cantori was brewing—that or toothpicks to keep his eyelids open.
As he picked up his blue coffee mug, the exact color of Tessa’s eyes, he could almost see her glaring at him. Pretty eyes, but one that held a well of guilt. Her knee-jerk reaction to his simple questions implied she was troubled. Now all he had to do was find out why.
2
Dear Audrey Mae,
I’ve moved again. This time to Tampa. You would have liked it here, all warm and sunny, with sandy beaches for Bobby to play on. I know I said I wouldn’t move again, but I had to leave Atlanta. Detective Lowell, some Atlanta PD dick, was asking too many damn questions. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not sorry for what I had to do. As a matter of fact, it felt real good to kill those three drunks—one for each year you and Bobby have been gone. No one should have to go through what I went through after that alcoholic asshole stole you from me.