I’d been a cop for close to ten years before the ribbing and ridiculing finally wore off, only to turn into anger and vitriol last year. Turns out, I handle taunting better than I handle outrage. Or dead bodies, for that matter.
“Not much left to identify him,” Ramirez points out.
There isn’t. His face is barely recognizable as such, and I immediately consider that someone had to be plenty pissed to inflict that kind of injury.
“Whoever killed him knew him, and didn’t particularly like him,” I point out.
“Understatement of the year…” Tony says, pulling a pen from his pocket to move aside the jacket the victim appears to be wearing. I suppress a shudder. “…seeing as this is a bullet hole in his chest. Overkill, if you ask me.”
I pull out my phone and do a quick online check.
“He died sometime in the past three weeks,” I announce.
“Where’d you get that?”
“That heat wave ended three weeks ago. Daytime temps have stayed pretty mild, but the nights have gotten pretty chilly. He’s wearing a coat, which tells me this happened at night or very early in the morning,” I clarify, walking around the body.
“I agree with that assessment,” a woman’s voice sounds behind us, making all three of us turn.
A gray-haired woman dressed in jeans and a blue windbreaker is looking down on us from the edge of the excavation.
“And you are?” VanDyken asks, an edge to his voice.
“Meredith Carter. Dr. Meredith Carter.”
Ah. Our new coroner is obviously a woman. Ramirez regroups quickly and holds out a hand to help her down into the hole. As she steps down, I notice her purple Doc Martens and I glance back up to her face. On closer examination, our new coroner is much younger than the gray hair implied.
“Tony Ramirez, and this is Lissie Bucco and Jay VanDyken, he was first on scene.”
“Perfect,” she says, pointing at the officer. “Then you can give me a hand.” She tosses a pair of latex gloves at him, dons a pair herself, and bends down over the body, not waiting to see if he follows suit or not.
Tony grins and comes to stand next to me, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Do you get the sense we’re witnessing some kind of power conflict here?”
“There does seem to be some tension,” I agree quietly. “Interesting.”
We stand there, quietly observing Dr. Carter as she has Jay roll the body over, when Tony breaks the silence.
“So how’s the new place working out?”
“Love it. I can cross the bridge and walk to the City Market in five minutes. It’s perfect.”
“I’m glad it’s working out. Getting along with your landlord?”
I turn and find his inquisitive eyes on me.
“Yeah. Hardly see him.”
Not face-to-face anyway. I’ve heard his bike and watched him drive off a few more times these past couple of weeks, but I haven’t actually spoken to him since he helped me move in. Maybe I should talk to him about that dripping faucet in the bathroom.
Then Tony surprises me when he says, “Probably best.”
Yuma
“I hope I didn’t drag you from something important.”
I look up at Lisa, who not only lives in unit twenty-three with her two grandchildren, but also works at the club. Last year when she arrived in Durango, she needed a job, and the club was in need of someone to take over for Momma, who was recovering from her injury. Momma never fully recovered and Lisa stayed on.
Right now she has a window with a crack in it, courtesy of her five-year-old granddaughter, Kiara, who is standing in the corner of her bedroom, eyeing me with big scared eyes.
“Nothing important,” I reassure Lisa, before turning to the little girl. “What happened?” I immediately feel like an ogre when her eyes well up.
“Well?” Lisa prompts her. “Tell Mr. Yuma why the window broke.”
“I throwed my ball.” She points at a softball lying on the ground. “Ezrah throws his ball all the time.”
“Ezrah’s ball is foam, baby—your ball is hard.”
“I didn’t know.” Her bottom lip starts quivering and her face crumples.
“I can fix it,” I quickly announce, not a fan of tears. “I was gonna change out some of these windows anyway. Gonna measure and head to Home Depot.”
It’s not exactly a lie, about changing out the windows. Last year a lot of the units got new sliding doors to the balconies and new windows, but none on this side of the building have been replaced yet. If I’m gonna do one window, I may as well do them all.
Fifteen minutes later, I walk out of twenty-three and look over at twenty-four. Elizabeth Bucco, that’s the name on her lease. Except, she doesn’t strike me as an Elizabeth. It’s too stiff; too formal for the girl-next-door vibe she gives off. Then again, she doesn’t look like a cop either. She seems normal, straightforward, and unlike most women I encounter.
It’s the middle of the day and her truck isn’t here. I already knew that because I watched her drive off early this morning. If I’m not fucking careful, I’m replacing one addiction with another. Her.
And I don’t even know her.
I dial Ouray’s number on my way to my bike.
“Yeah.”
“I need Wapi for the day.”
“For?”
“Getting a start on the rest of those window replacements. Could use a hand.”
It’s quiet for a moment on the other end before he responds.
“Thought you wanted to wait for spring.”
I had told him that a while ago.
“Changed my mind.”
“Anything happen?”
“Nah, just need something for my hands to do.”
“Gotcha. Yeah, I’ll send Wapi.”
“Tell him to meet me at Home Depot with the truck. Headin’ there now.”
I don’t have to wait long for Wapi. He drives up in one of the club trucks five minutes after I park.
“Did you bring tools?” I ask, when he gets out of the truck.
“Yup. Small compressor’s in the back too.”
“Good.”
In the end, we were only able to get three windows and one sliding door, but what I’ll need for the remaining three apartments is ordered from the warehouse and should be delivered tomorrow.
Lisa already left for the club by the time we get to her apartment, and we get to work right away. We’re just putting the second window when I hear Wapi, who’s holding the window in place, whistle softly between his teeth.
“Nice,” he drags out, just as I see her coming up the stairs.
“Watch it,” I growl. “Off-limits.”
I can feel him looking at me, but I’m too busy following her progress. At the last moment, she spots me in her neighbor’s window and throws me a smile and a wave.
“Hold this,” I tell Wapi and take off out the door.
I just catch her before she can close the door behind her.
“Don’t come too close,” she says with an apologetic smile. I automatically take a step back. “I spent the afternoon at a crime scene. I’m pretty sure I smell.”
Yeah, she doesn’t even try to be anything other than she is.
“Quick heads up, we’re upgrading windows in a few units and I’m gonna need to get into yours at some point this week.”
“Okay. Do you need me to be home? My schedule can be—”
“No,” I interrupt. “I’ve got a key.”
“Of course,” she replies, looking a bit flustered, a soft blush coloring her cheeks.
It’s a good look on her: a hint of innocence to contrast the invitation of that generous mouth and the mysteries behind those brown eyes.
I don’t even realize I’m staring at her until she mumbles, “I really should have a shower.”
“Right.” I give myself a shake and force my feet to start moving. “Later.”
I barely hear her response; a mental image of her i
n the shower has me rush back into the apartment next door.
“Who’s that?” Wapi asks when I walk in.
“New tenant,” I grunt, as I go back to shimming the window in the frame.
“Lucky bastard,” Wapi mumbles under his breath, and I throw a sharp glance his way.
“She’s a cop.” I’m not sure if I’m warning Wapi or myself at this point.
We work in silence after that. Three bedroom windows are done when I call it a night. It’ll be dark before we’ll get the slider in, so it’ll have to wait until tomorrow.
“What time?” Wapi asks when we get the tools cleaned up.
“Nine, and pick up some donuts.”
“Gotcha.”
I watch him drive off before I turn back to the small apartment beside the building office. Back to the quiet oppression of those four walls. When my eyes drift up to her front door, I abruptly turn around and aim for my bike. Everywhere I fucking turn, bad decisions are pulling at me.
I ride without a real purpose other than distraction, but even as the sun is starting to sink behind the mountains, I feel the need for something more burning a hole in my gut. Breaking out in a sweat, I pull off on the side of the road. I fish my wallet from my back pocket to look for the piece of paper Brick handed me a few weeks ago.
It’s the schedule for meetings at a community clubhouse, not too far from the apartments, but right now I’m on the other side of town up in the mountains. Even if I hustle, I’ll be late. I don’t even know if they’ll let me in once a meeting has started.
I realize I’m creating excuses, which is something I’ve been very good at. My life, until the day Trunk put me on that plane, had been a continuous stream of excuses. At the center they didn’t put up with that, but it’s still an easy trap for me to fall into.
Knowing I need to pull myself out of this spiral, I shove the paper and my wallet back into my pocket and aim my bike back to town.
I find a spot in the busy lot, park, hang my lid off the handlebar, and take a deep breath in. Here goes nothing.
Handwritten signs direct me to a large room, set up as a theatre, which allows me to slip into the back row without drawing too much attention. Better than the circle of chairs at the church.
“I see a few new faces,” the guy at the front points out. “Maybe this is a good time to introduce ourselves.”
One by one people stand up, and I sink farther down in my seat, not quite ready to do anything but listen. But the next moment I sit up straight, my eyes drawn to the person speaking.
CHAPTER 3
Lissie
“MY NAME IS Lissie, and I’m an alcoholic.”
My knees are wobbly and I’m sick to my stomach, as I feel all eyes in the room on me. It’s the first time I’ve said out loud what I’ve denied myself to be for more years than I care to admit.
I’ve never been a stumbling drunk, but vodka became my numbing agent of choice somewhere in my early twenties. At first it was hidden in girly mixes tasting more like Kool-Aid, just so I didn’t have to feel the sharp taste of the alcohol, but eventually I drank it straight, welcoming the slow burn down my esophagus.
I never drank during my shifts, but the moment I’d get home, after dealing with the dark side of humanity all day long, my bottle was waiting for me to wash away all that ailed me. There was a lot that would stick to me—too much—but I’d never found anything that would work its magic like a couple of shots did.
I’d looked up meetings as soon as I moved here. I’d never went to any back in Albuquerque, for fear of bumping into someone who might get word back to my family. A futile attempt to hide what ended up becoming the weapon my father wielded to bend me to his will. Memories of that confrontation still cut sharp and reinforce my need to stay sober.
Which is why, after today, I needed more than my own will holding me up.
The few meetings I attended here before I sat quietly in the back, absorbing the strength of others as they shared their stories. Tonight just listening is not enough.
“Hi, Lissie,” the communal mumble goes up, and I dart a quick glance around the room before sitting back down.
Somewhere behind me, I hear the next person introduce himself and I cast a look over my shoulder when my eyes freeze on a familiar figure.
Shit.
I can’t escape the intensity of his blue eyes as he stares at me attentively. There isn’t much else I can read from his blank expression and it makes me feel like a bug under a microscope. I straighten in my seat, barely able to focus on what is being said.
It makes sense now, the scene at the bar. It also makes things a little more complicated.
I hold no illusions I could keep the attention of a guy like Yuma. Not on a romantic level anyway, but what I’m looking for doesn’t require romantic, or long term. All I need is a foot in the door and an AA meeting could be a good place to find common ground.
Unfortunately, by the time the group jointly recites the acceptance prayer and falls on the refreshments set out in the adjoining kitchen, the chair where Yuma was sitting earlier is empty.
I head straight home. Forfeiting the pastries I can do without—all they do is gather on my ass—using fatigue as an excuse with Frank, the middle-aged banker who volunteered to be my sponsor at the first meeting I attended. I’m not a blabber by nature, and the fact he spilled his life story within five minutes of meeting me had me hesitate to accept his offer. I got the distinct sense he was more interested in a sounding board for his divorce woes than he was providing a failsafe for me.
I’m still on the fence about the whole sponsorship thing. I can see the benefits for some, but I don’t make friends easily because I don’t trust easily. I have my reasons.
The craving for sweets is persistent, so I stop at the City Market on my way home and raid the bakery department. Good thing I have more than one size of jeans in my closet.
“Is that your truck?”
Ezrah, the boy who lives with his sister and grandmother in the apartment next door, is sitting on the steps when I get out of my truck. I stop and grin up at him.
“Yup. All mine.”
“Never seen no chick drive a truck like that.”
I swallow a chuckle at the chick label. Before I have a chance to respond, Lisa appears at the top of the stairs. When she first introduced herself to me as the kids’ grandmother, I had trouble believing it. She looks way too young.
“Ezrah. Get your bony ass inside and finish your homework, boy.”
He grudgingly gets up and drags his butt up the stairs, mumbling something under his breath, for which he earns a flick to the back of his head.
“Mind your manners.”
“Night, Ms. Bucco,” he dutifully complies.
“Call me Lissie, Ezrah. Night.”
I climb up the stairs where Lisa is shaking her head, watching her grandson go inside their apartment.
“I swear that boy is growing sassier by the day,” she mutters. “Thought enrolling him in regular school this year would be good for him, but I’m wondering if it’s that good for me.”
“Handful?”
“You have no idea. Anyway,” she says, pointing at my grocery bags. “I’m sure you have stuff that needs to be put away, and I better get in there and make sure he’s doing what he’s supposed to.”
“You know, if you ever want time off, I don’t mind keeping an eye on them, if I’m home,” I find myself offering.
I’m not sure what’s come over me, because A, I don’t have any real experience with kids, and B, I’m not usually this socially forthcoming.
“That’s sweet,” Lisa answers. “But I wouldn’t do that to you unless I was in a real bind. Appreciate the offer through.”
“No problem.” I wave it off a little awkwardly, feeling dumb for even having offered. The woman doesn’t know me from Adam.
“But you know, maybe one of these days you’d like to pop in for coffee?” she suggests. “Lights are on means I’m home. Ju
st knock. It would be nice to talk someone other than a couple of kids or a bunch of grunting bikers.”
“Bikers?”
“I work at Arrow’s Edge MC,” she explains. “But that’s a story for another day.”
I know Lisa and her grandkids were the victims of the American Nationalist League group the FBI had been investigating. The same group kidnapped Jamie and Trunk’s little boy, River, last year. You learn a lot over the coffee pot in a police station.
“Sounds intriguing. I’ll pop in when I get a chance,” I promise, as I fish my keys from my pocket and open the door to my apartment.
I quickly turn on lights and take my bags to the kitchen, where I put everything but the massive cinnamon bun I scored away. Most days I’m happy for the sounds of life that filter through from the apartment next door, but tonight it only makes me feel more alone.
The massive bite I take out of the sticky pastry only makes me feel moderately better.
Yuma
Didn’t see that coming.
I recognized her voice, but still I needed my eyes to prove to myself it was really her. The same woman I visualized having a shower ever since leaving her apartment earlier that night.
It was her all right, even with her usual stern ponytail in a sloppy bun, there was no denying that lush ass. There may not be more than a handful up top, but the curves on her bottom half sure make up for it. Fuck if I know why, when tits have always had my attention; I’m suddenly focused on this woman’s ass.
I thought the name Elizabeth didn’t suit her. Hearing her call herself Lissie fits much better.
The moment I realized I was in an AA meeting drooling over her, I bailed. So many things wrong with the direction my thoughts wanted to go.
They say to avoid romantic entanglements at least until you’ve passed the one-year sober mark. Not that I’m envisioning anything remotely romantic. Carnal, yes, but not romantic. I’m sure banging a fellow alcoholic is breaking all the rules.
Sonofabitch, I need to get my head in check.
“Hand me a shim.” I grab it from him and slide it between the window and the casing to get it snug.
We did Lisa’s sliding door this morning and have moved on to her neighbor’s apartment. It struck me when I walked in, how bare it is. I already knew she didn’t have a lot of furniture, but seeing the single loveseat with some kind of upholstered footstool in front of that flat-screen TV looks a little lonely. Hell, even the much smaller apartment I have downstairs is better outfitted than this one.
Edge of Darkness Page 2