Aside from the bathroom and bedrooms behind doors off to one side, the rest of the apartments are all open concept; making this one look almost cavernous with the sparse furnishings. A dining table is missing and the kitchen peninsula has two simple wooden stools, which indicate the detective is not exactly equipped for entertaining.
With the shims in place, it doesn’t take long to frame the living room window. Next up is the bedroom in the front. This room has more personality and what it reveals surprises me. Far prettier and more colorful than I would’ve expected from an Elizabeth, but perfect for a Lissie. The lady has layers. Fuck.
We’re halfway through installing this second window when I spot the truck pulling into her parking space. A quick glance at my phone shows it’s a little past four. I’d hoped to have this window done and be out of here before she got home.
She looks a little green around the gills when she walks up the stairs, barely acknowledging Wapi holding her bedroom window in place on the gallery out front. I quickly set a few shims as I hear her walking in. A thump, followed by a second one, and then a deep sigh is audible on this side of the wall.
I spray sealer in the spaces around the window and twenty minutes later we have it framed. When I carry my tools out of the bedroom, I spot her lying on the couch, watching some home renovation show on TV with the sound muted.
“You okay?”
Her head turns and she doesn’t just look green around the gills, her eyes look haunted.
“Fine,” she says without much conviction, before turning back to the TV.
I carry my tools outside where Wapi is waiting.
“Change of plans. The last window and those sliders are gonna have to wait.”
“She okay?” he asks, trying to look past me into the apartment.
“Not your concern. You’re done for today.”
Without another word, I step back inside and close the door in his face. Lissie doesn’t notice until I start walking toward the loveseat. Then she glances over her shoulder. Everything screams at me to get the fuck out of here, but the look I see in her eyes keeps me moving forward. She doesn’t even look surprised I’m here; she’s so far up in her head.
“What happened?”
I sit down on the armrest farthest from her—which isn’t saying much given the size of the couch—and watch her blink a few times. A slightly sickly smell emanates from her.
“Autopsy. Not my strong suit. Especially when the body is ripe.” My inner wince must’ve been obvious on the outside because she adds, “I swear the stench sticks to my skin. Seems every time we meet I smell. I don’t usually.”
“It’s not that bad,” I lie and she knows it. “Nothing a shower won’t fix.”
She immediately pushes up off the couch.
“I think I will. Sorry if interrupted your work, didn’t know I was gonna be home so early.”
“We were breaking for the day anyway.”
Neither of us addresses the bigger elephant in the room, and when she disappears into her bedroom and closes the door, I’m pretty sure the smart thing to do would be to get the hell out of here. Instead I pull out my phone and order a pizza.
We both have to eat.
Twenty minutes later she comes sauntering in, wearing men’s flannel pants and an oversized T-shirt. She seems surprised I’m still here, I just moved from the armrest onto the couch.
“Oh.”
I push up and walk into the kitchen. “Got us pizza. Where’s your plates?”
It takes her a few seconds to get with the game, but then she moves toward one of the cupboards, pulling down a couple of plates.
“Glasses over the sink and tea in the fridge,” she says over her shoulder, opening the pizza box.
“Sweet?” I ask cautiously.
“Unsweetened.”
Fucking perfect.
We eat in silence, sitting at the counter. Lissie surprises me by eating three pieces while I kill off the rest of the pie. When she gets up to put the plates in the dishwasher, I ask the question that exposes the elephant.
“How long?”
Her movements still.
“Eight months,” she finally says. “You?”
“Bout half’a that,” I admit grudgingly.
I watch her turn around and open her mouth for what I assume is the next question, when my phone rings.
“Yeah.”
“Brother…” Ouray’s voice sounds solemn and my whole body goes on alert.
“What?” I snap, the hair on my neck on end.
“It’s Momma.”
CHAPTER 4
Lissie
I WAKE UP from another restless night.
It’s been like that since Yuma stormed out of here a couple of days ago with no more than an “I gotta go.” I haven’t seen him or heard from him since. I eventually put his toolbox, which he’d left outside my door on the gallery, in my apartment, where it still sits.
Add to that, the case of the dead guy found in the new development is one big question mark. We haven’t even been able to identify the guy. That’s what had made me almost puke in the morgue, the discovery someone—with great precision—removed any identifiable marks from the guy’s body. Not a tooth left in his mouth or recovered for that matter. No fingerprints, since the tip of each finger had been cut off. We know he was somewhere between thirty-five and fifty-five. We know he was five foot eleven and a smoker. We even know at some point in his life he had an appendectomy. But none of those things are enough to identify him by.
I stretch and groan at the stiffness in my muscles and fling back the covers. A quick glance at my alarm shows five thirty and I groan again before swinging my legs over the edge.
The plan for today is to try and catch some of the guys at the construction site we haven’t been able to question yet, and it’s easier to catch them when they get there than to chase them all over the large development. I had no idea how many tradesmen, suppliers, and contractors visit a construction project on any given day. Since we can’t even pinpoint the exact day our vic was buried, we need to talk to basically everyone who’s ever set foot on the site.
I step into the shower, and this time I groan because the hot water pelting down on my back feels really good. It doesn’t stop my mind from churning though.
Cases like this one—where we’re basically grasping at straws—eat at me. I get so invested everything else gets ignored, which is why, when I walk out of my front door with a bagel shoved in my mouth, I squarely run into a really hard, wide chest.
“Fuck me,” Yuma mutters, steadying me.
I rescue breakfast from my mouth before mumbling an apology, trying not to spray the man.
“I’m looking for my tools.”
No hello, sorry I ran out of here the other day. No hey, how are you? It’s enough to bring out the bitch in me, but check myself. He bought me pizza after a bad day, that’s all. He doesn’t owe me a damn thing.
“I put them inside. I was afraid someone was going to take off with them.” Pushing open the door, I gesture at his toolbox sitting in my hall. “There they are.”
I try not to be offended when he grabs them and immediately starts walking away. There’s something about the clenched jaw visible underneath the scruffy beard that tells me he’s not just being rude.
“Yuma? Are you okay?” I call after him. I half-expect him to keep moving and am surprised when he stops and turns.
The man has gorgeous blue eyes that, right now, look tormented. He doesn’t say anything, simply staring at me.
“Yuma?” I take a step toward him, but a tight shake of his head stops me.
“I can’t,” he says, regret filling his voice, before he heads down the stairs, leaving me to stare after him until he gets to a truck parked below and looks up. “New windows will have to wait.”
I open my mouth to tell him not to worry about that, but he’s already getting into the passenger seat.
Shaking off the entire incident, I shut an
d lock my door, and head to work.
_______________
“So the plans were changed?”
I nod, spreading the copy of the plans I was able to get from the foreman on site this morning.
“Here, look.” I point out where the current excavation is. “This was supposed to be the final phase.” Then I indicate what was shown as phase three. “This section was originally marked as phase three, but…” I roll out the next set of plans. “…a little over three weeks ago, the developer decided to reprioritize the remaining phases.”
“Why?” Keith Blackfoot wants to know, but I can only shrug my shoulders.
“Not a clue. Guess that’s something we’ll have to look into.”
“Did you guys notice this?” Tony taps his finger on the revised plans. “They flipped the layout of this section. The original design had a road separating this phase from the one just south of it, but they changed it, so that now the green space is what separates the two rows of houses.”
“How is that significant?” Keith asks.
“It implies whoever put that body there, likely didn’t know about the change in plans,” I propose. “Why else would you go through the trouble of burying someone if you know he’ll be dug up anyway. If plans had remained the same, that body would have been covered by designated green space.”
Keith nods appreciatively.
“Makes sense. At least if our suspect is associated with the project. We don’t know that for sure. Could be an outsider trying to shine a spotlight on the development.”
“True. So where do we go from here?”
“Gather info,” the chief contributes. “Dig up anyone with a financial stake in the development, down to subcontractors. Knowing that will serve us in both of those possible scenarios.” He turns to me with a grin. “Good catch, Bucco.”
“Thanks, Chief.”
The meeting breaks up and I roll up the plans I spread out on the conference table. As the guys walk ahead of me down the hallway, I catch bits of banter between them.
“Joe, can I have Bucco as my partner? She’s prettier than Tony and smart.”
The chief chuckles.
“Fuck you, Blackfoot,” Ramirez grumbles.
And I walk behind them grinning.
Yuma
“How’s she doin’?”
Ouray is waiting for me in the hallway outside.
“Out. Finally.”
It was just a matter of time.
In the past year, my mother has gone from strong club matriarch who could intimidate the meanest badass, to an old woman lost in her own little world. Four days ago, she wandered off into the woods. Nosh, my father, had been up at the gun range just north of the compound. When he dropped in at their house, just steps away from the clubhouse to check on Momma, she was gone.
We didn’t find her until early the next morning, half-frozen up in the mountains. We figure she’d gone looking for Nosh and got lost. The incident triggered a discussion no one was looking forward to and my father was outright resisting. It took Ouray, Trunk, and myself to convince him, but he finally had to concede the current situation wasn’t safe for Momma.
This afternoon we moved her into a home. That did not go over well.
Nosh wanted to stay, but staff said it would be an easier adjustment for her if he didn’t. I finally put my foot down and told Trunk to take him home, but the moment he was gone, Momma put up a fight. At some point she slapped one of the nurses. I had to physically restrain her so they could give her a sedative.
I thought Ouray had left as well, but apparently he waited around for me.
“Even with her mind gone, she’s a fighter,” he observes, as we walk to the exit.
I just grunt. I’m fucking done. Today was the ultimate day from hell, following in a long line of them. This is one of those nights I know will be a struggle. Still, when Ouray asks if I want to come back to the clubhouse with him, I decline. One confrontation a day with my father is enough.
“Just drop me at the apartment.”
“You know he doesn’t mean half of what he says,” Ouray suggests, reading me clearer than I’m comfortable with. “Hard on him to see Momma like this. He’s been trying hard to keep things as close to normal as they used to be, and I’m sure it feels like he failed.”
“And his son’s failed him too,” I add, unable to keep the bitterness from my tone.
“That kinda talk does no one any good, brother. You did the right thing goin’ to Denver.”
That had been the one cutting deepest of the accusations Nosh tossed my way. Making it sound like I was being selfish, running off to Denver and abandoning my mother when she needed me most.
She’d still been occasionally lucid then, would recognize me every so often, but when I got back, two months later, she had a hard time placing me. So yes, I fucking feel guilty enough without my father helping.
“Thanks for helpin’,” I tell Ouray when he pulls up in front of the building.
“Goes without sayin’. Momma’s special to all of us.” He turns in his seat. “You sure you’ll be okay?”
I look out the front window and notice the lights in the apartment upstairs on.
“I think so.”
I reach for the door.
“Call me if anything changes, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Ouray takes off the moment I get out of his truck and I stand, undecided, at the bottom of the stairs.
I stood here this morning looking up, determined my life was already fucked up enough, but here I am again. Drawn like a moth to the flame.
My name is Lissie, and I’m an alcoholic.
I’ve already lifted my foot on the first tread before I make the conscious decision. I pause briefly at her door, but let myself knock anyway.
“Hey,” she says, a hesitant smile on her face.
I can’t blame her; she must think I’m off my meds or something. Guess I kinda am.
“Hey.”
For a long moment we stare at each other, but then she steps aside without a word and I walk past her.
“I made some stir-fry. I was just about to eat in front of the TV,” she chatters, passing me when I stop in her living room. In the kitchen she grabs a couple of bowls and two glasses from a cupboard. “I’ll get us some food. Wanna grab us some tea?”
I keep waiting for her to ask what the hell I’m doing here, but she doesn’t. She acts like me walking into her apartment is the most natural thing in the world. At her request, I grab the pitcher of tea from her fridge and fill the glasses.
“Just bring them inside, I’ll bring the bowls. Chop sticks or a fork?”
“Fork.” I pull over the stools again to serve as TV tables. “You need more furniture.”
“I know.” She grins, walking up and handing me a bowl and a fork, sitting down beside me on the couch. “I was waiting to get a proper place, but I’ve been busy with work since I moved in here.” She shifts in her seat and seems to be looking for something. “Are you sitting on the remote?”
I shove a hand under my ass and come up with the remote she takes from me, turning on the TV to a news station. She doesn’t seem to expect me to talk, so I focus on eating.
“It’s good.”
“Thanks. Hope you like it spicy, I gave it a good kick.”
“I can tell.” Beads of sweat break out on my forehead at the burn.
I almost smile when she starts muttering under her breath at the news report on the current political climate. I don’t have to guess where her loyalties lie.
It’s not until after we’re done with dinner, and I take our bowls to the kitchen, that she looks at me with a question in her eyes.
“Are you okay, Yuma?”
“No.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
I sense no pressure in her question, only an offer. I sit back down beside her, my eyes on the screen.
“I’m not a good person, Lissie.” I can feel her looking at me, bu
t she doesn’t say a word. “Broken the law, did drugs, fucked anything with a pulse, been drinking to numb myself since I was a teen, and I’m a constant disappointment to the people in my life.”
I’m not sure if I’m telling her this because I need to say it out loud, or maybe I just want to shock her. Either way, she surprises me when she says, “I hear you.”
I chance a look at her and find no judgment in her eyes. No shock, no revulsion, no pity, and no disappointment.
“Had to put my mother in a home today. She’s dementing.” I snort derisively. “That’s an understatement. Be more honest to say her mind’s already departed.”
That gets a reaction.
“That must’ve been so hard to do,” she says softly, putting a hand on my arm.
Suddenly I really want to kiss her, but instead I get up abruptly.
“I should go.”
“Okay.” She doesn’t urge me to stay or ask me to leave; she simply acknowledges my intent. “My door is always open. Talk, or don’t talk. The couch is small but you’re welcome to it any time.”
She follows me to the front door where I turn to face her, but I don’t know what to say. She smiles and steps close, slipping her arms around my waist, giving me a brief hug. I don’t even have the presence of mind to hug her back. It’s been so long.
I feel her loss as soon as she steps back, but I find my words.
“Thank you.”
CHAPTER 5
Lissie
I ROLL OVER, reaching for my sidearm on the nightstand.
Concentrating on the sounds that woke me up, I swing my legs over the side, and on bare feet slip out of the bedroom.
There’s that scratching at the door again, but this time it’s followed by the sound of the lock turning. I press my body against the narrow stretch of wall between the window and the front door and raise my gun.
Edge of Darkness Page 3