by DJ Steele
Agent Black cleared his throat before continuing, "Let me cut to the chase detectives. The Bureau is officially assuming investigative jurisdiction on this case. We will need you to turn over all case work. You are not to discuss this case with anyone outside this room."
Shockley and Hauser exchanged puzzled glances.
"We still need to track down some leads, Special Agent Black," said Shockley. "Would you explain the FBI’s interest in this investigation? Cause I’ve got quite a few more unsolved cases that you could take a look at."
Shockley didn’t mind working with the FBI if they could nail this perp. However, what gnawed him was being told they were no longer on the case.
Wheels’ face didn’t reveal how he felt about the FBI taking over a case in which one of his own had died. A police officer they both knew.
Special Agent Black’s face tightened. Obviously, the man wasn’t happy with what he said. He didn’t care. Right now, he was tired of being jerked around by some high-ranking FBI prick.
Agent Black reiterated, "Detective Shockley, you and your partner, Detective Hauser, are to give all your case work to the FBI. You won’t have contact with anybody connected to this investigation. You won’t contact Julia Bagal again. Special Agent Farris and Special Agent LaMay will stay and collect all your files on this case."
Shockley stiffened as he looked at his boss who offered nothing.
"This is bullshit, Wheels," Shockley hissed. "We have a search warrant for Julia Bagal’s home that could help us break this case."
"Not my call," replied Wheels. "I got a call from the mayor. Our jurisdiction has been trumped."
Shockley could feel the heat radiating off his face. It made no sense.
"The Mayor’s on board with this?"
"The decision’s been made. Our orders are to comply," said Wheels.
He stood and narrowed his eyes at Agent Black, "I promised a fellow officer, a good friend who’s in the hospital that I’d find this perp. I intend on keeping my promise unless you can give me a damn good reason the FBI’s taking over my investigation."
Agent Black puffed out his chest and declared, "I don’t have to tell you anything detective. This is a sensitive situation that carries with it classified National Security concerns. You are to back off. And that means now."
Chapter Thirty-Seven
"What we gonna do?"
That was the question Laquita asked her yesterday after Detective Shockley left. Julia didn’t have an answer yesterday and she still didn’t have a clue what to do this morning.
She had a restless night trying to keep the cold pack on her eye for twenty minutes and then repeating it every hour. The cold pack was a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dishcloth. Laquita claimed her mama said a sack of frozen peas was better than an ice pack.
It was only five in the morning, yet there was no sense trying to get back to sleep. Her mind was reeling ninety miles an hour with everything that had happened and all she had yet to do.
Was she still in danger?
She moaned when she rose out of bed and swung her legs out. Sitting on the edge of the bed with her feet on the hardwood floor, she took a minute. Her head still throbbed and now her teeth hurt. She needed more Tylenol and a hot shower.
In the bathroom, she examined her face in the mirror. What a day yesterday had been. She tensed staring at her bruised face, a reminder of what had happened to her.
She was angry. The person who was responsible deserved her wrath. The only problem was the person she was the angriest at was the person in the mirror. It was her fault she was almost injected with drugs and got knocked out.
She had screwed up. How naive could she be to follow the waitress from the strip joint into the bathroom? She remembered distinctly the alarm bells going off in her head, warning her something was off. Then why’d she do it?
Again, she misjudged a person.
Again, it cost her.
From now on, she’d trust no one.
There was still dried blood caked around the rim of her nose. She dampened a washcloth and gently wiped it off. The swelling wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be. The bluish-yellow color circling her eye was more pronounced. Leaning closer to the mirror she gently touched her swollen face. She winced.
Her first shiner was a beaut.
Steaming hot water from the shower considerably eased the throbbing and ache in her head. She didn’t want to get out, except the water temp was quickly getting cooler. Historic homes had amazing character along with outdated plumbing among other issues.
She toweled dried her hair, climbed into a pair of jeans and slipped on a cream-colored cashmere V-neck sweater. As she padded to the kitchen, she noticed Laquita’s bedroom door was still closed.
After brewing a cup of tea, she sat at the kitchen table and let out a loud groan. It startled her. The sound reminded her of Elke. Even though Elke had a youthful appearance and the energy of a teenager, her grandmother was getting older.
She wrapped her hands around the warm cup, raised it to her nose and inhaled the sweet, floral aroma. After a few sips, she felt the caffeine start to kick in.
She struggled over what to do about the photos she had taken of a man who might have murdered two people at the Willow Oaks Motel. The photos could prove definitively that the man was guilty or at the very least place him at the murder scene.
Detective Shockley wanted them. He’d be back. She saw it in his eyes—determination. Then what would she do?
She was so damn certain when she went to the strip club she’d find Max and get him to tell her what he knew about the man they saw at the motel. Instead, Max came seriously close to injecting her with drugs. Laquita tried defending him, saying he saved her life. That was the way Laquita wanted to see it.
Laquita said Max told her that after she was knocked out, the old man with the cane shot the beefy man who had been guarding the back door before he was able to stick her with the needle. Then Max untied her hands and carried her out the exit door. He was headed down the alley with her unconscious in his arms when he spotted the parked car with Laquita standing next to it. As soon as Laquita recognized Max and her, she ran toward them. Laquita and Max put her in the backseat of her car. Max climbed in the passenger side.
She vaguely remembered hearing them argue and Laquita helping her out of the car and inside her home. Laquita said she let Max out of the car after they drove a few blocks from the club.
Julia lifted the cup to her lips, reflected a moment, then remembered the promise she made to herself. Don’t trust anybody. That included Laquita. Max knew the killer and Laquita knew Max.
It still bothered her that Laquita showed up almost as soon as she purchased the detective agency, claiming to have worked for the previous owner. Why did he pay her on the side and not put her on the payroll?
Sitting at the kitchen table she analyzed the situation. Everybody had secrets. She should know, since her whole life had been one big secret. Or rather, one big lie.
Her birth name was Lisa Saitow. Her parents died in an explosion. Her grandmother worked for the CIA. Those three facts were hidden from her growing up. Even now, knowing the truth, she kept most of that to herself. Maybe some secrets were better left buried.
She wanted to live in the present, not the past.
What would Elke think about the mess she had gotten herself into? If her grandmother knew, she'd interfere—again— and tell her what to do. She didn't want to be told what to do.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Laquita’s purse on the counter next to the refrigerator.
"Secrets," she mumbled under her breath. A hunch told her Laquita had something to hide and maybe that something was in her over-sized purse.
She stood and slowly walked over to the purse on the counter. Concerned Laquita might catch her, she opened the refrigerator, took out a carton of eggs and placed it next to the purse. If she heard anything, she would start cooking. To make sure Laquita was still ups
tairs, she hurriedly tiptoed out of the kitchen, rounded the corner and glanced up the stairs to the bedroom. The door was still shut.
She scurried back and took a breath standing next to Laquita’s purse on the counter. Her hands dove inside the purse and began rummaging around. Laquita was not a minimalist. She was a hoarder.
In the purse were a pair of sunglasses, phone charger, water bottle, gum, lip balm, pink lipstick, Tide To-Go-Pen, assorted candy wrappers, and lots of old receipts. Beneath the mess, she found what looked like an expensive leather wallet.
What was it that Laquita had said when they did the stake-out at the Willow Oaks Motel? Kinda strange not to have a picture of your man.
Opening the wallet, she said, "Okay Laquita. Let’s see who your man is."
The card slots held a Visa card, Starbucks gift card, a punch card for a sandwich shop she’d never heard of and a driver license. Even though Laquita didn’t own a car, she probably had to have one for identification.
Laquita Morrison.
It was a good picture of her. Unlike the mug shot on Julia’s license with her lazy eye making her look literally hungover.
Laquita was attractive with full lips, large brown eyes and high cheekbones. Her address was somewhere in the D.C. area. She had guessed right about Laquita’s height, 5’8", although she did a double take on the weight. There’s no way she weighed 135 pounds. Not even close. Maybe she’d gained weight since this license was issued.
Inside a fold she pulled out a creased yellowed picture of a very large Black woman with a small girl wearing a big toothy smile sitting on her lap. This must be her grandmother she called Big G. Julia felt sad recalling the story Laquita had told her about her childhood. She carefully eased the picture back in the fold. In another fold she found several receipts for bus fare and miscellaneous purchases. Tucked behind the receipts she slipped out a small photo booth picture. A smile curved her lips. Now she knew who Laquita’s man was.
She froze. Footsteps on the staircase.
Quickly she put the picture back where she found it, closed the wallet shoving it in the purse and scooped up the carton of eggs.
Standing in the kitchen doorway, Laquita said accusingly, "What ya doing with my pocketbook?"
Julia’s tongue didn’t want to work. She struggled to figure out what to say.
"Good morning." She tried to keep her voice normal, but she sounded out of breath.
Holding the carton of eggs, she couldn’t think of a good lie. "I was going to make breakfast." Julia sounded as convincing as a teenager lying to the teacher about the dog eating their homework.
"I like ‘em scrambled," said Laquita followed by a loud yawn.
Julia felt a rush of relief until Laquita followed up, "Ya gotta work on your detective skills."
"What do you mean?" Julia frowned.
"I think we both know what I mean." Laquita strolled over to the refrigerator and opened the door. "You got some bacon we can fry up?"
"Yes, of course. It’s not what you think."
Bending over with her head in the refrigerator Laquita responded, "Another thin’ is ya gotta work on tellin’ fibs."
Before Julia could shoot back a rebuttal, Laquita added, "Don’t fret ‘bout it. I done the same thin’."
"What?" cried Julia. She marched over to the refrigerator, grabbed Laquita’s arm and yanked her up. "You snooped through my purse?"
"Don’t have a conniption fit. We even. Tat for tits."
"It’s tit for tat. And I’m sorry. I had no right to look in your purse. When did you go through mine?"
"When ya was knocked out. I didn’ steal nothin’. Laquita gave Julia a reassuring smile.
"Good to know," Julia responded with dripping sarcasm.
"Hows ‘bout you?"
"No. I don’t steal." Julia pivoted and headed toward the oven.
Laquita reached in the refrigerator, took out a pack of bacon and closed the door. "Your face ain’t that bad."
Julia cracked an egg in a bowl and without looking up, shot back, "I think somebody else needs to work on their fibbing skills."
* * *
As Julia cleared the dishes, Laquita said, "That was mighty good. Almost as good as my Big G’s cookin’."
"Thanks. We’ve gotta come up with something before Detective Shockley returns with a search warrant." Julia had no idea what to do.
Laquita wiped her mouth and offered, "How ‘bout Elke?"
"We’re not involving her." Julia stood and began to clear the table. Standing, she asked, "Did Max tell you how he knows the man called Razor?"
"No."
Laquita answered too fast. Julia put the plates back on the table and accused, "You’re lying. What’d he tell you?"
"Said somebody gave him that name. He met Razor maybe one time. Max got a friend who needed somebody to convince a person to do the right thin’. He didn’ know the guy wuz crazy."
"Who’s the friend?"
"For Christ Sakes, Julia. I ain’t lying. I didn’ ask. I was scared, okay? It ain’t like I’m CIA."
Without thinking, Julia put her hand on Laquita’s arm. CIA. The word echoed in her mind like canyon voices.
The Bridge Club might be able to help them.
Julia knew her next move better be the right one.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Let it go? That was the best advice Wheels could give him regarding the FBI taking over his case?
Shockley clenched the steering wheel and took in a deep breath. Anger boiled inside him making it difficult to think clearly. The red light caught him by surprise. His foot slammed the brakes. The tires squealed against the pavement. The car rocked to a stop. A long hard breath escaped his lips. When the light changed, the tires squealed again when he accelerated fast heading to the one place he felt he needed to go. The clouds had cleared, and the chilly morning low was slowly rising as the sun's rays warmed the concrete, asphalt and other man-made materials in the urban city.
Fueling his irritation were all the long hours working this case and then getting booted off without a good explanation. National Security. How could the explosion at the motel and the photos Julia Bagal took be considered National Security? What was the connection? At least now he had to assume she played him. His chest tightened. Let it go, he kept telling himself.
National Security, my ass.
He pulled his car to the curb in front of Harley’s liquor store. A six pack might make his visit more tolerable. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but he was headed to his father's place. He had been ordered to take the afternoon off.
Right now, he knew he needed to get his bitter anger under control. Maybe his ol’ man could offer up some advice. His father never talked about the war, but he once overheard him and another veteran talk about losing a battle buddy to suicide and the recurring nightmares that plagued most of them. His mom told him later the man had almost died of a drug overdose and it was his father who helped him get better. The veteran stayed and worked on the ranch for almost a year.
Ken, the owner of the liquor store, was behind the counter ringing up a sale. He gave Shockley a chin up. "Nice to see you again, Detective."
"You too, Ken," he replied. Ken was average height, slim, and always greeted his customers with a smile. He looked to be in his late forties.
Ken bought the store a little over two years ago from the previous owner who got tired of being robbed.
Ken got robbed.
Once.
The robber pulled a weapon on Ken. What the robber didn’t know was Ken had been a navy seal. Ken ducked, grabbed his 9mm SIG from under the counter surprising the robber. The robber made a fatal mistake when Ken ordered him to drop his weapon. The story aired on TV and Ken hadn’t been robbed since.
Shockley pulled a six pack of cold beer from the reach-in refrigerator and was walking up to the counter when something caught his eye. He grabbed a bag without stopping. At the counter he laid his purchase down in front of Ken.
&nb
sp; "Huh," snorted Ken. "Beer and Cheetos. Bad day at work, huh Detective?"
"Had better," replied Shockley with a weak grin.
Shockley wondered if Ken remembered his name. All Ken ever called him was Detective. Not that he came in the store that often. He’d seen too many men on the force ruin their professional and personal lives with the bottle. It was one of the many casualties of the profession.
* * *
In his father's driveway entrance, Shockley debated if this was a mistake. He and his father had a rocky relationship ever since he moved to D.C. He might be in one of his moods and right now Shockley didn’t want to deal with it. He eased the car to a stop in front of the garage and turned off the engine. With the beer in one hand and the Cheetos in the other, he made his way to the front door.
He stood outside the front door. Do I really want to do this? A fleeting thought of knocking before entering didn’t register. He was thinking about what he’d tell his ol’ man, if anything at all. It was his problem, but he didn’t know how to digest it.
On the way over he wanted to let it roll off his back and not think of the investigation he had been ordered to surrender to the FBI. But there were too many things blocking him from accepting it. He’d made a promise to T-Bone to catch the bastard who had killed a fellow officer and critically wounded Amber Bull, a damn good crime scene investigator and friend. He had checked on her condition yesterday. No improvement. Still hooked to a respirator. The doctors were unsure if she’d be able to walk again.
Shockley turned the knob and pushed the door open. It didn’t matter how many times he’d told his father to lock the door, he never did. He claimed he locked up at night, but he’d be damn if he’d lock his door during the day. Anybody who came in uninvited would wish they hadn’t. The ol’ man was still a tough talker. Still acted like he lived back in Texas on the ranch. D.C. was different. Doors should always be locked. Night and day.
The sound made him recoil. The unmistakable cocking sound of a double-action pump.