by Hank Edwards
“They’re gone,” Michael said over his shoulder, then stepped out from the cover of the building.
“Damn mortician,” Jazz muttered. “He works with dead people all day and doesn’t care about joining their ranks.”
He sighed and followed, coming up beside him just as Michael disconnected the call and slid his phone into his pocket.
“Police on their way?” Jazz asked.
“Yeah,” Michael said without looking around. He leaned in closer to the door and cursed quietly. “He busted the window in the door. Bastard.”
Michael withdrew a handkerchief—of course he carried one!—and he reached through the broken glass to open the door from the inside.
Jazz put a hand on his arm to stop him. “Shouldn’t we wait for the cops?”
“Mr. Pickles is in there,” Michael said, using the hanky to carefully unlock the door and turn the knob. “I need to make sure he’s okay. Loud noises really bother him.”
“For the love of….” Jazz watched him disappear. He took a few deep breaths and followed him into a utilitarian entryway where Jazz was startled to see an elevator door.
“I don’t think the burglar got this far,” Michael said as he withdrew his keys and unlocked one of two other doors. “The outside was still locked. We got here just in time.”
“Just in time to get shot at,” Jazz muttered.
“Mr. Pickles,” Michael called in a quiet voice as he entered the funeral parlor and flipped on a light. Looked like they were in the room where people picked out caskets, seeing as there were all sorts of them displayed on the wall. “Here, kitty kitty.”
A soft meow floated out from the darkness, and Michael gasped. “He’s okay. Sounds like he’s in one of the display rooms. Probably hid when that person broke the window and shot at us.”
“Smart cat.”
There was an alarm keypad by the door, and Michael entered a code as Mr. Pickles emerged from one of the rooms. When Michael saw him, his whole body softened with relief. “There you are, boy. C’mere. Daddy’s got you,” he crooned.
Heart melting at Michael’s sweet tone, Jazz watched as Michael picked the cat up and hugged him for a minute, then carried him as he went through the rooms, turning on lights.
“Sheriff’s Department! Is anyone in here?”
Jazz put up his hands when he saw the giant shape of Sheriff Musgrave burst into the room, his gun drawn.
“It’s us,” Jazz exclaimed. “Don’t shoot.”
The sheriff scowled and holstered his gun. “You carrying, Dillweed?”
Mouth gaped in disgusted disbelief, Jazz threw open his purple blazer. “No. You think I could hide a piece in these skinny jeans?”
“Just checking. Why are you here?”
“We’re on a date. Remember having this conversation a few hours ago?” Jazz pointed down the hallway where the biggest display room was. “Right over there?”
The sheriff snorted and before Jazz could demand what the sound meant, a deputy came in behind him, gun out, and Musgrave said to him, “Check downstairs. Make sure it’s clear.”
The cute ginger deputy looked at his boss with wide green eyes. “Alone?”
“Yes, Tanner, alone. You’re a sheriff’s deputy. Act like one.”
When Tanner turned those big eyes on Jazz and Michael and hesitated, Jazz wondered if he was going to ask to take the cat with him.
Still holding his cat, Michael tossed him a set of keys. “The one with number two on it is for the stairs. The outer door was still locked, so I don’t think anyone is down there,” Michael assured him.
Other than Dylan’s dead body, Jazz thought but didn’t say.
The deputy squared his shoulders and, with his gun pointing the way, disappeared back into the service entrance.
The sheriff looked between them and settled on Jazz. “I’ve about had my fill of seeing you today.”
Jazz barely managed to keep from saying “Likewise,” and instead allowed Michael to explain the events leading up to the dispatcher responding to his silent alarm.
“So this big guy was snooping around your door, broke it, then shot at you and fled the scene in a car?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you see anyone else inside?”
Michael frowned. “Inside the car? I didn’t even see the car.” He looked at Jazz. “How about you?”
Jazz shook his head. “I didn’t see it either. Just heard it squeal out of the parking lot.”
“You know you could have been killed, right?”
“I guess I didn’t think that way,” Michael said and set Mr. Pickles on the floor.
“So no details about the car?” the sheriff asked.
“Like what?” Jazz asked.
“Did you get a look at it at all? See a license plate maybe? Or a make, model, and color?”
“Oh.” Jazz exchanged another look with Michael, who shrugged in reply. Jazz looked back at the sheriff and said, “Like we said, we didn’t see it at all.”
The sheriff stared for a moment. “But you heard the tires squeal as the burglar drove away after taking a shot at you. So all you can say for sure is the car had tires.” He heaved a disgusted sigh. “Guess I’ll put out an APB for any car with tires.”
“Look, it all happened really fast,” Michael said. “I mean, we returned from the festival and were, um….” He glanced at Jazz and his cheeks turned an adorable shade of pink. “We were on my back patio, and we saw the flashlight, then heard breaking glass, and the next thing I knew, the guy shot at us.”
“So it was definitely a male?” the sheriff asked.
“Yes,” Jazz said. “A big guy. Tall and with broad shoulders.”
“But you didn’t see his face?”
Jazz shook his head. “It was too dark.”
“All right, I’ll put out the call. But we’re not going to get much from this. I’ll do another external perimeter sweep of your house and the parlor. See if it’s safe for you to return home. You two stay here.”
Once he left them alone, Jazz studied Michael, standing in the middle of the room, arms at his sides, looking stricken.
“Who would want to break into my funeral home? And with a gun on him as well? This must have something to do with the murder, right?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure the sheriff will have some information tomorrow.”
That seemed to wake Michael up, and he looked at Jazz in surprise. “Did you sleep through the conversation we just had with him?”
“I was giving him the benefit of the doubt.” A yawn snuck up on him, and he covered his mouth hastily. “Sorry. It’s not the company.”
Michael’s small smile seemed genuine. “I’m not offended. It has been a long day. But I did enjoy our date.”
“Even if it ended with us dodging a hail of gunfire?”
Michael laughed. “I don’t think it qualified as a hail of gunfire. But, yes, even so.”
“Do you want help sealing up the window?” Jazz asked. “We can look around and make sure nothing’s missing?”
“That would be nice. Think I’ve got some cardboard and duct tape around here.”
Then Musgrave returned. “All clear, Fleishman.”
The deputy joined them too, gun back in its holster. “The rest of the place is clear too, sir.”
“Good.” When the sheriff turned, he nearly bumped into the deputy standing directly behind him. “Goddammit, Tanner. I’ve told you not to crowd into my personal space.”
“Sorry, Sheriff.”
“Come on. Let’s get going,” Musgrave announced, hustling them all outside. The sheriff looked at Michael. “Tanner will stay here with you while you take a look around and see if anything’s missing.”
“We can take care of that,” Michael said, gesturing to Jazz.
Musgrave pointed at his deputy. “Tanner, you conduct a complete walk-through with Fleishman, make sure everything is safe and secure. Then you dust the door for prints. Though the
perp most likely didn’t make it downstairs, Fleishman, I’ll need you to verify and document that no evidence in the Roberts case has been compromised. We can’t give any future defense lawyer any cause to question our chain of evidence.”
“Yes, of course.” Michael nodded.
The sheriff offered him a sympathetic smile that looked more like a grimace. “Then try to get some sleep. Break-ins can be unsettling.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.” Michael started to head back inside the funeral parlor but paused to look over his shoulder, his pleading expression tugging at Jazz’s heartstrings.
Jazz had hoped their date would end well—possibly naked—but now he just needed a little comfort. Of all the shit Jazz had been through in life, being shot at wasn’t one of them, and he wasn’t quite sure how to process it. He suspected Michael needed a good hug as much as Jazz did.
But in light of everything, that wasn’t to be the case tonight.
“All right, Dilworth,” Musgrave announced, startling them. “I’ll give you a lift home. And Tanner, don’t fuck anything up.”
“I won’t sir,” the ginger replied.
Jazz scrunched up his face and shared a quick look with Michael. “I walked actually, so—”
“I said I’ll give you a lift home.” The sheriff glowered down at him, his tone and demeanor brooking no disobedience.
“Um, okay.” Jazz didn’t want to get any further onto Musgrave’s bad side—did he have a good one?—and Michael had to work anyway.
“Lemme know if anything was compromised ASAP, Fleishman.” Musgrave tipped his hat, then took long strides back to his patrol car, assuming Jazz would follow.
Michael’s brow creased in an unreadable expression and his lips pursed. While the timing had felt right earlier for a good-night kiss, the attempted break-in had disrupted the mood, and it wasn’t like a kiss would happen with an audience of two cops and their flashing patrol cars.
Jazz hesitated, then waved the envelope with his copy of their photo. “Happy trails, pardner.”
Michael chuckled. “High noon at Joe’s Fishery on the morrow?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Michael looked at the sheriff’s car. “Best get going.”
“Yeah, I best.” Jazz slunk toward the patrol car.
Jazz hesitated on the passenger side, unsure if the sheriff intended to make him ride in the back seat like a common criminal or in the front. The answer came a second later when the sheriff curled his lip and shook his head at him. “Well, get your ass in the car, Dillbreak.”
Muttering under his breath about unoriginal insults, Jazz opened the door. He cast an apologetic look back at Michael, standing forlornly by the door with a broken window. Jazz mouthed the word “Bye,” then gave Michael a tiny salute.
Though dark, he saw Michael’s gentle smile.
Completely on edge, Jazz climbed into the passenger seat of the sheriff’s patrol car. Radars, gadgets, and all sorts of electronic equipment filled the console between the two front seats and above their heads. The confines of the large vehicle felt claustrophobic.
Then again, maybe it was just the sheriff’s aggressively large presence.
Wordlessly Musgrave pulled out of the funeral home driveway and headed west on Cardinal Lane. “You live in the old chandlery building, right?”
“Yes,” Jazz said, somewhat unsettled that the sheriff knew where he lived. Then he recalled telling the sheriff that information when he’d given his statement earlier that day.
Musgrave casually pulled up to a stop sign, slowing for more than the recommended three seconds, looking back and forth through the intersection. A few stragglers from the festival walked through the streets, some stumbling from too much to drink. Musgrave watched one particular drunken pair, his brows creased. Jazz wondered if the sheriff would hate him more for missing out on the prospect of a possible charge of public intoxication or DUI.
Wisely, Jazz said nothing.
When the vehicle moved on from the intersection, the sheriff asked, “How long you been in my town?”
Jazz cleared his throat and sat up straighter, feeling like a ten-year-old being scolded by the principal. He didn’t like the feeling one bit.
“I’ve been here a little while,” he answered, keeping it intentionally vague. “Used to vacation here in the summer.”
Dammit!
Why did he offer this dickhead any more information than he needed?
“Seems like trouble finds you. That a new trend?”
“Bangs and rose-gold highlights are a trend. The last few days have been mere coincidence.”
“You got a smart mouth on you, Dinklesworth.”
“And you have a poor memory for names,” Jazz said before he thought it through.
The sheriff gave him a sideways smirk. “No, don’t think I do.”
Vendors and carnies were pulling out of Lacetown Park when the sheriff made a left down Main Street.
Wanting to get the hell out of this police car, Jazz pointed at the Holland Harbor Lofts sign on the large redbrick building. “My apartment’s entrance is on the backside.”
The sheriff snickered. “Of course it is.”
Jazz was almost fifty goddamn years old, though he told people he was closer to forty, and he didn’t know who the sheriff thought he was, but he was sick and tired of all the inappropriate gay jokes. He cocked his head to the side and curled his lip. “Don’t you have HR in your department? You know, where they teach you not to say out loud all the ignorant shit that pops into your head?”
The sheriff squeezed the steering wheel and leaned forward, adjusting in his seat. Jazz couldn’t tell if he was pissed off or embarrassed.
At this point, he didn’t really give a shit.
Without another word, the sheriff pulled around behind the old chandlery building to the entrance for the Holland Harbor Lofts. A bakery—the reason Jazz had gained seven pounds since his move—a haberdashery, and Misty’s salon were the three businesses downstairs. The historically registered building used to serve the freighters that once came in and out of Lacetown Harbor. Lacetown had been founded by old French fur traders in the eighteenth century. Lac was French for lake, and naturally the English speakers bastardized the word the French had written, and the name evolved to Lacetown. Fishermen still traveled back and forth between Milwaukee, Chicago, and all the other Lake Michigan towns.
He enjoyed his “back entry” loft, as the building manager referred to it and didn’t quite get why Jazz laughed each time he said it. Jazz loved the historic building enough that he hadn’t minded that the newly renovated lofts were small. Besides, the more space he had, the more shit he’d buy that he didn’t need. After leaving Russell, he was trying to be a minimalist, which wasn’t easy with his hoarder tendencies.
He’d forgotten how much stuff he really had when he’d gotten it out of storage.
The moment the sheriff put the car in Park, Jazz reached for the handle.
The click of the door locking drew him up short.
Refusing to act guilty or allow this giant hulking jock of a dick to intimidate him, Jazz fully faced him, waiting expectantly.
“I don’t want to see any more trouble around you, Dilworth. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal.”
“And don’t you—”
Jazz held up a hand and finished for him. “Leave town. Yeah, I know the routine.”
They sized each other up for another several heartbeats, and then the sheriff shook his head and sniffed. He unlocked the door and gave a dismissive wave to Jazz. “You have a safe evening, citizen.”
He climbed out of the car, trying not to look as eager to escape the sheriff’s presence as he felt. He paused before he shut the door. Unable to help himself, he added, “And thank you for your concern, Officer. I feel so much safer knowing you’re protecting our streets at night.”
Before the sheriff could say another word, Jazz shut the door and headed up to his apartment wi
thout a backward glance. His mind jumped between the fun of the date and the fear of being shot at by a burglar.
What the hell was going on in Lacetown?
Chapter Eleven
VERONICA ST. Clair shoved Cameron to the other side of the car’s back seat.
“Get off me already!” Veronica shouted.
“I can’t help it,” Cameron shouted back, and braced himself as the car peeled around another corner. “He’s driving like a maniac!”
“Shut your fucking mouths or I’ll shut ’em for good!”
Veronica had just enough time to roll her eyes before Rocko took another sharp turn that flung her across the back seat to crash against Cameron.
“Ow, my hip!” Cameron cried out.
“Shut up,” she whispered. “He told us to shut up.”
“I don’t hear you shutting up back there!” The streetlight Rocko sped under gleamed along the dark metal of the gun he held up. “I’m already pissed the Boss made me come get you. You don’t want to piss me off any more.”
Veronica shoved off Cameron and scooted across the back seat. She fumbled in the dark with the seat belt until she could strap herself in. Securely in place, she turned away from a wide-eyed Cameron, his raspberry-colored hair in frantic disarray and his linen blazer wrinkled.
This was a huge fucking mess.
A bigger mess than the party she had thrown when Daddy had gone out of town three years ago. That mess had required five police cars, two fire engines, an animal control officer, and several thousand dollars to repair damage to the house.
Yes, this current mess was definitely the bigger mess of the two.
And she was going to be in so much trouble when Daddy found out.
If he lived long enough, that was.
“Vee?” Cameron whispered.
She snapped her head around and glared him into silence. As headlights from an oncoming car filled the back seat, she could see his lower lip quivering and felt a teeny-tiny bit guilty. He had gotten caught up in all of this without knowing what it was about until it was too late, and she shouldn’t be angry with him, even if he did make it easy.
Veronica stretched a hand across the seat, and Cameron clasped it.