by Hank Edwards
It all became so clear to Michael just then. Russell, the stolen book, the drugs.
“You honestly didn’t know Dylan was involved in a drug deal this weekend, did you?” Michael asked.
Russell eyed Michael up and down, his expression sharp, knowing. “I can see what my husband sees in you. You’re clever. Must be all the Brock Hammer novels you’ve read.” He shrugged as much as the handcuffs would allow. “But I have no clue what you might be implying.”
Still denying it right up to the end. Had to admire the man’s dedication.
“Fleishman, explain yourself,” Musgrave snapped.
Michael looked at Jazz, and he fought a smile as all the pieces began to fit together. “There are two separate crimes here, the common denominator among all the players is Dylan. Russell killing him for the book, and Dylan’s covert drug deal sending us on a wild goose chase that led us here, to Russell. Unwittingly, Dylan solved his own murder.”
“Well, shit,” Jazz said.
Musgrave looked at Michael and Jazz as sirens approached.
“I hope you’ve got more room at the Hilton,” Jazz said.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
JAZZ SQUINTED his left eye as the headache throbbed steadily. It wasn’t too bad, but it would be a day or two before he would want to go anyplace loud. And his back and shoulders hurt. Bruises were already making an appearance where Russell had punched him and slammed him into the wall.
Thank God for strong painkillers.
He sat on the edge of the exam table in a curtained area of the hospital emergency room, listening to the conversations going on all around him.
Russell had murdered Dylan. Not just murdered him either. Plotted it all out and afterward disfigured him.
But first he had stolen the kid’s book.
What the ever-loving fuck?
Russell Withingham. Best-selling author. Cold-blooded murderer. Heartless plagiarist.
And Jazz had slept with him. Fallen for and married him.
Not to make it all about him, but what did that say about Jazz’s taste in men?
The curtain pulled back, and Michael appeared, like the hero of a play stepping out of the wings and onto the stage. Michael smiled, and Jazz managed to smile back despite his headache.
“You’re sitting up.”
“I am. Might even stand on my own two feet sometime soon.”
Michael approached and gave him a soft kiss on the lips.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t about Jazz’s taste in men. Maybe it was Russell’s deeply psychotic mind. And the fact that Jazz didn’t have anything Russell wanted to possess for himself.
“I spoke to the doctor,” Michael said, gaze flicking up to the bandage on Jazz’s temple. “No concussion.”
“She stopped by and told me. Just a whomper of a headache. And some bruises.”
“Yes, Russell landed some surprisingly good hits,” Michael agreed, rubbing his forearm where some nasty fingernail scratches glared red on his fair skin.
“Yeah, quite the surprise.” Jazz gingerly touched the scratches Russell had left on his cheek.
How had he never seen that darkness Russell carried within? All the twisted bad guys in his books hadn’t just been products of a writer’s imagination, but clues about the man. Russell had never been Brock Hammer.
He’d been the villain all along.
Lines of worry creased Michael’s face. “Crazy day.”
“I’ve had better.”
“Me too.”
“I called Misty for you. She was worried, but I assured her you were okay, and she said she’d reschedule your clients.”
“Oh, thanks.” Thoughts of work hadn’t even entered Jazz’s mind with all of the day’s insanity, but he was grateful for Michael’s forethought.
Voices approached. One in particular was deep and gravelly and made Jazz’s head throb even more.
An orderly pulled the curtain aside and stepped back to reveal Musgrave standing behind him. Musgrave nodded his thanks to the orderly before the man turned and left.
“Dilworth. Fleishman.”
Jazz lifted his eyebrows even though it hurt to do so. “Musgrave.”
“I appreciate the help you provided in subduing the suspect.”
Jazz exchanged a glance with Michael. “Is there an unspoken ‘but’ tacked on to the end of that statement?”
“Not at all. I just wanted to check and make sure you were both okay and say that.” He adjusted his gun belt and half turned away. “Wilson Roberts, Dylan’s uncle, is giving his statement in a room upstairs here at the hospital. Doctors said he’s no worse for the wear. Dylan had called Wilson to tell him he was planning to expose Russell at his reading, unfortunately he never got his chance because Russell killed him later that night after he doped the kid on Ambien. Wilson came to town on Saturday looking for Dylan, and to help him expose Russell. But after he received no responses to his calls or texts, Wilson confronted Russell a couple of times. When he discovered Dylan had been murdered, he went to the cabin to accuse him to his face. It appears Russell poured him a drink and drugged him too.”
“That fits with toxicology,” Michael agreed. “There was more than the usual amount in Dylan’s blood, but not enough to kill him. I didn’t think anything of it.”
“Pretty much everyone takes Ambien,” Jazz said.
“Do you?” Michael asked.
“No.” Jazz smirked with one eye half-closed. “But I’m not like anyone else.”
“That’s for sure,” Michael and Musgrave said at the same time, but with wildly different tones of voice.
Well, at least Musgrave was acting more like himself now.
“You know that car you two were in hot pursuit of on that flowered scooter? Sounds like it might belong to Wilson Roberts. Not so coincidentally, he’s staying on a friend’s boat at Christy’s Marina. He drove the car to the cottage, but it’s not there now. Got an APB on it. Thinking maybe Withingham moved the vehicle after he drugged Wilson. That might’ve bought the guy just enough time for the sleeping meds to wear off.”
“Quite possibly,” Michael agreed.
“Norbert Farthington is giving a statement at the station,” Musgrave continued. “He’s being as cooperative as possible, since he’s Russell’s PR rep.”
“And he pretty much offered to help Russell kill us all,” Michael added. “Cooperation would be in his best interest.”
“Where is Russell?” Jazz asked.
“In a private room upstairs. Both wrists are handcuffed to the bed. He’s got a slight concussion from that fireplace poker, so he’ll be staying overnight.” Musgrave cleared his throat and managed to meet Jazz’s eyes for a quick moment. “Nice work, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Jazz said. “But Michael helped too.”
“I meant it for both of you.”
“Thanks, Sheriff,” Michael said, then added, “What about the three who kidnapped Mr. Pickles? And the drugs?”
Musgrave chuckled. “The big one’s not talking much, other than to make his one phone call. I suspect he didn’t call a lawyer, because by the time my guys got to their cabin, the place had been swept clean. And I mean, like, professionally.”
“Does this mean they’ll get away with dealing drugs and kidnapping my cat?” Michael demanded.
“Oh, we got plenty to charge them with. The other two are ratting each other out faster than we can take notes. Veronica St. Clair seems to be the mastermind of their plot, and I use that term very loosely. Her father owns a bar in Detroit, which is how she was connected to the vic. She manages the social media and events for it, and Dylan was an employee.” He shrugged as if telling himself it was no big deal. “It’s a gay bar.”
Jazz rolled his eyes, then flinched at the pain it caused.
Michael said in a very dry voice, “Oh no, not that.”
“Look, I didn’t come here for you two to give me a hard time.” Musgrave’s face flushed. He stepped into the examination area and
pulled the curtain closed behind him.
“Um, what’s happening?” Jazz asked. “I’m feeling a little uncomfortable right now.”
“Relax, Dilworth, I’m not going to check your prostate,” Musgrave growled, keeping his voice low. “I wanted to say that I’ve been—” He flinched, looked away, then back at them. “I’ve been treating you both unfairly. I will work on acting in a more open and accepting manner.”
“Oh.” Michael blinked a few times. “Well, thank you, Hilton.”
“Yeah, thanks, Sheriff,” Jazz said. Must be an election year. He’d need their votes.
“You’re welcome.”
“So what’s the story with the three of them?” Michael asked.
“Besides their overall ineptness,” Jazz added.
“Veronica wasn’t really clear on her motives. But the pink kid said she wanted to impress her father by expanding his ‘business connections’ across the lake. Then she did finally tell us that a group of Canadian drug runners are holding her father hostage back in Detroit until they get back the drugs Dylan had on him.”
Jazz huffed a laugh. “Canadian drug runners?”
“The pink kid backed it up. I’ve called it into the Michigan State Police, and they’re going to work with the Detroit Police Department to check it out.”
“So they just wanted the drugs back?” Michael asked. “That’s why they took Mr. Pickles?”
“That’s what I’m getting from it so far.”
“Two completely unrelated crimes,” Michael said again, shaking his head.
While it seemed to make sense to Michael and Musgrave, Jazz frowned. “Why did Russell cut off Dylan’s hands? That seems rather drug dealy, don’t you think?”
“He’ll have to enlighten us on that topic. But if I were to guess, I’d say it was to make it appear to be drug-related, to throw the attention away from him. Obviously he hadn’t counted on Dylan’s little side business this weekend when he made his master plan.”
“Or perhaps it’s a metaphor,” Michael mused. “Russell often used such symbolism in his books. It could have something to do with stopping Dylan from writing another book?”
“Maybe,” Musgrave said. “Got my deputies over at his rental cottage. Found blood evidence in the small fishing boat. Most likely how he dumped the body. And there were more shower curtains in the garbage out back. We’ve bagged them as evidence.”
“He had luminol,” Michael said. “He may have removed all the blood.”
“Don’t think he’s as clever as he thinks he is,” Musgrave said, rocking back on his heels and looking smug. “Actually told me that I wouldn’t find any evidence to link him to anything because he’d spent his life writing perfect crimes. I told him I took that as a challenge.”
“So twisted and sad.” Michael gave Jazz a soft smile. “Russell had this all planned out, but he forgot his own books. In Slip of the Tongue Brock Hammer discovered marijuana in the victim’s car, and a fingerprint on the bag led him to the victim’s roommate, who’d borrowed the car unbeknownst to the victim. Only by assuming the roommate was the murderer, and tracking him to his dealer, was Brock able to discover the victim had been having an affair with the dealer’s pot supplier. The supplier’s wife was the murderer. It’s kind of poetic justice that Russell was discovered in a similar, roundabout way. An unrelated crime accidentally solving another.”
“But this is real life, not a book. It was good old-fashioned police know-how that caught Withingham,” Musgrave said.
Michael frowned and said nothing to that.
Jazz didn’t even have the energy for a good comeback to Musgrave’s comment. His mind was a whirl. Had Russell always been a murderer waiting for his right chance?
“To reiterate, my husband drugged his boyfriend with sleeping pills, drowned him in a bathtub, chopped off his hands with a paper cutter for some God-only-knows-what reason, then dumped him in the lake? And all because he’d stolen Dylan’s book.” Jazz shook his head, hardly able to believe any of it. “What an asshole.”
“Pretty much,” Musgrave agreed.
All those murders he’d written, the gore and the twisted crimes he dreamed up and put to page, had hinted at a darker malady, but Jazz had never seen that hateful darkness within. Jazz used to tease him that if the authorities ever looked at his browser history, he’d be in trouble.
“Oh Jasper dear, this is merely what writers do,” Russell had always said.
The curtain yanked open, startling them all. A woman stood looking between them, and it took a moment for Jazz to recognize her as the doctor who had examined him. He was grateful for the distraction and a chance to get out of his head.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” she said. “Everything okay in here?”
Would anything ever be okay again?
Musgrave nodded. “We’re fine, Doctor. Just tying up some loose ends.” He turned to Michael and Jazz. “Go home when you’re released and get some rest. But I’ll need you to come to the station tomorrow—”
“And make a statement,” Jazz and Michael said at the same time, then laughed.
“Smartasses,” Musgrave muttered. But when he turned to leave, Jazz thought he saw a smile flash across his face.
So maybe he wasn’t 100 percent Grade A asshole.
While Michael and the doctor talked, Jazz closed his eyes and let his mind drift. He was tired. More than tired, actually. And lurking beneath the surface of his tiredness were all the horrible realizations he needed to come to terms with. But not right now. And most likely not tomorrow either. Right now he let his mind drift.
Until he heard the doctor ask, “Will you be providing his care?”
Jazz lifted his head and squinted in their direction. “What kind of care am I going to need?”
Her expression was very serious, a complete contrast to the words she spoke. “Not much. But you should have someone around to keep an eye on you for the next day or two. No sign of a concussion, but I like for patients to have someone close at hand. Just in case.”
“Just in case?” Jazz said.
“I will be providing his care,” Michael stated, and the look he gave Jazz brokered no argument.
Okay, then. Care from Michael it was.
At least something was going Jazz’s way today.
Chapter Thirty
AFTER JAZZ signed some forms and got his prescriptions, he was seated in a wheelchair and pushed out the doors. Michael had gone ahead and pulled his Camry up to the curb. Jazz lowered himself into the passenger seat, and moments later Michael got behind the wheel.
“I liked it better when you drove from this side of the car,” Jazz said.
Michael grinned. “I did too. I’ll have to make a point of taking you on that drive again.”
“Oh yeah.” Jazz put his head back and closed his eyes. “Sometime soon.”
The drive from Holland to Lacetown didn’t take long, and soon Michael had pulled into the driveway of his house. He parked inside the big garage next to the hearse and hurried over to help Jazz out of the car while the garage door rumbled closed.
“Thanks,” Jazz said. While he could manage just fine, he liked Michael fussing over him.
Michael didn’t let go of his elbow as they walked toward the house. “Later tonight I can take you by your apartment to get a change of clothes if you want,” he said. A blush colored his cheeks, and he pushed his glasses up his nose, looking completely adorable as he added, “Or you could wear some of mine.”
“Either works for me, sweetie,” Jazz said. “Let’s get inside. I want to show Mr. Pickles what a real badass hero looks like.”
Mr. Pickles greeted them at the door, meowing and stretching up to paw both of their legs.
“Someone’s hungry,” Michael said, unhooking the cat’s claws from Jazz’s jeans.
Mr. Pickles meowed loudly.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Jazz said, fighting back a yawn.
Michael smiled at his cat. “He does like
to eat, probably a bit too much.”
Jazz feigned shock and offense on Mr. Pickles’s behalf. “Why, Mr. Fleishman, are you body shaming your kitty?”
“Just speaking the truth,” Michael said. “I’ll get him fed, then see about making us something to eat. Do you need to lie down?”
Jazz appreciated the concern in Michael’s gaze and patted his shoulder. “Maybe I’ll sit down for a bit in the living room. These painkillers are making me sleepy. No idea why anyone would take them for fun.”
“Call me if you need anything,” Michael said as Jazz shuffled off to the living room.
Mr. Pickles meowed again.
“Yes, yes, Your Highness,” Michael said to the cat. “I’ll feed you.”
Smiling, Jazz stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes. The clink of dishes and quiet murmur of Michael talking to Mr. Pickles gave him a warm sense of place and home. He didn’t even miss his apartment at all.
“You want to go up to the bed?” Michael asked a little while later.
Jazz didn’t know how long he’d been dozing, and he popped open one eye. “Mr. Fleishman, are you trying to seduce me?”
Wearing a sideways grin, Michael crossed the room, got on his knees beside the couch where Jazz lay, and then placed a hand on his knee.
Oh, now I’m awake.
“Would I do this if I was trying to seduce you?” Michael ran his hand slowly up Jazz’s thigh and cupped his crotch.
Jazz barely contained a soft groan of approval. He tsked-tsked at Michael and shook his head. “I would normally take great offense at your impropriety, Mr. Fleishman, and have my chaperone remove your offending hand. But, alas, I am alone here with you, and therefore vulnerable to your wicked intentions.”
Michael laughed and lowered his head, resting his forehead against Jazz’s shoulder. When he stopped shaking from laughter, Michael raised his head, his face practically glowing from the size of his smile.
And his hand still cupped Jazz’s crotch.
“You must be feeling a little bit better to have come up with all of that,” Michael said, his thumb teasing up and down along Jazz’s dick.