Investigate With Me: A With Me In Seattle Universe Novel

by Jen Talty

  Jag couldn’t blame him, but he sure as shit missed the hell out of him.

  “You look like you’re sulking,” Levi said as he slapped him on the back, waving to the bartender. “Another round of whatever this asshole is drinking.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Crawford,” the bartender said.

  Jag raised his glass. “Why the hell did you have to go and invite her?” He downed the last of his drink, taking in a hunk of ice with the last gulp.

  “I didn’t,” Levi said with a frown.

  “She sent me a draft of her book this week. She wants to interview me all official-like for it.”

  “Jesus. Are you going to? I mean, I heard the title was going to be something like: The Trinket Killer, Seattle’s Finest Only Unsolved Case.”

  “That’s what it says on the first page.” Jag had read the introduction, which had been written by some forensic specialist with the FBI. It was informative, and Jag couldn’t argue with the content—or the statistics.

  But he resented the hell out of the last paragraph.

  Through a series of unfortunate mistakes regarding the collection and storage of DNA samples by the Seattle Police Department and the subsequent mishandling of the arrest and release of Adam Wanton—a person of interest in the case—the Trinket Killer is still at large. The lead detective on the case, Jagar Bowie, had an impeccable record. This is his only unsolved case.

  “Are you going to read it?” Levi asked.

  “Probably.” For months, Jag had been tortured by the lingering memories of the night they’d found Stephanie’s body. His entire world had flipped upside down in a heartbeat. “The Trinket Killer is still out there.”

  “Don’t you think it’s odd that he hasn’t killed in a year?”

  Jag shook his head. “We don’t know that he hasn’t. He could be anywhere in the world.” Jag had done extensive searches, looking for similar crimes, but he’d come up empty-handed every time. “He’s out there, somewhere, lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike.” Hindsight was 20/20, and Jag should have seen it, but Callie had been right about him and his arrogance and how it affected his ability to see the problems with the case. She’d been right to question him, but his ego wouldn’t listen back then. He had the best arrest record in the department, and he wanted to keep it that way.

  “The Trinket Killer isn’t your problem anymore,” Levi said.

  Jag arched a brow. “No, it’s my nightmare.” He tipped back his drink and said a small prayer to the man upstairs that Callie wasn’t headed in his direction.

  But, as usual, no one was listening.

  “You want me to stick around and play referee?” Levi asked.

  “Nope.” Jag slammed his glass on the bar. “Next time you and Starla are in town, come out to Whidbey Island. It’s really peaceful out there.”

  “Will do.”

  Jag gave Levi his best one-armed bro hug before he made a beeline for the door. No way in hell was he going to let Callie corner him. The last time he’d seen her had been at her sister’s funeral, and Callie had made it very clear that she wanted nothing to do with him. She’d actually said if she never laid eyes on him again, it would be too soon.

  Not to mention, she’d gone off the rails during a live broadcast, tearing into him and how he’d handled the case, exposing their relationship, and making his actions look more than questionable. He was lucky he was able to get the job on Whidbey.

  The salty, cool evening air of Seattle filled his nostrils as he jogged down the steps toward the parking lot where his motorcycle awaited. He’d catch the early ferry, which would get him to his house by the time the ten o’clock news started.

  Perfect timing.

  “Jag,” a familiar female voice rang out.

  Fuck. He could keep walking and ignore her, but then the whole way home, he’d hear his mother’s voice in his head as his conscience reminded him that a Bowie didn’t run from their problems, and they were always respectful.

  He spun on his heels. “Hey, Callie,” he said.

  “Surprised to see me?”

  He nodded. “More surprised that you’re chasing me down.”

  “I hear congratulations are in order, Chief.”

  He shrugged. “It was time for a change of pace. Langley is a nice, quiet town, and I love being away from the city.” Not wanting to stand idle, he continued toward his bike. “What brings you back to Seattle? Last I heard, you’d moved to San Francisco with Kara. She was a real hottie.”

  “We did, but I’m here for a month to finish my book.” Callie let out a sarcastic laugh. “You know she bats for the other team, so keep your dick in your pants.”

  “My dick is no longer your concern.”

  “Thank God for small favors,” she said. “Did you get my book?”

  He nodded.

  “Have you read it?”

  “No. And I don’t plan to read a smear campaign either. I mean Jesus, Callie, the title alone is a dig at my career.” He snagged his helmet and tucked it under his arm. “I don’t understand why you thought I’d be interested in reading your twisted view on how I botched the case when we both know I did everything by the book, with the exception of two things.” He held up his index finger. “And one of them I had no control over. But because I was lead, I took sole responsibility. But that’s not why the case is unsolved, and you know it.”

  “You rushed the arrest, which is what started the ball rolling on a potential mistrial. And we both now know that it was all a setup with the DNA being contaminated from the beginning by the—”

  He held up his hand. “I don’t need you to tell me for the hundredth time how and where I fucked up. Trust me, I know. I have to live with the knowledge that the murderer’s still out there every day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a ferry to catch.”

  Her long, warm fingers curled around his biceps.

  He glanced down and looked at her short nails painted a light pink. “Let go, please.”

  “I didn’t beat you up that bad.”

  “Operative words being that bad,” he said as he let out an exasperated sigh. “What exactly do you want?”

  “I want you to read the book, tell me what you think, maybe give me a quote.”

  He laughed. “That, my love,” he said with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “Is never going to happen.”

  “Then how about helping me find my sister’s killer, because I’ve dug up some things, and I’m not sure what to do with the information.”

  “Sorry, I’m no longer in homicide. My last girlfriend helped get me fired.”

  She laughed, shaking her head. “You were never fired, though perhaps I went a little too far with some of the things I said on the air. I’m sorry for that.”

  “That apology is a little too late.” He tossed his leg over his bike and flipped up the kickstand. He hated to admit how much he’d missed Callie’s sweet face and her plump lips pressed against his in a passionate kiss. The engagement ring he’d bought for her still burned a hole in his underwear drawer. He knew he should probably sell it or something, but he just couldn’t get rid of it.

  Not yet.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think any news show would have me as a reporter,” she said.

  “But you got a book deal, which will lead to more, which will eventually get you back in front of the camera.” He twisted the key and flipped the switch before pressing the on button.

  The engine purred like a kitten.

  “We both know Adam Wanton wasn’t the Trinket Killer and that he didn’t kill my sister. But we never once considered that the Trinket Killer didn’t work alone.”

  “Actually, I did,” Jag said. “I didn’t tell you everything. Just because we shared a bed, didn’t mean I was going to jeopardize my case and job to give you an exclusive. I bent the rules enough as it was. However, the idea of a partner was ruled out based on DNA.”

  “Evidence that was planted at the crime scenes, all in an effort to make—”


  “Just stop.” Jag had spent the last six months going over every piece of evidence, chasing down every possible lead on his free time, then following up on things he used to think were ridiculous. If anyone thought he’d been consumed by the Trinket Killer case before, they’d lock him up and toss away the key now. “You and I have been down this road before, and it never ends well.”

  A day didn’t go by where he didn’t turn over any tiny pebble he could in search of Stephanie’s killer. He’d find her murderer eventually, and he’d put him in his grave.

  And then he’d turn in his badge and fly somewhere tropical, where he’d live out his days drinking fruity alcoholic beverages with umbrellas.

  “Please. Read the book and then call me. I put my new cell number and a note at the end of the book,” she said.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why is it so important to you that I read that damn fucking garbage?”

  “Because I need your help finding my sister’s killer.”

  Callie tossed her purse into the back of her Jeep. The sound of Jag’s motorcycle echoed in the night. She missed him almost as much as she missed her sister. For months before the Trinket Killer case took center stage, she and Jag had gone tit for tat. He didn’t like the way she reported the news.

  And she didn’t like his arrogance.

  But one night, when he was off duty, and she wasn’t covering a story, they’d found themselves in the same bar, each sipping a scotch on the rocks, in a heated discussion about police procedure and reporters and how they aren’t a good mix. Next thing she knew, she was ripping off her shirt and tossing it recklessly to the floor of his apartment.

  Their relationship was up and down to say the least. It wasn’t until the Trinket Killer that they really started working on the same side, only she didn’t know then that he was keeping things from her.

  And he didn’t know she was doing the same.

  It had all come to a head when her sister was murdered.

  “I told you going to him wouldn’t be useful,” Kara said, slipping into the passenger seat. “I didn’t think we should come back here at all. He’s let this go. I’ve let this go. You should let this go.”

  “If that were totally true for you, why did you bother to come back with me?” Callie asked but didn’t wait for a response. “I know him, and he’s still living this every day, and it’s eating him like it is me.” If Callie could go back in time and change how she’d responded to her sister’s murder, and the way she’d treated Jag, she’d do it in a heartbeat. “And let’s not forget, he might have screwed up the arrest, but he didn’t botch the DNA. I still think the Trinket Killer wanted us to go after Adam all along. I think the killer played us. I just need to figure out why.”

  “The book is all but done. I think you should take a vacation. Go to Hawaii or maybe Mexico, but you need a break. Look at what one did for me.” Kara too had had her life turned upside down by the Trinket Killer. Her wife had been one of the earliest victims, and that’s how Callie had met Kara and how they’d subsequently ended up working together at the station and then on her book.

  Callie laughed. “Getting laid helped, huh?” She pulled the Jeep into traffic and headed toward the hotel where Kara and her girlfriend Ivy were staying.

  “Hey. It’s more than that.” Kara reached out and squeezed Callie’s thigh. “Besides, it’s not just putting to rest the Trinket Killer, but you need to let Jag go. He’s not worth the space in your brain. He wasn’t there for you when you needed him most.”

  That wasn’t true. From the second she’d seen her sister lying on the ground, dead, she’d made the snap decision to blame Jag. It hadn’t been totally conscious, but she needed to place her anger and rage somewhere. Stephanie had called her three times the night she’d died, and all three times, Callie had ignored the call.

  Why?

  She’d been too busy accepting a marriage proposal.

  “I don’t have feelings for him anymore, but he’s a good cop, and he can help me find my sister’s—and your late wife’s—killer.” Callie rolled to a stop in the circle in front of a high-rise in the heart of downtown Seattle.

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” Kara said as she gathered her belongings from the back seat. “Nothing we do will bring Renee back. Or Stephanie. I need to live in the present, and Ivy is real, live flesh and blood.”

  “What are you saying?” Callie really didn’t need Kara to spell it out. She could sense a kiss-off a mile away, but she needed Kara to say the words. They’d been through too much together.

  “I’m in love with Ivy.” Kara jumped from the Jeep and held up her hands. “We’re talking about getting married, and she wants us to stay in San Francisco.”

  “That’s wonderful. I’m really happy for you.” That wasn’t a lie. Callie truly wished the best for Kara and her new girlfriend. It would suck to continue this endeavor without her, but Callie wouldn’t quit. Not until Stephanie’s murderer was brought to justice.

  “Are you?”

  “Yes, Kara. I am.” Callie smiled. “I doubt I’ll ever get Jag to give me a quote or even let me interview him, so I’ll be sending the final draft to the publisher soon. The reality is, our work together is done, but I’m going to miss you so much.”

  “What are you going to do after the book is published?” Kara asked. “And please don’t say you plan on staying here.”

  “That’s doubtful, but I will be doing a second book,” Callie said. “I’ll need a researcher. What can I do to interest you in that?”

  Kara shook her head. “You know why I did this, but I realized that we may never find the Trinket Killer, and I have to accept that. Getting out of Seattle this past year has been the best thing I’ve ever done for myself. I think my research days are over, but I’m committed to finishing this book.”

  “I understand.” Callie shifted the Jeep into gear. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” With tears burning the back of her eyes, Callie pulled out into city traffic and headed for the Whidbey Island Ferry. She wasn’t going to let Jag off that easy. They’d both made a lot of mistakes, but she knew him, and she knew, without a doubt, that he hadn’t given up on finding the Trinket Killer.

  Or, at least, she had to believe that.

  Because if he had, if he’d really given up on everything he’d felt for her, then she’d really done what her sister had accused her doing. She’d officially shut out everyone who cared about her.

  She pulled into the ferry line, shocked to see that Jag was in one of the first lines. Hopefully, he didn’t see her in the far lane. She pulled her hair into a ponytail and tucked it under a baseball cap. Minutes later, the first lane of cars filtered onto the ferry. She watched as Jag disappeared onto the boat. It would be a good fifteen minutes before she was loaded, and she opted to stay in her car for the entire ride.

  Once she was off-loaded, she made her way into the small town of Langley, where she’d booked a room at the Saratoga Inn, not far from where she’d discovered that the new chief of police had rented a house. She told herself that she’d come out here to finish the final edits on the book. That she just needed some peace and quiet.

  But the reality was…she wanted—no—she needed to be close to Jag. She’d made two really big mistakes in her life.

  The first had been not trusting her instincts.

  The second had been walking away from him when they needed each other.

  She checked herself into the inn, thankful to have a room on the top floor that overlooked the sound. She’d always loved the island off the coast of Seattle. When she and Jag had first started dating, they often took the ferry to Whidbey Island to go camping. It was a nice way for them to get away from their lives in Seattle and be a couple.

  Both had agreed that it was best to keep their love affair private, at least at first, but a few months into it, she’d started to think it seemed weird.

  He didn’t.

  They fought about it, and then
as the bodies piled up during the Trinket Killer case, the secrecy became a necessity.

  She tucked her cell into her back pocket and strolled down the lane toward the side street off the main road in Langley. She’d found out that Jag lived on the corner of Earl and Peach Street, which was less than a mile from the inn. She strolled through the neighborhood, sipping the wine she’d put in a Solo cup. Anything to take the edge off.

  A light layer of clouds glided across the sky, dimming the light from the stars and the moon. A woman and her three dogs scurried down the street. Callie found the house that Jag rented. It sat on a corner lot and overlooked the sound. It had to be the most prime piece of real estate in the entire neighborhood.

  She stood behind one of the lampposts, her silhouette stretching tall in the street, but the shadows keeping her identity hidden.

  “Boo,” a male voice said.

  She jumped, dropping her cup and spilling her wine down the front of her shirt. “Fuck,” she muttered.

  “That’s what you get for spying on me,” Jag said.

  “I wasn’t spying. I just went for a walk.”

  “Really? You just happened to be staying on Whidbey Island, not the mainland.”

  “You know I’ve always loved it out here, especially the Saratoga Inn.”

  “Okay, but explain lurking in front of my house and stopping under the light at the corner of my street, staring into my picture window? I ain’t buying it.”

  “I don’t give a fuck,” she said, wiping off the dampness from her shirt the best she could. “I didn’t even know you lived here.”

  He tossed his head back and laughed. “Don’t lie. It’s never been a good look on you. Now, do you want to come in for a drink? Or do you want to go back where you came from?”

  “I’ll choose the latter,” she said, but only because she wasn’t ready to have a deeper and longer conversation with the elusive but insanely sexy Jagar Bowie. She’d save that talk for tomorrow when she waltzed into his office with her pad and paper. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to finish my walk.”