A door bangs against a wall out in the bar. I stay focused on the screen while Vincent wheels back his chair to go check who’s entered the club. Which is lucky because what happens next is not for his loose lips.
The perp approaches Lemon, they talk for a moment or two, then she slaps him across the face; he grabs her wrists and they tussle until he overcomes her and she’s jostled to the ground. After writhing around on the ground for a few moments, a pistol flashes. The headlights zoom out as if the vehicle is reversing at the same time as the perp escapes from the scene, clutching what must be the gun in his hand. The image improves slightly, with only the light above the back door illuminating the frame. Lemon is on the ground. And I take a deep breath at the sight of her lying there. Helpless. Alone. My chest squeezes at the sight. There’s nothing for a while, then another girl eventually comes out beside her and briefly kneels before disappearing through the rear door.
I stand and pace the room. Darn. None of the video is sharp enough to see his face or where he pulled the gun from. The only parts visible were a light-colored Stetson and a buffalo plaid shirt.
Vincent opens the door, and sighs as he enters. “Just a punter who forgot something.”
“Who?” I sit back down.
He shrugs. “Some city slicker.”
“Was he in earlier?”
“Don’t know. Although I kinda recognize him. Maybe he was.”
Jesus, this scene needs locking down.
“Pull up the internal camera footage,” I bark out.
“What, that?” He points at the frozen image. He tries but there are no recordings. At all.
I switch off the screen. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing with this stuff. “Do you have tech support on this?” He shakes his head. “A back up system?” He laughs. “A way of downloading it?” He shrugs. “I’m confiscating this equipment, and this place is closed until we’ve completed a forensic investigation.”
“Really?” he whines.
I shoot him a glare. “Yes, really. And before you go, you can add to this list full descriptions for those whose names you don’t have. Including whoever you’ve just let stomp all over my crime scene.” I turn the paper around and push it over the table to him.
He sighs.
I’m about to tear a strip off him, when Ledowski barges into the office. “Gonzales from forensics is here.”
“Okay, let’s take this to the station.” I point at the surveillance equipment. “And get all the intel you can off him.” I jerk my chin at Crabstein. “And keys for this place. I’m going to check out the crime scene.”
I radio through to the county sheriff’s department a description of the missing perpetrator. We’ve got too much going on here to roam the area. Then, I inspect the crime scene with Gonzales, and he points out a few things I hadn’t seen when I first arrived. Mostly because I’m not convinced they had anything to do with what went on tonight, but I’ll leave him to be the judge of that.
“I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, Gonzales.”
I rest up against Ledowski’s car for a moment. This is going to be a long week. My involvement in the Dark Angels case isn’t over yet, and I’ve got a feeling this one will drag me places I don’t want to be. Lemon and I have known each other since kindergarten. We even played kiss ’n tell before we had anything to tell. But as her relationship with Blue developed, I took a step back and focused on my career. She only had eyes for Blue, that was obvious to everyone, and there was no way I’d volunteer for a bruised ego at that sensitive point in my life. Even through their very public and at times embarrassing separation, I kept my distance. There was no place for me in that triangle and there was a lot at stake. As the local cop vying for the sheriff’s position, I have to keep my nose clean and my backside firmly planted on the fence.
Ledowski manhandles the surveillance materials across the car lot. I follow him to his car. “Who turned up while I was inside?”
He dumps the computer equipment in the trunk of his car. “Don’t know.” I lift a brow at his remark. “Although the town lawyer was here. Could’ve been him?”
“Austin Barclay? What did he want?”
“Said he was passing on his way home from the office. Just asked what was going on.”
I pause over the open door of the vehicle and watch Gonzales as he bends at what looks like a spot of blood on the ground, near where Lemon had been lying.
On a heavy sigh, I slump into the passenger seat. I’ll catch up with Gonzales tomorrow. I need Ledowski to drop me at home to pick up my patrol car, get changed into my uniform, and then head on to the hospital.
“You okay?” Ledowski asks.
“Sure. I just hope this ain’t serious.”
Four
Carson
Lemon was sedated when I arrived in the early hours at the county hospital. The sight of her serene in her sleep brought an uncontrollable feeling of anger. I was not there to protect her as I should have been.
I took a report from her nurse who advised there were no serious injuries and Lemon would be discharged in the morning. But that didn’t happen, and she didn’t come home until late last night. So, after a day following up on leads, I quit expecting to see her and spent the evening on my porch staring out at the lake.
This morning was an early start at the office where I reviewed the security camera footage, checked in with forensics, typed up witness statements, and dealt with Mrs. Mulligan’s car, which turns out was stolen and dumped at the Green Parrot. My patience was tested when she took up too much time. An innocent woman was attacked last night, so some hoodlum joyriding a red Ford Fiesta was the least of my worries.
Now, here I am at Lemon’s house ready to ask her some questions. The main query is, was someone else shot? Because it wasn’t Lemon. There was blood at the scene not matching any known person, and a gunshot reported by a dancer. But no gun, or bullet, or wounded person. And no-one saw a damn thing.
The blood could have come from another incident. In fact, there was a scuffle earlier on in the evening at a spot nearby. Looked like Mrs. Littlewood with her son, Jeremiah, hauling her husband out of the dive. Her son is seventeen and all angry on uncontrollable hormones and probably steroids considering the size of his muscles. On the video, it appears his father staggers and goes down like a stack of shit onto the unforgiving floor. There was a flat denial of any such incident when Ledowski visited them yesterday. And the blood match is still at the lab.
No lead on the pickup or the guy in the Stetson and plaid shirt. It’s like the attacker vanished into thin air. My gut reaction is it wasn’t a local. But where he’s gone and why he was at the Green Parrot is a mystery.
So, there’s not a lot to go on and I hope Lemon can shed some much-needed light on what happened.
Sitting in my car, I stare at Lemon’s bungalow, preparing for our conversation. I’ve never been inside her house—the one she shared for a brief time with Blue Corrigan. And I can’t say I’m looking forward to that element of my visit. Lemon insisted they move off the ranch when their marriage first hit the rocks; trying to distance them and their problems from his close-knit family. It killed me watching their relationship unravel from afar and it was never the right time to come between them. But now Blue is back at the ranch and married to Josie Lawless, I can’t stop thinking of how this is the perfect time to help put Lemon back together again.
I pull on my hat and align the police badge I wear with pride in the rear-view mirror.
It’s not often I pry into people’s personal lives, but this case dredges up all kinds of feelings about Lemon and how I could have been so much better for her. That’s something I can’t afford to revel in and before I step out of the car, I shoot myself a warning that I should tread carefully and keep my emotions holstered.
I squeeze past Lemon’s car, parked askew on her driveway and rap louder than intended on her front door. Stepping back, I take in the street scene. It’s typical of most that radiate
from the principal thoroughfare in this sleepy town. Although unlike others on this tree-lined street, Lemon’s house looks like it could do with some attention. Paint flakes from the window frames and the rain gulley is blocked leaves from an overgrown sycamore on the front lawn. I just hope she had insurance cover for her two nights in hospital, because that shit don’t come cheap.
“Just a sec.” Blonde hair flashes across the windowpane at the top of the door.
I turn back to the street while Lemon unlocks the door and I nod at Mrs. Wilson walking by with a pair of miniature schnauzers in tow.
“Hey Carson, honey.” Lemon throws open the door behind me and Mrs. Wilson’s jaw drops before she increases her pace, dragging the short-legged dogs behind her. So, you could say Mrs. Wilson’s reaction prepares me for anything when I spin on my boot heels to face Lemon and her warm welcome. But my initial reaction of her is the same as when I always clap eyes on her. Awe. She’s wearing cut off shorts, which is not unusual for Lemon, a cropped top, which, again, is not unusual, but she’s draped a flowing dressing gown over her shoulders. She looks like an ethereal angel whose wings are a half-ass attempt at hiding what she’s really about. Her outfit is a little strange maybe, but that’s not what Mrs. Wilson is likely gawping at—it’s the open bottle of Jim Beam hanging from Lemon’s hand rested up on the doorjamb.
Her hand slips on the door frame.
“Can I come in?” I step forward, eager to move her away from further judgment.
She steps aside; the bottle swings against her leg, sloshing liquor over the neck and an amber trail snakes down her tanned skin to her slender ankles. She seems unaware. Or not bothered.
I take a deep breath and follow her into her living room.
“How are you today, Lemon?” I’m careful to keep my tone soft.
She lifts the bottle. “I’ll be okay when I see the bottom of this.” A sarcastic smirk lifts at the corner of her pale pink lips and I search the rest of her face to gauge how drunk she is. Her eyes are clear enough, and her skin is a heathy color, apart from a graze to her forehead which looks sore but not serious.
I remove my hat and blow out a breath. I’ve seen enough alcoholics in my line of work to know Lemon isn’t one. Yet. It’s when she hides her drink or slips a glug in her morning coffee that she will deserve that accolade. And usually I’ll say it’s none of my business, but as well as caring about her, I need a statement and that’s not gonna happen if she’s intoxicated.
“Think we need coffee.”
“Sure, honey.”
She sets the bottle on a table in the entranceway and I clock that less than a quarter has gone. I should be okay to get a modicum of information from her at least. Which is essential, because I need to make progress today otherwise the asshole who attacked Lemon will be further away and less likely to be caught.
I follow the trail of her floating gown through to the kitchen area and hang my hat carefully on the corner of a chair.
She rests her stomach against the counter edge and stares through the Keurig as if she’s in a trance.
I cough to remind her of my presence. “You sit. I’ll make coffee.” I rest my hands on her shoulders and move her aside. As I let go, my fingertips feel heavy, and I realize I haven’t touched Lemon for a long time. Her toned muscles are small in my hands and there’s a vulnerability to her frame that tempts me to hug her tight and shield her from the world.
As kids, I thought Lemon and I had a future together, but it wasn’t to be. My desire to please my father and focus on the career path he laid out for me made me hesitant. And Lemon’s obsession with all things Blue kept me at arm’s length. So, when Josie left town at the end of high school and Lemon jumped at the chance of snagging Blue Corrigan, I gave up and focused on my destiny of following in my father’s footsteps. Standing here now, I wish I could turn back the clock and fight for her to be with me and not him.
I rein in my feelings and search the countertop for the coffee. I’m here to take a statement; to ask her related questions. No more.
She throws her thumb toward a built-in refrigerator. “In the fridge.”
I frown. I’ve never understood the need to put coffee in the fridge. And when I open the door, I find there’s not much more in it—Columbian coffee pods in a card box and a jar of Jif. I’m a bachelor and even I’ve got more produce than is in here.
I snap a pod into the machine and, caught by how quick the liquid spurts out, I thrust a cup from the drainer under the steaming dribble. “So, the hospital was happy to discharge you yesterday?” I stare at the cartoon scene of a rodeo on the mug to ground myself, which with every passing second is becoming harder. Apart from in my dreams, I haven’t been alone with Lemon for many years and the attraction to her is messing with my professionalism.
She shrugs and slides onto a chair at the kitchen table.
“But you’re okay, right?”
She rolls her lips. “Yes, Carson, I’m fine. Just a couple of bruises and cuts; nothing serious. They were only cautious because of this.” She points to the scrape on her forehead. “Actually, the worst part is I bit my tongue when I fell over. It smarts like shit when I drink liquor.”
“Well you know what to do about that then, don’t you?” I smile, hoping she can see a lighter side to my sarcasm, but she plasters the same false smile across her face.
I clear my throat, and my mind. “So, do you want to tell me what you remember about Saturday night?”
Lemon snakes the ribbon from her dressing gown in and out of her delicate fingers while she talks. “It all happened so quickly. I can’t say I recall much of anything.”
I pass over the brewed coffee.
“There are more mugs up there.” She nods at a cabinet.
I wriggle my utility belt on my waist and wait until she takes a tentative sip of the coffee before making one for myself. Then I sit opposite her at the table, taking out my notebook and pen from the breast pocket of my shirt. “So, did the attacker say anything?”
She hovers the mug against her bottom lip and blows over the rim; a ripple skims across the liquid. I snap away from her pout and lean back to retrieve my drink from the coffee machine.
“Not that I remember. But maybe. I’m not sure.”
I nod. “There was some video footage taken at the time of the attack.”
Her response is a subtle twitch of her lips.
“Was there anything familiar about him at all?
She curls the lips that I can’t seem to pull my eyes away from.
“Any distinguishing feature at all?”
“He wore a hat. White.”
A white Stetson is not unusual in these parts at this time of year; in fact, I wager most of the clientele in that establishment on Saturday night wore one. “Yeah. Anything else?”
“No. Sorry.”
Her eyelids flutter up to reveal a sadness that stabs at my heart. Lemon is feisty and confident and doesn’t give a shit about what people think of her, usually, and here she is reaching out to me through wet, dull eyes. Generally, I’m good at reading people. I knew that about myself before I even went into policing. I can tell when someone spins a lie, or covers up for someone, and the look that Lemon fixes me with oozes with despair. She needs her crown fixing and that makes me unhappy.
I concentrate on the matter in hand.
“Lola said a guy was asking after you. She didn’t know him, but she thinks he was wearing a checkered shirt too.”
She huffs. “Don’t everyone around here?”
I lift my eyebrows. Yeah, pretty much. That and the white hat are go-to evening attire for men in these parts. And Lola couldn’t pick him out from the footage of punters coming and going from the club, or the still I showed her of the guy when he first approached Lemon outside.
“Do guys ask about specific girls often?”
“Yeah, all the time.”
Doesn’t look like that’s a robust lead then.
She cocks her head on one si
de. “What did he ask her?”
I flick through the pages in my notebook and read verbatim what Lola told me. “If Lemon Gillespie worked here.”
“Oh.” She shrugs.
“Was there anything recognizable about the attacker? The way he walked? His cologne? How he dipped his head? Any mannerism, or anything you can recall?”
Sharply, she pushes up from the chair, grabs a sugar pourer from a shelf and tips some into her cup. Her hand trembles and she sprinkles grains over the table which crunch under the pourer when she sets it down. The sugar is likely the only calories she bothers to consume right now. That and alcohol.
“Nope.”
It’s obvious Lemon’s clamming up, so I try a different tack. “In your own words, tell me about Saturday night. From the beginning. Who you got a lift from, et cetera.” I wave my hand in a circle and lean back in my chair.
She huffs a breath out of her dainty nostrils and looks up at the ceiling. “Nothing special happened that day.” She laughs sarcastically and I file away her reaction. “Penny picked me up around nine, we got to the Green Parrot about ten past, changed into our dancing costumes, and joined Lola and Maria on the stage.”
All of that confirms what the other employees at the Green Parrot have now stated. I blink away a vision of Lemon in a skimpy costume.
She picks at the peeling polish on her nails. “Vincent was a little pissed because we were late, although thinking about it now it was more likely because it was quiet. Most of the regulars elsewhere.” She sniffs and a low growl rumbles at the back of her throat.
I shuffle on my chair, knowing full well what she is referring to—Blue and Josie’s wedding party—but I don’t want to switch the tempo on her recollection of Saturday night by asking her to confirm it.
Broken in Love (Studs in Stetsons Book 2) Page 3