Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) Read online

  “Aidan,”DeeDee says, ignoring my question,“Where are y’all? We’ve got another of Megalo’s vics down here—”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m down here at Omar’s right”—she makes‘right’ sounds like‘rat’—“darn now. Captain Meyers and I are waiting. Now, y’all just hike your precious butt right on down here and join us.”

  Captain Meyers and I are waiting on you? Come join us?

  I loosen my grip on my cell phone: don’t want to crush it, not with so much riding on this call. I count to ten and relax. “Then you’re free for dinner tomorrow night? My apartment?”I ask, locked on. Those two together at my homicide scene make about as much sense as Ted Bundy selling lingerie at Victoria’s Secret. “You still there?”I ask.

  Silence.

  It was a mistake to invite DeeDee to my apartment. I know this as soon as the invite’s out of my mouth. But I’ve got to find out what my rook and Captain Meyers are up to. The only way to do that is to sweat DeeDee down tomorrow night. When I have her between my sheets, she’ll be vulnerable, willing to talk.

  “Are you asking me on a date?”DeeDee says, finally. “Are you asking me out?”

  “Well—I’m asking you in,”I say. Avoiding answering her direct question, I rattle off my second floor apartment’s address at the Hawks’ Opera House in downtown Cincinnati before disconnecting. A minute later my cell phone rings again. It’s gotta be Captain Meyers.

  “Sorry, but you called me a prick, Captain,”I bark, anticipating his unhappiness with my last remark,“so when I said‘we know who isn’t one,’ I just meant you’re not one, even if you say I am.”

  “Uh, are you—available?”a familiar surly voice growls.

  Damn. It’s not Captain Meyers. It’s Bite Doc. “What the hell do you want?”

  “I’ve found something I’d like you to look at right away.”

  “Can’t it wait?” I’m still fuming over Captain Meyers calling me a prick and thinking he could get away with it. Worse, the bastard’s at my crime scene with my rook.

  “I’ve been setting up the photos of Angie Miller’s bite wounds using the Hollow Volume Overlay,”Bite Doc says,“and as I told you earlier—”

  Oh, for God’s sake. Like I need this? I endure Bite Doc’s absent-minded pause, gunning the Buick and speeding toward Newport and my latest crime scene. “Doc, I’ve got another vic in the alley behind Omar’s. Could you just tell me what the hell you’ve got?”

  “I’ve identified an anomaly in your perp’s dentition, and—”

  Uninformed layperson homicide detective that I am, I wait for Bite Doc’s speech to catch up with his colossal brain. “Yes?”

  “—I’ve found something that will help you identify him.”

  “Him? As in fucking . . . Megalo Don? That him?”

  “Yes.”

  I brake. Several thousand people a day use the Big Mac. Traffic’s light at this hour, but it’s only a matter of time until someone smacks me in the ass and shoves me and my Buick into the river. I’ve got to decide. Go to the scene of Megalo Don’s latest homicide? Or turn around and fly to Verbote Dental?

  I need to be in both places at once, but can’t.

  I jam the Buick into reverse and spin into a three-point turn in the middle of the Big Mac, and then shifting from reverse to low drive, I gun it and shift back into drive.

  Sirens blaring, I plow northbound in the southbound lane. Dogging the Buick back across the river toward Cincinnati, I rationalize my choice.

  Should I be doing this or not?

  “What the hell?” I’m too into it now to turn around. Soon as I look at whatever Bite Doc’s got, I’ll shoot back across the Ohio to Newport and pry my homicide scene from DeeDee Laws’ greedy manicured hands. I want nothing more than to fly to the crime scene, and not just because it’s police protocol. From experience, I know I need to get there before the rookies like DeeDee destroy evidence. But Bite Doc said he’s got something that can help identify Megalo, and I’ve gotta know what it is. What’s more important? Going to a crime scene and looking at a“fresh one,”as Meyers ironically calls our vic, or seeing what Bite Doc has that might save another young girl’s life?

  Speeding toward Verbote Dental, I make one more call.

  “Hey,”I say, when Rakesh Gupta answers. “Where’s your client?”

  “I’ve got several,”he says, arrogance oozing from his calm voice. This man is a machine, I’ve no doubt. I don’t like him, but I give him credit. He won’t be pushed.

  “Theodore fucking McCloskey, that’s who. Where’s he?”

  “I defend him. I don’t babysit him.”

  That response ought to be a red flag, but I’ve worked with lawyers and, honestly, this one doesn’t sound any worse than the rest, just a little more detached, colder, if possible. I make a mental note to check Gupta’s credentials, his background, once this case is closed.

  “He better have a fucking alibi,”I say, trying to rattle Gupta’s imperturbable chain.

  He’s silent a few seconds too long, but eventually says,“All my clients have alibis.”

  Oh, I just love lawyer humor.

  “Ha! You’re funny,”I laugh. “Round up that bastard—now! I want to interview him again.”

  “He’s . . . indisposed,”Gupta says.

  Chapter 26

  I’d just started backing up the basement’s steps, deciding I didn’t want to know anything about Stoke’s private life, when someone grabbed my arm. I’d screamed, thinking I was being attacked. Feeling those hands clamped on my arm in this narrow stairwell, dimmed by shadows and cloying with the stench of burned meat, or whatever that horrid smell is, I start fighting.

  “Let me go!”I yell, kicking and screaming.

  “Blaze, what’re you doing here?”

  “Stoke? Oh my God, you scared the holy crap out of me.” Relieved, I offer the first excuse I can think of. “S-something’s happened to Ang,”I say, pulling free from his grasp. Taking deep gulps, feeling air returning to my lungs, I go on the attack. “Did you make Omar’s deposit?”

  “You have to ask?”Stoke says. “What does that say about our friendship?”

  Not a whole lot, I think, turning and facing him. He’s wearing his black silk shirt, his“Goodwill fav,”but as far as I can see in the stairwell’s shadowy light, it only heightens the dark circles beneath his eyes. Sadly, that ugliest of all rags, his butt-ugly red and orange scarf, hangs around his neck.

  “Stoke, what’s with you, sneaking up on me like that? You scared me to death.”

  I scramble for my backpack, which crashed to the steps’ bottom when he grabbed me from behind. When I do, Stoke whizzes past me and blocks my path down the steps.

  “How’d you get in here?”he demands. “Why’d you come?”

  I know he and Ang weren’t besties, but his not asking what’s happened to her is callous, and it pisses me off. I squint into the stairwell’s darkness, troubled by the spoiled raw hamburger smell molesting my nostrils. As a kid, I developed a sensor for lowlife smells: sweat and body odor, stale feces and piss, rotting teeth and bad breath. Blood. This smell sends my sensor screaming off the charts. It’s different, rawer than the usual pungent crack-house aroma. My eyes adjusting, I finally get a good look at Stoke’s face.

  “What happened?” I reach to touch a spot where several cuts curve like parallel cat scratches around his jaw. “Did you cut yourself?”

  “How’d you get here?”he demands again, slapping away my hand, ignoring my question.

  Standing a few steps above him, I plant my feet on a step and fight the urge to bust him one good. This is my friend, and he’s clearly upset I’m paying him a surprise visit. So . . . why?

  “Detective Hawks drove me. I asked him to bring me.”

  His brown eyes blacken with rage. For a second I think he’s going to yell at me. “Don’t be upset, Stoke, please. It’s been a bad day. He interviewed me about Ang,”I say, and then unload, tellin
g Stoke about Angie being murdered, about the bite marks on her shoulder.

  “Why did he question you? Does he think youdid it?”

  “Because, Stoke, I’m a dancer, like Ang, and because Aidan—I mean, Detective Hawks—thinks I might know something.”

  “You’re hot for him,”he says, an angry statement, not a question.

  Even if Stoke hadn’t caught my slip when I used Aidan’s first name, my attraction’s not hard for anyone, including me, to figure out. “Yes,”I say, enjoying pissing off Stoke and recalling the taste of Aidan’s lips when I’d kissed him. “Just so you’ll know, Stoke, I don’t like it when people slap me, not even my hand. It brings back seriously bad childhood memories.”

  “Hmmm,”he says,“you don’t strike me as being particularly good on childhood memory.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,”he says.

  Ignoring Stoke’s weird state, I sniff the air. When another wave of nasty fumes corkscrews into my nostrils like a cadaverous finger, I almost gag. “This place stinks. You got a body down here?”I say, trying to lighten Stoke’s dark mood.

  He stands stock still, his hand clenching a can of Mountain Dew. “What do you mean? What are you asking? Exactly?”

  “I was joking, Stoke. Ease up.” Sometimes you think you know your friends, but you don’t. You really don’t.

  “You got a black sense of humor—”

  He cackles, swigging his Dew. Just like that, snap-of-the-fingers quick, he’s back to being the Stoke I know, my Robin Hood. My protector. Friend.

  “—but I like it. Hey, my place’s a wreck, Alaina, or I’d invite you in. I’m too embarrassed for you to see it.”

  He glug-glugs Dew, his Adam’s apple busy but not as busy as his gaze—always roaming my body—and then he crushes the empty Dew can and tosses it on the steps.

  “Stoke, dammit, what’d I say about littering?”

  Sighing, I pick it up and stuff it into my backpack, on top of Stoke’s other garbage, including his Twizzler package.

  “I grew up a‘DUH’ kid”—I use air quotes around my term“DUH,”which reversed stands for HUD—“okay? So even if you have got a body down here,”I smile so this time he knows for sure I’m joking,“I don’t care. I didn’t come here to crash. I need your help finding Ang’s killer.”

  He nods, thoughtful, but holds his position on the steps, still blocking my pathway.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in? I mean, seriously—”

  “Nah,”he says,“aren’t you going to be late for work?”

  “Detective Hawks says I shouldn’t go in to work tonight. He says whoever killed Ang is hanging around Omar’s, looking for his next victim.”

  I instantly regret my remark. Stoke’s white face again darkens with rage. “Uh, you need to stop drinking Mountain Dew,”I say, but because I’m a Colby and can’t help myself, and because I’ve promised Angie, I push the issue. “Come on, Stoke, let me in so we can get busy. I need your help.”

  “No!” He blocks me with an outstretched arm, catching me as I hop down another step.

  I’ve never seen this side of him. He looks scary, kind of—off. Watching a strange new smile slide onto his lips but never reach his eyes, I want to back up the steps, but don’t. I’m a Colby. Colbys don’t run from trouble. We stupidly fly at it. “Stoke, you’re not this upset about a messy apartment, are you?”

  “You’re right,”he says, stepping backward down the steps. “Tell you what, why don’t you let me do a quick cleanup. You stay here. I’ll get a couple of bags of garbage out of the way, and then you can come in.”

  I need to start picking better friends. As angry as he seemed a second ago, he’s now all smiles, or at least as all smiles as Stoke can be. “No, Stoke,”I say, adamant. “I told you I don’t care what your place looks like. This isn’t about your stupid apartment. It’s about finding Ang’s killer.”

  I take another step down and give him a gentle shove. “Outta my way, Robin Hood. My friend’s been murdered. I need your help.”

  “Stop it, Blaze.”

  Stoke pushes back hard, giving me a shove backward. I bounce against the stairwell and then off the wall, falling head first down the steps. Landing on my butt, a pain shooting up my left ankle, I yell,“You punkass bastard!”

  Stoke’s jumped up a few steps and now standing above me, holding his scarf with both hands. I reach for it, thinking he’s offering to help me up, but then I stop when I see the murderous look he shoots me. Is he going to lasso me with that ugly rag?

  The only thing stronger than my love of dancing is my desire to keep breathing. Where I grew up, I developed a street fighter’s finely honed survival instinct. Fighting was the engine that drove our household. Some families watch TV together or share McDonalds’ happy meals. Us Colbys? We fight. I learned from the best, watching Berta Colby and her boyfriends go at it. When I wasn’t outrunning a stray bullet or a fist, I was on the floor pounding Robin’s face. We fought constantly because my hypocrite mom, who fought like a man herself, taught Robin women were supposed to be docile. So he always tried to boss me. Didn’t work.

  Pulling my legs back to my chest, drawing every ounce of energy I can into my muscled thighs, I brace myself against the wall and let fly a kick, shoving both feet straight into Stoke’s groin.

  “Oof!” Turning rice white and bending double, he gags.

  Watching the clear liquid string from his gasping mouth, I feel the Colby endorphins jacking my veins. Way to go, girl!

  “Don’t you dare shove me, Stoke Farrel! Don’t you freakin’ dare!”

  Finally Stoke straightens and with a weak cackle, he says,“Is your ankle okay?”

  That’s a strange thing to ask, considering, but at least he’s being polite. “I’m mostly okay,”I say, feeling silly now this is over—and I’ve won. “I’m sorry Stoke. I thought you were going to lasso me with your scarf.”

  He tries to laugh, but can’t.

  I stare at him. He’s bent double, gasping. “Stoke, are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “You’re a little spitfire, Blaze,”he says. A wicked gleam taking over and lighting his dark eyes, he tries to straighten. “Huff-huff.” He coughs, tries again, but can’t stand up straight. “You’ll need that fighting spirit one day, trust me.”

  “I need it now,”I say, fighting self pity. “Why’s my life so chaotic, Stoke? I’m missing classes, work. My friend’s been murdered, my brother’s missing, and I hate what’s happening.”

  “And now I’ve turned‘punkass’ on you,”he says.

  “It’s as much my fault as yours,”I say. “All I want is someone to talk to about Ang, to help me look for her killer. Can you believe she’s dead?” I bite my trembling lip, but my eyes flood with tears. Using my hoodie’s sleeve, I try to hide my face, not that Stoke’s paying attention. Why won’t he help me? Why won’t he talk about Ang?

  Holding the rickety banister hanging from the stairwell wall by a crooked screw, I pull myself to my feet. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I thought you’d want to help me find her killer. I mean, I know you two didn’t get along, but you and I are both crim majors, so I thought—”

  His voice turns scornful. “You thought you’d run over here. Uh-huh. And then you and I would solve the case? Is that it? What will you do if you find her killer? You can’t even get to class in time to take quizzes.”

  That’s a low blow.

  “I better leave,”I say, alarmed at the anger—or lust?—or both?—flaring in Stoke’s eyes.

  As I load my backpack onto my shoulder, I feel his gaze running up and down my body. Before I can say oh-crap, he snakes his arms around my waist and says in a husky voice,“God, Alaina, I’m sorry, too. You need a friend, a protector, and here I’m being such an ass, but I can’t help myself. You . . . do things to me.”

  “Let me go, Stoke,”I hiss. “What‘n hell are you doing?”

  “Come on, Blaze,”he s
ays, his voice low and flat, the falsetto from when I kicked him gone, along with—I hope—his ability to father children.

  “What’s freakin’ wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?”

  His arms still around me, he lifts me up a step, his strength shocking me, since he’s still in obvious pain. His gaze locking with mine, he thrusts both our bodies against the stairwell wall and then presses his groin into mine.

  “Lemme go,”I say, my voice a dry rasp when I feel his hardness growing against me. Locking my hands into a fist, I shove against his chest, trying to break his bear hug. “Stoke,”I squeak, afraid he’s going to kiss me,“let me go.”

  For a second, I gaze into his eyes and see—nothing. Stoke’s teeth, I realize this close to his face, are as raggedy as I recall, except that they’re a shiny bone white. Unlike Robin’s, and despite their crookedness, they’ve been well cared for, maybe too well cared for. They don’t look real. “Aidan’s coming back to pick me up and drive me to work,”I lie, hoping he’s forgotten I’ve told him I’m not working at Omar’s tonight. “You better let me go.”

  Stoke releases me from the bear hug, but keeps me locked within his embrace, arms around me and hands pressed firmly against the stairwell wall. “I’m so sorry, Alaina. Please forgive me. It’s just that you’re so beautiful—”

  Ugh! I stare at him, afraid for the first time and doing my best to hide my loathing, which means saying nothing until I’m safely free of his grasp and out of this place.

  “I’ll drive you home,”he says, dragging me up another step, our bodies pressed against the wall like lovers’ and Stoke’s feeling wiry and terrifingly strong against mine.

  “Put me down! Right now.”

  “Okay.” Like he’s coming out of a trance, Stoke drops and then shoves me away.

  “Don’t ever put your hands on me again.”

  “Sorry. I was just helping you upstairs.”

  “You are such a crappy liar,”I say.

  Like what just happened didn’t, he tries to chuck me under the chin, but I slap away his hand. “Do not freakin’ touch me. Ever.”