Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) Page 20

  “Renderings,”Bite Doc corrects,“they’re called renderings, not pictures.”

  “Yeah, okay, whatever. So if you do that to your renderingsof the bite marks on our vics’ skin, then it gets even murkier in court, doesn’t it?”

  Bite Doc nods slowly, hating with all his geeky heart to have to agree with me. “Yes.”

  I smile. Maybe I don’t know computers, but in a fact-sorting dog fight, I’m the Red fucking Baron. Skin is elastic. It behaves in unpredictable ways when bitten. Any good, or even a sub-par Cincinnati criminal defense attorney, will pounce on Bite Doc’s evidence. They’ll get the case tossed out of court, and then Megalo Don will be back out on the street, biting and killing young women.

  “I’ll get these to the FBI’s crime lab,”Bite Doc says, looking defeated and, also, done with me.

  I nod and glance at my watch. 1:15 a.m. By now, DeeDee’s fit to be tied. Meyers? He’s ready to shoot me.

  Bite Doc will send his photos—hisrenderings—along with his report to the FBI’s Scientific Analysis Section. The hair and fiber division will run a check to see if any other impressions in their database match Megalo Don’s. In a few days, I’ll get back results. But that might be too late for Alaina, who I now fear could be Megalo’s next victim. Like Angie Miller, she’s a dancer at Omar’s, and she has access to the materials Megalo needs to create his bizarre foot-shaped grills.

  “Thanks, Doc. While you’re at it, shoot me a file with the photo of your dentition.”

  He frowns. “Why do you want it? I’ve shown you my teeth. They do not match Megalo Don’s.”

  I give him my wicked-badass cop smile. I appreciate Bite Doc’s attempt to excuse himself as the killer I’m after, but that’s my job. “It’ll help rule you out as a suspect.”

  “Sure, sure,”he says, surly. “Take the rear exit out of the building,”he adds, and then turns his back, dismissing me.

  Outside, I sprint down the treacherous front steps of Verbote Dental to Echo Street. Did I make the right call coming to Bite Doc’s first? What do I really have?

  I’ve got signature.

  With Doc’s help, I’ve made tentative case linkage, yet I’ve got zero evidence from either a crime scene or from a suspect.

  I’ve also got no forensic evidence to identify Megalo Don as the one specific suspect in Meera’s and Angie Miller’s murders, or my most recent third vic’s.

  I’d give my own eye-teeth for some DNA from that bastard, Megalo Don.

  Lowering myself into the Buick, I start the ignition and then buckle myself in. But even with DNA, impossible to get as long as Megalo Don wears those grills the way some perps wear condoms, catching him is going to come down to motive. What’s driving him? Why is he chewing up women and dumping their bodies?

  And it’ll also come down to crime scene analysis. Why Omar’s? Why not the Brass Ass as a secondary crime scene? Or for that matter, why not dump his vics behind the City Building?

  Finally, now that Bite Doc has positively identified both Angie Miller’s and Meera’s murderer as Megalo Don, I have one more question: who the hell is Meera?

  “Maybe I should’ve gone to the crime scene first,”I mumble, flooring the Buick and giving myself a mental kick. This is no time for second guessing myself.

  Chapter 29

  When I promised God I’d do better—even quit cussing—if he’d save me from the thugs back at Stoke’s apartment, I might’ve acted hastily. The“thugs”weren’t thugs at all. They turned out to be college students. One of them was Brent Treadwell, who lives in the same building with Stoke and is in Professor Levin’s criminology class with me. He was heading for campus, when he and friends caught up with me.

  “Dang, girl, remind me not to run a marathon with you,”Brent had said. “Need a ride home? I’m going your way.”

  I’d accepted his ride. Nice guy, that Brent, but did I need to give away my apartment address so he’d know where I live?

  I did not. I’d instead made him drop me off here in front of the bus stop a few blocks from my apartment. That, too, might’ve been too hasty a decision. I look around, thinking I should’ve let Brent drive me right up to my front doorstep. There’s a lone industrial-strength steel bench standing on a deserted concrete platform. That’s all. Sadly, my foot’s bawling like a teething baby, and two new guys have fallen in step behind me.

  What luck I have. All I want to do is make it back to my apartment and get a shower. I know I shouldn’t go to work tonight, but I’ve thought it over. I’ll do it for Ang—in her honor.

  Where are the freakin’ people?

  Dumb question. No one’s out here tonight, not anyone who doesn’t have to be.

  I hurry past the bus stop, hating my paranoia. Two more guys ease from behind a hedge row and join the two following me. Picking up speed, I limp the last block to my apartment building. With the shadowy thugs on my tail, I recall Stoke’s warning. It’s dark, Alaina. Yours is a really bad neighborhood. Remember what happened to Angie.

  Screw Stoke. This is my home turf. Refusing to be intimidated, I pull my shiv, feeling more secure. Knives are a Colby tradition. I’m ready for a rumble if it becomes necessary.

  Contemplating how I’m about to knife at least one of my four shadows, I recall my promise. I’d promised to do better if God would get me safely out of Stoke’s neighborhood. He did, but now I’m wondering if I’ve run out of prayers. The guys following me are not friendly classmates like Brent. Keeping my word is going to be a challenge. “Fuck,”I mumble, breaking into a full-out run, pumping my arms and legs.

  My shadows give chase, and I hear one yell,“Get her!”

  When I arrive in front of my apartment building, I stop, shaking with rage. Hearing my guys arrive on my heels, I turn. “Y’all want a piece of this?” I poke my chest and snarl, then hold up my shiv, hoping they’ll think I’m crazy enough to use it, which I am under these circumstances. “Well, c’mon. See if you can get it.”

  They stop, gaze at me. These aren’t your average teens with acne and Gap clothes and iPhones. I recognize them as a local knot of skinheads who’ve taken to patrolling this neighborhood, claiming it as their turf. I hold my ground, ready to kill someone, anyone. When I glance toward my apartment, I forget about the skinheads.

  No. It can’t be. It can’t be.

  The big red and white Coca-Cola truck’s parked by the curb. I take a second look. It simply can’t be—

  The skinheads spot the truck the same time I do. Lucky me, its scrap metal means more to them than robbing—or doing worse—to me. They can sell its steel and aluminum, and then use the money to buy dope and guns.

  “God dang—”

  I catch myself. I’ve promised: no cursing. “God,”I say, opening dialogue with this Heavenly Father Brick’s always mentioning, hoping I can negotiate a way to renege on my temporary conversion,“I’ll try to do better if you make that truck disappear.”

  “She-it, no problem,”the skinhead leader says, thinking I’m speaking to him. “We can do that for a sweet little baby doll like you. I’m gonna take care of business, then—”

  He gyrates his hips, grabs his crotch.

  “—I’ll be back and take care of you, little mama.”

  “F—uh, screw you.” Ignoring him, I limp close and circle the truck to make sure this is the same one Stoke and I jacked last night. Same license plate number.

  In the moonlight, the big Peterbilt’s red paint takes on a bluish glow. I walk up front and climb up on the bumper and feel the hood, watching the skinheads start their attack on the truck’s wheels. The engine makes the usual cooling noises, like a big dog snuffing.

  I turn and scan the street, searching for Stoke. The skinheads are all over the truck, two bellying under the frame and one removing the tags with a battery operated screwdriver, another drilling down on the wheels. They’ll strip it bare.

  “Damn you to hell, Stoke Farrel,”I curse, unable to help myself and hoping God doesn’t mind if I say�
�damn”and“hell.”

  “Damn you, damn you, damn you.”

  My shiv still at the ready just in case the skinheads decide I’m a more delectable morsel than the Coke truck, I sprint for my apartment building.

  Hearing the snick of the big glass and aluminum security door locking behind me when I make it, I stand in the foyer of my apartment building and watch the skinheads start dismantling the truck. Neighborhood groups have made headway cleaning it up, but my turf’s still down-at-the-heels and stinks of rotgut whiskey and urban decay and poverty. But it’s home. I don’t want to sound happy about the skinheads tearing down the truck, but I have one goal—after I find and kill Stoke Farrel—and that is to make that truck disappear.

  Limping down the steps to my basement apartment, I scour the hallway looking for Stoke. He’s the last person I want to see, yet I’m determined to have it out with him once and for all. Our friendship’s becoming too much work. I keep pushing him back, but he keeps taking things for granted, things about us that aren’t real. Ang, may she rest in peace, was right. He wants me.

  I like him as a friend, but there’s no way Stoke and I are gonna tango. I’m sick of fighting to make my point. Why doesn’t he freakin’ get it?

  Shivering, I ignore the stench of weed flooding the grimy hallway and burning my throat. Even at this hour, my classmates are up smoking blunt or studying. Gritting my teeth, I feel the shiv’s cold steel against my palm, so I caress the little button that’ll release the blade. . . .

  I am so very pissed. Why’d Stoke maul me like that back at his place? Why wouldn’t he let me inside his apartment? If I kill him, where can I hide the body?

  Then I remember: I’ve promised God I’ll do better. Does that include not murdering Stoke?

  I unlock my apartment door. The second I’m inside, I close my eyes and drop my shiv on the floor on top of my backpack. “Yo, Rob, you home?”

  It’s obvious he’s not here. I’m so exhausted I don’t even bother closing the door or flipping on the lights. Standing in my apartment’s dark entry, backlit by light streaming in the open door from the overhead light in the hallway, I do what I’ve been doing this whole semester—my entire life. I dance, relaxing and allowing myself the mental and physical space I need to practice my routine I’ve been practicing for my jump-the-line tryout video. This is the only me time I ever get. Like a starved woman with a glass of milk, I lap it up.

  Doing a quick mental walk-through of my routine to warm up, I pick a song: 2002’s Land of Forever. I imagine the music, and when I finally feel it playing in my head I ease into the work that is more essential to me than breathing.

  My barre positions.

  Standing next to my barre, a long piece of PVC I screwed into the wall’s studs with lag bolts, I stand en pointe. Then I stretch, ease down into a demi-plié, letting my muscles soar up toward—forever. And then down, plié, and up. And down.

  I so freakin’ need this, especially since I didn’t make it to dance class today.

  Moving with 2002’s music, I relax and feel my breathing, the strength returning to my muscles. My aching foot relaxes, too, becoming winged. The release feels magical. I am the Alaina Colby I dream of one day becoming—girl on her own, girl with plans and dreams and no obstacles. In this magical land of forever, nobody cares I’m from Goshen, Ohio. Nobody’s yelling“off the pole.” No police are banging at my door searching for Robin. It’s just me, the music, and my dance.

  Slowly, I relax into another full plié.

  And hold.

  I’m ready to make my future into what I want, not what Berta told me it would never be.

  As I rise slowly and stretch, my feet locked en pointe, I stop.

  Who’s sitting on my couch?

  My heart leaps and then dives to my ankles. The dim light filtering in from the hallway backlights a man, his face obscured in shadows.

  “Who’s there?”I whisper.

  * * *

  I stupidly didn’t turn on the lights when I walked inside my apartment, savoring the darkness, the peace and quiet.

  Releasing myself slowly, fearfully from my en pointeposition, I jump in a tight glissade and hit the entry way’s light switch. Then in the next instant, I dive headlong for my backpack. Landing on the floor, I grab my shiv and come up, ready as always to fight.

  “Come out,”I say, gritting my teeth. “I’m going to cut you bad if you don’t.”

  He says nothing, just stares out at me from the murk of my still darkened living room. A few seconds later, when my eyes adjust, I recognize him. “Stoke! How’d you get in!”

  Fear jabs deep into my gut, but I fight it, arguing with myself. This is Stoke, Alaina. He wouldn’t hurt you. Put away your shiv.

  “I made a copy of your key for myself. Thought you wouldn’t mind,”he says.

  Stoke’s smiling, smirking actually, but he stays put on my couch. That’s good; otherwise, I might carve him into pieces and stuff him down my garbage disposal. My neck and shoulder muscles screaming, I calm my silly terrified thoughts.

  “Really? You thought that, huh?” My brain’s racing ahead to tomorrow morning. I’ll demand the building’s super change my door locks. “Why would you make a copy of my key? I never gave you permission.”

  His smirk turns pouty. “I thought it would be good, in case you have an emergency.”

  “What kind of emergency would I have that I’d need you? My brother takes care of me.”

  “Yeah?” Stoke’s suddenly off the couch before I can say shutup. “So where is this badass brother? I could have been an intruder. A murderer.”

  Stoke’s right. Robin isn’t here, hasn’t been since Monday, but I refuse to admit to Stoke I can’t find my brother. “I get your point, Stoke, but when he’s here, he takes care of me—”

  He’s beside me in a flash, grabbing my arm. “He’s never here. He nevertakes care of you. Who do you think you’re kidding?”

  My apartment’s a tiny two bedroom with one bath, and a pass-through between my kitchen and living room. I’m standing inside my entry, my back to the outside hallway. I could easily bust out of here, but facing Stoke down just got important. I’m pissed he’s here, pissed he’s made himself a key, pissed he’s attacking Robin. It’s now a matter of principle to deal with him once and for all. Besides, what would Berta Colby say if she learned I’d given in to my fear and turned and ran?

  “Stoke,”I say, jerking my arm free,“I warned you never to lay a hand on me again.” Putting my good foot forward, I brace my body with my crippled left foot. “You don’t listen, do you?”

  Looking amused I’d take a threatening stance, he swipes at his head like there’s a fly buzzing‘round up there. Then with a puzzled look, he stops. “Alaina, are you afraidof me?”

  “No.” I keep my feet wide apart, my breathing steady, even though my heart’s pounding.

  “Oh, I get it!” He cocks his hands on his hips. “This is about what happened back at my place, isn’t it? Did I frighten you? I said I was sorry.”

  I shrink back when he reaches for me, pleased by his hurt look.

  “I am sosorry, Alaina. I—don’t know why I acted like that. But if you want me to leave, I will. I don’t want to frighten you.”

  I exhale. I am acting paranoid. What’s wrong with me? This is my friend, and I’m acting like he’s a serial killer. Feeling like a complete heel, all I can think to say is,“Where’s your ugly scarf?”

  “Must’ve lost it,”he says. “Look, I only came over to make sure you made it home safely, not to scare you—”

  His apologetic look deepens, making me feel worse. Hands in the pockets of his black corduroy floods, he steps past me into my kitchen. “Before I go, I wanted to give you something. Let’s call it a treat from a friend.”

  I frown. He’s getting it: I don’t want him here unless he’s invited. He’s even brought me a treat. Have I been too rough on Stoke? There’s something wrong with him, apart from his hugeass mouth and those . . .
teeth that have never seen braces. Yet I can’t stay mad at him.

  “I bought us a pizza,”he says.

  I’m a long way from forgiving him for scaring hell out of me, but when I spy the big square LaRosa’s box sitting on the counter, I squeak,“Stoke, I love you!” Stuffing my shiv into my hoodie pocket, I lunge for the pizza. “I’m starving.”

  “Wait—”

  He clamps the pizza box’s lid shut, covering my hand with his.

  “Don’t—” I jerk my hand back.

  “Just messing with you,”he laughs. Letting my hand go, he’s back to being the playful clown, my friend.

  I dip my finger into the melted cheese topping and tomato sauce, lick it off my finger. “Mmm,”I say. “Heaven.”

  “If you think that’s heaven”—Stoke pulls a grocery bag from my freezer—“wait.”

  I instantly recognize the ice cream tub’s famous logo. “Graeter’s!” Reaching for the ice cream, I stop. “What’s that?” There’s another bag stuffed inside the freezer, wrapped in black plastic. Hmmm. I frown. I don’t like black plastic. Berta Colby covered our windows with it when she and my“uncles”did dope. In my crim textbooks, killers use it to dispose of bodies.

  “It’s just more ice cream,”Stoke says. “Chill.”

  “That’s a lot of ice cream.” I stare at the black garbage bag clogging my freezer. “You really know how to apologize. C’mon, what other flavors did you bring?”

  “Not yet,”he says, stopping me as I dive for the black garbage bag. Digging for my ice cream scoop in the silverware drawer, he stuffs the bag with the Graeter’s ice cream back inside my freezer, in front of the black garbage bag. “Let’s do pizza first,”he says,“then dessert.”

  Arm-in-arm we do the happy dance, circling in my little retro Seventies kitchen with its avocado green countertop and appliances. “Is it mint chocolate chip?”

  “Yeah,”he says, his gaze big and hopeful. “Your favorite. I thought we’d pig out on pizza and ice cream tonight, and have fun and work on finding Ang’s killer. That is, if you still want me to stay and help.”