Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) Page 6

  “A gal never knows when mister right might come along,”she tosses in.

  She’s joking, I hope?

  Hawks says to her, sounding surly,“Hurry up, we gotta get busy.”

  She slips off before he can stop her. Sticking him at the register with the bill, she lopes straight for me, she-wolf on the prowl for blood. I bet I could help her find some, plenty of it.

  “Yo, buddy,”several diners yell, waving at Hawks. Friends. All his friends. He’s such a popular fucking guy. I take careful note of their faces, their features and expressions. The ones yelling are some of Cincinnati’s amateur blues musicians he hangs out with evenings. I know because I follow him home, to work, everywhere. I’m that damn sneaking. He’d better know: I’m not one of the usual punks he arrests.

  I edge farther out around the ficus for a closer peek.

  “Come on over here, bro. Join us,”the blues brothers urge. What would it feel like to have so many friends, so many you meet them everywhere you go? In restaurants. At charity balls, galas for the uber rich.

  “Lucky fucker,”I mumble, hating every dick born with a silver spoon in his mouth. What would it be like to be rich? Not to have to worry about your next meal, or where you’re spending the night? “Lucky fucking detective-king. Made to be murdered.”

  My language sends pops digging for his wallet. He and momser scramble up from their booth fast as their creaky bones allow.

  “Aidan? Hey, son. Over here,”someone, a new voice added to the conversational mix, chimes.

  He’s Campbell County’s coroner, Doctor Smalley. I keep tabs on him, too, thanks to Google, because whoever knows Detective Hawks gets the added gift of being stalked by me.

  Doc’s ran for election years back to impress Detective Hawks’ mom. An alcoholic, he couldn’t even get a job as dog catcher. The detective’s mother, the love of Doc Smalley’s life, shunned his ass. Even though he was scion of the wealthy Smalleys, she blew off young Doc Smalley. He subsequently ran for coroner and won, and he’s been doing two things ever since. One is getting re-elected. The other is pursuing Babbs, that over-the-hill sour silly bitch, who for some reason still makes the pricks of old bats like Doc Smalley stand up, and belch and growl.

  The old couple scurry off, shooting me heated glares.

  “Bye-bye,”I say, smiling and waving like I’m their favorite grandson. The last thing I want is Detective Hawks spotting me, not that he would: Doc Smalley’s yakking away, got him distracted.

  “Tell Babbs I’ve been lookin’ at an Arabian over in Lexington,”he bawls across the dining room,“and I’ve found one she’s going to love—”

  Looking anxious to get the hell out of here and avoid Doc Smalley, Hawks scours Arnee’s, searching for the owner, Nick LaFiglia.

  Heh-heh. Cute how my detective-king avoids his daddy, well, his biologicaldaddy. I’m fond of Doc Smalley. I’ve been keeping him busy, busy, busy down at the morgue.

  “Have you taken that Ferrari out for a spin yet?”Doc bawls.

  Several diners stop eating to see what Hawks will say. The detective looks flummoxed. The doc’s an embarrassing ass, pure and simple. But that’s Doc. He says and does the damndest things. Six years ago, when his bastard son joined NPD, I bet Detective Hawks had no idea the coroner was his daddy. Alleged—daddy. No one’s sure, and I’ve not been able to verify it online or at the court house. It’s just one of many rumors floating around Newport’s upper echelon like farts in a hot tub.

  The blonde cop sashays closer. I step back. After mom and pop left, I swapped my spot for a new one behind a statue. Real marble. Looks like Venus, but not half as pretty as Alaina.

  Alaina. If she only knew what’s in store for her—but that’s for later.

  Detective Hawks avoids going over to talk with Doc Smalley about the Arabian stallion, or the Ferrari, a gift for his birthday. The doc’s always trying to buy his bastard son’s affection with family money. It really pissed Detective Hawks off when he found the car sitting in that fancy building he lives in downtown. Worse, Doc used his influence over Babbs to gain entry to the garage. Maybe she feels sorry for Doc. She does shit like that for him, the same way she’s always trying to hook Detective Hawks up with her friends’ daughters.

  “You need a wife,”I heard her tell him once.

  “Wife?”

  Ba-ha! The lookon her baby boy’s handsome face. “I’ll make it another twenty-seven years without one,”he said. “Besides, Mother, I’m too busy restoring Hawks’ Opera House for you to worry about a wife.”

  That remark pissed Babbs, lemme tell ya. She wants the opera house turned into a community theatre for disadvantaged girls. Maybe she can get one of‘em to marry her baby boy, so she can start validating her existence, calling herself“grandma.” One thing’s for sure, Babbs Hawks gets what she wants. I imagine our gain if she ever decides to come over to the dark side—

  “It’s your fault I have no time to look for a wife,”the detective told her that night, when he found the Ferrari plunked in his garage. I’ve never seen such exquisite upper-crust family dysfunction as I did when they argued.

  When the blonde babe steps within inches, I act like I’ve just left the men’s room. Keeping my head down, I bump into her, giving her my head-on body frisk.

  “Oops, sorry,”I say.

  “Watch what the fuck you’re doing,”she snarls, giving me a shove.

  Have I startled my lady?

  I glance toward the“ladies”sign to the right of the door. I tremble thinking what my daddy would say. I like ladies—cooked. Maybe sautéed. Mostly, I prefer them raw.

  “Sorry,”I say, stepping directly back into her air space and patting her shoulder like we’re besties. “You okay?”

  “Back off, you fuck!”

  “Sure.” Obliging her, I head back to my post in the dining room, park my ass behind the faux ficus, and resume watching His Lordship, Detective Hawks.

  Nick LaFiglia finally ambles to the cash register. He wouldn’t hurry even if I gasolined his ass and set a match to it. Now there’s a realbastard, Nick LaFiglia. I’ve no taste for male meat. Too raunchy compared to female sweetmeats. One day, though, I’d like to chop up Nicky and serve his ass as patéto his patrons. I check my urge to laugh out loud. Daddy would love thatidea, and who knows? For his part in my mother’s death, I think LaFiglia will eventually end up in Daddy’s stewpot. Ha! Kidding. Anyway, Dad doesn’t cook anyone. He likes his meat raw.

  “Detective Hawks,”LaFiglia says,“how was everything today?”

  “It’d be better if you’d get your ass moving, Nick,”His Lordship says,“so people like me can go do our jobs and take bastards like you off the street.”

  Ha-ha. What humor. Gotta love Detective Hawks, who knows Nicky’s rap sheet like the back of his hand. Gotta fear him, too, though. He’d make a wicked-badass criminal. Man never stops once he locks on to his quarry, which is why I watch him at a distance.

  Feeling the delicious little niggle of fear tugging at me, I slide back, snugging myself deep into my favorite spot behind the leafy ficus, and wait.

  * * *

  “Hey, Detective Hawks, what’s up, bro?”Wes Gillam says, thumping me on the back. “Missed you for breakfast.”

  “Blame Meyers,”I say, still pissed the captain socked me with mentoring DeeDee Laws, busting up me and my former partner.

  Wes checks to make sure DeeDee’s nowhere in sight and then lowers his voice. “You need any more help, let me know.”

  “Sure thing,”I say, thanking him for helping out last night and wishing I was heading out with Wes this morning, instead of with DeeDee.

  Wes, happily married but as dirty minded as the next guy, says,“I’d be happy to help you sweat that little hottie from Omar’s.”

  I don’t laugh. Wiry Wes, or“Tiger,”swung by Omar’s last night. I told him to get there early, before I arrived, and keep an eye on Omar’s dancers. I was going to go warn them about the murders in the alley, so I asked him t
o hang around for a drink afterward and meet me. His leer tells me he must’ve liked watching Alaina dance, that and the fact that when DeeDee and I walked in, I saw him salivating.

  “You fit in with that crowd of lechers,”I say, dragging his prurient mind off her.

  “Heh,”Wes goes. “I’d like to fit in a few orifices on her—”

  “Lay off,”I warn, joking—maybe. If I have my way, Wes is getting none of that. Not that I’m worried. When I go over for Saturday night barbecues, it’s like the old woman who lives in the shoe at the Gillams’ house. Kids pour from the rafters, and Delilah’s like a baby-making factory.

  “Glad to help out,”he says. Not big on conversation, he gives me another“Heh.”

  “I can handle it, Tiger,”I say, feeling jealous as hell and clueless as to why. I’ve only seen Alaina one damn time. Sure, she was naked, mostly—reason enough to get excited—but the effect she had on me was immediate. Intense.

  Maybe I’ll call her—

  The hell? Did I just add Alaina Colby to my booty call list? Or is there something different about this one?

  Chapter 8

  Nick LaFiglia’s finally figured out he needs my money to keep Arnee’s running. He ambles to the register. “Detective, sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  I’d be pissed to get this kind of crappy service anywhere else. Here, however, you suck up your anger and wait on Nick. The food’s that damn good, fortunately. It gives me more than one reason to come here. Today, I’m keeping an eye on Nick. I want to see what he knows about the latest vic’s body we found in the alley.

  Nick’s not your average restaurant owner. Or maybe he is. He’s gone straight, he says. I have my doubts. Arnee’s screens employees well, but it’s easy to hide a criminal background by working in a kitchen. Nick’s changed his identity more than once. Who knows how many times? Now he’s Nick LaFiglia, entrepreneur and reformed thug, who owns swank river front properties, and Arnee’s.

  “I hear you found another vic in the alley last night,”he says. “What’s this make your body count now? Two? Three?”

  Nick knows already? The vic, whose corpse we pulled from behind Omar’s last night, used to waitress here. Word travels fast in Newport, especially when you’re talking murder, so I’m not too surprised. I look him square in his eyes. “Who’s to say whoever murdered her isn’t working here? Who’s to say it isn’t one of your thugs?”

  “No need to be uncivil,”Nick says. “Thanks for your business. Now, do me a favor. Go crawl back under the rock you came out from under—Detective.”

  “Who’s to say her murderer isn’t you, Nicky?”

  Nick does the usual perp dance. Looks cocky. Shoots me a shitfaced flat-eyed grin. “You pull anything concrete from the river”—he smiles at his own stupid joke—“you let me know.”

  “You’ll be the first,”I say. “I’d love to send your ass back up the river, and I’m not talking the Ohio.”

  “Other than running all over Newport chasing your ass,”he says, giving me a narrow-eyed stare that would make even the meanest criminal run for cover,“how goes everything in your personal life? I hear dick’s get all the pussy.”

  “Great, Nick. And you? Made any more kiddie porn lately? I hear it’s a booming business on the Internet.”

  Nick never answers my questions, which is the reason I keep asking them. “Glad you enjoyed the food,”he says, and then shoves a takeout order in a go-bag at me. “Cinnamon and pecan rolls, fresh-baked. Just for you, Detective Hawks.”

  I laugh. “No arsenic?”

  If he could get by with it, the rolls would be laced with enough arsenic to kill an elephant. Even if his thick-lipped smile isn’t squeezing back the evil lurking behind his darting gaze, I know Nick. His rap sheet is a how-to crime manual. Vice. Murder. Extortion. Back in the day, LaFiglia ran a child porn factory out of Omar’s, which is why I’m here, watching Nicky’s ass. Although Nick no longer owns the building, bodies keep piling up in the alley behind it. Not that being the building’s former owner makes Nick a suspect in last night’s murder. It doesn’t. But I keep doing my math—three bodies so far—and keep coming to Arnee’s every day to check in on our Nicky. It irritates the piss out of him, knowing I’m waiting to see if he’ll fuck up.

  Apparently, he won’t this morning.

  “I’ll wait for my partner outside,”I say. “I don’t like you, Nick, but I wouldn’t wish her off on you. She’s mean. Look out for her.”

  “Oh, I’ve had my eye on her.”

  Poor bastard. Nick likes blondes. I hear he’s sported more than one Miss Teen America as his appendage, pedophiliac bastard. She’s a bit older than Nick likes, but I’m certain DeeDee’s not the package he wants to toy with. “Stay clean, Nick,”I say, taking the offered go-bag with the pecan cinnamon rolls. I’m vigilant about not taking bribes, but I want to keep communication with LaFiglia open.

  “Always, Soul Brother. Always.”

  I feel the sting of his words against my back, but don’t turn. His use of my closest friends’ nickname for me catches me off guard. Smiling, I recover. Bastard’s letting me know he’s keeping an eye on me. I hang with my friends at the Shipwreck, a downtown dive where we put down some blues on Friday nights. In between, I spend most of my off duty time overseeing the rehabbing of Hawks’ Opera House. I’ve seen Nick hanging around both places, keeping tabs. There’s no law against tailing cops, so long as Nick doesn’t get too personal.

  “Screw you, LaFiglia.”

  “You’re not my type,”he says.

  “You’ll know better when I’m sliding my dick up your ass,”I say, searching for DeeDee. “Hang around and find out.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,”Nick says, rattled, which is exactly what I want. I figure, if I keep the heat on long enough, he’s bound to give me something.

  As I’m leaving, I feel the gazes. Everyone’s trying to figure who DeeDee is and whether she’s my latest. Only her presence with me keeps the gossip to a low roar. I admit, she’s gorgeous, but she’s also a rookie investigator with NPD’s finest. Investigator Laws deserves respect for that. The rest she’ll have to earn. Before long, they’ll all figure out she’s Mayor Laws’ daughter, and then the Newport matchmakers will show me no mercy. I plan to be done with DeeDee—and with Megalo Don—before that happens.

  I walk on outside and stand on Arnee’s wrap-around porch. Looking down the steps leading to the street, I check the area. No unusual activity. No suspicious box trucks hauling drugs from the barges trolling lazily up and down the Ohio River. In NPD, we’ve got a saying. Murder and drugs go together like Arnee’s omelets and toast.

  “I’m ready to roll, Aidan.”

  I turn when she walks up behind me. Big innocent blue eyes sparkling like sun-kissed morning glories, she gazes into my eyes. I groan. Last thing I want is an infatuated rookie I’ll have to drag around and explain. The Newport mayor’s daughter, no less. Feeling my mood darkening, I try to control it. It’s not DeeDee’s fault I fixated on Alaina Colby the second I saw her. I can’t stop thinking about her dark wild beauty, can’t explain my attraction. It’s there, lodged in my gut—or a few inches lower. For now, I’m enjoying the torment thinking about her stirs in my overactive groin, but I also hate it. Don’t want to be feeling this, whatever this is.

  “You ready?”DeeDee asks.

  “Hell yes. I’ve been standing out here for an hour,”I say, patting my pancake holster. My extra, a Colt Cobra .38 Special, lies snugged against my ribs—hidden. “Where’s yours?”I ask, patting my Glock, a 40 caliber hog, secured to my belt—not hidden at all and, in fact, left on purpose in plain view.

  She turns more pale than usual, but doesn’t answer.

  “What’s wrong?”I ask. Some cops are sensitive about where they keep their throw-away. “What happened in there? You see Megalo Don?”

  She doesn’t smile. It’s been my experience a woman will talk when she’s ready, but this isn’t ab
out her ego. It’s about survival. “Always check each gun before holstering it,”I lecture, trudging ahead. “A full clip and chambered round could mean the difference between living and dying.”

  Again, she says nothing. I shrug. She’s a rookie, not a child. She’s paid her dues on the firing range and knows her guns, or she wouldn’t be here. She either gets what I’m trying to teach her—or not.

  “I met the cashier on the way out,”she says, recovering from whatever’s turned her so edgy. “Surly old boy. He gave me a treat.” She holds up a bag of pecan cinnamon rolls.

  “Rookie, you’ve got a lot to learn,”I say, laughing.

  Proving me wrong, which I’m getting used to, she tosses the bag into the trash can, in full view of Arnee’s cameras. “I’m not taking his stinking bribe.”

  “Good girl,”I say, shoving past her down the steps to the street. “We’ve got work to do. C’mon.”

  “Where to—boss?”

  I ignore her sarcasm. I’m a pig—a damn pig.

  “We’re heading to Verbote Dental.”

  “You done any footwork?”DeeDee asks.

  “Yep,”I say, worrying if there’s any conflict in my investigating Alaina for personal reasons, especially since I’m heading to Verbote’s on the Megalo Don case, where I’m hoping to see Alaina. Maybe I’m rationalizing, but I tell myself it should be okay. I can maintain my professional distance.

  “I started at Omar’s,”I say, telling DeeDee what I’ve done. “In Kentucky, all exotic dancers are required to be registered with the state. Prevents them from hiding cash on their income tax.

  “After Alaina made her escape last night, I went back, cornered Omar Jain, and got the bar’s dancer registration certificate. From that, I found Alaina’s home address and one for Verbote Dental, her day job.”

  “Impressive for a fulltime student,”DeeDee says.

  “Yep,”I agree.

  I respect women who make their own way, like my mom did. Judge Hawks, the man I officially call“Dad,”plucked Babbs from Kentucky’s backwoods. When she married into the Hawks’ money, Mom took no handouts. Instead, she worked years as Dad’s legal secretary, paying her way through law school. When—if—I look for a wife, she’ll be independent like my mom. Unlike DeeDee, my brassy crème puff dominatrix in sheep’s clothing, she’ll also let me take the lead in certain intimate areas of our relationship.