CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I dialed Cora’s number then put the phone on speaker so Sandy could hear the conversation. When she answered her words were clipped and the frustration in her voice at not being able to reach me was evident. “Know where the Safeway off of Morris Street is at?”
“What’s going on, Cora?”
“Woman named Elle Richardson is dead. Shot in the middle of her forehead. Ron Miles is already there and says the crime scene weenies think it’s the same shooter. If you’re not doing anything you might want to swing by. And by the way, Pate’s lawyer is raising holy hell with the Governor as we speak so you may have touched a nerve somewhere. Things are happening, Slick. You might want to get in the game.”
“We’ll get right over there,” I said, then wished I’d been more careful with my choice of words.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” Her voice seemed to relax a little, but as is often the case with Cora, she didn’t wait for an answer. “Your phone sounds sort of funny. Do you have me on speaker or something? Hey, one other thing, I’ve got everyone else’s paperwork from yesterday’s cluster fuck outside the Governor’s place, but I’m still waiting on Small’s. Tell her to get it to me, will you? Or did I just do that?”
Sometimes a conversation with Cora can leave you feeling a little like a bug in a blender.
Fifteen minutes later we were dressed and in my truck, the bubble light flashing on the dashboard. When we pulled up to the crime scene, TV was there, along with a few print people. When we got out of the truck, the cameras turned our way. I looked at Sandy and said, “I hate it when the news beats me to the crime scene.”
“Well, they don’t really have a life,” Sandy said.
A very tall and skinny female reporter and her cameraman caught us just before we ducked under the crime scene tape. “Detective Jones, what can you tell me about this latest murder? Our information is the victim is a nurse, just like one of yesterday’s victims. Do the nurses of our city need to be concerned, Detective? Is it the work of the killer you’ve been hunting in connection with the death of Franklin Dugan?”
Hunting. Good word.
I don’t mind the press, really. They have a job to do like anyone else. In fact, it has been my experience that as a detective, if you treat the press with dignity and respect, they in turn, will reciprocate in kind, thereby establishing a mutually beneficial relationship between all concerned parties.
Sandy and I ducked under the crime scene tape. “No comment,” I said.
The reporter put a pout on her lips. “Come on Jonesy…”
“Not now, Becky,” I said. Sandy and I took a few steps away and then I stopped her. “Go find Miles, will you?” I said. “I’ll be right there.”
Sandy looked at me, a quiz on her face. “Sure. What’s up?”
“I’ll be right there.”
“Did you know I’d be here Beck, or did you just get lucky?”
“I’m certain I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Becky said.
I think she was trying to look surprised, but with all the plastic surgery she’s had in an attempt to maintain the appearance of a twenty-two year old, it was hard to tell. I stood there for a moment and watched her try to blink.
“Who’s the cutie?”
I wanted to ignore her and walk away, and I even started to, but as most anyone who has ever been divorced will tell you, negative intimacy is a powerful force, one that often leaves you wondering about the status of your own mental faculties. I turned back around to say something to Becky. I wanted to put her in her place, but something else caught my eye. A taxi slowed in the street behind us and as I watched it go by I saw a man in the rear of the cab turn his head away at the last second. How many people when driving by a crime scene turn their head and look away? Answer: none. My eyes followed the cab, darted to Becky for a second, then back to the cab which was already turning the corner at the end of the block. When I looked over at Becky again I could not think of one single thing I ever liked about her, but I was not afraid to admit that probably said more about me than it did her. I watched the cab turn the corner, stuffed my hands in my pockets and headed to where the victim lay, all the while questioning my past preference in women.
Something about that cab, though.
I slipped on a pair of latex gloves, walked up and saw Sandy leaning over the body. She turned and faced me as I walked up. “Just like Cora said, Jonesy. Caught her right between the eyes.”
I looked at the victim’s body. A pool of blood had formed under her head. A shopping cart and it’s contents lay next to her, the groceries scattered about. “I see that. Where’s Miles?”
Sandy stood, then turned to face me. “You okay, Jonesy? What was that back there?”
I looked at her, trying to process too many things at once; the discovery Sandy and I had made together just hours ago, our love making, another shooting victim, the cab that just went by. It was a lot of information. “What?” I said.
“Who was that?”
“I don’t know. Just someone in a cab. It was weird. How many people have you ever seen that look away from a bunch of cop cars?”
Sandy frowned, tilted her head. “What cab? What are you talking about? I’m talking about the woman. Who was that?”
“Oh, that,” I said. “Uh, her name is Becky Connor.”
Sandy chewed on the inside of her lip. “Well, I don’t like her. She seems kinda…brassy.”
I puffed my cheeks, then blew out a breath. “Let me tell you.”
“Oh, you will, boss man, you will.”
“Well, uh, as long as we’re on the subject,” I said, “I guess I should tell you something.”
“Yes…”
“You know, just so it’s out there.”
“What?” Sandy asked, a note of skepticism in her voice.
I looked down at my feet, not quite sure how to say it. I did not know if it would matter to her or not. “Well, you see, the thing is…”
“You were married to her?”
“Well, yeah, but the key word here is was. As in I was married to her, but now I’m not.”
“You never told me you were married.”
“I’m not.”
“But you were,” she said.
“Right. But I’m not now.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“You didn’t ask. Besides, I thought you would have detected it, Detective.” I watched her expression and picked up a hint of jealousy. Just a whiff. The fun kind though.
I hoped.
“Besides,” I said. “It was a mistake. I was just waiting for the right woman to come along.”
Just then, an overweight bald man in a cheap suit walked in eating a double cheeseburger. He held the burger with three fingers, the other two pinching the cardboard container underneath the sandwich as a drip tray. He held an unused napkin in his other hand. He had caught the end of our conversation. “Hope that wasn’t her.”
I looked at him without saying anything. Sandy said, “Excuse me?”
The fat man took another bite of his cheeseburger, chewed three times, pushed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth like a wad of chewing tobacco, and spoke with his cheeks puffed full of food. He pointed the empty box at me, but spoke to Sandy. “He said he was waiting for the right woman to come along. I was just commenting that I hoped it wasn’t this one here,” he said as he waved his napkin at the body. Then he turned and faced me. “How’s it going, Jones man? Crime Scene been here yet?”
Wally Wright, Deputy Coroner of Marion County, placed his napkin in the empty box and then shoved the box into his suit pocket. Ron Miles walked up behind him, and the four of us, me, Sandy, Wally, and Ron all adjusted ourselves into a little circle. Miles nodded at me and Sandy, but spoke first to Wally. “Took you long enough.”