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Chapter 1
"... the caller states her neighbor’s dog is barking loudly and does this all the time. She wants officers to check on the dog and make it stop so she can put her children to bed.” Crackle, crackle, scan. “ ... medical emergency at 7276 Airport Freeway — trouble breathing.” Crackle, crackle, scan. “ ... signal 12. Repeat, signal 12: white male; appears to be in his early 30s; found face-down in the kitchen of his apartment. Officer requesting homicide unit and back-up for crowd control.” “Shit!” Angie Mitchell snapped out of her lazy reverie and grabbed the nearest notepad on her desk with one hand, knocking over a soda can in her desperate search to find a pen with the other. Cursing under her breath, she sat very still for several seconds — notepad and pen ready — waiting for the police scanner to pick up that last channel again. It had been the north patrol unit, she was sure of it. And she wasn’t wrong. After less than a minute, the police scanner picked up the north patrol chatter again and dispatch repeated the address for responding officers. She quickly jotted the information down in barely legible writing, shouldered her purse, clipped the remote police scanner to her belt and limped down the long isle of empty reporter cubicles toward her boss’ desk, leaning heavily on her still recently-acquired crutches. “Tom!” she startled him and he jumped mid-bite, spilling bits of a deli sandwich down his crisp blue shirt. Scowling, he dabbed at a mustard stain on his shirt with a napkin. “Sorry about that,” Angie muttered, trying not to laugh. “There’s been a homicide — big crowd at the scene — and I need to head out.” “Shit!” he said with feeling, checking his watch. 10:11 p.m. “You better hurry, we’ve only got about an hour.” “I know, I know. I’m on it,” and she hurried down the hall muttering and cursing all the way. A crime reporter’s night is sometimes like that — nothing going on for hours until it’s almost too late to gather enough information in time to get a story in the paper before it goes to press. And Angie wasn’t used to the night shift. She was only covering that shift as a personal favor and had been fighting the urge to crawl under her desk and take a nap all night. No, she was the Fort Worth Tribune’s morning crime reporter. She was used to coming in early, making dozens of calls to the five gazillion little towns surrounding Fort Worth and asking dispatch operators if there had been any major crimes overnight. With all the morning news stories covered when she came in at 3 p.m., she’d been left to baby-sit the scanner and hope that nothing happened too close to deadline. But the feeling of utter dread and stress drained as quickly as it had surfaced, morphing into barely-disguised excitement. Try as she might to feel annoyed, or frustrated, or stressed out, she couldn’t squash the adrenaline rush. She simply couldn’t help it. Angie, if nothing else, was a hard news junkie at heart. And seldom is there harder news than a homicide. Unless it’s a double homicide. Or triple. She made it down the rickety elevator to the ground floor, hobbling along with her crutches at a rather risky pace. The Tribune’s parking lot was half-empty at this time of night, with half gone for the night. Angie stopped beside her brand-new Mitsubishi Eclipse and carefully balanced on her good leg while she stowed the crutches in the backseat. Only two months ago she could have run down the stairs and hopped into her car. Her average response time was usually about as good as your average cop’s — two minutes flat from receiving info to being in her car and on the road. But an investigative lead on a story gone bad had nearly killed her. She’d been lucky to escape with a scar from a bullet and a broken leg. And her bosses had expected her leave of absence to last longer than a month, but Angie’s restlessness had kicked in and she’d demanded to be put back on the schedule. She’d furiously argued her way through her boss’s apprehensions, saying there was absolutely no reason she couldn’t make a few phone calls and sit at her computer desk, both of them knowing perfectly well that she wouldn’t stay in the office. Not if something big happened. But Tom had caved — more because he needed the stories than because he thought she was ready. Using her tattered Mapsco, she found the location quickly and zoomed off toward northeast Fort Worth — one hand holding the steering wheel, the other a quickly smoked cigarette. Taking a turn off Beach Street, she found the crime scene immediately. There was no way to miss it — flashing blue lights everywhere, a dozen cop cars, yellow crime scene tape marking off half of an apartment building. Dozens of people were milling about, smoking cigarettes, staring, some somber-faced, others gawking excitedly. An officer stepped in front of her car and indicated she should roll down the window. After flashing her press pass he waved her over to a spot where she could park. Angie complied obediently and checked her watch. 10:27 p.m. No doubt the TV crews would show up within the next few minutes and accost the officer in charge. She had about five minutes to find whoever that was and get some info before the media circus began. While she was fumbling with her notepad and crutches, someone tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Miss Mitchell, I thought you might show up.” She spun around, wondering who the hell was demanding her attention at such a crucial time. She had to crane her neck upwards to meet the eyes of the speaker, a man with a boyish face and shockingly vibrant red hair. “Johnny Key, Fort Worth’s newest homicide detective. First day on the job. I believe we have an appointment for coffee tomorrow morning.” He held out his hand and smiled. Angie blinked at him and grasped his hand, not entirely surprised by the strong grip. “Lance pointed you out and I thought I’d come on over before I’m whisked away.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing out the police department’s public information officer, Lance Tucker. “Shouldn’t you be in that apartment over there?” she smiled back at him, indicating the unit that was being guarded by several officers. “Not that I mind you coming over, I do need some info from you.” His responding laugh was warm and bright, and Angie couldn’t help but like the man. “Tell you what — give me ten minutes and I’ll be back over. You’re first in line, no matter how many TV guys show up,” and before she could say anything, he wandered over to the apartment in question and disappeared. Struggling with her crutches, the reporter made her way over to the crowd and began interviewing the more somber-faced people she could find. Rejected by several, she finally found someone willing to answer a few questions. Within minutes, however, the TV crews showed up and what turned out to be a group of mourning friends quickly dispersed. But not before Angie managed to obtain a phone number and some good quotes. Detective Key tapped her on the shoulder again and waved away other approaching reporters with a smile and a laugh — “One at a time, guys, no pack journalism tonight, okay? Go to Lance for that.” “So, are you ready for this?” he asked once the others were out of earshot. “Yeah, shoot,” she said, pen and pad at the ready. “Male, white, 31 years old. He was reported missing earlier this evening by his parents, who also called his friends. Three of them stopped by to check on him; one of them had a key. They opened the door and found him face-down on the kitchen floor, apparently beaten to death. No, we don’t really suspect the friends because it appears he’d been dead for a couple of days, though we don’t know how long yet, and we can’t rule out anybody either. The medical examiner hasn’t come to inspect the body yet.” He paused while Angie scribbled furiously, trying to keep up. She noticed he’d stopped speaking and she asked, “Any signs of forced entry?” “The friends had a key,” he repeated patiently. “They did, but did the killer? I mean, couldn’t he or she have forced entry, stolen his keys and then locked up after himself? Was the door locked?” He gave her a contemplative look and smiled. “They told me you were good. But we all knew that from your own publicity.” Angie blushed and cursed under her breath. No quick retort came to mind, especially since he was right. At least about the publicity part, which ties back in with the investigative lead gone badly and all that. She cleared her voice and demanded, “Well?” not looking at the detective. “Yes, there were signs of forced entry — scratches on the lock. We haven’t yet been able to locate the man’s wallet or a key ring.” “ID?” “Come on, Mitchell. You know better than that. The medical examiner hasn’t come yet. We haven’t even informed next of kin. And before you ask — I saw you talking to his friends — no, I won’t confirm any names they may have given you.” “Okay ...” she chewed her pen for a second, thinking. “Hey, what about the state of the apartment? Was it wrecked? You know, any signs of a struggle?” “Why, yes there were. Broken glass on the floor. Upturned furniture.” “Blood on the body?” “You want some gore for your story?” She gave him a sheepish grin. “No, I want details. If there’s no gore, there’s no gore. If there is, there is. Out with it.” He suppressed a laugh, clearly not wanting to offend any onlookers. “Off the record?” “I don’t do that.” “Damn, you’re tough. The others at the station warned me about you. The chief gave me a whole lecture on dealing with Miss Angie Mitchell. Just so you know.” He paused and lowered his voice. “Seriously, Angie. Can I call you Angie?” The reporter nodded. “Okay. Seriously, I came to Fort Worth from Dallas because I wanted to get away from serious shit like this. The body’s pretty messed up. I’ll tell you he was found half-naked — still had his briefs on, the rest was missing. He was bound in what appears to be silk scarves. Gagged with the same. There’s more, but I can’t give it to you yet. Obviously we’re still investigating. But my gut tells me this was no crime of opportunity or passion. No, this was something much, much worse. But I don’t want to see that last bit in the paper tomorrow. Not until I can confirm what my gut’s telling me. Got it?” “Yes, sir.” “Call me Jay. And I have to get back inside. See you tomorrow?” “Starbucks at 9 o’clock. And thanks, Jay.” He nodded and slipped back through the crowd before the TV reporters could get to him. They glowered at Angie as though she was a traitor, and she tried desperately to hide a smirk that wanted to break across her face. She hadn’t exactly been popular with them lately. For the past month she’d been denying interviews, making snide comments when a camera guy or girl started following her around at a crime scene. She’d allowed only one interview, and that was because it was an Associated Press reporter. And Angie liked the Associated Press. She’d told him the whole story about how she stumbled across a strange homeless man down at Sundance Square one day, how he told her about another man who was beating and killing people out on the homeless strip — a seedy area under Interstate 30 where homeless people spend the night. Well, where they used to spend the night before she started writing her stories about the strange deaths, the disappearing people, the man named John Carpenter who’d found a following. Most of the homeless didn’t go there anymore — the memories were just too painful, and the city had approved more funding for homeless shelters anyway. Angie had gotten more threats with each follow-up she wrote. Her car was trashed. And finally, after many articles, she met with a city council aide who blew the cops’ theory about Carpenter out of the water. Whereas she thought Carpenter just wanted to start a gang to terrorize people, he’d actually been hired by councilman Ted Henry, a bigoted, racist hater who wanted “his streets” cleared of bums. After meeting with the aide she was kidnapped by Carpenter’s thugs, beaten by the same, and shot by Henry while she was trying to escape. She’d only barely survived. The following weeks were chaos. Every news station and publication in the area — and some from out-of-state — had wanted to interview her. Only, Angie thought it was pointless and didn’t want to give the story. She’d hoped giving that one interview with AP would solve that problem. Other news agencies could just reprint that story, after all. It was kind of hypocritical for a journalist, she knew, but it was her life and being in the news was interfering with her job. It was bad enough that they kept running stories, interviewing the cops and city council, about the incident. Now she couldn’t go anywhere without somebody recognizing her and either showering her with praise or launching a lecture. So now the other reporters weren’t exactly happy with her, and Detective Key’s little game of favorites wasn’t going to help. But she allowed it just this once and reveled in their annoyance. She sighed and checked her watch, turning her back on them. 10:56 p.m. Angie leaned against a nearby wall and dug her cell phone out of her pocket and punched in an all-too familiar number, catching a glimpse of the Tribune’s night shift photographer snapping pictures across the street. “Okay, Tom, are you ready? It’s a front-pager, you’ll see. Here it goes: A 31-year-old Fort Worth man was found beaten to death in his apartment late Friday night, where he had apparently ...” * * * Angie drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for her apartment complex’s access gate to open. The rickety old thing made an awful screeching sound and reluctantly swung open while she repeatedly punched her code in the keypad. Her patience was beyond wearing thin. It was after midnight — she should have been home over an hour ago — and she’d been held up more than once along the twisty route home. First she’d had to stay on her boss’ orders to make sure no further updates from investigators were forthcoming. He’d finally released her at 11:30 p.m. and she’d happily hopped in her car, eager to get home, only to take a wrong turn and end up on a windy little road without a turn-around possibility for ten minutes.It didn’t matter that she knew most of the streets in Fort Worth. The sprawling city outskirts still held a few pockets she’d never had to visit and those narrow, dimly-lit roads with deep ditches on either side didn’t allow for quick little mistakes. When she finally managed to find the correct street out, after a frustrated consultation of her trusty Mapsco, she was stopped flat at an accident site on Interstate 30. She’d been stuck for twenty minutes, furiously debating whether her car could handle a little offroading — maybe drive through the shallow ditch to the access road to get around the lanes blocked by emergency crews. But after watching a Ford Escort get stuck, she resigned herself to waiting. The reporter peeled through the gate and swung her car hard to the left, coming to a screeching halt in her allotted covered parking space. Her notebook got crammed roughly into her purse and she cursed furiously, realizing she’d accidentally taken the Tribune’s police scanner home with her. A big no-no. But there was no way in hell she’d turn back around and drive all the way to the office downtown. They could just wait until the morning. It wasn’t like anybody worked overnight and would need it anyway. Still fiddling with her purse, she was startled by a knock on her driver’s side window. Her scowl disappeared the second she turned to see who it was, the last 45-minutes’ frustration draining away into nothingness as a soft warmth slowly began to build in her stomach and finally reached her eyes. “Lauren,” she sighed happily, and unlocked the door. Soft lips she’d been craving all day met her own and she lost herself for a few minutes, reveling in the tenderness and sweet smell of lavender that was so distinctly Lauren. Strong arms wrapped protectively around her shoulders and pulled her closer, the woman’s hands kneading her back soothingly, while long raven hair tickled her cheeks. When they finally parted, a small whimper of protest escaped her lips and her lover chuckled knowingly. “I was wondering if we should send out a search party,” Lauren murmured in a husky voice, her breath tickling the reporter’s ear and making her shiver involuntarily. “We got bored and went for a walk and were just about to head inside.” Angie cleared her voice with difficulty and said, “Late homicide. Sorry I’m so late.” “Yeah, we figured it was something like that.” “We?” “Jimmy’s here. Don’t tell me you forgot about our plans tonight.” Angie shook her head, stalling. She had forgotten but she would never admit it. Her mind racing, she finally came across the thread of conversation nearly a week old. “Right. Club 1970. Tonight,” she finally said, trying to hide a sheepish grin that wouldn’t quite stay off her lips. Lauren sighed and nodded, standing up. She helped the reporter gather her things and walked her over to their waiting friend, who’d busied himself with smoking a cigarette and staring at the half-sickle moon during their intimate embrace. When he realized the reporter had gotten out of her car, he smirked at her and held out a hand, clearly indicating she should hand over her things so he could carry them inside. She stared at him blankly for several seconds. The two of them had been playing mother hen since she’d gotten out of the hospital. They did everything from cook her meals to sometimes — much to her protest — carry her around. She took guilty pleasure in allowing Lauren to bathe her, though she was far from needing that sort of help. But that was something altogether different than letting them think she was incapable of carrying her own purse. She had a broken leg, after all, not two broken arms. A strong streak of pride reared itself and the reporter sighed exaggeratedly, hoping to convey her disapproval. “Oh, don’t give me that crap,” he said and laughed. “Aren’t you tired? I heard something about you being at a crime scene. I bet you ignored your doctor’s orders and stood around there for at least an hour. Just give me your freaking purse.” She couldn’t help but smirk in return because he had pegged. Again. He always did, whether she liked it or not. Jimmy, for all his sarcastic frankness, was terribly perceptive, something that had actually helped her more than once. Without further protest, she handed over her purse and sweater jacket. “That’s better. Why don’t you get your stuff, Lauren, so we can head out?” He took a closer look at Angie, stepping around her and inspecting her back appraisingly, and added, “Unless you want to change first.” “And exactly what are you implying?” “Your shirt is stuck to your back, honey. Unless you’re going for that ‘I’m sweaty and sexy’ look, I’d suggest you change.” Out of habit, he took a quick step back to avoid the usual retort — a playful but hard slap. Realizing she couldn’t exactly hobble forward fast enough to catch him, he grinned evilly. “I knew there was something good about that cast.” “Lauren?” Angie turned to her lover, who’d been watching the exchange with a grin that slid off her face a split second before their eyes met. “No problem,” she responded smoothly and caught a retreating Jimmy with five long strides. He yelped when she slapped his backside a bit harder than intended. Angie leaned against the stairway railing and listened to the following argument with typical amusement. A yawn threatened to surface but she squelched it quickly, wishing she hadn’t had such a late night. She wanted to hang out with them at the bar, had been looking forward to it all week. It had only slipped her mind because she’d been so focused on her crime story and had allowed its details to completely fill her mind. There was little else she enjoyed more these days than spending time with Lauren and Jimmy, regardless of what the evening’s entertainment was. Over the short few months she’d really gotten to know both, they’d worked their way into her hectic life, claiming large chunks of her heart and thoughts — something that for years she’d reserved only for family. And her best friend. It was more than a gigantic leap forward for the workaholic reporter who’d once been emotionally distant. After a rather loud exchange and chase around the parking lot, the two finally remembered that they were supposed to be well on their way to the bar and quickly helped Angie into Jimmy’s new Pontiac Firebird. He’d had to replace his old one two months prior, after landing it in a ditch during a summer thunderstorm. She inhaled the scent of new car and smirked, strongly suspecting that he sprayed the sports car everyday with a freshener to retain the scent. Digging around the back seat, while he and Lauren carried on a conversation about the muggy, 90-degree weather, her suspicion was confirmed when she found a bottle of the stuff. With a devious little smile, she slipped it between the seat cushions, mentally giggling at the thought of him searching frantically for the damned thing. Serves him right for teasing her about her shirt. Club 1970 was Jimmy’s favorite hotspot. Cringing at the smell of stale beer, her eyes watering under the assault of a cigar smoke cloud hanging in the air, she had to force a smile on her face. It was the type of place she’d never visit on her own, but since it was her friend’s favorite place to have a few drinks, she’d just have to tolerate the dingy establishment. It was also the only gay bar in Arlington, a Fort Worth suburb sorely lacking in gay venues. Jimmy’s walk took on a slight strut and his voice dropped an octave as he ordered their drinks from a red-headed bartender he’d been interested in for weeks. Angie and her lover pointed not-so-discretely and giggled, watching as their blond-headed friend lighted up a cigar importantly, blowing puffs of smoke in a way he clearly thought was sexy. The redhead handed over three bottles of beer and scurried off to the other end of the counter and Jimmy sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. “Some day, my friend,” Lauren cuffed him lightly in the shoulder and took her beer, “Aren’t you seeing somebody already anyway?” “Yeah, what’s up with that?” Angie smirked and took her beer as their friend slid into the chair they’d reserved for him. He sighed and puffed on his cigar, took a long sip of beer, and sighed again. “Justin’s out of the picture,” he finally answered, the words not entirely laced with his usual indifference regarding any of his previous partners. “What?” Lauren snapped, immediately catching his barely hidden tone of resignation. “Now don’t get all protective on me,” he snapped back, the words enunciated so sharply it was clear he wouldn’t tolerate any arguments. “My own fault. You know how I am. And it doesn’t matter anyway. We only saw each other five times. Who cares, right?” Lauren opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and took a swig of beer instead. She peeled off tiny pieces of the water-logged beer’s label and began setting the scraps on the table. Jimmy picked at a nail and said nothing. Angie’s eyes darted from one to the other, not following what wasn’t being said. There had to be some history there she hadn’t discovered yet. She wanted desperately to ask what it was, but knew it wouldn’t be a good idea. Instead, she scooted her chair a little closer to Jimmy, touched his arm reassuringly and said, “Hey, if you need us, we’re here, ok? Sorry it didn’t work out.” She paused for a second and waited for a response but continued to say nothing. “Okay … How about you tell us about that bartender?” He ceased fiddling with his nails and looked up at her. His eyes darted to Lauren and fixed on her face until she nodded silently. Jimmy laughed abruptly — a bit more high-pitched and forced than his typical bright chuckles — and started babbling about Matt the bartender, fluffing his hair nervously and checking over his shoulder frequently to make sure the man in question was nowhere near. Angie bit back a startled yelp when Lauren’s hand clenched convulsively over her own, the knuckles white with the effort to appear interested and not launch a third-degree interrogation. The reporter resolved to get to the matter the second they got home, no matter how late it was or how long the conversation took. But the second the two lovers stepped into her apartment, Angie found herself in her lover’s arms, roughly dragged to the bedroom where Lauren put all thoughts of talking about their friend out of her mind. Chapter 2 Feedback? E-mail me at kimberlylafontaine@yahoo.com. |