Devilish Details (16 page)

“Okay,” Don said softly.

The way Don looked at her made Jazz feel
something she hadn’t felt in years, self-conscious. She turned her
back to him and started making coffee again. “Unless you don’t care
about having your career turn to shit. Up to you. I’m used to
having my reputation in the toilet.”

“You know something?” Don said, his voice
still gentle.

“I know a whole lot more than you
apparently,” Jazz retorted, not daring to look at him. The
affection in his eyes and tone put a scare into her that a gang of
thugs couldn’t. She jumped and almost dropped the coffee grounds
when his lips brushed the back of her neck.

“I’ve found something rare in you,” he
whispered. Then he stepped back. His voice returned to its normal
timbre. “I hope you offer me breakfast. You wore me out, girl. The
least you can do is fix me a slice of toast or something.”

Jazz had to recover before she found her
voice. “Don’t come up in here expecting to be fed on the regular,
Detective Addison. I’m hungry; otherwise you’d be shit out of luck
today.”

“I’ll get three hours of sleep before I have
to report for work,” Don shot back. “I need nourishment to handle
them mean streets.”

“Humph, then you better keep your damn
kitchen stocked.”

Jazz giggled when he gave her backside a
playful swat. The charged emotional atmosphere between them eased.
She relaxed into the laid-back back and forth teasing. After
scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and coffee, Don got dressed and went
home. But not without a lingering kiss that left Jazz troubled
again. Jazz had to get it across to him. She didn’t want his career
hurt; that was true. Don would make a positive difference as a cop.
More truth. But Jazz meant what she’d told him. She didn’t have it
in her emotionally to be tied up in some deep love affair. Once he
woke up to the fact that something inside her was broken, Don would
pull away. For good. She knew it would happen without having a
psychic tell her. What Don wanted, needed, was the whole hearts and
flowers package, complete with sappy wedding vows and kids. And
Jazz couldn’t give him any of those things. Later when she was
about to get in bed, she noticed the cotton drawstring pants. He’d
left them neatly folded on the chair.

“Damn,” she murmured and headed to the
kitchen for more coffee. This time with a healthy shot of bourbon
added to it.

* * *

She dreamed of being in at Crestworth Middle
again. She wore the school uniform. A bell went off and she
sprinted for the door at the signal of freedom, ignoring the
teacher yelling at her to slow down. Fourteen year old Jazzmonetta
Vaughn flipped Mrs. Peterson a middle fingers and kept going.
Another trip to the vice principal’s office for sure. The jingle
went on and on until Jazz woke up in the present and then stopped.
The annoying sound was replaced by pounding that grew louder. Jazz
mumbled curse words into her pillow. She rolled over and grabbed
the second pistol she owned from the nightstand.

“If that damn carpenter is up this early,
he’s going to need a doctor.” Jazz stomped across the bedroom floor
as the pounding continued. Then she stopped in her tracks and
looked down at her nakedness. She muttered more profanity as she
pulled on panties, a pair of blue jeans and a loose sweatshirt.

“Jazz, come on,” came a gruff voice.

“You in trouble whoever you are, cause I
don’t smell smoke. If my house ain’t on fire, waking me up ain’t
gonna be good for you,” Jazz shouted.

Pain thudded at her temples so that she
could hardly think straight, increasing her rage. She marched to
the door and flung it open. Byron put a finger over his lips. He
seemed not to even notice the small semi-automatic pistol she
held.

“Shhh, keep it down. I got Kyeisha
downstairs. Found her on your steps.” Byron looked around
nervously. “I got Doc patchin’ her up.”

“Wait, what the hell you talking about? What
time is it?” Jazz squinted. Shadows fell across the landing of her
apartment.

“It’s almost five o’clock.” Byron tugged at
her free hand.

“In the damn morning?” Still gripping the
gun in one hand, Jazz stumbled down the short flight of stairs
behind him.

Byron panted as he urged her on. “In the
evening. We cleaned up and locked the place tight last night. I
came over to get the place ready and...”

“Wait minute. Slow the hell down. I’m
getting queasy.” Jazz pulled against his momentum.

“C’mon. I told Doc I wouldn’t be gone long.
He’s scared shitless as it is and...”

“You got to let me have a minute here,
Byron. Damn.” Jazz rubbed her forehead with the hand holding her
pistol.

“Damn, girl. Don’t wave that piece around at
me,” Byron whispered.

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” Jazz made sure the safety
was back on. Then she stuck the pistol under the back waistband of
her jeans. No sense in scaring Doc even more.

“It’s Saturday. Our big night. We got to
figure something out before Lilly and Tyretta get here. They can’t
keep their mouths shut. Chyna is working tonight. She’s
high-strung, will scream her head off if she sees the blood.”
Byron’s words tumbled out as his panic rose.

“I’m surprised Doc agreed to come over
here.” Jazz leaned against the brick wall of Candy Girls.

“He’s my friend,” Byron replied simply. For
him that explained it all. “Ready?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Jazz followed him through the back door,
down the hall, and into the smaller of two store rooms. Neat rows
of boxes showed how much care Byron and Rochelle took with the
merchandise. A desk sat in one corner of the room. Invoices covered
the gray metal top. An air mattress sat in another corner, used in
cases when a customer was too intoxicated to drive. Since Byron and
Tyretta kept an eye out for those getting wasted, it wasn’t in use
often. Still Byron kept it clean, or at least it had been.

Jazz took deep breaths to settle her nerves
and stomach at the dark red blotches as Kyeisha lay there, eyes
closed. Doc straightened up and rubbed his back. He wore dusty Army
green slacks. The long sleeves of his plaid shirt were rolled up.
Disposal rubber gloves covered both hands.

Doc’s full name was Herman Bailey. The
non-practicing general practitioner had a shady history, just like
many people who ended up in that part of town. Doc had practiced in
the neighborhood since the late sixties when most other residents
were white like him. He still lived in his brick home three blocks
away. As whites moved out and the population changed, Doc stayed
on. Doc’s prescription drug habit resulted in early retirement. In
fact, it was the Louisiana State Medical Examiners strong
invitation that he take a rest. Doc didn’t learn. He tried
practicing part-time and he went back to using. Or maybe he never
stopped. Losing his license two years later meant his exit from the
healing profession became complete. At three years clean, he
realized a new profession was a great idea. He made custom hardwood
furniture.

“Took you long enough to get back here.”

“Sorry, Doc, but Jazz was sleep and...”

Doc waved a hand wearily. “You called 911? I
don’t know how she made it here. If she managed to walk, then she’s
one tough cookie. But I don’t think so.”

“Let’s call one of your buddies to drop her
off at the nearest emergency room,” Jazz whispered to Byron.

“You got no time for making phone calls. She
won’t last much longer; dehydration, blood loss, shock. Not to
mention she could have internal injuries. This unfortunate young
woman has been beaten within an inch of her life.” Doc looked down
at his “patient”.

“He’s right. She didn’t get here by
herself.” Jazz rubbed her head in an attempt to clear her
thinking.

“I’ll call 911, say I found her up the block
and brought her here,” Byron said as he gazed at Jazz. He seemed to
know what she was thinking.

“I can’t stay. Judge Price said he’d find a
way to toss my rear end in prison if I got into more trouble. I
cleaned up her wounds. Put proper bandages on ‘em, the best I had
in my car.” Doc headed for the door, but paused to look at Byron.
The older man nodded and then slipped out.

“Thanks, Doc,” Byron said at his
disappearing shadow.

“Why didn’t you take her someplace else?
Damn.” Jazz pressed both palms on the sides of her head.

Byron pulled out his cell phone. “She needed
help fast. I’m calling 911 like Doc said.”

Jazz grabbed his hands. “Wait, just wait.
Maybe we could put a sheet in your car and drop her outside
Mid-City General Hospital and--”

“You heard Doc. She needs a paramedic
and...”

Jazz and Byron froze as sirens whined in the
distance. Both hoped the sound would fade away. The pulsating
scream at other vehicles to get out of the way grew closer.
Footsteps signaled someone coming—several someones. Jazz gripped
Byron’s forearm, but before she could speak, a policewoman entered
the room, gun drawn. She assumed the standard shooting
position.

“Drop whatever is in your hands. Put your
arms up. Now,” she shouted, her voice bouncing from the walls.

A second officer stepped around her to aim
as well. “Do it.”

“Cell phone,” Byron croaked in. He dropped
the bright blue device.

The officers got Jazz and Byron out of the
storeroom, careful to keep distance between them. The female
officer turned on lights along the way. Rochelle came out of the
kitchen with a knife in one hand and a large onion in the other.
She squeaked when a male officer spun to confront her, his gun
pointed.

“Drop the damn knife,” he yelled.

“Ye-es, yessir. I’m cooking. Don’t kill me.
Oh Lord, please don’t shoot me.”

Rochelle threw the knife far from her. She
flung the onion in a different direction. Crying and pleading, she
got to her knees. Moments later, Lt. Armand Miller came in with
Lorraine of all people. She looked around the nightclub before
focusing a hostile gaze at Jazz.

“What did I say? I been telling y’all that
no-good bitch is evil. I knew she had Kyeisha up in here,” Lorraine
spat.

“I’m going to kick your ass, Lorraine, and
it’s long overdue.” Jazz lunged toward her, but the policewoman
moved fast. And she was strong.

Don came in. He took in the scene with a
deep frown on his handsome face. Miller gave him a warning glare,
jerked his head toward the exit. A muscular white officer with red
hair stepped forward. He spoke close to Don’s ear. Even so, Don
didn’t move. The man dropped an arm around Don’s shoulder. Don
shrugged free with a sharp movement. Still he left the nightclub
ahead of the man.

Miller turned to Jazz and Byron. “Somebody
better start explaining why a missing woman is here half dead.”

“She...” Byron stopped when Miller raised a
hand.

“Crawford, talk to the man,” Miller said to
another uniformed officer.

“Got it. This way, sir,” the brawny police
office pointed to the side entrance.

“Don’t want us to get our stories together,
so you interview us apart. Going to be a long night.” Jazz tried
not to sound as shook up as she felt.

“You got that right. Well?” Miller stood
legs apart, a stylus poised over his four inch wide smart
phone.

“I was asleep when Byron woke me up, dead to
the world.” Jazz stopped when the poor choice of words rang too
loud in the club.

“Hmm,” was Miller’s only reply. Still his
dark eyebrows twitched up.“He said Kyeisha was lying in the alley
or something. No, I don’t know how she got here. No, I don’t know
where she’s been. I have no idea who beat her or cut off her
fingers--or why. That should cover all of your questions. Since I
didn’t get my full hours of sleep, I’d like to go back to bed.”
Jazz tucked a couple of stray tendrils that kept falling across her
eyes behind her left ear. Miller nodded as he scribbled on the
touch screen with the stylus. “Uh-huh. So you were up late last
night.”

“I was not torturing Kyeisha,” Jazz snapped.
“I left the club and went to my apartment.”

“What time did you leave the club?”

“About eleven. Byron and my other employees
had things under control.” Jazz chewed on her lower lip. When
Miller glanced at her, she stopped. He was looking for a sign she
was lying.
Get it together, girl.

“So you went to your apartment at around
eleven. How do you know the time?”

Jazz sighed. “I looked at my cell phone to
check for messages as I was leaving.”

“I see. Did you go straight home?”

“It’s less than two yards out back. I
decided not to drive,” Jazz replied. When Miller squinted at her,
Jazz sighed again. “Yes, I went straight to my apartment.”

“You were home alone?” Miller went back to
scribbling.

“Yes.”

Miller looked up briefly and then down
again. “Did you leave?”

“No.”

“Anyone come over?” Miller looked at her
again.

“I did paperwork and went to bed. Running a
business means long hours. I don’t have time to party,” Jazz shot
back with heat.

“So you were alone... all night?” Miller
pressed.

“Yes,” Jazz hissed at him.

“Which means we can’t confirm you didn’t
leave home,” Miller said mildly. He tucked the phone into his
jacket pocket. “We’re going to the station.”

Her heart went from zero to sixty. “Wait a
minute; you can’t arrest me with no evidence.”

“We have so much probable cause to hold you
for questioning it ain’t even worth arguing about. C’mon.”

Miller marched Jazz to a marked patrol car.
The female police officer put plastic handcuffs on her wrists and
helped Jazz into the back seat. Jazz shivered at the sensation of
being trapped even before the door closed. A bright light flashed
causing Jazz to blink.

“Did you have anything to do with the murder
of the injured woman’s boyfriend?” a reporter shouted as a video
camera was aimed at her face.