Everywhere She Turns (11 page)

Whatever the case, if they were lucky, some of the prints lifted would give them a match. But they’d have to be damned lucky. Shelley had entertained lots of guests in her bedroom. Even with eliminating the prints they’d collected immediately after her murder, they could be interviewing matches for weeks. And if the perp had worn gloves, as Braddock imagined he had, the whole exercise would be a colossal waste of time and manpower.

CJ had refused to make eye contact with him when she’d finally emerged from the bathroom wearing a big, fluffy white robe he recognized as one of Shelley’s. She’d stayed in the kitchen since. He’d smelled the coffee brewing but didn’t dare invade her space. As much as he would have loved a cup of coffee, it wasn’t worth the backlash that was surely coming.

She already despised him. He doubted she liked him any better now, no matter how amazing the sex.

He took a breath. He could still smell her scent on his skin . . . on his clothes.

No matter what he wanted to feel, he recognized what had just happened for what it was: big-ass mistake.

“All done,” Greg Day, the evidence tech, announced as he descended the stairs. “I’ll try to have something for you on the blood by noon. The prints”—he shot Braddock one of those looks—“will take some time.”

“I appreciate the priority status.” If that blood was human, Braddock wanted to know ASAP. “If the blood turns out to be human, compare it to Shelley Patterson’s.”

No one fucks with me
.

This had to be Nash’s work. Bastard.

Day gave him a salute and headed for the door.

“You’ll call me when you get the lab results?”

“Definitely,” Day called over his shoulder as he exited. Braddock turned to find CJ lingering in the doorway leading into the kitchen. A rap on the front door waylaid what he needed to say. He held up a hand for CJ to hold on.

He’d called in back up. Braddock wanted to make the necessary introductions and get the hell out of here before he said or did something else stupid. “Sorry to drag you out of bed,” he said to the newest detective on his team. Jenkins was a good man. A little young, fresh off the beat, but a damned quick study and ambitious as hell. Braddock was reasonably sure CJ wouldn’t want him hanging around here tonight.

“Dr. Patterson”—he kept the introductions formal—“this is Detective Wesley Jenkins. He’ll be right outside the rest of the night if you need him.”

“Detective Braddock gave me your cell number, ma’am,”
Jenkins offered. “I put through a call to your cell so my number would be handy. Don’t hesitate to contact me if you have any questions or if you hear or see anything you feel isn’t right.”

“Thank you, Detective Jenkins,” she said.

A
but
was coming. Braddock could feel it.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine now.” She lifted her chin in defiance of what she likely knew Braddock was thinking. “The doors and windows will be locked. I can slide the bureau in front of the broken window.”

No, he wasn’t the one out of his mind. She was.

“Thank you, Jenkins,” Braddock said, dismissing the detective. “I’ll check in with you on my way out.”

Jenkins gave CJ a nod and made his exit before the shit hit the fan.

“You listen to me,” Braddock said before she could hurl whatever explanation she’d concocted at him. “This is no game.” He pointed to the stairs. “Just because the guy who did this didn’t gut you or slice your throat doesn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. That writing on the wall”—he stabbed his finger toward the stairs again—“is a warning. Tyrone Nash knows you’re here and he’s watching you.”

CJ looked him straight in the eye. “Just because I fell apart and let you inside me doesn’t mean you know me.”

The words were so cold, so emotionless, he flinched.

“I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing that for a very long time. So don’t go all martial law on me.” She pointed at the door, mimicking his gesture. “You can leave now. I’m finished with you.”

The rational argument he’d planned to throw at her, the hard-ass cop attitude he’d been prepared to exhibit, fled for parts unknown.

He’d expected her to be pissed. To yell, maybe stomp her feet. But he hadn’t expected a total stone-cold lack of emotion.

Months of frustration and anger mounted. No matter how many times he’d tried, no amount of apologies got through to her. He was wasting his time.

“Well, all right, then.” He strode to the door, that anger
building with each step. He hesitated, turned back to her. “Jenkins will be right outside. You can throw me out, but the street is public domain. He isn’t going anywhere.”

He didn’t wait for her comeback. He walked out. The door slammed behind him. He listened for her to engage the lock before walking away.

She wasn’t going to make any of this easy. And he was going above and beyond the call to fuck it up even further.

He gave Jenkins strict orders not to move unless she did. As he walked to his G6, his cell vibrated, and he almost hated to check it. Knowing CJ, she could very well have called the chief already to report his indiscretion and his overbearing tactics.

Thankfully, it was his partner. “Braddock.”

“Our boy got a late-night visitor,” Cooper reported.

When Braddock and Cooper had parted ways, he was to check on the Patterson house and CJ while his partner tailed Banks.

“Nash paid him a visit, did he?” No surprise there. The question was, how had old Ricky boy held up under the interrogation?

“He did,” Cooper confirmed. “Nash must’ve pissed him off good. Banks roared off in that shitty Charger as soon as Nash was out of there. I followed him to that shack they call a cantina on Drake. Maybe if he gets drunk enough I can extract a little information.”

Braddock knew full well that Cooper could take care of herself, but some of those joints in what was fondly referred to as Little Mexico were damned dangerous for a woman. “I could use a beer myself.” That was a hell of an understatement.

“No way, man. He won’t talk to me if you’re around. Go home, get some sleep. I’ve got this covered.”

He could argue, but it wouldn’t do any good. Cooper was as hardheaded as she was smart.

“All right, but don’t take any unnecessary risks. I kind of like what we have, too.”

Cooper laughed before disconnecting.

Braddock exhaled a lungful of frustration. Sleep would be impossible. But a shower was absolutely essential. He had to
wash CJ off his skin. He couldn’t let anything, not even her, distract him from getting the job done.

And he damned sure didn’t want to be responsible for any more pain in her life.

He’d already caused more than enough.

3021 Appleton Street

1:40
PM

CJ swiped the strands of hair that had fallen free of her pony-tail from her damp face, then plunked her hands on her hips. Her T-shirt clung to her sweaty skin. She’d been at this for hours. First thing when she’d gotten up that morning, she’d taken Jenkins a cup of coffee and asked him if it would be okay to clean up Shelley’s room.

Jenkins had checked with Braddock, who’d given his okay. The forensics guy likely wouldn’t be back.

CJ had begged off breakfast with Edward. He’d been disappointed, but she had needed to do this. And, truthfully, she hadn’t been able to face him after last night. He’d always believed in her, trusted her to be smart and do the right thing.

Last night had been more than a mistake. It had been wrong on so many levels, she couldn’t begin to label them.

She had made the mistake of trusting Braddock once. That wasn’t happening again. Last night had been some kind of mental meltdown. Otherwise she would never have allowed him to touch her, not in a million years.

Focus, CJ
. Clues. She needed clues. Where was her sister’s cell phone? Braddock had said that Shelley’s cell hadn’t been found at the scene. Where the hell was it? Shelley never went anywhere without it.

She blew out a disgusted breath.

First thing, she had opened every window to air the place out and get some relief from the heat, then she’d gone through the entire house. Every shelf, every drawer, every hiding place they had used as kids. She’d basically turned the house upside down, then slowly put things back in a slightly more organized manner. Gloves and about a gallon of bleach had cleaned up the biggest part of the mess on the wall in Shelley’s room. CJ shuddered. It would take stain blocker and paint to finish the job.

If Banks and Nash thought they could scare her off that easily, they could think again. She wasn’t going to be run out of her own house.

So far her work had proven futile. The cell phone was nowhere in the house. She’d found no notes, no
anything
relevant to what had been going on in her sister’s life the past few days or weeks. All she’d discovered was the obvious indication that her sister was eating better than she had in the past. There had even been empty milk containers in the trash. Shelley never drank milk.

Had someone else been staying here? There were no clothes or toiletries that would point to that being so.

Frustration wound CJ a little tighter.

Why hadn’t Shelley talked to her about this change?

Regret and guilt tied big knots in CJ’s stomach. Because her sister knew that she wouldn’t believe her. She’d promised to get clean too many times.

Dammit. There had to be something here. This was Shelley’s home. Her haven. A scribbled note, anything, indicating what had turned her around. Made her want to give up the drugs and pull her act together. She’d been trying to get clean for years. What had suddenly made it happen? Even if only for a few days.

CJ turned to leave her sister’s bedroom, but stalled at the door.

Wait. Wait. Wait
.

The bathroom.

CJ hurried down the hall to the only bathroom in the house.
She stared a moment at the antiquated medicine cabinet that hung over the wall-mounted sink. How had they done this?

Open the door first or don’t open it? She couldn’t recall.

Screw it.

CJ grabbed hold of the glass door, a hand on either side, and pulled. She pulled so hard she stumbled back and hit the wall when the cabinet pulled free so easily. The contents jangled around inside the cabinet.

“Damn.” Using her foot, she closed the toilet lid and placed the metal and glass cabinet on top of it. She’d already gone through the contents of the cabinet. Aspirin and miscellaneous store-bought pharmaceuticals. Nothing CJ didn’t know about already. Her sister kept an array of over-the-counter pain killers and sleep aids on hand at all times.

Holding her breath, CJ tiptoed, leaned over the sink and peered into the wall cavity. A smile stretched across her lips. “Ah ha!”

When she and Shelley were kids, they had discovered quite by accident that the crosspiece that was supposed to support the worn-out medicine cabinet was actually six inches too low. They’d been fighting over who got the last pink Flintstone vita-min and had ripped the medicine cabinet right out of the wall. Evidently there had been a longer cabinet there at one time or another. Either that or the carpenter who’d installed it hadn’t bothered with proper brace work. He certainly hadn’t secured it properly.

Anything they didn’t want their mother or any of her “friends” to find, they’d hidden in that cavity.

Holding her breath, CJ reached in. Three items sat on the aged two-by-four crosspiece: a bottle, what appeared to be a business card, and a folded piece of paper.

Anticipation sent her pulse into a faster rhythm. As a doctor, she couldn’t help herself. She looked at the bottle first. Large. Vitamins? Then she read the label and the attached prescription sticker.

Prenatal vitamins.

CJ’s chest tightened.

Did this mean . . . ?

The business card wasn’t a business card. It was an appointment card. Shelley had had a doctor’s appointment at the village clinic at the end of next week. CJ dropped the vitamins and the card onto the counter and focused on the paper. Hands shaking, she carefully unfolded it. Standard clinic visit form. Shelley had seen the doctor at two o’clock on July thirtieth.

Friday.

The day before she was murdered.

Diagnostic code . . . Adrenaline pumping through her veins, CJ scanned the form until she found the entry she sought.

Positive pregnancy
.

Shelley was pregnant?

That ferocious pounding that accompanied her treatment of every trauma victim rushed into the ER erupted in CJ’s chest now.

Her sister had been pregnant.

CJ sagged against the doorjamb.

No wonder she’d been so excited when she called and left that voice mail. She wanted to share the news with CJ.

So . . . who was the father?

Ricky Banks?

Did he even know about this?

Oh, God
.