For You (The 'Burg Series) (24 page)

I rolled my eyes, caught the roll, vowed I’d never roll my eyes again and belted back my drink.

* * * * *

Colt walked into his house to see Jack and Jackie planted in the den in the recliners, the TV on. Jack’s recliner was flat and his snoring was constant but muted. Jackie turned to the door when he walked in and she gave him one of her warm welcoming smiles. Jackie Owens had a lot of smiles, some of them were so big they split her face, making light shine out. This one wasn’t as big but it was sweeter, speaking lots of words, most of which had to do with love and home.

When Colt turned to close the door, he saw Feb sitting on a stool in front of the kitchen bar on the dining area side. She had her hand flat on a book on the bar, in the other hand she had her fingers curled around a pen, one of her long legs dangling, the other one bent up high and her heel was in the seat. She was wearing loose but short shorts, a cardigan and socks that were slouchy, looking too big on her feet. She had her torso twisted to him and she was giving him a scan with her eyes.
 

He closed and locked the door then turned again and headed to the kitchen, eyes on Feb as he went. She ducked and tilted her head, giving him the impression she was reading him from across the room. Then she turned, dropped the pen, picked up a ribbon, put it in her book and closed it. She hopped down from the stool and was in the kitchen doorway two steps before he got there.

“Bourbon or beer?” she said to him.

Yeah, she’d read him.

“Bourbon.”

“Like last night?”

“Yeah.”

She went to the cupboard and he turned and retraced his steps, walking out of the kitchen. He shrugged off his jacket, threw it on the back of the chair, pulled his badge off his belt and slid the shoulder holster down his arms, dropping both on the dining room table before he went back. By the time he got there, the Jack was on ice and she was fixing herself a rum and diet. She stopped what she was doing to hand him his glass and finished making her drink.

Then she turned, put the heels of her hands to the edge of the counter and hefted her ass up onto it, settling in and grabbing her glass. She was wearing a white, ribbed tank under her cardigan. It hugged her torso and didn’t leave a lot to the imagination. Her choker was gone, so were her earrings but the necklaces were tangled at her throat and she still had on her rings.

Her eyes came to him and they said,
tell me about it.

Colt suspected she’d perfected that look, an occupational hazard. Though, he also suspected no one ever got that exact one. The looks she’d give customers would make them want to sit back, stay awhile and drink a lot. The look she was giving him told him she wanted to return the favor he’d done for her last night. He had a weight on his mind and she was willing to help him bear it.

He leaned a hip next to her knees and took a swallow of bourbon.

When he didn’t speak, she said, “You got lots of work for a small town.”

He nodded. “Someone’s dumpin’ bodies.”

“Read about that in the papers.”

“Yeah, Monica Merriweather was there tonight. Thinks she’s Lois Lane,” Colt said.

Monica Merriweather worked on the local paper. It was a weekly and mostly reported community news. Monica wrote practically every article, she was everywhere; high school games, church raffles, fundraising bridge tournaments. The woman didn’t sleep much and when she did Colt thought she probably lay in bed with her camera around her neck.
 

“How many is it now?” Feb asked and Colt took another drink of bourbon.

“Five in two months.”

“That seems a lot.”

Colt looked at February.

Susie never talked about his work. Melanie had a delicate constitution so Colt had learned to shield her from it. He’d had other women since Feb, between her and Melanie then between Melanie and Susie and during his breaks with Sooz. Some of them were steady, none of them were women with whom he felt compelled to share.

Feb was currently caught up in a shit storm of epic proportions and still, he thought she could handle it.

“It is. Same every time. They’re done elsewhere, don’t know where, bodies dumped remote, the woods, a creek, always when it’s raining, evidence washed away. Never the same place but also not far from each other but somewhere they would easily be found.”

“The one yesterday?”

“Yeah, yesterday and today. It’s escalating.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Don’t know what to think. Working with the Indianapolis Metropolitan PD and they’re scratchin’ their heads too. Dump sites are clean, no footprints, no evidence, no witnesses. He goes in, does his business, gets out. All the victims are gang bangers, all black, none of them older then twenty-one, not big players. Bullet to the forehead, no signs of struggle, no marks on the body, wrists, ankles, they haven’t been bound. It’s like the killer took ‘em by surprise, they were facin’ him when it happened, saw it comin’, it came fast and he’s a damn fine shot.”

“Gang war?”

“Gang boys, they don’t cart a body fifteen miles from the city into the sticks and dump it so it’ll be found.”

“Hate crime?” Feb asked.

“Maybe,” Colt answered though he didn’t believe that. Racism was prevalent in their town, no denying it, but he doubted that was the motivation. If these boys had infiltrated the town, started recruiting, he could see it. But their territories were in the city, likely murdered there and transported. Someone had gone hunting.

Feb read him again. “Vigilante?”
 

She was quick.

“That’d be my guess.”

“Is it gross?”

“What?”

Her voice dipped quiet. “The bodies. Is it gross?”

Something about that made him smile. “My opinion, dead bodies are gross all around, honey, even if it’s your Grandma laid in a casket. Dead bodies who’ve had a hole blown through the back of their heads, definitely.”

The bottom half of her face scrunched up, wrinkling her nose and he couldn’t help but chuckle. He reached out and wrapped his hand around her knee, giving her a squeeze before letting her go.

“Gonna get this man to bed,” Jackie announced and Colt and Feb looked to their sides to see Jackie guiding a stumbling Jack to the side door using both her hands on him.

Jack emitted a rumble and muttered, “’Night kids.”

Jackie gave them a smile and they disappeared through the door.

Colt stared at the door long after it closed then his eyes cut back to Feb when he felt her move in a fidget.

“This is getting to you,” she said softly.

Colt nodded. “Most of those boys don’t have a high life expectancy. They survive the street, they usually end up doin’ time then gettin’ out only to get caught and go back in again. Every once in awhile one of ‘em will get their shit together and pull themselves out. Any one of those boys we found could have been one of those who eventually got their shit together. What they do with their lives is no good but you never know when life will turn. Those boys didn’t get the chance to have the epiphany that led them to gettin’ their shit straight and I don’t like it.”

She put down her drink then her hand lifted high, toward his face then it hesitated and dropped down. He felt it settle at his neck, her fingers curling around and she leaned in, slightly, but she came closer.

He’d been right. Feb touched him and his mind went blank.

“You should know, people sleep easier knowin’ you do what you do,” she told him and he shook his head but she kept going, her hand tightening at his neck. “I don’t mean generally, Colt. People sleep easier knowin’ it’s
you
doin’ what you do.”

Christ, he wanted to kiss her.

Before he could do it, she dropped her hand, hopped off the counter and gave him a smile that was a challenge.

“Bet I’d kick your ass at pool,” she said.

Again before he could move or say a word, she grabbed her glass and walked out of the kitchen.

He watched her ass sway while she did it and then he poured himself more bourbon and followed her.

* * * * *

Colt came awake with a jolt; this was because Feb was shaking his shoulder.

He knifed double on the couch and stared at her silhouette in the dark.

“What?”

She leaned into him to reach around, the light flashed on and he blinked at the sudden brightness.

“My journals,” she whispered.

She was crouched beside him at the couch wearing her big t-shirt and she surged to her feet, her hand going to her hair, yanking it from her face. Her movements were rough. She was agitated.

She kept talking. “Awhile ago, not long, weeks?” she asked, her voice high, strange, stressed, “I went home. Felt funny, I didn’t know, just felt something weird.”

That cold started curling around his chest; he threw back the blankets and stood up, his movements taking him close to her.

She tilted her head back to look at him and dropped her hair but her hand waved to the side, palm up, a gesture that seemed both scared and helpless and it made that cold slither closer.

“Why’d it feel weird?” Colt asked.

She shook her head but said, “My apartment just didn’t feel right. It happened a couple of times actually. Didn’t think, forgot all about it, thought I was bein’ stupid. A woman, livin’ alone, thinkin’ stupid shit…” she shook her head again then said, quieter this time, that fear and vulnerability stark in her voice, “the thing was, one of those times, I found a journal on the floor of my closet.”

The cold started clawing.

Since he could remember, Feb had diaries. She didn’t hide when she wrote in them. When she was a kid and a teenager she’d be in Jack and Jackie’s living room, her legs thrown over an armchair, her journal at her thighs, her pen scratching on the page. When she broke up with him, had her turn and he didn’t understand why, he considered stealing one, reading it to find out why, but he knew that was a betrayal she’d never forgive. He’d hoped back then whatever had caused her to change would reverse and she’d come right back but she never did and then it was too late.

She still did it, he knew. He’d been into Meems’s to get coffee enough times to see she hadn’t changed. She’d be at her regular table, the book in front of her, her head bent, one hand holding her hair away from her face at the back of her neck, the other hand writing on the page, her coffee cup in front of her, muffin remains on a plate. Hell, she’d even been at his kitchen bar writing in one that night.

“I’m guessing you don’t keep your journals on the floor of your closet,” Colt prompted when she said no more.

She shook her head again. “I’ve kept them all, starting from the diary Mom gave me when I was twelve, the little one with that lock on it you could break with your thumbnail.” She licked her lips then said, “They’re in a box at the top of my closet. I thought nothing of it, don’t know why, it was weird but you don’t think someone will…”

Her voice trailed away, her eyes drifted and he lifted an arm, put his hand behind her neck and gave it a squeeze to get her attention.

She focused on him and whispered, “Someone’s been in my house, Colt.”

“Let’s go.”

She didn’t hesitate. She was down the hall double time. Feb took her clothes to the bathroom and he changed in the bedroom. He was in the living room, had his leather jacket on and his keys in his hand by the time she hit the room.

They went out to his GMC, climbed in and he drove them to her apartment.

He’d never been to her place but he knew where it was. She lived in an older complex, well-kept, tidy, rent was high, it was well-lit, there was good parking. The renters were young adults who had decent jobs who were starting out or old folks who moved there because their houses had gotten too much to take care of and they stayed there until they went into assisted living.

Feb had a ground floor door, pointed to the parking, exposed to the well-maintained grassy area in front, visible to the street and other apartments. There were some tall, full trees by the parking lot, planted smart to throw shade on the cars in summer, well-clipped shrubs hugged close to the building.

Someone walked up to her door, no way to hide.