Look Before You Jump (8 page)

“I can’t stand this anymore,” I said,
chucking my can into the weeds. “Doesn’t it anger you at all?”

Bobby stared into his cola can before
launching it to join mine with an ease that bespoke his basketball
prowess. “I’m not angry with anyone but myself, Vic. Why would I
be?”

Flies could’ve camped in my mouth. Now I was
really mad. “Your wife committed suicide. While she was pregnant.
She basically murdered your son.”

There goes my disease-ridden mouth again.

“She didn’t commit suicide,” Bobby
whispered.

That shut me up – for all of two seconds.
“Come again?”

Between the deepening shadows, for the first
time since Bobby’s life went sideways, I saw anger reflected in the
depths of his eyes.

“Amy did
not
commit suicide.
Regardless of what the police say, I’m as sure as the second coming
that my wife did not jump off your building of her own accord.”

Maybe the jerk of his head earlier had caused
whiplash. Oxygen and blood no longer seemed to be making its way
toward Bobby’s gray matter.

“I don’t know about the second coming, but do
I need to call the men in white?” I asked.

The Vette shook as Bobby shoved off and paced
a cow trail through the nearby pasture grass. Some things never
changed. It’s a wonder he’d been able to hold still all afternoon
by the fireplace, though I imagine during that time he’d been
trying not to think.

“There are things about Amy’s past she never
got to share with you,” Bobby ranted. “Things about her family
connections.”

“Why would she share with me?”

“I don’t know…some spiritual connection she
felt with you when we aired our dirty laundry the other day.”

A spiritual connection? I’d rather felt it as
well, but I wasn’t ready yet to acknowledge some inner-workings of
the cosmos.

“Does that have something to do with none of
them attending the funeral?” I asked.

“You noticed that too?”

“You know me. I notice everything. It’s a
curse.”

Bobby stopped pacing and stared at the
twinkling stars as if listening or seeking a sign. Then he leaned
over the hood, his face now fully veiled.

“What if it’s not a curse but a gift?”

“I use it more as a toy,” I acknowledged.

“Whatever you want to call it, how about you
use your superior observational skills for good instead of evil
this time?”

Yeah, maybe it was time to call the men in
white. “How?”

“To prove my wife was murdered.”

My heart skittered to a stop. I knew what he
was asking. I knew I’d say yes. But in the immortal words of George
Lucas – I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

I so didn’t want to do this.

Two years wasn’t enough time to get over
betrayal by that low-down, scum-sucking excuse of a – ahem – man.
But if I was going to help Bobby and start somewhere, I had to find
out the details from the purported suicide scene. That meant I’d
have to face Zeke. And in order to allow my feminine wiles to do
their deed, I’d have to face him in person.

Not
that
deed. Mess with the guy’s
head. I mean his brains. Oh hell, you know what I mean.

Zeke Taylor – all six-foot-five, solid
muscle, and Texas Ranger through-and-through. Likes his noon high
and his guns and Stetson slung low. If the Rangers still had a
mounted patrol, he’d be all over that like chocolate syrup on
vanilla bean ice cream. Known as
Big Z
to his friends.

And I had firsthand knowledge of how he got
that nickname.

But I digress.

We were finished. Kaput. Enemies after I
caught him on a moonlit night with arms wrapped around one Lorraine
Padget. If I’d disliked her before, I wanted to field-dress her
sorry carcass after that one. Like mother like daughter, I suppose.
Zeke should’ve known better than to cross me – especially with a
Padget.

Today I was in luck, or whatever you called
it when you had to face a cheating ex-boyfriend. Ranger Taylor was
in residence this Monday morning, cooped up in his corner cubby of
the Garland field office – or, as they preferred, Company ‘B’ of
the Texas Ranger Division. Honey-glazed, light brown hair peeked
above the wall as I snuck up from behind.

Zero pictures lined the desk. No personal
effects. Not a speck of clutter save for the non-descript coffee
mug. So Zeke.

“Hey, Stranger Ranger.”

“Answer’s no.”

No hello. No how ya been. No checking out
what he threw away. The man hadn’t even turned around but continued
pecking away at his computer keyboard like I wasn’t even an
afterthought. I flicked my long ponytail over my shoulder and
struck my best pissed-off pose.

Zeke continued, “You can take your hand off
that hip while you’re at it.”

“How the hell…?”

No reflection in the flat-screen monitor.
Matte finish of the cubby walls weren’t the source of the great
reveal. No glass to project an image.

“We dated for seven months,” Zeke explained.
“Or have you forgotten?”

The boy already had my dander inching toward
the danger zone. “It was eight, and yeah, I’d like to.”

He spun the chair around to face me, tracked
my image from pumps to coif, then frowned.

“I always liked your hair down better.”

“Good thing I no longer care,” I retorted.
“It gets hot wearing it down all the time. Been thinking about
cuttin’ it short for the summer.”

That got me a flinch.

What is it with men and long hair? Do they
think our brain function is in direct correlation to the length of
our hair? I mean, I generally wear mine just above the waist – but
it’s still my hair. Why do they make such a big deal whether we
choose to leave it long or chop it into a pixie? I say if a man
wants long hair, let him grow it himself like Jesus and the
disciples and leave mine the hell alone – well ‘cept during those
nice, slow pony rides. Hmm…

“So where’s the brochure?” Zeke asked.

“Brochure?”

“Selling Girl Scout cookies?”

“Only in February.”

“Cute.”

“Even with my hair in a ponytail?” I
asked.

That earned me a slow tilt of the lips. “How
you doing, Vic?”

The way Zeke said my name always sounded so
sultry. Like foreplay – which would never happen between us again.
I swear. All I had to do was retrieve a certain image of the other
woman to stem any naughty thoughts – no matter how the familiar
whiff of his musky aftershave tried to trigger those
other
memories.

“How’d you know it was me when you were
facing the other way?” I asked. “There aren’t any reflective
surfaces.”

Zeke thumbed the phone like a hitchhiker.
“They called from downstairs. Wanted to make sure you weren’t on
the ‘no-fly’ list. I told ‘em to pat you down for weapons
first.”

“Funny. What about the hip thing?”

“Law enforcement. Unlike you, I’m paid to
observe and remember things.”

I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes. “It’s
been two years, Sherlock. Maybe I’ve changed.”

The eyes gave me another once over. When he
finished this time, instead of a frown I got a smile. “Not a
bit.”

I could take that one of two ways – and I’m
not sure either left me in a positive light. “Don’t even go
there.”

Zeke unfolded himself from the chair and
rolled it my way while he leaned against the cubby counter. “Since
you’re not here to kiss and make up, what’cha want?”

I intended to sit in the chair as gracefully
as I could, let the power of my feminine presence work its magic,
but the clearance to the floor left me dangling from the edge after
my unceremonious ascent. Didn’t set the seductive tone I’d had in
mind when I chose the dress this morning. Instead of the gentle
hiss of lowering the ergonomic chair, it sounded more like an
intermittent cow fart. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Zeke
set it up on purpose.

“If we’re gonna stick with brass tacks,” I
said, “I’m trying to help a friend.”

“This friend wouldn’t happen to be named
Bobby Vernet, would it?”

I bit my lip before answering. “It
might.”

“Not happening. Good to see you and all, but
I’ve gotta prepare for the governor’s visit.”

“Now hold on a minute,” I said as he almost
dumped me in the floor to reacquire the chair. “You two were buds
at one time. Played basketball together in high school.”

“Being on the same team made us teammates,
not buds.” Zeke plopped into his chair, zipped it to its former
heights, and started tapping away again on his keyboard. “This is a
PD matter, not a Ranger one.”

So that’s how he wanted to play it. “Don’t
tell me you can’t get a copy of the report.”

The typing stopped. Here’s a lesson for you,
ladies. The best way to get a guy’s goat and get him to do what you
want is to suggest he
can’t
do something. Wreaks havoc on a
man’s ego. Remember that. Use it. Works every time.

The chair whipped around so fast I almost
ended up in Zeke’s lap. Not a totally unpleasant prospect, but
considering surrounding company, not the right place or the right
time. Anyway, no matter how good the sex had been – hectic and hard
or long and languid – the boy was still a low-down, cheating
son-of-a-bitch in my book. Always would be.

“Access isn’t the problem,” Zeke said. “You
are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” My toe
starting tapping faster than a woodpecker on a tree.

“You gotta stick your nose where it don’t
belong and come up with your own scenario to fit the scene. No
matter how ridiculous.”

“Well I’m not talking about Lorraine Padget
here. I’m talking about Amy Vernet.”

“Who committed suicide by jumping off a
freakin’ building. Case closed,” Zeke said. “And stop tapping that
damned foot.”

By that point, the command practically
bounced off the walls of the next high-rise. My foot sped up to
keep time with the boiling of my brain. No man was ever gonna tell
me what to do again – especially Zeke Taylor. I’d pound a hole
through the overpriced cheap carpet if I had to.

“First of all,” I said as I shoved a finger
into Zeke’s face. “Why would a happily married
pregnant
woman leap to her death?”

“Appearances can be…”

“Second.” My fingers followed the count.
“Why’d none of her family attend the funeral?”

“Really, Vic…”

“Third. Of all the buildings in the city,
why’d she jump off mine?”

That shut him up. Hallelujah and pass the
offering plate to that boy. The familiar furrow of Zeke’s brow
suggested I’d hit upon something he hadn’t considered. I guess
miracles do happen.

“Did you know her very well?” Zeke asked.

“We’d had lunch together last week – all
three of us, but it wasn’t like we were bosom buddies. Bobby said
she had felt a connection to me, and for a pastor’s wife she came
across as rather genuine, which goes a long way in my book.”

Zeke rubbed his freshly shaved cheek. “Maybe
she’d just found out about your previous involvement with Bobby and
wanted to confront you.”

“At three-thirty in the morning? Anyway,
Bobby had told her about the truck bed debacle before they got
married. If it wasn’t then, it’d sure been paramount before moving
back here.”

“So meeting you face-to-face set her
off.”

“What?”

“I can vouch for your effect on people.”

That did it. I set upon him a glare that
would set Hell on fire, turned on my heel, then marched out of the
office area to the elevator bank. Hell’s fumes burned through my
scalp while waiting for the floors to tick off until Zeke came
rushing around the corner and slid to a stop before nearly slamming
into me. Graceful tall guys – aren’t. Or at least only on
basketball courts. Gives ‘em that home court advantage.

“New shoes?” I retorted.

“Look, you bring up at least one interesting
question,” Zeke conceded.

“Only one? Gee, thanks.”

“I’ll take a hard look at the report if
you’ll go see Vernet and ask a little more on the family
background.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“Not my case. Besides, it sounds like you
already have a relationship reestablished with him.”

Was that a hint of jealousy in his tone?
“Fine.”

“That’s settled,” Zeke said. “I’ll pick you
up at six.”

“What for?” I asked.

“We’ll rendezvous at that little Italian
place you like.”

“Oh huh-uh.”

“It’s not a date. It’s business,” Zeke called
over his shoulder as he walked away. “And you’re buying.”

“The hell I am,” I responded.

“See you at six.”

“My ass!”

“Maybe next time.”

“Won’t be a next time!”

But he was already gone – and I had company.
The older couple and the accountant type tried not to stare in the
uncomfortable silence. I sighed. The things I go through for the
men in my life. Or out of my life. Or whatever. Yeah, this was a
train wreck waiting to happen – and I’d voluntarily gotten on this
ride.

Yee-haw and pass me a shot of Jack.

***

There’s just something about seeing certain
ex-boyfriends that makes you wanna shoot something. It’s far
preferable than shooting somebody – at least according to the law.
When that certain ex
was
the law, it was best to take said
frustrations out on a thin piece of cardboard and imagine the
outline with a particular face inside it.

It’d been quite some time since I’d last
headed out to the range with my little Sig Sauer P938 handgun. One
reason? I’d been kinda busy. The real reason? Zeke had bought the
gun for me when we’d dated and made sure I knew how to shoot the
thing on at least a weekly basis. After we broke up, I went
regularly to kill that son-of-a-bitch – figuratively of course.

But ammo and range fees add up right quick
when you plow through rounds like a jilted lover. The gun also felt
almost tainted, a constant reminder of the relationship failure. So
I’d put it away on a closet shelf to gather dust. A year or so
later after a spate of muggings and rapes near the Historic West
End, I figured it was best for a single girl who worked nights to
have more than pepper spray for defense.