Marrying the Marine-epub (14 page)

Focus. Focus.
He shook his head. He reached inside his desk, pulled out Sugar’s file, and spread it open on his desk. After Sandella had fallen asleep last night, he’d opened his work laptop, pulled up the criminal database, and had found out the name of the guy that’d been found murdered in the woods. The guy’s name was Marc Jackson.  

He entered Marc Jackson’s name in the search box to read over the case that’d been long ago forgotten, again. A picture of the blond-haired white man with light green eyes posted to the top right hand corner. He clicked to the number two at the bottom on the page.

“Now that’s interesting,” Braylon said. The thick-browed Forest Greene had handled Marc Jackson’s case. His boss’s boss, Forest, had concluded in the report that Marc Jackson had been shot by a hunter. However, there was no substantial evidence supporting the conclusion. 

“Morning, Detective!”

Braylon’s head snapped up from the screen. Forest’s head inched between the space of the door and the frame. A wicked smile lifted his wide-spread lips.
Never mind knocking.
“Good morning.”

An evil light sparked the man’s green eyes. “I see you barely got here on time again today,” he remarked.

Yeah, I was getting my dick sucked.
Because Forest’s condescension irked him, he turned the table. “Let me ask you something.”

“Shoot,” Forest said, coming to stand fully in his office.

Braylon observed the man’s face. “What do you know about Private Marc Jackson’s death?”

Forest’s thick brows scrunched. As his eyes darkened to the color of split pea soup, his full lips thinned into a straight line. Irritation was written on his face like red ink on white paper. “I know a lot, Wexler. In fact I was the one who handled the damn case. What’s with all the questions?”

Braylon tried to give the man a sincere look. “A good friend of mine happened to mention how much he missed him while shooting a game of pool the other night. So it got me to thinking about him, that’s all.”

Forest fought hard to hide his frustration, but Braylon could see straight through the man. “Oh. Well, that case was closed a long time ago. And if I were you, I’d be careful who I ask about him.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because the last person that did, ended up regretting it.” Forest turned on heels, and as he walked toward the door, his hands balled into tight fists.

You’re hiding something, Forest. And I’m going to find out what it is.

LATE IN THE AFTERNOON,
Braylon aimed for the toilet water as he stood pissing at the urinal. Today had been an informative day. Because he’d received training before his arrival, he was able to get better acquainted with personnel as well as his surroundings.

He’d had the privilege of running into Alyssa while out on the lawn making small talk with some of the officers. She’d had the audacity to follow him inside the office and flirt unrelentingly until he’d entered the bathroom. The big-breasted girl had no qualms about making her desires for him known either. And she—

“Unnhhk,” the voice resounded in the stall behind him, sounding as if he was taking a dump. Braylon hurried to zip his grey trousers. He turned toward the noise. The person inside the stall let out a bomb of a fart. “Excuse me, Wexler,” Forest grunted, “but those damn collards they served for lunch got me to shitting like a bull.” 

There wasn’t a damn thing tactful about Forest. “I’m glad I didn’t have any.”

Fart. Fart.
“Yep. I wish I would’ve had a bowl of chicken soup instead.”

A grave stench wafted up Braylon’s nose, he practically jogged out of the bathroom. How Forest ever make it up the ranks was beyond Braylon. The man had an infuriating attitude. And he was unpleasant to say the least. According to the men and women on the base earlier, many of them feared him. But they never said why.

After Braylon retrieved his mail, he stalked into his office and took a seat. Needing to mask his pesto chicken panini breath, he opened his desk drawer, popped a piece of Dentyne gum into his mouth, then opened the brown envelope with
confidential
stamped in red on it.

What the hell?
A green index card with a typewritten message lay inside. He brought the note up to his eyes.

Dear Detective Wexler,

Solve the end of this riddle and it’ll direct you to Sugar’s killer. Please be careful.

Your boy, Simon.

The bush of his brows is downright scary.

Not because of the shape, but because they so damn hairy.

A pit bull ain’t got nothing on him.

He’s tall.

He’s mean.

His last name is—

Braylon’s heart dunked. “Fucking Greene.” Like the last envelope, this one didn’t have a return address. This Simon character’s determination to keep a low profile gave him the creeps. He didn’t know who to trust. Well, he knew he definitely didn’t trust Forest, but thing was, he didn’t trust this Simon guy either. For all he knew, Simon wasn’t even his real name.

Tension rose from the pit of his stomach and shocked the sides of his brain. Reclining in his chair, he rubbed at the sides of his bulging, throbbing temples. It was hard to think with such intense, riveting pain.

If Simon wants justice why doesn’t he come forward? He said he can’t. They’ll kill him. Who are they?
Forest and who else?

He wrapped up some loose ends, shut down his laptop, jumped to his feet and headed for outdoors. He hopped inside his Hummer, slammed the door, and drove off. What would Marc Jackson’s wife, Theresa, have to say about her husband’s death? he wondered, driving past the guard’s station and pulling out onto the road.  

“WHO IS IT?”
A child’s voice rang out on the other side of the door from where Braylon stood.

“It’s Detective Braylon Wexler. Is your mother home?”

“Mooooom!” the young boy yelled out loud. “Some man with big muscles is here to see you!”

“Yes.” The woman said behind the closed door.

“My name is Braylon Wexler.” He held up his shield. “I’m an investigator for the Marines. If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak with you about your late husband, Marc.”

The door opened to a beautiful African-American woman, with shoulder length hair. She stood under a gleaming light bulb. “What did you say your name was?” she asked, blinking her eyes.

“Detective Braylon Wexler.”

She grasped her chest. “Please tell me they
finally
arrested my husband’s killer.”

“No ma’am, we haven’t. But if you’re not busy, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Come in.” She stepped to the side and held the door open for him.

Braylon strode past her into the living room. The aroma of fried chicken crept inside his nose. “Something smells delicious.”

“Thanks. I just finished cooking fried chicken, corn bread, and collard greens.”

At the mention of collard greens his stomach turned. Forest had said earlier that the greens had made his bowels loose, and he’d stunk up the entire bathroom at work. His crap had smelled worse than the dead bodies in Iraq. “Mrs. Jackson.”

“Theresa.”

“Okay. Theresa.”

She gestured toward the sofa. “Please sit.”

“Thanks.” As he took a seat on the grey couch in front of the window, she sat across from him on the loveseat.

“They killed Marc, you know?”

That’s the same thing Simon says.
Braylon reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a pad with a new, black leather cover. “What makes you say that?”

“Because Marc told me that they were going to kill him.”

“Who are they?”

A tight ball was visible in her throat. “I don’t know any names. But Marc told me,” her voice cracked, “he was getting threatening letters at work. And a few times he received threats on his cell phone.”

“Did he report this to law enforcement?”

“Yes.”

“To who?”

“Detective Forest Greene.” She folded her arms over her chest. “That mean bastard just turned his head and looked the other way. As a matter of fact, he never bothered to return any of my phone calls. And every time I tried to see him, he downright dismissed my numerous requests.”

Braylon wrote down each word she said. Gripping the black ink pen, he lifted his eyes from the paper. “Did you tell Detective Greene of your suspicions?”

She shook her head. “Not verbally, but I did write a letter to him.”

Hmmm. Her letter wasn’t in the file.
“What did the letter say?”

She released a heavy breath. Her shoulders sagged. “In short, it said that I suspected someone on the base had killed Marc.”

“Theresa. Why did Marc think someone was trying to kill him?”

“He’d overheard someone bragging about how they’d raped and killed Sugar Summers. Did you know her?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Did Marc give you a name of the person bragging?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Spencer Knox.”

Braylon’s stomach churned violently as if he’d eaten some spoiled collards like that killer Forest had earlier.
Both Forest
and Spencer may be Sugar’s killers
.

His gut tightened and rolled into a big knot.

A
round eight o’clock in the evening Braylon sat at the kitchen table. Gritting his teeth, he swiped a heavy hand down his face. The information Theresa had given him pertaining to her deceased husband Marc made for incriminating evidence against his superiors. Because it was his job to protect the Marines on the base as well as the people in the community, he had no choice but to fulfill his duties by seeking justice.

I’m on to you, Forest and Spencer.
Fist to chin and musing over his next move, he heard Sandella’s car. Seeing her was going to be like a breath of fresh air. 

Drayton and the upcoming paternity test quickly entered his mind. A part of him felt as if he was betraying Sandella by keeping this a secret from her. However, being forthcoming wasn’t necessarily the right thing to do either. Madison sure had put him in an awful dilemma that could very well cause him to lose the best thing that had ever happened to him—Sandella.
If Drayton’s mine, I will not leave him like my father left me. 

Sandella entered from the back door off the garage toting an armful of plastic grocery bags. Royce was on her heels carrying a bag in each hand, too. As soon as her gaze connected with his she bedazzled him with a sexy smile. “Hi.”

“Let me get that for you,” Braylon said, quickening to her side. He hurried to take the bags from her steely grip.

“Thanks.”

He placed the bags on the counter. “How was your day?”

“It was good. Yours?” she asked, digging inside one of the bags and pulling out a fresh bunch of broccoli. 

He didn’t dare tell her some guy named Simon had put him in a most dangerous situation involving her mother. She’d have a fit if she knew her mother’s case had been reopened, and he didn’t bother telling her about it.  “Busy.” He offered her the simplest answer.

She turned the knob on the stove to high. “How does baked barbeque chicken, broccoli, and cheesy scalloped potatoes sound for dinner?”  

Braylon turned the stove back off. “It sounds good, but you’re not cooking tonight.”

“I’m not?”

“Nope. Running SugarKanes, taking care of Royce, your father, and Drew…I think you need to take some time off to relax.”

She giggled. “You sound like my father. He often says the same thing.”

Other than his mother, he’d never seen a woman work as hard as she did. “He’s right.” His eyes traveled to the brown bag sitting on the counter behind him. He reached inside and slid out a foil baking dish. “I picked up some baked ziti and a bottle of wine from Villa Castiano.”

“Mmm. I love Villa Castiano. Their garlic rolls are to die for.”

“I thought maybe we could take a boat ride across the river and have dinner.”

Her eyes beamed. “I’d love that. I’ve never been on Drake’s boat before. I’m going to go grab a sweater for Royce.”

“He’s not going.”

“Say what? Well, who’s going to keep—”

“I am,” Adam emerged from the family room.

“Adam! When did you get back?” Her heart lit up.

The salt-and-pepper haired man smiled. “About two hours ago.”

“How was your vacation in New York?” She sounded amused.

“Terrific. But it feels good to be back on the island. At this old age, the big city life isn’t for me anymore. The hectic traffic alone makes me tired and gives me migraines.” He chuckled.

“Are you sure you don’t mind watching Royce?”

“I’m positive. We’re going to play memory match and watch a movie on DVD.”

“Let’s get a move on.” Braylon hefted the baking dish while Sandella gathered the brown bag containing the rolls and eating utensils.

The cool night air smoothed over him as they walked along the dock. Glowing, Sandella kept in stride beside him. He stepped onto Drake’s luxurious, Sea Ray Sundancer boat, rounded the corner, then dipped his head to descend the steps to the level beneath.

Equipped with fine, white leather sofas, the spacious area below included a bathroom, a kitchen filled with stainless steel appliances, and a nice big circular bed. A white furry animal throw was strewn across the light blue comforter.

Sandella lowered the bag to the counter then put her hands on her hips. She looked around the lavish room. “I’m assuming you know how to drive a boat?”

He popped the bottle of Zinfandel into the refrigerator. “And a motorcycle, and a jet ski, and
you.”
 

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” He put his mouth on hers. “I plan to drive you mad tonight in this bed, woman.”

“Oh my,” were the only words that’d come from her succulent lips.

As Braylon sailed across the rippling waves of the river, bright lights emanating from the hull cast down on the black water. The blue moon above shadowed them. Sandella sat next to him.