You Don't Know Jack Page 5

  I want a man who doesn't make me crazy nuts.

  A man who's safe.

  Okay, so Lars wasn't safe.

  Okay, so Endré wasn't either.

  I blew out a shuddery breath. What if I do hold back a part of myself? Maybe I have to. Maybe I can't help it. Maybe losing the one man I loved unconditionally at age eight scarred me. Left me distrustful. Afraid of being abandoned. Or hurt. Or both. It's not a crime. Stone can't lock me up and force me to talk about it. Or to analyze it. Or to get over it. Though I suspect he'd like to do all of the above.

  "What's wrong?" Stone repeated, jerking me back from the edge of hysteria, back to the room where Apollo lay dead beneath a pile of feather boas and sequined evening gowns.

  Oh, God, I wanted to disappear — like Endré — go wherever the hell he'd gone. Anywhere would be better than here. I glanced down at the black patent heels poking from beneath the costume heap and amended the thought. Anywhere that wasn't deceased.

  "T-there," I said, pointing. "A-A-Apollo." My chest ached as though another piece of my heart was gone, snipped off with jagged shears.

  Stone swore. I wanted to run. He recognized the look. "Oh, no, you don't."

  He pushed into the room, forcing me to back up. He locked the door, locked us in with the corpse. Oh, God. I cringed against the wall. I couldn't watch him uncover that body, couldn't bear to see my BFF dead, couldn't hold myself upright. My knees buckled again. My eyes were blurry. Tears or dizziness. I was too numb to tell which. And some insane bitch was keening like a banshee. Why didn't Stone make her shut the hell up?

  He bent over the body for a moment, then came back to me, gently gripping my upper arms, leaning close, his eyes kind, his words kinder. "Sweetheart, it's not Apollo. Stop crying, okay?"

  He hated when I cried. Wait! Me? I was the banshee? Wait! Did he say it wasn't Apollo? I swear I heard an angelic voice whisper in my ear, "And the truth shall set you free." The pain in my chest lifted. The flood of tears retreated. The sorrow sucking me under released its hold. I snuffled and held out the starburst tie. "B–B–But he was wearing this."

  "It's not Apollo," Stone repeated.

  "But... dead, right?"

  "Yes."

  "Murdered, right?"

  "That's my guess."

  "B–Black Boutonniere Killer?"

  "Don't know."

  I didn't believe him, but I wasn't going to argue. Murder was his day job. He might not look like a homicide cop tonight in the ebony beehive wig and ruby lip gloss, but I'd bet he was packing heat under that crimson, triple X sequined evening gown.

  Stone looked like he wanted to hold me, comfort me, but his fake boobs and my real ones nixed the idea. He reached a hand to my face instead, but inches from a gentle caress that I could really use right now, he pulled back — put off I imagined by the butterfly eyelashes dangling off my cheeks, by the mascara and blush running onto my chin.

  Note to self: Crying and cosmetics don't mix.

  "I have to call this in," Stone said. "You gonna be okay?"

  I nodded. As okay as anyone can be sharing a room with a dead body and a former lover turned World's Ugliest Drag Queen.

  I was a tad bit calmer by the time Stone hung up and asked, "What are you doing in this dressing room, and why are you dressed like that?"

  My brows lifted. Was he serious? Had he looked in a mirror? On second thought, his reflection might break glass. I gestured with an open palm. "Probably the same thing you're doing. Work. Right?"

  Instead of asking the obvious — Is performing at this club the latest of your odd jobs? — his gaze narrowed, and he asked, "What would you know about my work?"

  How did I answer that without getting myself in trouble? Yeah, like I wasn't already hip deep.

  Nothing.

  Something.

  Nothing I can tell you. I turned his question back on him. "Are you trying to tell me that it's not work? That you've switched teams or gone bi-sexual?"

  "No." He scowled hard, his green eyes as cold as jade, his rouged cheeks hot pink. He was either furious or embarrassed. Maybe both. "You know better than that."

  I did. "Well, then, what other reason would you have for dressing up like—" I was perplexed. He carried too much bulk to be impersonating Amy Winehouse, the late British rocker. A giant Snooki? "Who are you supposed to be exactly?"

  "Never mind that. Should I arrest you for murder?"

  "Me? No!" Brought back to the raw reality of a dead body inches from us, I began shaking again. "I–I–I..."

  "Then tell me what happened in here?"

  I shrugged. What did he think? That I'd watched the Black Boutonniere Killer murder the woman, er man, er person on the floor? It struck me that I didn't know the BBK was the killer, nor did I know who was under those costumes, and I said, more in response to that than to his question, "I don't know anything."

  "Then why do you have blood on your hands?"

  I recalled the blood splatters on the fabric I'd touched earlier. I looked at my hands and recoiled. These weren't my hands. Not with a murder victim's blood on them. I gagged.

  "Oh shit." He shoved a plastic waste basket under my mouth just in time.

  There's something endearing about a guy who offers aid when you're hurling. But I knew Stone. When he was nice he was irresistible. Irresistible led to hot sex and hot sex invariably led to the whole heart disagreement. I hid my tattoo. "I didn't kill anyone."

  Maybe though, I should tell him about the ruckus I'd heard in this room earlier. If I told him that, though, I'd have to reveal my eavesdropping on Bruce and him — which would need further explanations and might end up with Bruce discovering Lars hired me to investigate what was going on between him and Stone. That would render my contract with Lars null and void. That would mean no recommendation to Lars' agent. That would mean no line edit of my manuscript. That would mean returning Lars' check. I zipped the impulse to spill my guts, and reiterated, "I didn't kill anyone."

  "I believe you, Jack, but you will probably have to come downtown for questioning."

  Stone was the only one who called me Jack, and always in a tone that seemed too intimate. "I won't tell you anything I haven't told you already, even if you grill me under hot lights."

  He rolled his eyes. "You've been watching too much TV."

  Yeah, well, a girl has to do something to counteract writer's block. My nose twitched at something foul in the air. "Is it starting to smell kind of 'ripe' in here or am I just now noticing the... tang?"

  "Puke." Stone made a face. "And DB odor."

  DB is police lingo for dead body. I grimaced, felt my stomach lurch again, and stood. I reached for the door. "May I leave?"

  Translation: run as far as possible from this nightmare.

  "No."

  "I won't run away," I lied. Then told the truth. "I want to wash my hands—"

  Someone rattled the door knob. Then knocked. "It's me."

  I went rigid. Dinah! Oh, God, she couldn't find me here. She'd fire me. As Stone reached for the lock, I whispered, "No. Don't let her in."

  "I have to. We need to control this situation before backup arrives." Stone pointed to the chair. "Sit, and remember this is a crime scene. Don't touch anything."

  I stared at my hands thinking his warning was a bit late. I sat and bowed my head, letting the wig hide as much of my face as possible.

  Dinah said, "What's the deal, Maddox?"

  And the Oscar for Potty Mouth of the Year goes to Dinah Edger — who, upon being told one of her performers had been slain on the premises, that the police would arrive imminently to detain her customers, and then shut down her establishment for a week or two while they investigated the murder, turned the air in the dressing room a shade of blue no rainbow would claim.

  "Who is it?" Dinah demanded.

  "Later." Stone caught my elbow, hauling me out of my seat. "We need to use your office. Now. And you need to get your security down here to keep this room sealed as well as the ex
its."

  Dinah made a step toward the body. Stone stopped her. "This is a crime scene. Out."

  She retreated with reluctance. Stone ushered me into the hall. I kept my head down. "Who are you?" Dinah asked.

  "Never mind," Stone said. "She's not one of yours."

  "Good thing." Dinah huffed. She locked the door, then handed the keys to Stone. As loud footsteps approached, she said, "This one opens my office. Hurry."

  Dinah had already sent for security. She stopped them from getting close to us and began explaining the situation. Stone hustled me up a private staircase and into a private office suite that included a sleeping quarters and a fully appointed bathroom.

  The air smelled of Dinah's exotic perfume, but the decor reflected the taste of someone more flamboyant, someone no longer of this earth. Her brother Jade. There was an anticipation here, as if each time the door opened, the room expected Jade would enter. Spooky.

  Quiet.

  "Sound proofed," Stone said, as if I'd spoken.

  I nodded absently, drawn to a one way glass window with a view to the bar and dance floor. Dinah was on stage, speaking into the microphone. Wait people were distributing what appeared to be coffee to the seated patrons. From the few faces I could see, that probably wasn't going to make up for the evening being ruined.

  I spotted Apollo sitting at our table, and once again, my knees felt weak with relief. I hadn't realized until this moment that some small part of me hadn't believed Stone's assurances that the DB wasn't my BFF. I'd needed to hear his voice, or to see him. His head was bent. Oh, my God, he was texting. I dug in my purse for my phone. I'd turned it to vibrate and it was doing a little dance in my hand.

  "Oh, no you don't." Stone snatched the phone.

  "Hey! It's Apollo. I need to speak to him right now."

  "I don't care if it's your mother. You aren't speaking to anyone until I release you."

  "I need released? I don't recall you taking me into custody."

  His gaze turned possessive, the look so smoldering my toes curled. "Consider yourself taken."

  "W-what about reading me my rights?"

  "It's not official. Yet."

  Yet? That didn't sound good.

  "Wash your hands, fix your face, and don't even think of taking off while I'm showering."

  Showering? I peeped in the mirror as he pulled down the top of his dress and yanked off the fake boobs, revealing his tanned arms and chest and a six pack that had a six pack. All sorts of tingling started in all sorts of intimate places, nipping at my resolve like ravenous little minxes. I turned on the sink, splashed cold water in my face, then caught another glimpse of Stone in the mirror. Ugly drag queen morphed into gorgeous naked male. He gave me a look what you're missing smile, then stepped into the shower stall.

  I needed an MA meeting. Now. "I don't do men," I whispered as images of warm soapy water careening over the sharp edges and deep hollows and other more interesting parts of Stone's body sprang to mind. My hands yearned to trace those same body parts.

  I felt the wagon I'd fallen off rolling over me and I relished the feel of the heavy wheels grinding into me, wanted Stone to grind into me. My heart raced, my breath was shallow, my resolve shredded. Oh, God, I wanted to shed my clothes, climb into that shower and let nature takes its course.

  But the blood washing from my hands, turning the sink pink reminded me why we were in this bathroom together. My jets cooled in a flash-freeze, the sexual thoughts, if not the desires, relegated to a place I couldn't tap.

  By the time Stone toweled off and dressed, I looked a lot more like myself than Dolly Parton, and Stone looked totally like himself, damp brown hair, smoky green eyes, and heart stopping smile. His masculine features made him an ugly woman, but as a man, on the McDreamy-McSteamy gauge, he was McSexy. Especially in a body hugging, navy T-shirt, worn out jeans, gold badge and gun. None of it good for my shaky libido.

  I realized he planned to join the investigation.

  Ever observant, I made another deduction. "Your civilian clothes were in Dinah's private bathroom."

  "Yeah." His expression said, "what's your point?"

  "I doubt you're having an affair with her under her husband's nose, especially with you dressed in drag, so I can only conclude you're working undercover."

  "That is not for public consumption."

  "Okay, but since homicide detectives don't normally operate undercover, it begs the question of why you're going the extra mile on this case?"

  "I'm doing this on my own time."

  I nodded. "Why?"

  "As a favor to Dinah."

  "What favor?"

  "Not your business."

  "Is your chief aware of your unofficial, undercover—?"

  "Yes, damn it." His neck reddened. I was treading thin ice.

  "Do your fellow cops know?"

  "Stop asking questions."

  "Can I go now?"

  "No." There was something in his eyes I didn't like. A "how-the-hell-am-I-going-to-tell-her-this? look. I sobered. Was he going to arrest me and charge me with murder after all?

  I took a bracing breath and gave him my bravest face. "What's going on? Just tell me."

  He led me to the red velvet chaise, and sat me down like my mother used to when I was in trouble. The bottom was dropping from my stomach faster than the stock market in 2009. "Are you really going to read me my rights?"

  "No, but you will need to make a formal statement."

  I could see in his eyes that that wasn't the worst. "What else?"

  "I couldn't tell you before, not when I was tricked out like a damned... well, you know... but the DB..."

  Panic rushed me.

  "I know it's not Apollo, I saw him from the window." I pointed, then doubt snatched hold of my panic and married it. Maybe I hadn't actually seen Apollo, just someone who looked like Apollo because I wanted to see him so badly. Maybe that was why Stone had taken my phone, so I wouldn't find out the truth.

  I looked at Stone, tears filling my eyes.

  He shook his head, his gaze gentle, his rough fingers finally stroking my face. But now I was too terrified to feel anything but bone deep dread. "Jack, I swear the DB is not Apollo."

  "Then w-why did you take my phone? Why didn't you let me talk to him?"

  "We're taking him in for questioning as a person of interest."

  I went stiff, still. This was totally crazy nuts. "Why?"

  He held up a plastic evidence bag. Inside was a length of fabric. A bead of light shone on something glittery in its center. A starburst. The deadman's tie. Oh. My. God. I gave that to Stone. I told him Apollo was wearing it. I had gotten Apollo busted for murder. I shook my head. "No. He didn't... he couldn't... he wouldn't. He doesn't even know who it is—"

  "He does if he killed the vic." Vic, cop lingo for victim. "And I didn't want him giving you the DB's ID."

  The way he said this caught me in the gut. Stone wanted to break the news to me personally. That meant I knew the DB. My air passages were constricting. I couldn't find enough breath for whatever he was about to say. "W–Who...?"

  He sighed. "It's Lars."

  CHAPTER SIX

  I grew up in Renton, a city at the south end of Lake Washington. Once a lush green valley of farms and wetlands, dairy cows and wild birds with small towns where everyone knew everyone else, this section of King County is now a mass of freeways and industries, asphalt and concrete, high-rises and smog, where there are more strangers than friends.

  Except today.

  Renton had lost one of its own, an international author, a genuine celebrity, and sorrow reigned in the packed Methodist church. Reverence, however, was lost on this crowd. I remained silent. Everyone else seemed bent on chattering — exchanging condolences and memories and conjectures. Each time the organist increased the volume of the dark dirge, voices rose to be heard above it.

  I tried shutting out the noise, gaze glued to the altar, to the ornate gold and silver casket that appeared to
be surrounded by the entire stock of two florist shops. I drew in a ragged breath, inhaling a nauseating clash of male cologne, female perfume, and every fragrant bloom known to humankind. My stomach lurched. I feared I'd be sick. But then, I was already sick.

  And mad as hell.

  I bit down the urge to shout, "Shut up! This is God's house, a place of sanctity, a day of solemn rite!" To yell, "Stop rustling your clothes, fidgeting your feet, wagging your non-stop tongues! Bow your heads and show the man in the coffin some respect!"

  Instead, I stared at casket. Lars Larson was dead. Murdered. Like a crystalized cyst tight against my heart, grief, anger and frustration pressed, the aching hurt and sense of loss a surprise. I hadn't expected I'd care this much. But I did. Another important piece of my personal history was gone forever. Stripped away. First Daddy, now Lars. And I had no clue as to why either of them had been taken from my life. Or who had taken them.

  Was Lars the third victim of the Black Boutonniere Killer? Or dead by the hand of a crazed fan? Or murdered by someone close to him? At this point, I knew only what the newspapers reported and, so far, those reports were sketchy and cautious. Stone had been less than forthcoming, quick to point out: Your best friend is a prime person of interest.

  Apollo.

  Seated beside me, my BFF was frazzled, a broomstick in black silk jeans, black silk shirt, and black spiked hair, his ordeal with the police ongoing. One positive: he was still speaking to me — which meant he didn't know I'd given Stone the incriminating tie. The guilt to spill my guts and clear my conscience boiled like an unstable volcano, but I held my tongue. I had to.

  The history of Apollo's life fit together like an awkward puzzle of betrayals, the pieces made up of dark colors and hostile shapes that formed an ugly picture. It wouldn't matter that I'd meant no harm. Once he knew the truth, our friendship would be as dead as Lars.

  I had to fix this before it was unfixable.