You Don't Know Jack Page 7

  I didn't see Stone, but he was here. Somewhere. I felt him in the undercurrent of nerves shivering beneath my flesh, in the prickling of my neck. I wished to hell I could get over it. Over him. Under him.

  "There's Bruce." Apollo pointed with one of the cameras and captured the moment.

  I scanned the group around Bruce. They ranged from hunks of masculine beef-cake in muscle shirts with nose and eyebrow rings to drag queens resembling the usual celebrities. Sorrow appeared to be the expression of choice. I wondered if one of them was the consummate actor, a killer hiding behind the mask he showed the world.

  Say, Bruce.

  Okay, maybe I just wanted it to be Bruce. Or someone, anyone, who wasn't Apollo.

  I snapped photos of the crowd, seated at tables and standing near the wall, recognizing a few local notables, the mayor of Renton, a candidate for governor and a senator. And a few non-notables, including the barista from The Daily Grind espresso stand, a mini-mart clerk, and the owner of a favorite Chinese restaurant.

  "There she is," Apollo motioned to a woman across the room, and aimed his camera in her direction. "Batty Peppermint Patty."

  My gaze followed his lead to a head of dark chocolate hair with a Cruella de Vil snowy streak through its center. That was all I could make out from this distance. I would have to squeeze my way through the crowd to reach her.

  But Bruce spotted me first. "You!"

  A hush ran through the room. I felt the crowd shift, felt curious gazes lock and load onto the drama they sensed about to unfold.

  Bruce waved his arms, the gauzy black sleeves of his designer blouse flapping like wings, giving him the appearance of a rabid, towheaded bat. "How dare you bring Lars' murderer here!"

  A collective gasp sounded as Bruce pointed at Apollo.

  "No!" How dare he humiliate my best friend?! "He didn't do it. He's innocent."

  "The murder weapon was found in his car."

  I gaped at Bruce. "What murder weapon?"

  "The knife."

  Lars had been stabbed to death? An image flashed of Madam Zee running her finger across her neck, followed by an image of my hands covered in blood. The knife was found in Apollo's car? "No."

  "Touching of you to defend him... since you gave the police the tie he left behind after killing Lars."

  Vaguely I was aware of Apollo gasping, then mouth agape, pivoting toward me, his face full of shock and disbelief and hurt.

  I'm pretty sure my heart stopped cold, then and there, that I died on the spot, that for a whole minute or two I was hovering over my body peering down on the nightmarish scene of Bruce accusing, Apollo horrified, and the guests gaping.

  "Jack B, you gave Maddox the tie?" Apollo's fire-spitting tone jolted me back into my body, to feel the full fury of the hell-heat of my betrayal.

  "I — I—" Crap. I couldn't speak. There was no defense. No denial. My cheeks burned the truth. Anger at myself brought me nose to nose with Bruce. "Apollo had no motive."

  "No motive?" Bruce released a humorless laugh. "Are you kidding? You don't know about the letters? Talk about incriminating."

  Letters? The words hit me like darts piercing a bullseye. I wanted to deny what Bruce was saying. I pictured us standing there playing an adolescent game of "Did not!" "Did so!" I barely kept from shouting, "You're a liar just like Lars! There are no incriminating letters! You're trying to cover your own guilty ass!"

  But some part of me was too aware of the crowd, too aware that somewhere in that crowd were the Crain Sisters, the Golden Oldies, the Maddox men. Somehow I managed, "You're upset. Overcome with grief—"

  "Ask Detective Maddox," Bruce taunted. "I gave him the letters this morning."

  I felt the stroke of a familiar gaze and, glancing over the riveted crowd, I met Stone's hard eyes. His handsome face wore his usual stay-out-of-it look.

  Too late. The floor beneath me had gone mushy at what I saw in my BFF's eyes.

  Hatred... for me.

  And worse... guilt.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I've always believed trust is a bonding agent — much like Gorilla Glue, strong enough to hold even when it takes a tornado-sized hit. So, imagine my shock when something as tiny and fragile as a secret zapped that bond like Clairol bleach zaps dark roots.

  The week passed in a blur of sexy men and awful happenings. Apollo avoided me as he would a horde of West Nile mosquitoes. Not that I blamed him. After Stone confirmed Lars had been stabbed with a knife found in Apollo's VW, Apollo had been arrested, charged with first degree murder, and called a flight risk by the judge, his bail set for more than I'd saved of Lars' contract money.

  I still didn't know who'd paid it.

  I could understand Apollo being angry at me for not telling him about the tie, but I was just as pissed at him for not telling me about the incriminating letters, whatever they were. I figured that made us even and therefore, all should be forgiven. He disagreed. I think. I wasn't sure since he wasn't speaking to me.

  Stone on the other hand wouldn't leave me alone, and without my BFF to bring me chocolate or talk me down when the man-cravings were at their worst, my on-going battle to remain celibate grew shakier by the minute. I needed a diversion.

  My apartment might only boast one bathroom, but it had two bedrooms. Well, one bedroom and a pantry-sized cubby hole with a closet and window. My office. It held a corner desk, a bookshelf, and a white eraser board for plotting — a trick I'd learned from Lars.

  I decided to attack the current WIP: Writer shorthand for work-in-progress. Some writers can't write when their life hits the fan, but if I stopped writing whenever life turned into a pile of poo, I wouldn't have completed three manuscripts. Thank God, I could escape into my story worlds. Thank God, I could write through anything.

  My writing ritual involves facing roommate Ken-doll toward the window to ward off evil, word-stealing spirits, like the two local news van parked outside; donning my neon orange "butt in the chair" writer's tee shirt; twisting my hair into a scrunchy; applying thick mascara to my blond lashes so I can focus. But nothing gets done without an accessible supply of caffeine.

  I put a mug of chocolate espresso within reach, booted up the laptop, read through the pages I'd written last week, and then stared at the blinking curser for a few minutes. Over the next hour, I refilled the mug twice and wrote, edited, and deleted the same new paragraph six times. My "I can write through anything" wasn't working.

  I gave up, tried phoning my mother, my aunts, the Clip and Flip, and Apollo without luck. Was everyone avoiding me? Or were they all avoiding the relentless media?

  I picked up the marker pen for the eraser board and made three vertical lines. I wrote SUSPECTS over the first column and listed Bruce Villa, Lars' life partner, Ruth Lester, the writer who sued Lars, Carter Hawks, Lars' literary agent, and Patricia Pepper, the bookseller. I wrote MOTIVE over the second column and left that blank for now since most of what I knew was gossip that needed confirmation.

  Above the third column, I wrote EVIDENCE, and then listed the things I knew about the murder to-date. The tie. The letters. The scuffle in the dressing room. The knife. What knife? Apollo didn't own a knife, did he? Lars' hiring me to find out whether or not Stone was using Bruce as bait to catch a serial killer — though I still wondered if there was more to it than that.

  "Figure it out, darlin'!"

  I jumped back. "Don't do that!"

  I didn't need a ghost popping into my mind anytime he chose, but I suspected Lars would until and unless I found out who'd killed him.

  "That's right, darlin'. Don't say I didn't warn you."

  "Just tell me who killed you and I'll work on finding the evidence."

  Nothing. Lars' ghost had gone as quickly as the last time. Damn him. I couldn't just sit here staring at a list of unrelated clues. I needed to fill in the gaps with what I didn't know. I changed to street clothes, added a baseball cap and shades, then ducked out the back way to elude the two reporters parked in front of
Sharkey's Tattoo Parlor.

  The morning air was damp with a hint of winter on its breath. I started Old Yeller, made one stop along the way, then headed for the beauty parlor. I had to get my life back on track, starting with Apollo. If I could find him. He wasn't answering his cell or my texts. I knew only that he wasn't at his apartment. Understandable given the swarm of media vans clogging his street, paparazzi digging through his garbage, and reporters with microphones and camera crews waiting to pounce on him for a news-at-six sound bite.

  If he wasn't at work, maybe my mother or aunts knew his whereabouts. Any normal Friday, I could pull right into the Clip and Flip parking lot, but not today — for the same reason Apollo couldn't go home. I couldn't even drive past the shop. Lookie loos and reporters and vehicles jammed Logan Avenue and beyond as though the neighborhood was holding a chilly morning street fair sans "road closed" signs. Was the media just hoping Apollo would show up? Or was he there?

  One of the reporters spotted Old Yeller, pointed, shouted and heads and cameras began spinning toward me. I sped away. Six blocks south, I spied Apollo's orange VW and took heart. I parked beside it, shrugged into the collar of my windbreaker, and started walking. I carried a Daily Grind triple-shot, double mocha Grande with enough fuel power to start a hydroplane. Apollo's favorite. A peace offering.

  My stiletto heels clinked against the sidewalk and my breath came out in mini-fog puffs. I told myself that I would find Apollo, that he would talk to me, that I could make him see we'd committed the same lie of omission, that I was not guilty of any worse sin than his, and that I had as much right to be pissed at him as he was at me.

  And then we'd make up.

  He needed me.

  I really needed him.

  A block in, my cell rang. It was one of the sexy men who'd filled too much of my past week, interrogating me, luring me, and generally pissing me off. "I'm not speaking to you, Stone."

  "You called me."

  Okay, so I don't reason well when I'm pissed, and I was much more pissed at Stone than at my BFF. "You arrested Apollo."

  "Just doing my job."

  "You know he's innocent."

  "Evidence says otherwise."

  I crossed the street. Two blocks down, four to go. "Then he's being framed."

  Stoic Cop Silence.

  "Do you have evidence that he's a serial killer?"

  Louder Stoic Cop Silence.

  "Come on, Stone, you know you don't. Apollo is not running around killing gay men. He wouldn't kill anyone."

  I crossed another street. Three blocks more.

  "His father's in the State prison at Walla Walla for beating his mother to death," Stone said. "A kid grows up with that kind of violence is most likely to perpetuate violence."

  "Profiler-babble?" I hadn't thought I could get more pissed off. I'd been wrong. "Really, Stone? Really?"

  More Stoic Cop Silence. He could trademark it.

  "You know Apollo," I said. "He's not violent."

  "He had motive."

  Bull. "You mean those damned incriminating letters, don't you? What did Apollo write — that he was going to kill Lars?"

  Another silence, and then he said, "Ask Apollo."

  Sure. First thing. Soon as I find him. I crossed another street. Two blocks to go. "You tell me."

  "That's privileged, Jack."

  I stifled a scream of frustration. "You should change your name to Stone-waller."

  He chuckled.

  I wasn't laughing. As he verbalized all the reasons why he wouldn't and couldn't tell me anything about the case, I contemplated how to get him to open up. Of course seduction popped to mind — along with images of every sweet spot on that gloriously sexy body of his, as well as just the persuasion that might loosen his tongue.

  I know, I know. I've sworn off men, especially this man, but to save Apollo from going to prison for a crime he didn't commit I might have to make the ultimate sacrifice. More images flashed and heat flushed through me as my sex-starved body sensed an end to the drought, knowing Stone would soothe its ragged nerves as no vibrator ever could.

  My wrist twinged as if some invisible spirit had pinched the half-heart tattoo. I gave myself a mental whack upside the head. What would I really gain if I seduced Stone and Apollo was still in trouble? More hurt. More anger. What was I thinking? I'd almost suggested the un-suggestible. Damn Stone and his alluring voice and his irresistible... talents, and his stupid, stubborn cop attitude.

  I crossed another street. One block left. I had to come up with an alternate way to help Apollo. Stone finally stopped talking and I jumped in. "Are you looking at other suspects?"

  His voice went all soft and whispery, full of sensuous suggestion, "I really can't talk about my case, but if there's anything else you need from me, Jack... anything... just say the word."

  My nipples stood up, responding like happy little soldiers to a subtle command from their superior officer. My resolve faltered. Again. I grappled for composure and choked out, "Not at the moment."

  "Okay, but remember, I'm only a phone call away... whenever you're ready."

  My mouth, and a couple unmentionable areas, watered. I was ready with a capital R. I hung up. Damn. I was so close to falling into bed with Stone my nerves, and everything else, tingled. I needed my BFF to talk me down.

  But first I had to get him to talk to me.

  The noise level grew exponentially as I neared the shop. Going through the front door was not an option. I couldn't risk being spotted by reporters and becoming a sound bite myself and worsening things between Apollo and me. I veered into the alleyway that ran between the salon and the house I grew up in, surprised to find the access free of media and lookie loos and more surprised to find the ground wet. It hadn't been raining.

  "Stop right there, missy!" a cranky voice called.

  I halted. The Crain sisters' neighbor, Oscar Orkan stepped from behind his garage, hose in hand, nozzle poised for firing. Double 0-70 with a Super Soaker assault weapon. This explained why the ground was wet and the alley free of media and lookie loos. I pulled off the shades and hat. "Wait, Mr. Orkan, don't shoot. It's me, Jack B."

  "You!" Oscar was as squat as a fire hydrant with a face like a Pug and a penchant for polyester leisure suits. He made a disgusted grunt. "You're as bad as the rest of them dames. You tell that ma of yours and her sisters, too, that if any of those vultures out front steps foot on my property again I'll shoot 'em with more'n this hose. Same goes for that homicidal hairdresser. We don't want no maniac killers around here. Murder us all in our beds, he will. Won't be safe 'til he's locked up for good."

  "Apollo is innocent, Mr. Orkan."

  "That's what they all say." He pointed the nozzle at my mid-section. "You tell 'em what I said, or else."

  I hurried past him, a new reality hitting home. Oscar was part of the jury pool. What chance did Apollo have with this kind of prejudice already running rampant?

  I reached the back entrance to the Clip and Flip and found the door locked. It was never locked. I used my key and slipped inside. The decor hadn't changed, it was still as pink and black and turquoise as a fifties malt shop. But something was off kilter.

  Different.

  And then I knew. No chit-chat above the rock and roll backdrop. No rock and roll. Just a strange buzz from outside as though I were trapped in a dark pit by a swarm of hornets. This was a Friday, one of the busiest days of the week for the salon. Usually. But today was not usual. The blinds were drawn and instead of smelling like hair products and permanent solution, the air was rife with the scent of the two dozen vanilla candles placed around the room.

  The theme song to The Twilight Zone played through my head.

  It took a minute for my eyes to adjust, before I realized five figures were seated at chairs that had been pulled up to one of the round coffee tables. The clang of gypsy jewelry told me one of those figures was Madam Zee. Was another Apollo?

  My pulse raced as I crept into the room, my vision slo
w to catch up. I identified my mother and Aunt Mamie by their hair, Marilyn Monroe halo blonde and spiked crew-cut, respectively. What the hell were they doing? Holding a séance?

  "Is that you, Lars?" Ida Schultz' bray sent a shiver down my spine from the ear splitting pitch to the actual words.

  They were holding a séance — channeling Lars.

  I probably should have told them I had a direct line to his ghost, but the ghost wasn't telling me who'd killed him. I doubted he'd be more forthcoming with this group.

  "Lars?" Ida called again. "Are you here?"

  "Ida, this isn't a séance," my mother said. "It's a Ouija board. Keep your fingers on the thingamabob."

  I switched on the light. "What are you doing?"

  "Jack B!" they said in unison, blinking like startled kids caught with their fingers in the cookie jar, or in this case on the thingamabob.

  "Explain yourselves," I said.

  A silent exchange of glances. Sophie Ferman, the fifth wheel at this makeshift séance, appointed herself spokeswoman. She gave a nod of her snow-globe do, peered at me over the bridge of her half-glasses, with her benevolent Mrs. Santa-about-to-deliver-a-tray-of-cookies-to-the-elves look. "Well, like we explained to your mother and aunt, dear, Ida and I were having our evening libation with Madam Zee last night and the topic of how to help poor Apollo came up. I forget who, but someone suggested Madam Zee consult the Tarots, but we all wanted to participate, so we came up with a couple of ideas. This was one of them."

  Madam Zee nodded, her earrings and jewelry setting off a wind chime of tinkling to underscore her eerie voice, "Ouija board."

  "As clear as wine!" Ida shouted.

  Since they all preferred red wine, the analogy did not reassure me. "Go on."

  Sophie complied, "Well, dear, Madam Zee said if we did the Ouija board with Apollo we could call on Lars' spirit and ask who'd killed him, which of course, would solve everything. Only when we arrived this morning, Apollo wasn't here. In fact, only Eleanor and Mamie were."

  "And that ogre out back." Madam Zee waved her arm, jangling like an upended silverware drawer.