Steele Resolve (The Detective Jasmine Steele Series Book 1)
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Authors: Kimberly Amato
STEELE RESOLVE
Kimberly Amato
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Disclaimer: The persons, places, things, and otherwise animate or inanimate objects mentioned in this novel are figments of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to anything or anyone is unintentional.
To Oma for being my guide.
To Auntie Chris for being my teacher.
To Mutte for being my friend.
To Sheila for being my everything.
To the professor who said I didn’t belong in college English – Bite Me.
Every human being processes things differently than another human being. Ask anyone at a car accident what happened and you’ll get different descriptions from each one of them. It all depends on their history, their experience and their faith. There’s one detail that never seems to change no matter who you talk to, they all think the metal crunching in on itself is the worst sound in the world.
They’re wrong.
Right after the crash, there are dozens of people screaming commands. Police officers telling people to stand back. Fireman using the Jaws of Life to rip the metal apart. The car fighting back with these squeals and grunts, but the Jaws of Life eventually win.
EMT’s scream out questions to those trapped in the mangled metal. After a few stuttering answers, they yell back to their partners - heart rates, blood pressure, I know all the words. I’ve heard it all before. I must have said it a million times to the captain at a crash scene.
You can hear the liquids of the car pouring out of the vehicle. Sometimes, if you listen closely, you can hear the blood pumping out of a person as they scream for help.
I can hear my voice there too, asking for information from anyone who has it. I can hear the words being told to me but they don’t ever register.
I’ve heard it. I’ve seen it. I’ve processed it much differently than you. I would love to hear the screeching metal. I would love to hear the screams. I wish I could hear the voices.
The worst sound in my world is the silence.
When I was younger, my mother used to lie on the lawn with me. Since she was a teacher, I would get long lessons about all the constellations. Personally, I just looked up at them and made wishes. Later in life, I would look up at them and talk to my grandparents. Something I seem to have forgotten how to do. If the sky lights up, it signals a person in heaven bowling a strike. That’s what I used to believe. Now, I just see light. An annoying light that accompanies thunder and rain.
I sometimes wonder where my stars have gone. It’s as if the inclement weather has bankrupted my heart of its dreams. Rain is supposed to be refreshing, a cleansing of sorts. Yet here I stand, drenched through my clothes, leaning over a corpse trying to protect what little evidence remains, knowing full well nothing will.
As I stare at the victim’s soulless eyes, I wonder what choices led her to this gruesome demise. Was the pressure of her responsibilities so great that she was taken out? Did she fail to meet expectations? I wonder why this young woman is lying dead and I am still breathing. What did my shrink call it? Transference. That’s it. I want this woman to live and part of me wants to die.
“Doc, the bus is here.” The young blue eyed officer yells at me. He isn’t paid enough to sit here with me and get soaked but it’s the job. We all do it.
The coroner’s office tries hard to keep up with the storm of death but they inevitably fall behind. Victor tells me over and over again that insurance fraud and undocumented bodies slow him down. How can you release a body without knowing who it is or what they have? I feel bad for him. The job eats away at you. Day by day you wilt under red tape and bullshit.
“Jazz, you trying to be a human umbrella or an idiot?” He stands next to me holding an umbrella over my soaked body. His crack team immediately covers the area with a human tent of sorts. Each intern holding up a corner of this tarp, the bright blue contrasts to the watered down red on the floor.
“Ever the delicate flower I see, Victor. I was trying to protect what little evidence I could.” I'm sarcastic, always have and always will be, one of my biggest flaws, I guess. It's easier. Victor’s known this for years, my friends accept its part of my charm or lack thereof.
“Considering you look like you entered a wet t-shirt contest, I’ll take it there’s little to none left,” he motions to my white soaked to the bone shirt. "You might have wanted to wear a lighter colored bra." Looking down at my chest, I see my dark black bra shows easily through my shirt. It was clean and it was available when I got the call.
I gently push him on the shoulder, nothing I can really reply to his comment. “Just do what you can. Okay, Victor?”
He kneels down next to the body. Victor always wears designer cologne. Hell, you could smell him from a mile away, but that’s neither here nor there. I’m just surprised he hasn’t put her credit cards on life support with his expensive habit. I think he shops more than all my other friends combined, him and his wife. But hey, as long as they pay their bills who am I to nitpick? In this field, you have to find something to blow off steam, shopping is theirs.
“You’re gonna be late.” I glance down at my watch. The one with so much water in it the numbers look like I took too much acid. I know he's going to mention the waterproof watch he told me to get. Not just for days like these, but considering I always leave my watch on in the shower, it was a smart suggestion. Just too expensive for my taste.
I wish I didn't have to ask.
“What time is it?” He smiles up at me; he's saying I told you so without ever actually saying it.
“Almost 4,” Victor simply says as he turns his attention back to the task at hand.
"Fuck," I am so late; crap, I'm always late.
"You, bottom right, will you hold up the damn tarp! It's not rocket science, you hold a piece of plastic up above your pretty little head," Victor screams at the intern. He never did have patience for stupidity. Looking down at my body, I get the full picture all at once. My clothes are soaked, I’m late and there’s a dead woman at my feet. This day gets better every waking minute.
“You’ve got fresh clothes in the trunk,” Victor replies to my inner monologue. It's like he can reach into my mind just by seeing my expressions, which is very creepy sometimes. "Before you ask, we made sure your back up case always has a change of clothes. I'll try to be nicer to my interns while you're gone, but I can't promise anything."
“Why?” I feel very small asking that question. Victor must hear it in my voice.
“Hadley, Frankie and I try to keep you on your game." Walking backwards, stepping through more puddles, I sarcastically reply,
“Ah yes, what super heroine needs one sidekick when I have three. Have you all decided on capes or just the tight leather?”
“Neither. Our wonderful main heroine is too damn cheap to buy us a drink let alone leather. Now get out of here before I send my interns to help you dress. Trust me they'd be more useful to you than me."
I could kiss him, but that would be rather nasty considering he’s one of my best friends. Some lines I won’t ever cross. Unless of course you go back to my college days and a night of double Tequila shots, but we won’t. I just smile at him and run. I have someplace to be. A place I wouldn’t change for anything in the world, if I make it on time that is.
As I run, I feel the water slosh in my boots. I’ll need to let them dry out and pray the size stays the same. I better change in the trunk. Leather seats are a terrible thing to destroy. I pull my keys out of my pocket and see the same beaded keychain I’ve had for years. It has my name, Jasmine, in all its girly glory. The only material gift I ever received from my oldest brother. Too bad it’s on a manly set of keys. I hit the unlock button more than once to open the trunk.
Tall people are not meant for these things. SUV’s are so five minutes ago, but I still own one. Have you tried to carry all your gear in a small mini thing? Yeah right, I bet you have. Damn. I hate when my jeans are soaked. They stick to you like honey, but not as sweet. I’ve got to stop thinking about weird metaphors. They make no sense and waste precious brain cells.
Finally, out of gross clothes and into new ones. The world is complete. I climb over the seats and manage to buckle in. No reason to get my dry clothes soaked again. Car keys in ignition? Check. Seat belt on? Check. Time to drive.
My wiper blades just move the water around as I fly through traffic. I love police lights. It’s very illegal, but some lines were made to be crossed for the greater good. My dad taught me that. Of course my dad also taught me that Woodstock was just a wonderful place for music and fun. I believed that until I found his picture in the centerfold of an anthology of the festival. He had the fattest joint in his mouth. Too bad it was too late to compliment him on his rolling habits. It’s times like these I miss him most, when the wiper blades sound like a folk song my dad used to sing and I break rules I swore to uphold. Irony must love me.
Have you noticed when you need to be somewhere, there is never a parking spot? Once again breaking the law to get inside in a timely fashion is what I have to do. Sorry but with a police parking badge, I’m golden. Still raining. Shit. I really hate running and my feet are still wet. Like every good super heroine I must attend to my duties.
Tearing out of my car faster than a speeding bullet, running through water droplets, jumping over puddles of muddy water and managing to run up the stairs and into a place I dread. I hate the sound of the empty halls of an elementary school when a parent is late. Every step sloshes, squeaks and echoes down the hall as I try to go unnoticed. Teachers peer through the open doors and I swear some of them sneer at me. Room 104, better late than never, right?
I step into the classroom and my heart drops. Chase sits alone with his wrestling action figures. Alone. I left him alone. His teacher, an older woman with slightly greying hair sits at her desk marking test papers. Who am I to comment on her greying hair? Lord knows if not for the hair dye I'd look older than I really am. I gently tap on the door.
“Mrs. Steele?” Her expression is harsh. If she knew what I was dealing with she'd give me a break. Then again I guess we both do the same thing, we work hard to protect the kids. She tries to keep kids from a future on the street and I protect them from a future behind bars or no future at all.
“Doctor Steele," I say it ruder than I mean, but I don't have the concept of humility down yet. I extend my hand for her to shake it, but she leaves me hanging. Did I mention my day sucked already?
“Yes, well, Doctor Steele, we are not a daycare. Regardless of the fact that Chase is an exceptional student, I can’t babysit him. I gave you leeway during the adjustment period, but it’s been long enough don’t you think?” I lower my hand and slide it into my jeans pocket. Lord knows if I take it out, her face is meeting my fist in record time. I don’t envy teachers. Their jobs are as hard as mine, but this one is just rubbing me the wrong way today.
“I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name," I'm trying to be polite but really, I want to show her pictures of crime, blood and anything gross to get her to back off. Maybe a school trip to the Medical Examiner’s office would get her to calm down a bit. I can see her sizing me up, I don't need another argument, not today.
“It’s on the syllabus for the school year. Have you read it?” I watch her stance, arms folded, leaning on her back right leg - everything screams defense. It's like she taunting me to play a game I am very familiar with. She wants to play so hardball it is then.
“No, I was too busy filling out police reports to prevent low life cretins from entering your school before helping Chase with his homework. So, if you wish for those unsightly individuals to enter the establishment, I will gladly let them. Then I would have more time to sit with my nephew than deal with being late to pick him up.” Her face softens a bit. Her stance becomes more level, her hands fall her sides. It feels like an eternity but she raises her hand.
“Margaret Johnson," she stands there waiting to see if I will take her gesture as a peace agreement.
“Thank you," I shake her hand, but make sure to squeeze it a little tight to show dominance. I can't help it, part of the protective nature, "Jasmine Steele.”
“Chase tells me you’re a homicide detective. He never mentioned you being a doctor as well?” I finally release her hand and smile.
"Chase is a good kid, never lies.” She looks at me, confusion wrinkling her already stressed forehead. “I’m a Psychotherapist, but doctor sounds better when trying to trump someone.” She smiles knowingly at me. The altercation seems behind us now, and I wonder why it was necessary. I know being late is wrong of me, but there was a dead woman at my feet. I just want to wish this all away right now, but the clouds are blocking the stars. I doubt I could focus on them anyway.
I look back at my nephew, sitting quietly during this whole transaction. His head hangs low, his feet swinging under the chair. He’s young in age, but more of an adult than I am. “Chase, you ready to go?”
He says nothing as he slides out of his chair. I just watch him as he slowly, almost methodically, puts on each strap of his backpack. His toys hang out slightly, but they won’t fall. He hangs his head lower as he walks, as if to count the tiles on the floor. What can I say or do to make it better? He’s got all the toys any boy his age could want. Frankly, my small house can’t handle anymore either. Chase walks under my arm and heads down the hallway. I wave to his teacher before trying to catch him. Damn kids and their speed.
Nothing is more boring than a silent car ride. No sirens. No radio. It’s just me in the front seat and my nephew in the back. The joy of being a guardian. Just focus on tasks at hand, buckle, key, ignition and drive. Try to avoid red lights and whatever you do, don’t break the law with said nephew in your car. Silence sucks.
The sky lights up with purplish-blue bolts of electricity illuminating the world around me. If only it was that simple. “You were late again, so I did my homework in school.” He speaks. The thunder rolls across the streets slamming into my ears ferociously. Maybe it’s telling me to pay more attention to the kid?
“Yeah honey, I’m sorry.” He nods his head weakly and leans to the side. I try to watch him in my rear view mirror, but he’s hiding just in the blind spot.
The sky lights up again. No sound yet.
“Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen …” Thunder rolls across the sky, more powerful this time.
“The storms not that far away.” He leans into my view, a smile spread across his face.
“Where’d you learn that?”
He looks at me in the rear view mirror, his hazel eyes fill with sadness and he sinks into his seat. Whatever joy was just there is gone.
“Daddy.”
Shit. If there are topics of conversation not to discuss, besides my escapades in college, the death of my brother and his wife were number one on my list. Sometimes it was unavoidable, other times I felt as if I walked into a steaming pile of shit. This was a steaming pile moment.
“That’s great.” I mumble to myself. Maybe if I avoid the very large elephant in the car it will just turn into a small spider. It can be that annoying spider in the car that never shows itself, but when you get into it, you see webs on your windshield. That would work for me.
“Why were you late?” He plays with his fingers, nervous. His father did that when we were growing up. It usually meant he didn’t want to talk about something to our parents as much as they didn’t want to hear it.