Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (6 page)

“
You have to walk through Clifton and then across the viaduct and down into Over-the-Rhine
,”
he says.
 “
No one should be caught alone there at night
.
”

Stok
e’
s right.  The skinheads have taken over the neighborhood.  I
t’
s not safe.
 “
Whatever
,”
I say, giving in and agreeing to let him walk me to my apartment.
 “
But once w
e’
re there, you gotta leave.  You ca
n’
t come in
.
”

“
Why not
?
” 

Stoke sounds calm, but I see his fleeting angry look. 

“
Robi
n’
s not gonna like you showing up at this hour, tha
t’
s why
,”
I explain.  I do
n’
t tell him Robi
n’
s gone but I do
n’
t know where.  I ca
n’
t have Stoke staying all night at my place.  Besides, I figure, wha
t’
s it Stok
e’
s business where my brother is? 

“I’
m finished
,”
I say.  Giving the truck a final swipe, I scoop my backpack from the concrete, and then toss it over my shoulder. 

“
Since whe
n’
s Robin making decisions for you, Blaze
?
”

Ignoring his question, I watch Stoke inspect the truck door on my side, squinting in the fluorescent glow from the light pole to see if
I’
ve left fingerprints on the paint.
 “
What?  Do you think yo
u’
re a freaki
n
’ ICE agent?  Stoke, hurry up
.
”

“
You missed a print, Blaze
,”
he says, and then elbows the door, wiping away imaginary prints with his sleeve.

“
Look, the cop
s’
re not gonna bust their butts searching for us
,”
I say. 
Not for a pimply-faced student and an exotic dancer wh
o’
ve jacked a Coca-Cola truck
.
 “
I
t’
s not like the
y’
re looking for a serial killer, Stoke
.
”

“
Yeah, and you know that
how
?
”

“
Not funny
,”
I laugh, recalling his remark earlier about murdering a girl in the alley behind Oma
r’
s.
 “
Stop making jokes like that
.
” 

Robin and Ang both swear Stoke wants me, that h
e’
s in love with me.  H
e’
s never made one move.  The comment earlier tonight about me looking scrumptious half naked does
n’
t count.  Good thing, too.  I
t’
s creepy even imagining doing anything with Stoke.  One of these days,
I’
ll lose my Colby temper and tell him h
e’
s got a serious ick factor he needs to address. 

“
Le
t’
s go
,”
I say, bouncing on my toes like
I’
m
en pointe. 
Stok
e’
s a pain, but h
e’
d do anything for me.
 “I’
d kill for you
,”
h
e’
s always reminding me. 
I’
m an idiot for mistrusting him.  Besides, his wanting m
e—
if what Ang and Robin say is tru
e—
and his being the next Ted Bundy, are a long way apart, two totally different things.
 “
Stoke,
c’
mon. 
I’
m bare foot.  I
t’
s cold out here
.
”

Ignoring me, he takes another swipe at the truck, deliberately pissing me off.  But if I say anything, h
e’
ll just go even slower.
 “
Oka
y—
whatever
.
”
 
I dig my beat-up Nikes from my backpack and stuff my bare feet inside, do
n’
t even bother tying them.
 “C’
mon, Stoke
,”
I say, finally losing patience.
 “
Did
n’
t I just tell you?  The cop
s’
re not gonna run prints on a jacked Coca-Cola truck
.
” 

He shoots me a scowl.
 “
Blaze, do
n’
t you see?  That cop was chasing
you
when we jacked this baby
.
”
 
He gives the truck door an obscene rub with his hip.
 “I’
m not protecting my ass. 
I’
m trying to protect you
.
”  

I stop my heel-to-toe rocking.  H
e’
s right.  The cops showed up at Oma
r’
s tonight looking for me.  The
y’
ve no idea who Stoke Farrel is.  They chased us from Newport because they saw him pushing my butt inside the Coke truck. 
Hmmm
.  I stare at the red and white behemot
h—
things
do not
go better with Cok
e—
self loathing bubbling like acid in my belly.  I should
n’
t have let Stoke whisk me away from the cops back at Oma
r’
s like some Prince Charming come to my rescue.  But how can I blame him?  This entire predicament is my fault.  I should
n’
t have taken off running.  I give myself a mental butt kick.  Is it Stok
e’
s fault I keep making crappy decisions?

No, i
t’
s Berta Colb
y’
s fault.  Everything is her fault.

“
I just want to go home
,”
I say.  Feeling a lifetime of screams racing for my lips, I begin mentally counting the scars on my forearm.  Ther
e’
s one for the day Berta Colby first called m
e“
Crip
,”
even when I begged her not to.  Ther
e’
s one for the day I found out
I’
ll need more surgeries if my ankle pops back out.  And ther
e’
s one fo
r—
oh, who cares?  Stop thinking about cutting, I tell myself, fighting against my self pity, my need to reach into my hoodie and touch the razo
r’
s thin blade.

“
Did you hear what I just told you
?”
Stoke says.
 “
The
y’
re after you, not me
.
”

“
Stoke, do
n’
t you get it?  I.  Do
n’
t.  Care.  I just want to go home
!
”

“
You should care
.
”

“
Why?  Are you the behavior police, telling me what to do
?
”
 
I shoot him a hard glare, letting him know
I’
m sick of his attitude. 

He carefully hides another fleeting look of anger.

“
Dammit, Stoke, I gotta find my brother.  I need to talk to him, so
c’
mo
n—
please
.
” 

“
Yeah, okay.  Sure
.
”
 
Twizzler shards poking from between his teeth, he tosses me a wide-mouthed grin.
 “
Anything for my Blaze
.
”

“I’
m not you
r
—”

What the hell?  Let him call me whatever silly name he chooses.  W
e’
re back to normal, whatever that is.  I shrug, take off walking.  Ho
w’
d I get lucky enough to hook up with the only fucktard on campus who quotes Robin Hood while robbing banks and tasing truckers?

Chapter 5

              “I
t’
s so quiet here at this time of night.  I mean, this time of the morning
,”
NP
D’
s newest rookie, Detective DeeDee Laws says.

“
Yup
,”
I agree, a cup of java in one hand and an inch thick printout on Theodore McCloskey, ak
a“
Tater
,”
in the other, as DeeDee trails me, looking like she could spit nails.  I ignore her.  At this hour, even the drunk tank residents have quieted down.  No yelling about civil rights violation
s—
and my ignorance of their constitutional rights.  Damn!  Ther
e’
s nothing I like better than a late night or, more accurately, an early morning sweat down.  Then again, ther
e’
s nothing I hate worse than figuring out who put a young gir
l’
s body in the alley behind Oma
r’
s.

I shake my head, recalling the visual and trying to imagine the vi
c’
s life.  She had it all ahead of her, but not now.  All sh
e’
s got now is a slab in the morgu
e—
and me. 

“
I got nothing good to say about a man who gets his jollies in titty bars
,”
I tell Rookie Laws
,“
but I have to be honest: I do
n’
t think h
e’
s my perp
.
”

“
Then, why ca
n’
t I at least listen in while yo
u—?
”

“
No, I got this one
,”
I say, shutting the door to interview room 2.

“
Long night, officer
?”
Theodore asks.

Before I even sit down, h
e’
s cozying up.  I
t’
s a common tactic, pre-empting the sweat-down with a swipe at civility.  I do
n’
t bother pointing to my badge.
 “
A.G. Hawks
,”
I want to tell hi
m—
Detective
Aidan Gerard Hawks to you.  But I crush the pompous impulse.  Pomposit
y’
s not good sweat-down etiquette.
 “
Yeah, bro
,”
I say, playing along.  What Theodore does
n’
t know is that once I close the door to the interview room, there are no rules, except mine.
 “I’
ve had a helluva long night
.
”

I swung by Oma
r’
s earlier tonight to warn Omar Jai
n’s“
girl
s
”
—
his name for them, not min
e—
about safety.  This is a fact I do
n’
t share with my perp.  One o
f‘
e
m’
s got to know something,
I’
d figured.  Two other dancers have turned up dead in the alley behind the bar, and tonight we found another.  Tha
t’
s three in the last two months, a problem for Newport PD.

My other problem is the hot little dancer wh
o’
s alive, the one who runs like a fucking gazelle.  Alaina Colby took off like a bat out of hell when I showed up.  She and a friend jacked my suspec
t’
s Coke truck after she shot out of Oma
r’
s.

“
What about you
,”
I ask, affable-like, one bud to another.
 “
Looks like your evening got out of control
?
” 

I slap his rap sheet down on the table and watch his eyes slide sideways.  H
e’
s still fuzzy headed from the tasing someone gave him.  H
e’
ll swear NPD did it, but we did
n’
t.  Wes roughed him up a little, but
I’
m sure Theodore knows what the computer printou
t’
s about.  I
t’
s thick enough to stop a bullet.
 “
Maybe you and that little pole dancer had a disagreement?  You got angry
?
”

“
Naw, man, m
e‘
n her, w
e’
re tight
,”
he says.
 “I’
m gonna marry Alaina
.
”

I snort a mouthful of java, trying to hide my surprise.  Wha
t’
s this sausage-faced bastard think? 
I’
m talking about Alaina Colby?  I saw her.  Fuck, i
t’
s hard to ignore that kind of beauty.  Sh
e’
s no one
I’
d connect with Theodore McCloskey, the grizzly sitting across the interview table from me.  But I ask anyway.
 “
You mean you and Ms. Colby are . . . engaged
?
”

“
Haw
,”
he bawls, slapping the table.
 “
Good one
.
”
 
He shakes his head.
 “
Negative, good buddy
.
” 

I gaze at him, steady-eyed. 

“
Uh, I mean, uh,
I’
ve been after her to go on a date, but she ai
n’
t said yes yet.  You know what I mean?  I go watch her when I get paid so I can loo
k
—” 

Recalling his manners, and maybe the fact
I’
m a cop and i
t’
s my job to protect dancers at Oma
r’
s from salacious bums like him, he looks sheepish, or maybe like a pig tha
t’
s just realized
I’
ve tightened the clamp on his balls. 

“
Hell, sh
e’
ll com
e‘
round
.
”
 
He slumps lower in the chair.
 “
Why
?”
he asks, irritation creeping into his voice.

Maybe h
e’
s jealous.  Maybe he thinks
I’
m going to ask Alaina out. 
Not
a bad idea.  Images from earlier tonight flash through my mind.  In the movies harem dancers are dusky-skinned and dark-eyed.  They look like Alaina Colby, wearing gobs of mascara and doing a shimmy that made my tongue hard.  In the brief glimpses I got of her, it looked like sh
e’
d modeled her makeshift outfit loosely on those exotic harem dancer
s
’ costumes, like maybe she used a pair of Wal-Mart curtains stapled together to look like harem pants.  Basically, she was wearing more mascara than clothing, if you count her G-string and the two black Wally World curtains rubber banded around her ankle
s—
nothing else.  Fuck me.  Watching her, I could barely focus on the reason I went to Oma
r’
s.

Fighting a surge of heat to my groin, I focus on what I know, what
I’
ve learned about her so far. 
I’
ve had my new rookie partner up all night, running Alaina Colby through Ohi
o’
s and Kentuck
y’
s state crime databases.  Sh
e’
s also been searching county records online. 

DeeDee Laws, NP
D’
s newest rookie, who used to work as a stringer for the
Enquirer
but quit when she joined NPD to avoid any conflict of interest, ran Alain
a’
s background check in record time and came up with zip.  Alaina Colb
y’
s clean.  Sh
e’
s got no criminal record.  She works as an exotic dancer at Oma
r’
s to pay her way through college.  She also works at Verbote Dental weekdays.  Meantime, she goes to the university fulltime, an honor student with a minor in dance and a major in criminology. 

I pause.  If sh
e’
s so clean, wh
y’
d she skip out without learning why I was at Oma
r’
s? 

I’
ve got a lot of questions about her, some of them not so professional.  Is it possible sh
e’
s interested in this rumpled trucker, a shoe-in for a part in a movie like
Texas Chainsaw Massacre
?   

“
Theodore, wh
y’
d you chase her into the alley
?
”

He leans his head sideways and glares.  I get a whiff of his body odor.  I
t’
s strong, but I ca
n’
t complain.  My own underarms smell like chicken shit. 
I’
ve been up forever with no sleep, have
n’
t been home for a shower.  All tha
t’
s keeping me going is the extra pot of coffee I just asked DeeDee Laws to make.  Since the first body showed up a few weeks back,
I’
ve done nothing but think about this case and our killer
,“
Megalo Don
,”
w
e’
ve dubbed him.

I let my perp sit for a minute, eyeballing his rap sheet.  When he does
n’
t answer, I pull it back to my side of the table and flip to a page.  I pretend to read, not that I need to: I can quote these bastard
s
’ narratives in my sleep.
 “
Says here, yo
u’
ve been arrested for assault.  Specifications, too.  What kind of weapon did you use
?
”

“
Charges were dropped
,”
Theodore says, drawing his lips into a victorious smirk, rubbing the thick stubble powdering his cheeks.
 “
You got a cigarett
e—
officer
?
”

“
No smoking
,”
I say, nodding toward the sign and returning his attention to the rap sheet.
 “
What about this charge?  Sexual assault on a minor
.
”

“C’
mon, man.  She was my old woman.  Sixteen at the time.  Fresh.  Know what
I’
m saying
?
”
 
He winks.
 “
I was twenty-two
.
”

“
They shoul
d’
ve charged you with statutory rape, Theodore.  That way, yo
u’
d be taking one up the ass right now, instead of sitting over there acting so smug
.
”

I watch his emotions cycle, the expressions on his face changing slowly.  First, confusion.  Then anger.  Finally, he looks like he wants to choke me with those big hands.  Sensing the direction
I’
m heading, but not completely sure where yet, he draws back from the table, highly offended.
 “
Hey, man, wha
t’
s this shit all about
?
”

“
You eat Moon Pies
?
”

“
The fuck are you talking about
?
”

I keep eye contact, my voice still easy going but getting harsher.
 “
Any man worth his salt has a Moon Pie for breakfast, along with his Bud Light and a roll in the sack with hi
s‘
old lady
.
’
 
That right, Theodore
?
”

I stay focused on his mouth, trying to get a glimpse of his teeth.  In my mind,
I’
m trying to match up his incisors with the bite wounds on the latest vi
c’
s body, the young lady who had a life, a futur
e—
but no longer.
 “
In case you do
n’
t understand English,
I’
ll ask again.  You eat Moon Pies, Theodore
?
”