S. Tooley - When the dead speak

“Is this an interrogation?”

Jake walked closer, saying, “We can do it here, or we can do it downtown.”

Sam gave a slight laugh. “You have got to be kidding. What are the charges?”

“I don’t know. Breaking and entering for starters.” He tossed something clad in a cardboard jacket on the table while his eyes followed her casual movement toward him.

Sam gave the object a passing glance and wondered who he could be working for. Preston?

“What’s that supposed to be?” she asked finally.

“Bet you didn’t know Preston had a video camera.”

She shrugged and said, “State Representative Hilliard? I told you. I’ve never had the honor of being in his house so I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Jake straightened up, shoved his hands in his blue jean jacket. “You don’t have to play it now. It’s your copy. I have more where that came from, and I’m sure Chief Connelley would love to know your whereabouts Saturday night.”

The hair at the nape of her neck tugged at her nerve endings. “If you must know, I was on official assignment for Chief Connelley.”

Jake flipped open his cellular phone. “Why don’t I just call Chief Connelley and confirm that.” He started to punch in the number.

Sam bristled. “You’re on the wrong side of town, Detective.”

“And you’re on the wrong side of the law, Sergeant.”

As though a light flickered inside her head, her eyes seemed to take on a glow, seemed to bore right through him. “You wouldn’t be blackmailing me now would you, Mitchell?”

Jake grinned, the kind that tugged at only one corner of the mouth. “Let’s just say I’m leaving my options open.”

“I’m the last person you want to mess with.”

“On the contrary, Sergeant. I’m the last person YOU want to mess with.”

Grabbing the videotape from the table, she stormed past him and into the house, slamming the patio screen door behind her.

Jake savored the moment, although he didn’t get any answers to his questions. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, he quietly pulled out the chaise lounge and sat down. He was in the middle of a full stretch when a wet spray hit him square in the face. He jumped to a sitting position and was greeted by a woman holding an opened beer can in her outstretched hand. Jake jerked himself to a standing position and smiled at her. He gladly took the beer in one hand and reached out his other hand to her.

“Jake Mitchell.”

Her handshake was firm, as was his. “Hello, Jake Mitchell. I am Abby Two Eagles.” She grasped his hand with both of hers and held it for several seconds.

“I didn’t think anyone would mind. I was just taking a walk around the patio.” He finally sat down once she took a seat next to him.

“You work with Sam.”

“Yes, and I have to add… it’s quite an experience.” Jake peered over his beer can at her — eyes dark and mysterious surrounded by lines of wisdom, skin clear and bronzed, cheekbones so pronounced she seemed to be smiling even when her mouth wasn’t. Her long, gleaming hair was streaked with sparkling silver. She was average in height and weight although her skirt made her look a little thick around the middle.

“The house looks massive. Does anyone else live here?”

“Just the two of us. Alex lives in the carriage house out back.”

“Alex?”

“He does our gardening and handiwork.”

“A house out back, too. This place must be something to look at in the daylight.” Jake pulled out a cigarette and looked at her for approval. She nodded and handed him an empty can for an ashtray.

“Maybe you would like to stop in sometime and see the house.”

“Thanks. I might do that.” As he took a long sip from his beer, he noticed a small buckskin pouch hanging from Abby’s neck.

She followed his gaze and lifted the pouch. “It is a medicine bundle.” She leaned over so he could get a closer look. “It is sacred, a protector. Each is different because each contains something of importance to the individual. Mine has blackgold dust, sage, tobacco, and my umbilical cord.”

“You’re kidding.” He felt the weight of the pouch. “Tell me something, Miss Two Eagles.”

“Abby, please,” she insisted.

“Abby… Does Sergeant Casey seem a little strange to you?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean by strange.”

He took a long drag from his cigarette, flicked an ash in the empty can. “She looked at a body, touched it, claimed to know how and when he was killed. That is logically impossible.”

Abby smiled and said, “Sometimes things cannot be looked at logically.”

Abby peered through the blinds by the front door and watched as Jake’s car pulled away. She had heard bits and pieces of his conversation with Sam, had studied him as she held his hand on the patio.

At first glance he appeared cold and harsh. But when she spoke to him, his smile gave a devilish twinkle to his eyes. It had been a warm, genuine smile. She had felt the sincerity and gentleness in his touch.

He gave off mixed signals, but she had seen him before. At least six months ago in a vision. It had been on more than one occasion. She was sure of it. The chiseled features, the boyish grin that changed his threatening glare to a mischievous though kind face, and his strong shoulders.

“Finally,” Abby said in the darkened foyer as the blinds snapped shut. “I knew you would come.”

Sam poured water on the miniature rose bush, azalea, and other assorted potted plants on the windowsill in her office. She touched one of the buds on the azalea bush as if coaxing it to bloom. She lacked Abby’s and Alex’s green thumbs. All of her office plants were usually taken home just before last rites, resuscitated by Abby or Alex, and then returned to her office only to have the whole process repeated again in four to six months.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” Jake said. “How did you sleep?”

Sam poured the last of the water on the wilted African violet and glared back at Jake and Frank.

“What’s your game plan, Mitchell? I’m not a patient person.”

“I am.” Jake pulled up a chair and sat down near Frank.

Mick walked in requesting an update on King Tut. He leaned against the door frame while Sam retrieved a file folder.

“We’ve confirmed that the overpass was rebuilt twenty-one years ago,” Sam explained. “The CAT-scan didn’t reveal any gunshot or stab wounds. Right now Benny’s calling it asphyxiation. He thinks the skin pads should be ready to go to the Crime Lab sometime today.”

“I want him to do an autopsy, even if it’s a partial,” Mick said. He turned to Frank. “Any I.D. on that pin?”

“Not yet. I showed the picture to several jewelry stores but it isn’t anything the jewelers recognize. I also checked out Decker Construction who did the work on the overpass. Business has been shut down for quite some time.” A wicked smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “Little problem with using substandard materials. Haven’t located the owner yet.”

Jake clasped his hands behind his head and rocked back on his chair. “Maybe we should check for more bodies in the overpass.” This brought a hardy laugh from Frank.

A commotion in the outer office interrupted the meeting. Sergeant Scofield could be heard calling out after a dowdy brunette.

“Aw, jeezus, not again,” Mick said.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked as they filed out of her office.

“Camille Carter, Brandon’s wife. She’s made a couple trips here in the past to confront her husband,” Mick replied.

“You know the rules, Camille,” Sergeant Scofield yelled. “You need a pass.”

But the brunette kept walking. Gelatinous thighs stretched the fabric of her yellow jogging suit. Her straight pony tail swayed across her back. When she reached down into the handbag hanging from her right shoulder, every cop in the place reacted to the familiar move and headed for cover.