S. Tooley - When the dead speak

“Uhhh…” Jackie glanced sharply at Sam, then said, “Gotta go.”

“She was at Preston’s, wasn’t she?” Frank asked Sam after Jackie left.

Jake’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me you weren’t dealing blackjack, that night, too.” Sam didn’t reply.

Feeling another argument brewing, Frank slapped Jake on the back saying, “Uh, later.” He picked up the container of cake, thanked Abby, and left.

Sam had never been on the receiving end of Jake’s interrogative scowl before. His face was such a mask of contradiction — one minute grinning, mischievous, ruggedly good looking; the next minute menacing, frightening, threatening.

She felt the air move as Abby slipped past her and disappeared down the hallway. The sound of an owl hooting drifted in through the patio screen. Sam folded her arms in front of her and waited.

“What were you trying to do? Blackmail Preston into admitting he killed Hap Wilson?”

“I don’t need to.” She noticed Jake was wearing her father’s arrowhead necklace and leather wristband but before she could say anything, he lifted up one of the pictures, his tight grip crimping one of the corners.

“Just look. You know he’s going to see the pin.”

“That’s the plan.”

He slapped the pictures on the counter again. “You are dealing with a dangerous man. If Preston is involved in Hap’s and your father’s deaths, he went through a lot of trouble to cover his tracks. He’s not above making sure his secret stays dead. I think that intruder who tripped the perimeter alarm the other night was Preston’s handyman.”

“You’re getting paranoid.” Sam turned and headed toward the study.

“Don’t walk away from me.” Jake followed her.

“Who gave you the right to give me orders in my house?”

Jake glared at Sam’s punked hair, her bright eye shadow, the thick lipstick. “Go wash that shit off your face.”

Her mouth gaped. “Excuse me? I thought my father passed away.”

“I thought his daughter grew up.”

Sam bolted up the stairs to her bedroom, noticing that Abby’s bedroom door was conveniently closed. Where was she when Jake was at his worst? She took a hot shower and washed her hair.

Dressed in sweat shorts and a sweat suit top, she ambled back downstairs. The lights were off in the dining room. She stretched out on the window seat and gazed up at the night sky. She felt bad about her argument with Jake. Part of her wanted to say it was none of his business where she was tonight. A larger part was flattered that he was concerned for her safety. She cursed herself for giving him such a hard time. Something was tugging at her heart. She found herself wanting to know all the secrets about his scars that Abby wouldn’t tell her. At what point had she started caring what he thought? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she did.

Her fingers played with the lightning bolt pendant. Memories of her father flooded back, like how he used to cuddle on the window seat with her. He had died needlessly. And she had been too young to properly mourn him. She thought of the little girl she had no memory of, waving at her father, and watching him destroyed trying to uphold what he truly believed in — the truth.

Tears fell freely. She didn’t hear Jake enter the room. Nor did she feel his presence when he sat down next to her. But she felt his arms wrap around her and pull her against his chest.

“I don’t need to be held,” she sobbed.

He buried his face in her hair and whispered, “I do.”

Preston slammed the pictures on the bar. Cain picked them up and studied them. He had no reaction, no smile, no sneer. He never had much reaction to anything. He was like a mindless robot. Cain’s enormous biceps protruded from his short-sleeved knit shirt. He folded his arms like a palace guard waiting for orders.

“I was set up last night, goddammit.” Preston had awakened with a dull headache and a vague memory of Jackie’s voluptuous body. But not much more. He had stumbled from the shower, opened the drapes and blinked back the bright sunlight. It was when he was fumbling through his underwear drawer that he saw the pictures on the dresser. Four pictures of him in bed with an attractive woman, sand-colored hair, wearing an electric blue teddy cut high enough to make her legs look as long as the state of Florida. Him, a state representative, nuzzling his nose against her ear, nibbling at her breast through the teddy.

“I should have had you take care of Sergeant Casey weeks ago.” Preston paced like a caged animal. “What the hell is she up to?” He balled up his right hand and pounded it into his left palm. “Nobody blackmails Preston Hilliard.”

“When you told me she was working on the Hap Wilson case, I followed her, found out where she lives. But her place is guarded too well. Too many people there.”

“Jezzus, Cain. What were you thinking?” Preston wrapped a hand around Cain’s thick forearm and squeezed. “You only act when I tell you to act.”

“Sorry.” Cain picked up one of the pictures and studied it. He brought it closer, then said, “Did you see what this woman is wearing?”

“What?” Preston barked. He pulled the picture from Cain and studied it. He walked over to a table drawer, pulled out a magnifying glass and held it over the picture. “This better not be what I think it is.” He looked at the enlarged necklace, the lightning bolt shape. “Goddam, sonofabitch.”

“What about the black woman who was here last night? Do you want me to look her up? Apply a little pressure?”

Preston waved his hand. “No, no. I need to think about this. We need to proceed carefully.” Preston cocked his head in thought. “Sergeant Casey was here with Monique the night of my reception, I’m sure of it. Must have been wearing a red wig. Shit,” he muttered. “What if Governor Meacham hired them?” He rushed upstairs to his study with Cain close behind. He opened the wall safe and pulled out papers.

“What are you looking for?”

“Good, they’re still here.” He clutched the envelope marked A.M. in his hand. As he started to put it back, he hesitated. Curious, he checked the contents of the envelope and found the baseball cards.

“What do you mean she went to Preston’s last night?” Carl demanded.

“That was my reaction, too.” Jake looked at the two agents who stood at attention while Carl interrogated them.

“She must have been in disguise,” the older of the agents explained. The two looked like the Blues Brothers, one short, one tall, dressed in dark suits.

“It might have been the car with the youth,” the younger agent added.

“Youth?” Jake questioned him. “What youth?”

The older agent shrugged. “A youth showed up on a bike and then left in a car driven by the African American woman.”

“Glasses? Nerdy looking?” Jake asked. The agents nodded.

“We didn’t think…” the young agent started.

Carl held up a hand to silence the agent. Then swung his hand around to point at the door. “You inform the two idiots who are on duty right now to keep their eyes peeled on Casey’s entrance. And if I catch anyone napping again, they’ll be assigned to a cow pasture in Hebron, Indiana.”

After the two agents sulked out, Carl exhaled, shook his head.

“What on earth was Tim doing there?” Jake rubbed the back of his neck.

“I don’t know why I post anyone at that house. From what I hear, you spend almost every night there.” Carl cast a suspicious glance toward Jake.

“That night I injured my head, Abby insisted I spend the night so she could monitor my condition. I just got into the habit. Besides, she’s a great cook, a great woman. What can I say? I love her.”