Promises to Keep (19 page)

"OK,
so the boys tell me that you just walked in and found the victim?"

"Yes,
sir," said Jack.

"And
you are?"

"Lieutenant
Commander Jack Curren. I'm a doctor with the Navy."

Jack
fished out his ID and passed it to the man. He looked like the sort of guy that
respected titles and positions
—
very old school and traditional. By the
way his eyebrows raised when the cop looked over his military ID, Jack knew he
was right.

"So,
an officer
and
a doctor, eh? That's really somthin'." He handed the
ID back. "So, I guess if anyone was to know that the decedent was dead
when he found him, that'd be you."

"Of
course. As soon as I walked in, I knew that there was nothing anyone could do
to help him, so we backed out and called you. We tried not to contaminate the
scene but Laura had already slipped and fallen right near him. She's been very
upset."

"Who
wouldn't? So, did you see anything odd Miss
—
?"

"Mrs."
Laura replied. "Mrs. Laura Wynn."

Looking
puzzled, the officer glanced at Jack, and then back to Laura, since Jack’s last
name was Curren. Understandably, he must’ve been wondering about their
connection.

"Wynn?"

"Widowed,"
Jack said. “A while ago now.”

"Oh,
sorry to hear that," the officer said, looking a bit more relaxed once the
potentially awkward situation was resolved. "So, did you notice anything
strange or hear anything?"

"No,"
Jack said. "We met early this morning to go to the beach and were gone all
day. It was late when we got back. We walked up the stairs and right into this
mess."

"So,
then you walked down the hall and happened to find the body?"

"It
was an obvious blood trail. I saw them a lot overseas."

"So,
you were in Iraq?" The officer scribbled in his notebook as he said this.

Detective
Dewitt’s strange fondness for saying the word “so” was kind of distracting.
Jack idly wondered if he was trying to spell Iraq.

"Yes."

"So,
why follow it? Why not just call the police? A lot of blood in the hall would
be reason enough."

Jack
wasn't sure if he should tell the man about Laura's reaction. That might make
him ask a Hell of a lot more questions. Ones she might not want to answer. He'd
fallen for her and he intended to protect her as best he could. He couldn't do
that if the police separated them.

Jack
thought it better to jump on the proverbial grenade and keep the focus on him. He
could sort things out later.

"Like
I said, we went down to the beach this morning, sort of a spur of the moment
thing and we were gone all day."

"So,
I'm sure you have proof of that."

Jack
nodded. "I've got receipts from the surfboard rental shop and the park
gate down at Atlantic Beach.” He pulled them out of his wallet. “There. That
shows you I'm telling you the truth. Why ask that anyway? We called you
guys."

"Oh,
I'm not accusing you of anything. Just trying to get everything clear. So, I’m
covering all of the bases."

"Well,"
Jack went on, "there isn't much more I can tell you. We went out, we came
back, and we found everything the way you see it here. I called 911
immediately."

"So,
do you know anybody who had a beef with the deceased? He had a perfect record,
you know. I doubt he was involved with anything illegal."

"I
didn't know him at all. I don't live here. Just visiting."

Jack
remembered what Ron had said to him when they met.
Some junkie was here a
while ago, giving her a hard time. Scared her half to death.
He meet
Laura’s gaze with a speaking look. It was up to her to talk about it.

"Jonah
Lacks did it," Laura said in a small voice.

Both
men turned to look at her. "Excuse me?" asked the detective.

"Jonah
Lacks." Laura straightened up from her huddle on the floor and looked directly
at Dewitt. She seemed to have recovered her composure.

"He’s
an ex-boyfriend of mine. A violent, possessive, no-good junky. That’s why I
left him."

Jack
looked at Laura, stunned by this revelation.

"So,
you think this Jonah had something to do with it?" Dewitt crouched down so
he was eye to eye with her.

Laura
averted her face, picking at some of Ron's blood that had dried into a crust on
her leg. "I hadn't seen him in a long time. I'd thought he'd forgotten
about me. Lacks just showed up a few weeks ago, demanding money...and sex. He
got rough."

"So…
you made a report about this guy?" Dewitt asked.

"No."

"Why
not?"

"Why
bother? What would I get for it? A restraining order? What would a piece of
paper do for me when he came around again?"

The
detective frowned. "So, you should’ve filed a report, so we could’ve
picked him up. So, if he'd been violent, he'd be in jail right now."

Dewitt's
expression was grave. He’d used the word ‘so’ three times in two short
sentences, which seemed a higher rate than usual. Maybe he was disturbed about
her doubts concerning the effectiveness of the police.

Laura
gave him a sarcastic little laugh. "I don't believe that for a
second."

"OK,"
Dewitt let the comment slide. "So, what does this have to do with the
deceased?"

Anger
burned in her green eyes. "Ron came out of his place when my ex turned up.
He must've heard us arguing—Jonah didn’t get into my apartment
—
I fought
with him and refused to let him inside. Ron made Jonah go away."

"How?
He's an old guy. From the looks of the body, he didn't hold his own very
well."

Laura
grimaced. "He could hold his own really well with a gun in his hand."

Dewitt
raised bushy eyebrows. "So, the deceased was armed?"

"Yes,
he had a pistol. Jonah took one look at it and was out the door. Ron scared him
away, but Jonah said he'd be back to get even. That's why I think he did
this."

"So,
Mrs. Wynn, where is the gun now?"

Laura
looked down at the floor and didn't answer.

"Mrs.
Wynn?"

"I
don't know. I didn't know Ron even had one, much less where he kept it. Why
would I know?"

"I'm
just asking..."

"Well,
I don't know," Laura snapped at the detective, meeting his gaze. "Why
are you giving me a hard time? I said I don't know. Why are you worrying about
Ron's gun when you should be out looking for Jonah?"

Dewitt
made an apologetic gesture with his notepad. "A description would help us
out.”

"Yeah,
sure."

Laura
gave Dewitt an extremely detailed description of Jonah including, much to
Jack's embarrassment, tattoos on his shoulders, buttocks and groin. When she
was done, Dewitt flipped his notebook closed.

"OK,
we'll put this description out and get the boys out looking for him. So, don't
worry. We'll get him."

"I
think you will. Lacks may be violent and dangerous, but he’s also an idiot.
He’s lost whatever brain cells he ever had from sniffing too many drugs."

Dewitt
stood up. "Mrs. Wynn, you probably shouldn't be at home for the next few
days or at least until we get this Jonah character off the street. So, there’re
a couple of women's shelters in town. I could take you to one."

"That
won't be necessary," Laura said.

"I
insist," replied the detective. "You can’t stay here. From the
evidence it looks as if he was trying to break your door down when the deceased
interfered. So, if he was mad enough to do this to your neighbor, he's likely
to come back and do the same to you. It really isn't safe."

"She
can stay with me," Jack interjected. "I've got a room down at the
Suites. It has a bedroom and a sitting room. I can take the couch. She'll be
safe."

“So,”
Dewitt said with a frown, looking from Laura, to Jack, and back again.
"You'd feel comfortable staying with this man, Mrs. Wynn?"

"Sure.
We're good friends; we've known each other a long time. I trust him."

The
detective sighed and shook his head. "So, suit yourself." He reached
into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small cardboard card, and gave it to
Laura. "My number's on the front. Call me for anything, day or night. When
you get settled in, leave me a message so I know you're OK. Please stay inside
for now."

Laura
took the card. "Thanks. I will."

The
detective left them in the hallway. Laura stood up and, with shaking fingers, tried
unsuccessfully to unlock the door to her apartment.

Jack
took her keys from her hand and opened the door for her. "I meant it. You
can stay with me. I'll take the couch and give you any space you need."

"I
know Jack, thanks. I'm going to take you up on it. I just need to get a few
things, OK?"

"Right.
Want me to wait outside?"

"Don't
be silly, come in and sit down. I'll pack a bag. I really don't want to be
alone right now."

"I
understand."

Laura
led him inside and turned toward him. “I don't see that there’s any way you
could understand—not at all, but thank you for saying so. I’d hug you if I
could, but this blood…” She shook her head. “I have to have a shower and change
these clothes."

Jack
sat down heavily on the couch and watched Laura walk into the shower. He recognized
the signs—he saw them in the mirror when he looked at himself most days.

Right
now he was looking at a woman with a truck load of guilt, either real or imagined.
A woman with secrets—a woman in trouble

And
she’s also the woman I love,
he told himself.
So,
he thought, remembering Detective Dewitt and his penchant for the word.

So
what? We’ll sort it all out together.

Laura’s
stomach twisted and her eyes stung. The image of Ron lying dead with a slit
throat simply wouldn’t leave her mind. The look in his blank, open eyes, the
blood, his body… it was terrible—
terrible!

My poor
friend, Ron. He was such a good guy. A great guy.

It
was obvious what had happened. Jonah had been making a lot of noise while
trying to kick in the door to her apartment. Ron, her self-appointed watchdog,
had come out to scare him away.

Ron
had been trying to protect her, but he didn’t have his gun!

Jonah
had only once raised a hand to her when she was with him. One slap and she was
outta there for good. He never used to be violent, but somehow he’d been
capable of this.

Jonah
had clearly lost it. The man she’d once known was long gone.

Laura
took a long shower and had a big, long cry.

Then,
with practiced experience, she forced every thought of Ron and the implications
of what had happened to him—including her part in his death—aside to deal with
later.

Why
did this kind of shit keep happening to her?

No.
No, I can’t think like that. If I do I’ll go mad. Put it away,
Laura,
she told herself.

If
she was going to survive this latest crisis, she had to be levelheaded. Dressed
in a bathrobe, she went into her bedroom—well, more like "bed
closet."

It
was small, but neat and well kept. Orderly. That's the way she liked it. She'd
grown up amongst chaos, uncertainty, and so much anger, fear and worry, that as
an adult, she
needed
everything to be organized.

It
gave her the illusion of having control over the little that she had in her
life.

Everything
had to have its purpose and its place. Jonah had been a bad choice and a mistake.
She'd let his lazy, scruffy version of disorder into her deliberately crafted
world of calm solitude.

At
first she’d thought Bob had been a mistake, too.

Laura
was surprised that she'd allowed Bob into her life. After the disaster with Jonah,
she’d sworn off dating men.

Bob had
been the opposite of Jonah. Where Jonah had become more and more cynical and
contemptuous of almost everything and everyone, Bob had been trusting,
idealistic and upbeat. And he was tidy—something else she could identify with.

Kindhearted
and easy, Bob had been a little island of untouched innocence in a maelstrom of
uncertainty, fatigue and doubt.

A fucking
load of good that got him.

Laura
pulled a gym bag out from under her bed then opened drawer after drawer. Socks,
slacks, shorts, shirts, underwear
—a girl can't have enough clean underwear—
went
into the bag.

In
Bob’s case, she'd found that “goodness” got you a shitload of dirt shoveled in
your face at the end. That's all good guys seemed to get
—
nothing. The
Bible said that the meek shall inherit the earth. What a load of bullshit. What
it meant to say was that
the meek will inherit dirt.

Toothbrush
from the nightstand. Spare shampoo, deodorant and toothpaste from the
"extra toiletries" drawer—all stuffed into a flimsy canvas bag. It
was exactly like the night she finally gave it all up and left her mother's
trailer.

She’d
taken even less when she left Jonah.

Running
away. Again. Running away to what?

That
was the question. She'd left her mother with absolutely no idea where she was
going or what she was going to do.

It'd
been hard but she did it, all by herself
—
at least until she screwed it
up. Leaving Jonah had been easier.

Was
she screwing up now? She wasn't sure. What she did know was that now, just like
the earlier times, anything had to be better than where she was at that moment.

A
shiver of dread ran through her body as the image of Ron came into her
thoughts. If she’d been home, if Ron hadn’t been there, and if she hadn’t been
able to get to Ron’s gun, would she be lying there dead?

This
time I’m running for my life.

Bastards
get away with anything until someone stops him. They prosper while nice men
fold.

Jonah
was a bastard.

Ron
would have stopped him—if he’d had his gun.

Pain
stabbed at her. Her hand went to her chest where she rubbed just over her
breastbone. It wasn’t a heart attack, but she was heartbroken.

Searing
guilt slipped out from the box where she’d carefully locked it. It burned
through her and for a long moment she hated herself
.

Why
had she ever gone out with Jonah? Had she actually been attracted to him? Ever?
He was always a selfish asshole. Maybe she didn't feel worthy of anyone better,
deep in the back of her mind. Was he some type of self-inflicted punishment?

Psychobabble
bullshit,
Laura reassured herself.

Jonah
was different before drugs, she reminded herself. Just like her mother had been.

“Bad
boys” had never attracted Laura. They seemed to have an odd type of magnetic
appeal for many women, but she'd never felt that pull.

Bad
boys may be fun for a while, but it always went the same way. They stopped
coming home; they burned through your hard-earned cash, or wrecked your car
while DUI.

Then
they go mad and become violent.

Fuck
them.

Jack
wasn’t a bad boy. He was kind and sweet and earnest.

In
that way he was similar to Bob, yet he was different from anyone she'd ever known.
Jack oozed goodness and respect, but he was tough; he had to be.

You
don't survive a war without being a little tough, right?

Like
her, Jack wasn’t cynical and pessimistic. He read and was interested in the
world. He was a doctor, earned his own damned money and he seems to really care
about people
—
not in a pushover, pansy-ass way. More like in a John Wayne
cowboy way.

Jack
seemed the right mix of good and bad, soft and hard, mean and kind. That's what
she needed in her life, some sort of balance.

If that
was true, maybe she was actually running
towards
something for once. At
least she could be running
with
him, rather than facing life alone.

If.
If
she told Jack everything.
If
he still wanted her.

That
was a big If.

Laura
pulled the pistol out from the bottom of her panty drawer. She felt its weight
in her hand and looked at the polished steel sparkle in the light. With a snap
of her wrist
—
she'd been practicing
—
she flipped open the cylinder
and counted the six copper circles that indicated six loaded chambers.

Her
jaw clenched with sudden determination. With another snap, she closed it tight.
The shit stops here,
she decided. Ron was dead and this time life had
pushed her too damn far.

It didn't
matter if at heart, Jack was a cowboy or a pansy.

I
can take care of myself. If that means I have to shoot the crap out of anybody
that tries to hurt me, or Jack, then so be it.

She
stuffed the revolver in the bottom of her bag, right below her neatly folded,
pretty pink panties.