Steele Resolve (The Detective Jasmine Steele Series Book 1) (4 page)

“Right. Chase has a set of keys.”

“It’s okay… I still have mine.”

I can hear the emotion dripping from her voice there. She’s never wanted to give me back the keys and I never ask for them. I guess both of us are unwilling to deal with the inevitable.

“Good,” I force the emotion down into the deepest part of my chest. I have to lock it all up tight so I can function. It’s the only way I know how to deal with this.

“If you want, I’ll leave them with you when you get back.”

“No.” I quickly answer before my brain can think. “Since you offered to help with Chase, it only makes sense right?” Good save.

“Okay, in case of emergencies. I understand,” she says in her business tone. She doesn’t understand and I haven’t been able to explain it either. Relationships involve communication and right now we’re both stranded on an island trying to decipher smoke signals. The only problem is the wind blows them to bits.

“I owe you,” more than you could ever know.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

No goodbye, just a click. Just like that she’s off the phone. It could be because she knows my mind is focused on something else, but she could have said goodbye. Have we fallen apart so badly that she can’t say it? I can’t think about this right now. I hop in my car and turn it on. The radio blasts to life and I am off to the crime scene. I need to see it for myself.

Chapter Three

The war is raging in my head and I can’t turn it off. I hear the tires roll over the glass that must have been a beer bottle once upon a time. Not a hunch, more like an educated guess considering its color. It’s interesting that I think of the glass under the tires and not about the person who died here. I have to keep my mind clear to see things one would normally miss. Yet, I look in the backseat and already miss the little man who should be sitting there right about now. Shit.

The doorman stands out front looking at me through the windshield. The cops have since gone. I don’t know why. One would figure that since a body was found this morning a crime scene would be held for more processing time, but budget cuts suck. Regardless, I have to face mister unhappy doorman and get inside. Car, park, exit – routine behavior really, like breathing we all just do it.

“Excuse me, I’m Detective Steele. I need to see your basement,” I say as I dig out my badge and wave it at him.

“I’m sorry ma’am but I can’t let you down there.”

“Yes, you can. A man was murdered last night and I need to survey the scene. While I understand you’re the doorman…”

“I wish I could help you,” he cuts me off rather rudely. The man just stares at me. It’s not a gracious stare, but one of those run-for-your-life ones. Normally, I would run. The one thing I have over mister big muscle doorman is simple - a gun. I’d never use it, but it looks very powerful even in a holster. Hell, I don’t think I would have the courage to take the damn thing out of it unless I was forced to.

“Sir,” I slide my hand along my belt and let him see my gun. “I really do need to see the scene.”

His eyes glance towards my trump card and I do my best to fight my smile. I feel like I should sing Queen, “We are the champions,” only with the word I instead of we. Now he should move away from the door and tell me how to get to the basement.

“I can’t help you. Orders,” he smiles smugly at me. Trump card failed. Time to call in for backup. I grab my trusty cell phone and dial my lovely boss.

“Tyler, what’s up with the scene? I need to get inside.”

“No can do,” he says as he bangs along his keyboard with his index fingers.

“What? You said I could see the scene myself and determine the signature,” I say defiantly. He said it in my office, find a signature. That’s what I’m here to do.

“No, I said you need to find the signature before going to the scene. You booked outta here like you always do when your mind is made up. If you had waited a freaking second, I would have told you we released it. They have a security company protecting all the entries. If something comes up, they call.”

“Why? There could have been…”

“Nothing. There was nothing. He’s been dead, we took photos, there were no forensics and we got pressure to release it. That’s what we do when there’s no money in the budget and a wiped clean scene.”

I turn my back to the doorman, who is rather scarier up close.

“Dumped? How the hell did he get access?”

“That’s where those detective skills of yours come in.” He slams the keyboard with a fist, “stupid computer! Jasmine, just give me a reason to get you inside and I’ll do it. Otherwise it’s not on your desk.”

I hit the off button on my phone and look around the building. Big wanna-be-ultimate-fighting-champion keeps staring at me. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Who has access to the basement?”

“I don’t know. People come and go all the time.”

“It’s an office building, who rents the floors?”

“City owns it.”

“New York City owns the building or the office space?”

“All of it. They bought, developed and moved their people in.”

“Department?”

“Up my ass and to the left.” Okay, that’s sarcasm right? I mean does he really think that I will accept a department called up his ass and to the left? Right. Answer back with one of your own one liner.

“Well, I always thought everything went to the right so you might want to get that checked out.”

“With all lack of respect, ma’am, you need to go now. You’re blocking the street with your very friendly ecological vehicle.”

“I gotcha.”

I hold my hand out and push the remote start button. I watch his eyes get a bit wider as I waste gas for no reason. Sometimes I love being a bitch.

“By the way, have you ever done time? Don’t lie either I can look it up.”

“One stint when I was younger.”

“That explains it then,” I grin as I walk to my car. I see the confusion on his face. “Explains what?”

Hook, line and sinker. I smile to myself and open the door. I stand on the running board to make myself be even taller and more dominating. “Why everything is up your ass and to the left.”

I slide into the car and close the door. I see the look of confusion turn to anger on the doorman’s face. Maybe I should get a t-shirt that says Doorman 0 Detectives with Attitude 1. That would be funny. Well, to me it would be. I look at my stereo clock. Chase should be home. Placing the cancer causing wireless headset in my ear, I dial home. Switch the car in drive and go. I wave at the doorman. What a dick.

“Hello?”

“Frankie, it’s me.”

“Who else would it be?”

“Anyone.”

“Calling from Steele, J Cell?” She laughs into the phone. “I know you’re a little worried, but caller id still functions.”

“Okay, so you knew it was me this time. What if next time someone has my phone?” I’m frustrated and I know my playful tone does nothing to hide it.

“Then I would be worried about why you don’t have your phone. I’d call the police with my cell and pray you were okay. Since you’re fine and you happen to be the person on the phone, I don’t think I need to worry about that right now. So, I take it from your tone that everything didn’t go well.”

“No. I need to go back to the office and flesh it out. Apparently, the city owns and inhabits the building. I have no idea how many people had access to it.”

“Did you check out the body?”

“Nope. Victor’s probably got his hands full down there.”

“Head there first, get an idea of what the victim went through.”

“I haven’t had a chance to look over the files, but they released the scene.”

“What?”

“City owned building and budget cuts. Need I say more?”

“Just find out what you can. Maybe I can help you build a profile on whoever’s doing this.”

“You don’t have to do this. I know you have a busy schedule yourself with patients.” Frankie is one of the most amazing psychologists in all of Manhattan, she’s got to have a schedule that rivals mine. No matter how much I want her to help, I can’t expect her to.

“I want to. Besides, I’m already here.”

“I don’t even know if they’re all tied together. I just need one shred of evidence and I’m golden.”

“One step at a time grasshopper. You can’t put the horse before the cart.” Silence. It’s deafening. I used to be one of those people who could be alone for any number of hours and be okay with it. Then I met Frankie and being alone wasn’t as nice as it used to be. Then there’s Chase. The house would be deathly empty without him in it.

“Just a quick note, you have a shadow.”

“I know. They followed us home.”

“Did Chase see them?”

“I don’t think so. If he did, he’s certainly not bothered by it.”

“Just keep an eye on him for me okay?”

“I will.” Silence once again. Mustering all the strength I have inside the core of my being, “Frankie, I think we need to…”

“I’ll see you when you get back. Just bring all the papers to your house and we’ll figure it out.”

Click. Once again there’s no goodbye. I don’t know what the hell I am doing anymore. I let the rage flow through me as I pound my steering wheel. No more tears are left to fall. All that’s left is stress, anger, loss and unadulterated fear of the unknown in front of me. Honking horns blare behind me. Who the fuck do they think they are! Of course, if I was behind a woman who slams her steering wheel while the light changes to green, I’d honk as well. No time for fingers or other crude gestures, I’ve got to get myself together and call Chase’s school. Unlock phone and dial.

“P.S. 284.”

“Hello, this is Detective Jasmine Steele. My…” Son? Nephew? I’m a guardian right? What the hell is he to me on paper?

“Hello?”

“Yes, sorry. Chase Steele attends your school and recently we’ve come into some information that will require a protective detail. They’ve been instructed to be very inconspicuous. You won’t even notice them.”

“Detective, please have them come to the main office to show proper identification and paperwork. Then we will decide how they can fit into the current staff correctly.”

“Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome.”

Disconnecting the call, I question everything. Why did I leave the decision up to them? This is an ongoing investigation; they should allow me to place my men inside their school however I see fit. Yet, here I am allowing them to choose. Whatever. As long as he is safe, I don’t give a shit. Now back to this case.

Pulling into a parking spot, I throw the hands free device into the center console and grab the police file. Hoping out of the car, I watch as a few officers see me walk into the medical building. It’s like they forget I have a job to do. Like I suddenly got soft the minute Chase walked into my life. Sure I’m vulnerable with him, but not as weak as they think. I’ll never understand why women who do their jobs without children are old bitches with no emotion and women with kids suddenly have no backbone. Yet, men can jerk off into a cup and be called a man. It’s not that hard to donate the seed, try carrying the fucking kid for once.

“Thinking to yourself again?”

Snapping back to reality I find myself standing in front of a cloaked Victor as he finishes stitching up his ’Y’ incision in a dead man’s chest. “What you got, Victor?”

He looks like shit as he covers up the body in front of me. Rubbing his temples hard he mumbles,

“A migraine. You?” If he rubs any harder he’ll get to touch his own brain sometime soon. I wonder if all those files on his desk have something to do with it. Either way I need answers and he usually has them. Just don’t get close to his desk or a chair. Those are sacred places covered in papers.

“Indigestion.”

“Fast food?”

“No food.”

“Even better. There’s some yogurt in the fridge.”

“How you manage to keep food in a room filled with death is beyond me.”

“I’m not the one who had a chicken wrap in a blood spattered crime scene.”

“It was once and I was starving,” I’m splitting hairs I know.

“Whatever you say.” He hands me the latest dead man’s files. I flip them open and realize I cannot comprehend whatever language this is written in. I’m not sure if it’s the big words or the illegible handwriting. “You going to tell me about the vic or do I have to attempt to translate your chicken scratches?”

“Male victim died an estimated twenty-four hours before being located. He was strangled like the others.”

“That’s it?”

“No, he was in transitioning phase.”

“In stupid person language please.”

“He was preparing to have gender reassignment surgery. His body was a woman’s with the exception of his genitals.”

“So, you think he was mistaken for a woman?”

“I deal with facts, Jasmine. I have no idea what the assailant was thinking, but I do know he finished the surgery.”

“Finished?”

“Complete transfer from male to female. Not clean by any stretch of the imagination, but everything was removed.”

“That’s nasty.”

“He looks like the other victims in height, hair color and eye color. Their ages are all in the same range. Whoever did this has a specific look and desire.”

“Is any of this in the police report,” I quickly flip through it and see the male was found naked. “How do you know he looked like the other victims?”

“Few strands of a wig in his hair, his chest was severely damaged during a struggle. It stands to reason the assailant removed the breasts as well, but covered it up by slicing up the chest viciously.” He walks me over to the body and pulls back a sheet. From the breast area down are any number of slices and rips to tender flesh. None of them are as deep as the slices underneath the breasts, but this man suffered.

“So, we can make an assumption that these are all connected, but without a signature or a method to their madness, we only have theories. I need something solid.”

“There’s also some bruising here,” he points to an area above the slices by the neck. “The other victims didn’t have that.”

“Okay, so that’s something to file in my curious memory banks.”

“You know the more I look at the victims, the more they all look like Hadley.”

“I don’t think blonde, blue eyes and tits are hard to find in New York. Don’t personalize it Victor.”