Steele Resolve (The Detective Jasmine Steele Series Book 1) (5 page)

“Point taken.”

“Any ideas on a common denominator?”

“Other than similar patterns in the cause of death, nothing yet.”

“That’s got to be our priority.”

Victor is always so obvious when he’s thinking something else but isn’t sharing. It’s like being a Met fan sitting in the middle of Yankee stadium. He walks over to his desk and begins organizing the files sitting there. He full well knows I’m still standing here, but like a big brother he sits and waits for me to open the door. I thought only women worked passive aggressively, but my brother, father and Victor use it perfectly.

“I know you’re waiting for me to ask. What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.” He tosses one file onto a larger pile as if he doesn’t want to tell me. “There’s something going on in that brain of yours, Victor.”

“You’re not going to want to hear it.”

I don’t know whose worse, my ex-girlfriend or best friends who always think they know what’s best for me. Not only that but they also refuse to tell me anything because they don’t think I can handle it. I might have been through the ringer in the last few years, but the fact that I haven’t put my gun in my mouth shows I can handle a lot.

Victor sits on the edge of his desk watching me. I know he’s waiting for me to ask again, but I’m not playing the game this time. Maybe it’s because I’m emotionally drained, but my gut tells me it’s because I really don’t want to hear it. I’ve got a file to read and a profile to create, so I’m going to walk away from this situation. I turn and head to the door.

“Since you asked.”

Taking a deep breath I turn to face the music. I wish it was actually music. Maybe Madonna can dance across the morgue, the dead bodies pop up and vogue. Smiling at myself, maybe Jim Morrison can sing a duet with Janis while Hendrix plays on guitar. That would make taking this lecture worth it.

“I asked for this soon to be lecture?”

“Your facial expressions begged me to speak,” he smiles at me as his tone drips with sarcasm.

“Ah yes, the back of my head spoke volumes,” I counter.

“More than you know trust me the scalp tells all,” Victor points to the head of a dead body on a slab. “You need to hear this, like it or not.”

“Remind me to get a different, less vocal haircut and color,” I laugh at him.

He reaches around his desk and pulls open a drawer. Slipping his hand back inside, he pulls two small glasses out and places them on the edge of an occupied slab. Without missing a beat, he reaches back into the drawer and pulls out a bottle of brandy. I watch him as he fills my glass to the top, matching his.

“When are you going to say something?” I grab the glass and take a small sip, smoothly burns all the way down.

“Where’s Chase?” He leans back on his desk, brandy in hand.

“With Frankie,” I take another sip, knowing this conversation might warrant another full glass.

“At your place?”

“No, they’re at my mother’s,” I take a gulp of brandy this time. The burning in my chest reminding me I’m alive and dealing with the here and now.

“I doubt the cemetery has a hotel on the premises. She’s dead, try again.”

“Aren’t we all,” I say before my mind blocks it. I take a long swig of the brandy and try to focus on the glass in my hand. I peer through my eyebrows and see Victor watching me.

“You have to deal with it eventually, Jasmine. You can’t keep hiding behind that façade for much longer.”

“I’ve got Chase. We’re cool,” I lie. We’re not cool, but I don’t air my dirty laundry if I can help it.

“You haven’t been cool since we were in our twenties,” he drains the rest of the glass before pouring another one. He leans over and fills my glass to the top again.

“College wasn’t what it could have been. It was… harder than I anticipated,” I fight the emotion filling me from the toes up.

“No one expected her to die,” the sincerity in his voice causes me to crack a little.

“I did. You can deny it all you want, Victor. We watched her give up. We all let her do it. Simple as that,” my voice cracks as a few tears spring free from my eyes. Quickly wiping them away, I look anywhere but the man in front of me. This is not how I wanted my day to go.

“Jazz, we’ve known each other for a long time. I know when you’re full of shit,” his eyes stay firmly planted on me. He can see right through my lies, but not as easily as Frankie. Most of the time I let him think he’s right even if he’s way off base. Today though, he’s right on target.

“And I know when you’re trying to get me to admit shit. Victor, Mom died. It sucks. I miss her, but she’s dead and there’s nothing I can do about it, so let’s move on,” I drink again. Normally I don’t indulge this much, but I need to feel something, anything and the burning liquid does just that.

His eyes never leave me, but he stands there speechless. He’s not used to having me give him information without him needing a crow bar. He nods at me as if thinking of his next chess move. I meant what I said, but I think I took him off guard. We never really talk about mom. He asks, but I ignore the questions. Victor was there for all of it, the age, the pain and the lack of desire to live. I can still see her face looking up at the ceiling, empty.

At eighty years old, she would just lie in bed and drift away mentally. It used to be books or a long hot bath, but eventually I just lost her to nothingness. I would beg and plead for her to get up, but she chose not to. She wasn’t sick. She wasn’t terminal. She just had no desire to live, not for me, not for Chase, not for herself. So one day I tried to bring her coffee and her body was ice cold. Hell has a way of creeping into your pretty world and smashing it all to bits. One day I had a mother and the next I was a mother. Hell has burned me and continues to fry me every chance it gets.

“Have you moved on?” My heart screams no but my mouth answers, “Have you from your nasty ex?”

“Why do you answer everything I ask with a question?” His shoulders pull back in a defensive position and I know I’m pushing all the wrong buttons, but I don’t stop. “Because it pisses you off,” I reply harshly.

“Jazz, you’re an asshole sometimes,” he downs his drink and walks over to the sink.

“I’ve been called worse.”

“Usually by me,” his back remains to me as he cleans the glass. He’s being overly methodical and I don’t know if it’s because he’s really hurt or sizing me up. “Nice necklace,” he throws at me.

I’m sure the confusion on my face is clear as day. I fumble around my neckline until I touch the familiar gold cross on a chain.

“I see you still wear it.”

“Every day. You know that.” I’m getting fidgety and play with the glass in my hand. It’s almost empty, like everything else around me. Victor was right; this is not a conversation I want to continue. I didn’t really want to start it either. In a perfect world I would be able to run home and crawl into my mother’s loving arms, but I can’t.

Victor places the glass next to the jars filled with human organs. He turns and leans against it as he dries his hands.

“Look, I’m going to just say it like it is. You’re a good guardian for Chase and eventually you will learn to be a good mother. Those things take time, but you have to figure out your priorities and get your life on track.”

It’s an amazing gift to make the voices around you blur into nothing. I’ve done it since I can remember. Parents fighting, teachers yelling, coaches you name it, I can ignore them. All the words and sounds blend together like an orchestra and I am the conductor. The only difference is I prefer not to hear how it sounds. Let the audience enjoy it, but I prefer the sound of silence.

“Stop ignoring me,” he screams at me.

“You want me to stop ignoring you, fine. Let me say it like I know it is. I will not be a good mother. I will never be able to replace his birth mother nor will I ever attempt to. I am only who I can be. Simply put I am an individual who is drowning in responsibilities that I have never asked for. I allowed the individual I loved more than my own life to walk away due to said responsibilities,” I try to control my breathing but I feel my heart racing with every breath.

“You never lost her,” he tries to calm me, but that battle has been lost already.

“You had your turn. Now it’s mine,” I swallow the rest of the brandy and slam the glass on the slab. It might have cracked, or broken, I don’t know and I don’t care. Victor is watching me intently now, his face mixed with fear and surprise to my actions.

“You want to know how I feel about my mother. She died. She left me. I watched her waste away to nothing under the pressures of responsibility. She took care of everyone as they all died. Grandma, grandpa, my father… she took care of them all. I had to sit and help. I had to watch her die inside a little each day while she cleaned up after my father. I was no perfect angel, but I know how life beats you down. How you eventually look at yourself in the mirror and you are no longer the woman you thought you were. She gave up. Once my dad died, she had a chance to finally live her life. Instead, she faded away. I couldn’t help her. I couldn’t protect her. I abandoned her when she needed me most. So, who failed who? Did she fail me by going to sleep and desiring never to wake up? Did I fail her by allowing her to give up so easily? I don’t know. My heart tells me I should have pushed harder for her, yet my anger tells me that she gave up on herself. So, doctor, you figure it out. In the meantime, I have responsibilities to deal with.”

Before another word can be said, I am out the door and out of this argument. I can hear him walking behind me, but I don’t entertain the idea of turning around. I don’t have the emotional capacity to handle everything in one shot. I feel wetness hit my cheeks and I know the tears are flowing freely now. They are a sign of weakness, but right now I couldn’t give a shit. I wipe as much of it on my shirt as I can so I can actually see.

The house is quiet by the time I walk inside. Placing my keys down on the small table, I walk into the living room.

“Fuck,” hopping on one foot with papers in hand is not easy, not to mention ill advised. I somehow hit my only straight leg on the couch, fall back onto it and drop the papers on the floor. The photos and papers will have to be sorted again. I reach over and turn on the light next to me. Rubbing the back of my neck, I see a pair of sweatpants and a baggy shirt folded on the coffee table. She remembered I think better in my sleepwear. Oxymoron it might be, but it’s a fact of my existence.

Slowly making my way down the hall I see Chase’s door slightly ajar. I guess he wanted to let some light in, but normally I close it all the way. I push it open ever so slightly so it doesn’t creak. He’s lying on his side facing the wall. His chest rises and falls in a nice rhythm. I’m surprised he stayed in his bed, but Frankie’s a stranger to him somewhat. He was really upset when she left and maybe he wants to keep his distance.

My bedroom door is also slightly ajar. I wonder if Frankie remembers those times he climbed into bed with us. I peak inside and see Frankie sleeping soundly on my side of the bed. My feet have a mind of their own but I don’t fight them. Resting on the edge of the bed and watch her sleep peacefully. I used to love the times I would wake up hearing her talk to me, yet she was sound asleep. Before my brain can consciously focus on what I’m doing, my fingers slide down the side of her face. Her skin feels exactly how I remember. I don’t think there was anything I didn’t love about this woman. If only that was enough.

Exhaling a breath I had no clue I was holding, I stand and take one last look at my sleeping beauty. Time heals all wounds, but sometimes accepting fault also helps. I walk out of the room and close the door behind me. Getting back to the living room, I kneel down by the couch and pick up the photos. They have to be organized with the documents based on timelines and crimes. For some reason my brain goes on autopilot again as I keep thinking about Frankie.

When I met her, everything was going okay in my life. I was in college looking for a new and exciting adventure. Sure I was nineteen, writing was my dream, and Anne Rice was going to eat my dust. Either way, I had plans to do something in the future. Hell, I was going to write Hadley a part in a screenplay that would guarantee her an Oscar. Now, the two of us struggle to stay afloat. I feel bad for letting her down, but life gets in the way.

Victor and I were sitting at a bar one night and Hadley was running late as per usual. I was solely focused on the pool table and this hot woman playing with her friends. Victor and I were comparing notes, he thought the hot girl was a whore, and I said no, she wasn’t. Turns out he was referring to the girl leaning down on the table with short shorts that barely covered her crack while I was talking about Frankie. Once we had it cleared up, Victor dared me to talk to her. I swore under my breath because I hated being dared to do anything, but I really wanted to talk to her.

So I took the dare, swallowed my shot of Patron and headed toward the pool table. It was about ten paces in when Frankie leaned down over the short shorts girl and was whispering in her ear about something. Considering how their hands were on the pool cue, I felt jealousy rage from everywhere inside me. I turned on a dime and went back to the bar. Victor had seen the whole thing and had three shots ready, one for him and two for me. Once Hadley showed her face, we did nothing but drink.