Chapter 3 Jagg
JAGG
I’d left Darby to his spinning thoughts at the Voodoo Tree, where he assured me he would search every inch of the area—not that I asked him to. I’d already searched and was confident I’d missed nothing, but hell, if that’s how the kid wanted to spend his evening, have at it.
I picked my way through the park, pausing at the tree line before stepping onto Main Street.
Ahead was Donny’s Diner. The hub of Berry Springs, the birth of all gossip, and the first place I went to catch a lead.
That was the thing about small towns—gossip was as valuable and heavily traded as gold.
Donny’s was a stereotypical small-town eatery, inviting busybodies both young and old with cozy red leather booths, blue and white checkered curtains, and a soda fountain in the back.
I made my way down the alley that cut between Donny’s and Tad’s Tool Shop—otherwise known as second church.
My living quarters were on the backside of the diner’s brick building.
The apartment was on the second floor, overlooking Main Street and the town square, which was the entire reason I’d rented it.
No better place for a detective to live than right in the middle of the action.
The rickety wooden staircase creaked and groaned as I made my way up it.
I unlocked the deadbolt, pushed open the door, and was greeted by a humid wall of rotted trash.
The apartment was dark, except for a pool of light on the brown carpet from the streetlamp outside.
I flicked on the fluorescent lights, the room illuminating like a high school cafeteria.
I tossed my suit jacket on the floor and hung my shoulder holster on the coat rack I’d dug out of the dumpster a month earlier.
I grabbed the hunting knife I kept on the windowsill next to the front door, lifted it to my jugular, and sliced the noose from my neck.
The tie tumbled to the top of my dress shoes.
After peeling off my button-up, I made my way across the living room to the kitchen.
12:06 a.m.
Another long, sleepless night.
I yanked open the fridge and squinted inside.
My choices: a Ziploc bag of bacon that had developed a concerning green shimmer, a block of fuzzy cheese, something shapeless in a grease-stained paper bag, and twenty-three longnecks.
Not even enough for my signature breakfast burrito—also known as the only thing I cooked.
I slammed the door, grabbed a loaf of bread, and chewed one dry as I set the coffee to brew.
After pouring myself a cup, I headed for my desk—the centerpiece of the apartment. I’d positioned it right in front of the living room window, overlooking the square.
A lump rose in my throat, denser than the bread.
I’d looked at them a hundred times already, but the crime scene photos still turned my stomach.
They’d held an open casket for Lieutenant Seagrave, but no makeup or suit could erase the image I carried—his bloodied torso obliterated like a slice of Swiss cheese, his face frozen in that grimace like a warning.
A reminder that his death was no accident.
I lifted a photo, scanning every inch. I didn’t need to. The images were seared into my memory. My pulse picked up. That low, white-hot burn ignited again, flooding my system.
I set my coffee mug beside the cluster of coffee rings that marked nearly every piece of paper on my desk. My personal trademark. I worked best in chaos.
The next photo hit me differently—not for the violence, but for what it suggested. A grainy image from a street cam: a silhouette mid-jog, caught passing the window of the art shop near the alley where Seagrave was found. The timestamp read 1:13 a.m.
The figure carried a black bag. Hat, mask, clothes, shoes—every inch of them cloaked in black. If not for the angles of the bag, they would’ve blended into the night completely.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered, setting the photo down with a tremble that came from somewhere between the caffeine and the fury.
I turned to my laptop. After logging in through several security screens, I hit play on the video I’d watched countless times since that morning. I memorized the flashes of the silhouette moving back and forth past the window, smooth, quick, calculated.
Planned.
Sipping my coffee, I settled behind the desk and watched the video over and over, as I had done every night since my friend’s death. I wasn’t sure how long had passed when my senses suddenly switched to the front door behind me. A distant creak told me I had company—and I never had company.
Then, a rap, rap, rap of knuckles against the paper-thin door.
I grabbed the gun I kept secured under the desk, and in nothing but my suit slacks and socks, I padded to the front door.
“Don’t do it,” the voice called out from the other end.
I yanked open the door.
“Detective.” Lieutenant Quinn Colson shifted out of the shadows, eyeing the gun in my hand.
“Another second and you’d’ve been on your back.” I holstered the gun in my waistband.
“Already told you, you’re not my type.” He winked.
“Everyone’s your type. What’s got you slummin’ in the back alleys of Berry Springs at midnight?”
“Thought I’d come by and say hi.”
“I’ve known you for three years and you’ve never come by to say hi.”
“Guess today’s your lucky day.”
My eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you supposed to be practicing Lamaze or something?”
“I did.” He blew out a breath. “A hundred damn times already today.”
I grinned. Colson’s new bride, Bobbi, was in her third trimester, although you’d think it was her fifth talking to the guy.
Quinn Colson was a few years younger than myself, with the same build and grit that came from spending years in the military.
Except he and I had gone very different paths after getting out.
The obvious being a white picket fence and family. Pending family, anyway.
“Seriously. What’s up?” I asked, impatient to get back to Seagrave’s case.
“Fine. I couldn’t sleep, took a drive to get some of this stifling fresh air, and came by to check on you. I noticed you were still at the cemetery when I left earlier. Went by just now but you weren’t there. You alright, bro?”
“Fine.”
He jerked his chin past me. “That empty pint you’ve got on the floor says otherwise.”
I turned, picked up the empty bottle of Jack, and hurled it over his head. Two seconds of dead air went by until—bam—the glass shattered in the empty dumpster at the bottom of the staircase.
“Dammit, dude. Thanks. Now we’re gonna get a call from old lady Doris Dill about a noise complaint.”
“Dill passes out cold at six-thirty every day. The woman could sleep through World War Three.”
“I don’t want to know how you know that, man.”
“Probably for the best.”
“Anyway, recycle next time, will ya?” Colson craned his neck to see into my apartment. “Not that you have anything to recycle. Jesus, dude, do you sleep on the floor?”
He shoved past me.
“What are you? A college kid? You’ve got one ratted couch that I don’t even want to know where the stains came from, and a—” He looked at me, gaping in utter shock as if I had three human heads nailed to the wall—“a box television? You have a box television? You know they have flat screens now, right? Your TV is from the freaking nineties.” He continued, spinning on his heel.
“And a kitchen the size of—you don’t even have a dishwasher—and one desk.
And a window air-conditioning unit…” He leaned down and sniffed. “That smells like burnt cheese.”
I kind of liked that scent, if I’m being honest.
Colson breezed past me, checking out the bedroom, where I kept a Queen—mattress, not woman—and an alarm clock on the floor, not that I needed one. I don’t even think the alarm function worked. Thank God I’d removed the antennas from the top or the guy might have had a coronary.
“You’ve been in Berry Springs three years, dude.
” He turned and fisted his hands on his hips.
“I mean, I get the minimal lifestyle thing but you don’t even have a single picture on the wall.
” He squinted. “Is there some sort of gambling addiction I’m not aware of, because I can loan you some money if you—”
“You come here to check on me or give me decorating tips?”
“Fine.” He raised his palms to surrender. “Just… unexpected, I guess. Anyway, come on. We know you’re not going to sleep, so come on.”
Another few drinks and passing out might have been more accurate.
“Come on,” he urged. “We’re going to Frank’s, so get a damn shirt on.”
Human beings were the last things I wanted to be around at that moment, but the bar part didn’t sound so bad. It was my second home, after all.
Frank’s Bar was a hole-in-the-wall pub on the outskirts of town.
A retired officer, aptly named Frank, had purchased the old log cabin and turned it into a hub for first responders needing a moment of reprieve.
For cowboys seeking the best barbecue across three states, and for cowgirls seeking the best meat across three states.
It was a Southern, small-town bar at its finest with antlers and flickering road signs along shaded walls, and buckets of ice water on tap to extinguish the routine bar fights.
Especially during full moons. That was a fact.
“I’ll buy the drinks,” Colson said.
And, sold.
I plucked a gray T-shirt off the back of my ratted couch, gave it a sniff, then pulled it on. I swapped out my slacks for a pair of jeans and cowboy boots, then followed Colson down the staircase.
“My Jeep’s around the corner,” I said.
“Is your air conditioner still broken?”
“Yep.”
“Then we’re taking my truck.”
We stepped onto the sidewalk.
“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” I said.
“You never do. And no offense, no one ever wants to talk to you either.”
We hit the asphalt, still warm from the day before.
“But I will say…” Colson continued. “I’m curious as hell to hear why you’ve got Darby casing a voodoo tree in the park.”