Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (10 page)

“
Sorry
,”
I say, not the least.  Maybe Smith cultivated its hothouse posies better than I had at first thought, but Mama Darlene and those Smith battleaxes neglected their biology curriculum: Megalodo
n’
s been extinct for thirty-thousand years.  I do
n’
t bother telling her.  She
knows
.  The stupid blonde act is as fake as DeeDe
e’
s boobs.

“
Any ideas who Megalo Don might be
?”
I ask, signaling our waiter. 

“
No clue
,”
she says, dabbing her pink mouth and making me wonder how she can eat a two-grape breakfast and yet have such an athletic build.  My gaze drifts downward to her chest.  I yank it back. 

“
I mean,
I’
ve no clue yet
,”
she corrects.
 “I’
m sure going to find the bastard, though.  I mean
we
,
”
she adds, correcting her mistake.
 “
You and I are going to find him.  I, of course, am here to learn from you, Ai
d
—”

“
Call me Aidan, except around our peers and superiors.  Then i
t’s‘
Detective Hawks
.
’”

“
Sure thing
,”
she says.
 “
Aidan
.
”

I’
ve no doubts about wh
o’
s going to nail Megalo Don.  Picking up the photo w
e’
ve been examining, I slide DeeDe
e’
s check toward her.  If I treat her like an equal, maybe
I’
ll discourage any more of her groveling solicitous advances.  Maybe
I’
ll also head off the urge to down her right here on the table and just give her what sh
e’
s wanting.  I hate the barbaric heat spreading uninvited through me.  I do
n’
t want to, yet I ca
n’
t stop wondering whether DeeDee would be like her mother in bed?  

Nah,
my good angel says,
do
n’
t go there.
 

My bad angel remains silen
t—
smug bastard.

Chapter 7

Who am I?

“
Little Man
,”
my mom used to call me, before she ended up in a garbage bag gnawed on like last Thanksgivin
g’
s turkey.  Yo
u’
d say having my mom make fun of my size as a kid is the reason
I’
m fucked up.  Yo
u’
d call me sociopath. 

I’
m not that easy to shrink, so stop with the Mickey Mouse bullshit psychology.

Thinking of all I want to tell Detective Hawks when I get the chance, I ease from my booth, liking the feel of the seat rubbing my ass.  Why do I like the sensation?

I indulge my desire to shrink myself.  I do a better job of it than Hawks could, anyway.

I do
n’
t want to know who I am: I do
n’
t care.  But I need some insight into me so I can quit doing whatever I find predictable about my behavior.  Being predictable is what could get me caught and getting caugh
t’
s not what
I’
m about. 
I’
m not the victim.  In Hawk
s
’ parlance,
I’
m called
perpetrator
.  Killer.

What does the seat feel like? 

It feels like . . . skin.  Ha!  Tha
t’
s why I love its feel.  Shrink session is fucking over, dimwits. 
I’
m in control, not you.

I watch Detective Hawks shuffle by the cash register.  Women ca
n’
t get enough of him.  Over the past few weeks,
I’
ve watched them fawn over him, practically beg to cuddle up with him.  I see why, too.  H
e’
s physically everything
I’
m not.  All man, most silly bitches would say.  Why are some men born with that kind of physical prowess, while others, while
I
—

Hold on.  H
e’
s glancing irritably toward my hiding spot.  Oh-ho, h
e’
s pissed no on
e’
s available at the register to take his money.  He hates inefficiency, makes being perfect his chief MO.  Finding order in chaos is one reason NP
D’
s promoted him, shooting his ass up through their ranks like h
e’
s royalty.

“
But that will change
,”
I say
,“
before
I’
m done
.
”
 
Kings are born to be murdere
d—
crucified!

I smile at the decrepit old couple in the booth next to mine, right behind the fake ficus.
 “
Hello
,”
I say, bigass smile spreading across my face.  The
y’
re gumming an impossible mountain of pancakes and looking perplexed.
 “
Bet I know what yo
u’
re thinking
.
” 

Why is the young man chatting us up?  Who in fuck is he?

Good question.  I snicker.  If only they knew wha
t—
no, if only they knew
wh
o
—
I ate for breakfast.  Not pancakes, damn sure.

“
Sorry, young man, do we know you
?
” 

They frown when I squeeze deeper into the ficu
s
’ leaves.  Gotta hand it to them.  It is an odd move.  They probably wo
n’
t finish those pancakes in this millennium.
 “
Ca
n’
t eat your pancakes and have them, too
,”
I snigger, jumping when someone drops a glass.

I hate noisy places like this, but cops spend a lot of time in restaurants and bars, which makes it a fun challenge to keep tabs on my detective-kin
g’
s every move.  People talking and laughing does
n’
t distract Detective Hawk
s
’ focus. 
I’
m guessing it makes working in places like Arne
e’
s easy for him.  As for me?  I prefer dark, private spaces.  And no people. 

“
People bring out the worst in me
,”
I tell the old couple.
 “
Make me want to dissect a kitten while i
t’
s still breathing.  Kiddin!  I had you going, did
n’
t I
?”
I say, watching the old fucks tuck napkins into their plates and toddle to their feet to leave.

But this morning, Arne
e’
s nois
e—
the breakfast chaos, the clatter of silverware and relaxed chit-chat of the breakfast clubber
s—
works out great for me, too.  I
t’
s perfect cover.

Breaking off the conversation
I’
ve started with mom and pop, I squeeze from my hiding spot and crane my neck.  Shit!  Here comes the blonde cop. 
She thinks sh
e’
s queen of the world, or what?
  I watch her sauntering toward me.

“I’
m going to freshen my face, Aidan
,”
she calls back to him over her shoulder.  Wink, wink, she goes.  Repulsive!  Sh
e’
s not on my most-wanted list, but
I’
d like to kill her just for shits and giggles.

“
A gal never knows when mister right might come along
,”
she tosses in.

Sh
e’
s joking, I hope?

Hawks says to her, sounding surly
,“
Hurry up, we gotta get busy
.
” 

She slips off before he can stop her.  Sticking him at the register with the bill, she lopes straight for me, she-wolf on the prowl for blood.  I bet I could help her find some, plenty of it.

“
Yo, buddy
,”
several diners yell, waving at Hawks.  Friends.  All his friends.  H
e’
s such a popular fucking guy.  I take careful note of their faces, their features and expressions.  The ones yelling are some of Cincinnat
i’
s amateur blues musicians he hangs out with evenings.  I know because I follow him home, to work, everywhere. 
I’
m that damn sneaking.  H
e’
d better know:
I’
m not one of the usual punks he arrests.

I edge farther out around the ficus for a closer peek. 

“
Come on over here, bro.  Join us
,”
the blues brothers urge.  What would it feel like to have so many friends, so many you meet them everywhere you go?  In restaurants.  At charity balls, galas for the uber rich. 

“
Lucky fucker
,”
I mumble, hating every dick born with a silver spoon in his mouth.  What would it be like to be rich?  Not to have to worry about your next meal, or where yo
u’
re spending the night?
 “
Lucky fucking detective-king.  Made to be murdered
.
”

My language sends pops digging for his wallet.  He and momser scramble up from their booth fast as their creaky bones allow.

“
Aidan?  Hey, son.  Over here
,”
someone, a new voice added to the conversational mix, chimes. 

H
e’
s Campbell Count
y’
s coroner, Doctor Smalley.  I keep tabs on him, too, thanks to Google, because whoever knows Detective Hawks gets the added gift of being stalked by me. 

Do
c’
s ran for election years back to impress Detective Hawk
s
’ mom.  An alcoholic, he could
n’
t even get a job as dog catcher.  The detectiv
e’
s mother, the love of Doc Smalle
y’
s life, shunned his ass.  Even though he was scion of the wealthy Smalleys, she blew off young Doc Smalley.  He subsequently ran for coroner and won, and h
e’
s been doing two things ever since.  One is getting re-elected.  The other is pursuing Babbs, that over-the-hill sour silly bitch, who for some reason still makes the pricks of old bats like Doc Smalley stand up, and belch and growl.  

The old couple scurry off, shooting me heated glares.

“
Bye-bye
,”
I say, smiling and waving like
I’
m their favorite grandson.  The last thing I want is Detective Hawks spotting me, not that he would: Doc Smalle
y’
s yakking away, got him distracted. 

“
Tell Babbs
I’
ve been looki
n
’ at an Arabian over in Lexington
,”
he bawls across the dining room
,“
and
I’
ve found one sh
e’
s going to lov
e
—” 

Looking anxious to get the hell out of here and avoid Doc Smalley, Hawks scours Arne
e’
s, searching for the owner, Nick LaFiglia. 

Heh-heh.  Cute how my detective-king avoids his daddy, well, his
biological
daddy. 
I’
m fond of Doc Smalley. 
I’
ve been keeping him busy, busy, busy down at the morgue.

“
Have you taken that Ferrari out for a spin yet
?”
Doc bawls.

Several diners stop eating to see what Hawks will say.  The detective looks flummoxed.  The do
c’
s an embarrassing ass, pure and simple.  But tha
t’
s Doc.  He says and does the damndest things.  Six years ago, when his bastard son joined NPD, I bet Detective Hawks had no idea the coroner was his daddy. 
Allege
d—
daddy.
  No on
e’
s sure, and
I’
ve not been able to verify it online or at the court house.  I
t’
s just one of many rumors floating around Newpor
t’
s upper echelon like farts in a hot tub.

The blonde cop sashays closer.  I step back.  After mom and pop left, I swapped my spot for a new one behind a statue.  Real marble.  Looks like Venus, but not half as pretty as Alaina. 

Alaina.
  If she only knew wha
t’
s in store for he
r—
but tha
t’
s for later. 

Detective Hawks avoids going over to talk with Doc Smalley about the Arabian stallion, or the Ferrari, a gift for his birthday.  The do
c’
s always trying to buy his bastard so
n’
s affection with family money.  It really pissed Detective Hawks off when he found the car sitting in that fancy building he lives in downtown.  Worse, Doc used his influence over Babbs to gain entry to the garage.  Maybe she feels sorry for Doc.  She does shit like that for him, the same way sh
e’
s always trying to hook Detective Hawks up with her friend
s
’ daughters. 

“
You need a wife
,”
I heard her tell him once.

“
Wife
?
” 

Ba-ha!  The
look
on her baby bo
y’
s handsome face.
 “I’
ll make it another twenty-seven years without one
,”
he said.
 “
Besides, Mother,
I’
m too busy restoring Hawk
s
’ Opera House for you to worry about a wife
.
” 

That remark pissed Babbs, lemme tell ya.  She wants the opera house turned into a community theatre for disadvantaged girls.  Maybe she can get one o
f‘
em to marry her baby boy, so she can start validating her existence, calling hersel
f“
grandma
.
”
 
One thin
g’
s for sure, Babbs Hawks gets what she wants.  I imagine our gain if she ever decides to come over to the dark sid
e
—