Liver Let Die (6 page)

Calhoun caught Jordan when she swayed and led her to the couch. “Sit,” he commanded.

“That’s J. T.,” Jordan repeated, sure her face was as white as the other cop’s notepad.

“So, you do know him?” Calhoun walked to the chair opposite Jordan and sat down. “And what was he to you? A colleague? A boyfriend?”

Jordan’s eyes widened. “No,” she protested. “I only met him yesterday.” She paused. “Actually, two days ago,” she added, glancing toward the ornate clock hanging above the opening dividing the tiny living room from the even smaller kitchen. Victor had given it to her only last week. Said it was collecting dust and taking up valuable space at the antiques store.

“Hopefully, this won’t take much longer, ma’am,” Calhoun said, noticing her gaze toward the clock.

“We’ll finish up fast if you’re honest and open and don’t try to hide anything,” Rutherford interjected. “Trust me, we’ll find out if you’re lying.”

Calhoun shot him a warning look before turning back to Jordan. “Jason,” he began, before correcting himself. “J. T. lived in McKinley and had a student ID card from Grayson County College in his wallet. You a student there?”

Jordan shook her head. “I’m a reporter for the
Globe
.” She would never get tired of calling herself that.

Officer Rutherford took a step closer, writing madly on the notepad. Glancing up, he narrowed his eyes, turning his eyebrows into a V at the top of his nose. He reminded Jordan of a banana, tall and lanky, curving slightly at the top.

“You said you only met the deceased on Thursday. What exactly was your relationship to him?”

“There wasn’t one.” Jordan threw up her hands. “He waited on me at Longhorn Prime Rib. I didn’t even know his name was Jason.”

All three glanced toward the door when there was a sudden knock. Drawing his weapon, Calhoun motioned to Rutherford to move to the opposite side as he approached and slowly opened the door.

Rosie ran into the room, oblivious to the two automatic weapons pointed in her direction. “Oh, honey, isn’t it just awful?” She eased down beside Jordan. “A mugging right here in our building.”

Calhoun stepped closer. “What makes you think it was a mugging?”

“What else could it be?” Rosie answered, throwing the officer a how-dumb-are-you look. “You can put away the canons now. This isn’t an episode of
Law and Order
.”

Rutherford glared, holstering his weapon. “Oh, I don’t know, ma’am. Maybe Miss McAllister here had a quarrel with her lover. Maybe he broke it off, and she wasn’t real happy about it.”

Jordan straightened up. “I already told you I just met him.” She slumped back into the sofa cushions as Rosie patted her hand.

“So, why would a man you only met a few days ago as a restaurant customer show up at your apartment at midnight with your name and phone number in his shirt pocket?” Calhoun curled his lips in a smile meant to put Rosie in her place for the sarcastic look she’d given him.

“Single women have been known to give their phone numbers to cute guys on occasion, Officer. Have you never asked a pretty girl for her number?” Rosie stared Calhoun down until he turned back to Jordan. The short, pudgy guy would never admit it if he hadn’t.

“That’s true. But most single women don’t end up with a potential boyfriend under the steps of their apartment with a knife in his back.”

At the mention of the gruesome murder, Jordan lowered her head, sniffing back the tears threatening to spill over. Who would do such a thing to a guy as sweet as J. T.? “He called earlier,” she volunteered, sure they would find out anyway. “Said he had something important to talk about and would stop by after his shift at the restaurant.”

“He never hinted at what was so important he had to see you at midnight?” Calhoun’s smirk left no doubt he was not buying her explanation.

“I never spoke to him. I found his message when I returned to my apartment after playing cards.”

“Did you erase that message?”

Shaking her head, Jordan pointed to her cell phone on the end table. Rutherford scooped it up, turned it on speaker and pressed Play. At the sound of J. T.’s voice, Jordan bit her lip to hold back the tears welling in her eyes, mad at herself for thinking the worst of him when he’d mentioned stopping by her apartment.

“What time was that message recorded, Paul?” Calhoun asked his partner as he glanced down at his watch.

“Nine fifty-five.”

Calhoun turned back to Jordan. “And you never got suspicious when he didn’t show up?”

“I fell asleep while I was waiting,” she admitted, thinking she would kill for a Ho Ho right now. The chocolate treats were like Prozac to her.

Just then the door flew open and Ray rushed in with Lola on his heels, a leopard robe covering what Jordon knew was probably her birthday suit. It had slipped out one night during a card game that both Ray and Lola slept in the buff. All agreed that was way more information than they wanted.

“What the hell’s going on here?” Ray turned to Calhoun, who now had his hand on his weapon. “Hey, Davey. How’s your old man?”

Calhoun moved his hand away from his gun and stretched it toward Ray. “Good to see you, Mr. Varga. Dad’s doing great, enjoying retirement. Spends most of his free time fishing out at Texoma.”

“One of your colleagues knocked on my door looking for you, Davey.” Ray looked away and made eye contact with Jordan. “You okay, honey?”

She nodded as Ray moved closer. “You know anything about this?” he asked softly.

“No.”

Ray turned his attention back to the officers, singling out Calhoun with his eyes. “So, Davey, you about ready to wrap this up? This young lady looks exhausted.” His eyes darted around the tiny apartment while he spoke.

“I think so.” Calhoun tried to get out of the chair and had to use both hands to lift his squatty body upright. “You
will
stay around and make yourself available should we have any further questions, right, Ms. McAllister?”

Before Jordan could answer, Ray darted to the kitchen, backing up against the counter near the sink and leaning back. “Of course, she will. Have your dad call me the next time he goes fishing. It’d be good to catch up.”

“Will do, Mr. Varga,” Calhoun said, motioning with a jerk of his head for Rutherford to head out.

The moment the door closed, Ray blew out a breath. “Calhoun’s dad was the biggest screwup in the department, and it doesn’t look like the apple fell far from the tree.”

He moved away from the counter and pointed to the knife rack he and Lola had gotten as a gift for sitting through a time-share presentation somewhere in Arkansas. Since the two of them had more kitchen stuff than they needed, they’d given the set to Jordan as a housewarming present.

He cocked his eyebrow. “So, Jordan, where’s the missing knife?”

Jordan jumped up from the couch. “What knife?”

“The one that should be right here.” He pointed to the rack.

Jordan walked into the kitchen, confused. “I have no idea, Ray. Check the dishwasher.”

Ray pulled the door down and a sour smell wafted up, wrinkling Jordan’s nose. “Whoa! You need to run this now and again, princess. Even if you never use anything except glasses.”

Ray pushed the door shut and straightened up. “Think, honey. If I spotted the missing knife two minutes after I walked in here, the cops won’t be too far behind me.” He paused. “Okay, maybe I’m giving them too much credit. I forgot it was Calhoun’s son running the show.”

“You all know I don’t even cook.” Jordan’s eyes pleaded with them to believe her. “I only use the dumb thing to cut my bologna down the side before I fry it.”

“Why in the world would you cut bologna, dear?” Lola inched up beside her.

For a split second, Jordan thought she was about to get a peek at things that would probably scar her for life as Lola’s robe pushed open a little. Thankfully, the older woman grabbed the sash and retied it before actual skin showed.

“Because if you don’t cut it, the bologna will curl up in the frying pan, right, sugar?” Michael said as he and Victor barged into the room.

“We just spent the last hour being grilled by a cop who looked young enough to be spending his nights preparing for the SATs instead of chasing killers,” Michael continued.

“Yeah. All the old guys were forced to retire several years back when the city council discovered younger guys worked for less,” Ray said. “Since the highlight most days for the youngsters rarely includes anything more dangerous than getting old lady Lozano’s fat cat out of the tree in front of her house, their decision hasn’t come back to bite them in the butt . . . yet.” He paused. “Now they have to deal with crime scene tape. We’ll see how these young bucks handle that,” he added sarcastically.

“Isn’t it dreadful about that young man? He isn’t one of our tenants,” Victor said. “Wonder what he was doing here so late.”

“He’s Jordan’s waiter from the restaurant the other night,” Rosie said. “The police act like she’s a suspect.”

“What? That’s ludicrous.”

Rosie reached up and pushed back a stray lock of red hair that had fallen over Jordan’s eye. “I know. How silly is it to think our girl here could do anything that gruesome? Shoot, she couldn’t even kill that mouse that made her crazy last month, putting a trail of crackers out her door for a whole week before the ugly thing finally got the message and moved on.”

“I squashed that sucker,” Ray interjected. “What?” he asked when Lola jabbed him in the side. “She should know why it never came back.”

Jordan frowned. She’d worked hard getting rid of the mouse in a nonviolent way.

“Can it, you guys,” Lola said, patting Jordan’s hand. “Back to the knife. Think, sweetie.”

“What knife?” Victor and Michael asked in unison.

Rosie pointed to the rack on the kitchen counter. “One is missing. Fortunately, Ray discovered it and threw his body across the counter before the police noticed.”

“Oh my!” Victor shook his head. “Jordan, is there something you want to tell us?”

“Have you gone freakin’ mad, Victor?” Ray snapped.

The younger man laughed. “Chill out, my friend. I meant about the knife’s whereabouts.”

“No, but I’m going to tear this place upside down to find it. I promise,” Jordan chimed in.

“Good idea,” Lola said. “But in the meantime, I’m going to call my friend Quincy and have him stop by and talk to you.”

“Quincy Dozerly?” Michael whirled around to face Lola. “The guy who makes book out of the back room at that laundry by the mall?”

“It’s Terlinga’s Laundry, and Quincy is the lead counsel for them,” Lola said with a huff. “He’s a really nice man and a good lawyer.”

“And why on earth would a laundry need a lawyer on its payroll, my dear?” Michael responded. “I heard the guy from Kansas City who lives on the third floor lost a bundle to him during March Madness last spring.”

Ray ignored the comment and focused on his lady. “Why do you think Jordan needs a lawyer, darlin’?” he asked, standing behind her now and rubbing her shoulders.

“She probably doesn’t, but it won’t hurt to be prepared if it ends up she does.” Lola shrugged out of Ray’s caress and went to Jordan, grabbing both hands. “I read tarot cards for Quincy every so often. He’s a little eccentric, but he’s a good lawyer, and he’d do anything for me.”

“Have they told Jordan she’s a person of interest?” Michael asked.

“Cautioned her not to leave town.” Ray rubbed his chin. “My little apple dumpling may be right about this. I’m not crazy about Quincy Dozerly, either, but he was a pretty good defense lawyer in his day. Managed to get a lot of scumbags off on technicalities.”

Rosie’s face scrunched with concern. “Won’t it look suspicious if Jordon hires a lawyer?”

“It might,” Ray answered. “But I can tell you from my years in the Dallas Police Department, those cops will get our little girl in a room and pound away at her like you wouldn’t believe. Before long, she’ll be confessing to everything.” He turned back to Lola. “Make the call, sweetie.”

Lola smiled up at him in a way that left no doubt he would be rewarded later for siding with her. “I’ll invite him to our card game this Friday,” Lola said. “That way Jordan can check him out, and if it becomes necessary to seek counsel, at least she won’t have to talk to a perfect stranger.”

Jordan gulped. “Ray, do you really think I might need a lawyer?”

“You never know, honey,” he responded, his voice nowhere near reassuring. “It’s gonna hit the fan, though, when the police discover you’re missing a knife from the set.”

CHAPTER 5

The rest of the weekend passed without further drama. The police didn’t question Jordan again, but they’d made it clear before they left that she was a person of interest. And they didn’t even know about the missing knife. Early Saturday morning, Ray took the rack and remaining knives to a storage unit he kept a few miles down the road. Wondering how the cops would react if they tracked it there, Jordan envisioned her and her friends sitting in a jail cell down at City Hall.

On Monday, Jordan returned to work, still a little shaky over the whole experience but anxious to hear about the reaction to her scathing exposé of the foie gras at the Longhorn. The minute she walked though the door at the
Globe
, she knew something was up. Three people actually seemed pleased to see her as she crossed the newsroom to her desk.