Liver Let Die (9 page)

“Who was he talking to?”

He shook his head. “No clue, but he talks a lot to a girl named Brittney Prescott. I thought he might be dating her, but around closing time on the night he was killed, some big dude came in screaming at him to stay away from her. I asked J. T. what it was about, and he said it was personal.”

“And you have no idea what this big guy’s name is?”

“No, but he was wearing a Grayson County College letterman jacket.”

Grayson County College, a small private school, was located about ten miles away in Connor. Jordan remembered hearing Michael talk about how they’d nearly won the Division II championship the year before. They’d made it all the way to the finals only to lose a heartbreaker in overtime.

“You’re not filling Ms. McAllister’s head with petty gossip, are you, Kenneth?”

“No sir. She was just asking about J. T.”

Roger Mason’s eyes narrowed, despite his smile. “Shame what happened to him. But that’s a subject better left to the police.” He fired an unmistakable look Kenneth’s way. A look that said he didn’t pay the waiters to gossip with the customers. Kenneth got the message and bolted toward the kitchen.

Mason extended his hand. “I hope you found the food better than the last time, Ms. McAllister.”

“Call me Jordan,” she said, reaching for his hand. “And yes, the Rattlesnake Pasta was heavenly. I’ll make sure all of Ranchero knows it, too.”

His eyes showed his pleasure, making Jordan remember why she’d thought he wasn’t hard on the eyes the last time. Standing at about six one, Roger Mason was one of those classy-looking middle-aged men who always had a gorgeous woman on his arm.
He must live in tailor-made suits
, she thought, noticing the way the charcoal jacket emphasized his dark eyes.

For a small town, Ranchero had its share of cute guys and it seemed she’d seen them all today. First there was Alex, then Kenneth, and now the restaurant owner.

“I like the way that sounds,” Mason replied. “Especially after your first story.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Jordan interrupted.

“Don’t be. I have my sources checking out the processing plant in Canada, and if what you reported is true, we will no longer be serving foie gras.”

Just then, Kenneth reappeared and set the dessert on the table.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Roger said, stepping back and bowing slightly. “Be sure and let Kenneth know if you want another piece of cake to go, like the last time.”

Jordan’s mouth dropped as he turned and walked away. She hoped J. T. hadn’t gotten in trouble for that or, worse, had his pay docked. But that didn’t matter much now.

She finished the dessert and reached for the take-out box Kenneth had placed on the table. “Are you sure I can’t tip you?”

“No need to. It’s not every day I get to wait on a lady as pretty as you. Enjoy that cake,” he said before disappearing.

On the way home, Jordan contemplated what Kenneth had said about J. T. and the big guy from Grayson County College. First thing tomorrow, she’d try to locate Brittany Prescott and see if she’d agree to talk to her. She wouldn’t tell her J. T. had been coming to see her the night he was killed, just in case they were having a serious fling.

Empire Apartments was especially dark when she walked up the three flights to her apartment. She made a mental note to tell Michael and Victor the stairwell light was out again. Standing in front of her door, a weird sensation gripped her. Something wasn’t right. For a second, she entertained the idea of knocking on Ray’s door and having him stay with her until she was sure she was only being paranoid.

Remembering that he and Lola had gone to the late show to see the new Denzel Washington film, Jordan took a deep breath and chided herself for acting like a teenager after a spooky movie. Opening the door slowly and reaching for the light switch, her hand shot up to her mouth, her scream echoing through the hallway, resembling that of a wounded animal.

Her apartment was
totally
trashed.

The scream brought Victor and Michael running down the hallway.

“Holy . . .” Victor covered his mouth with his hand.

“Are you all right, Jordan?” Michael ran to her and enveloped her shaking body. “Victor, call 911,” he said over his shoulder as he led her to the sofa.

“Dear God in heaven!” Rosie said, rushing into the room. “Jordan,” she shouted. “Where’s Jordan?”

“Right here,” Michael said, motioning for the older woman to sit next to him.

Ignoring him, Rosie squeezed her body into the tiny space on the other side of Jordan, taking her from Michael. “Shh. Shh,” she whispered, pushing the hair from Jordan’s eyes and wiping the tears now sliding down her cheeks. “You’re safe now, baby,” she cooed.

“Ray isn’t back from the movies yet?” Victor asked.

When Michael shook his head, Victor wandered over to the doorway leading into Jordan’s bedroom. “Oh my, somebody was seriously looking for something.”

Fifteen minutes later, Jordan was still staring in disbelief at the mess, unable to stop her lower lip from quivering. “Who would do this to me?”

“Don’t touch anything,” a voice from the opened front door shouted fifteen minutes later. Everyone keep your hands where we can see them.”

The two familiar faces entered the apartment cautiously. “Looks like someone didn’t like your story, Ms. McAllister,” Paul Rutherford said, unable to disguise the smirk on his face.

“You think someone did this because of her duck story?” Rosie’s voice elevated, and she glared at the police officer who had ticked her off the last time he’d been there. “Someone from the restaurant?”

By now, Jordan had stopped shivering, and she shook her head. “I was a guest of the owner at the restaurant tonight. I don’t think this is about my story.” She groaned when she glanced around her living room.

“What other reason would someone have?” Officer Calhoun said, sitting down in the chair opposite her despite the stuffing protruding through a long slit down the center.

“I don’t have a clue,” Jordan admitted. She had nothing of value unless you counted the autographed picture of Troy Aikman hanging over the couch. She whirled around, expecting to see an empty wall behind her.

Following her eyes to the picture still hanging there, Calhoun said, “Have you had a chance to see if anything’s missing?”

Jordan shook her head. “That’s the only thing I have worth stealing, and it’s only of value to a Cowboys’ fan.”

Rutherford walked over to the picture. “I loved Aikman. Where’d you get this?”

“A present.” It was one of the few things she’d kept from Brett after they broke up.

“No jewelry or expensive silverware?” Calhoun continued.

At the mention of silverware, Jordan’s eyes moved to the kitchen counter before she remembered Ray had taken the knife rack away. The counter was empty except for Maggie, swimming mindlessly around the fishbowl like she hadn’t noticed all the people invading her space.

“Did your story in the newspaper make anyone mad enough to do this?” Rutherford asked, finally tearing his gaze from the NFL Hall of Famer’s picture.

“I . . . I don’t think so,” Jordan stammered. “The only one who might be upset over it is the owner of Longhorn Prime Rib.” She paused, distracted when Calhoun flipped a page in his notebook.

“That would be Roger Mason?”

“Yes. But I had dinner at his restaurant again tonight, and he actually thanked me for bringing the story to his attention.”

Officer Calhoun slammed the notebook shut just as Ray and Lola barged into the room. With a nod to the retired cop and his lady, the policemen headed for the door. “The crime scene guys are on their way to check for prints, but I seriously doubt we’ll get anything.”

“What’s going on, Davey?” Ray asked. “Who did—”

“We’ll fill you in after the policemen leave, Ray,” Rosie interrupted, clearly anxious for the officers to go.

Before closing the door behind them, Calhoun turned to the group all huddled around Jordan. “I don’t know what’s going on here yet, but I promise I’m gonna find out. I doubt this was a random B and E. In the meantime, I’d suggest you ask your landlord to install a security camera until we figure it out.” He left, pulling the door shut behind him.

When they were sure the police car had pulled away, everyone began talking at once. Finally, Ray held up his hand. “Let Jordan tell me.”

By the time she’d explained, Ray was shaking his head. “I’ll have to bring the rack of knives back, honey. I’m already bordering on withholding evidence.” When he saw her widened eyes, he added, “I said I would bring it back. It’s up to the cops to find it.”

“There’s no way we can afford a security system,” Michael said. “The renovations on the first floor drained our bank account, and we’re still not finished. The crumbling tile floor upstairs needs replacing before the fire inspector codes us again.”

Ray thought for a moment. “Let me work on it. I know a guy in Dallas who sells stuff like that. Maybe I can talk him into renting us one until you can get the money together to pay it off.” He paused, glancing toward Jordan. “Or at least until they find out who’s behind all this.”

“Jordan, think. Why would anyone want to ransack your apartment?” Lola squished her expansive behind between Michael and Jordan.

Jordan shook her head. “I don’t know. My social life isn’t exactly hopping right now and usually, I’m home.” She stopped abruptly as a small cry escaped her lips. “Oh Lord! What if I’d been here?”

Rosie tightened her grip. “You weren’t, dear. Don’t even think about that.”

Easier said than done
, Jordan thought, unable to get the horrible scenario out of her head. What if someone had been expecting her to be home? She shuddered, imagining what might have happened if she’d confronted a masked man bent on robbing her—or worse.

She wouldn’t let herself believe someone was trying to harm her. Besides the people in the room, she barely knew anyone in Ranchero. The alternative was someone who’d known she’d be gone all night and had used the opportunity to break into her apartment.

But who?

Other than her friends, her editor, and the restaurant employees, she hadn’t told anyone else she was going out. And who knew where she lived?

A wave of nausea rushed over her as she remembered that wasn’t entirely true. She’d told one other person about her assignment at the restaurant tonight, and he’d had more than a little interest in her plans, especially when she mentioned Longhorn Prime Rib.

She felt like such a fool. She’d done everything but give Alex Montgomery a key to her apartment and carte blanche to all her things.

CHAPTER 7

As expected, the police didn���t find any fingerprints at Jordan’s apartment other than hers and her friends. Nor did they have any idea who was responsible since there were possible suspects but no apparent motive. Jordan and her friends had worked until dawn, getting her apartment back into shape after the Crime Scene Unit finished up.

Except for the slashed furniture, everything else was salvageable. Even the couch and chair had been repaired with thick duct tape, though they’d be a constant reminder. At least she’d get by until she could save enough money for new furnishings from the consignment shop downtown.

Ray had called Dwayne Egan and explained what had happened and why Jordan wouldn’t be at work that day, despite her protests. She couldn’t afford to lose her job, even though it wasn’t exactly what she’d envisioned after graduating top of her class. She and Brett had been the primary sportswriters for all the University of Texas athletic events, and here she was stuck in Ranchero, writing a fancy food column.

It was dawn before the gang finally left, and Jordan somehow managed to catch a few hours’ sleep, waking around noon starving. After a quick shower and a bologna sandwich, she opened her laptop, wondering why the thief or thieves had left it behind. It wasn’t worth much, but it would have at least guaranteed a quick fix for a junkie.

She hoped that was all this was all about—a crazy kid on drugs looking for his next high. Anything else was too scary to imagine.

She Googled Brittney Prescott, the girl Kenneth said might be J. T.’s girlfriend. The first entry that she clicked on was a story about McKinley High School with a picture of a young girl who looked barely fifteen.

J. T. was robbing the cradle?

She moved closer to the screen, staring at the pretty brunette in the black and red McKinley High cheerleading outfit. According to the article, Brittney Prescott was a senior and not fifteen like Jordan first thought. Since she knew J. T. had been a junior at the college, which only made him three or four years older, it wasn’t officially robbing the cradle.

She clicked on another link and gasped as J. T.’s smiling face filled the screen, standing next to another guy wearing a similar red and black football uniform. Moving closer to the monitor, she grinned. She’d thought he was handsome as a waiter, but he was smoking hot in this picture. Something about a man in a football uniform always jacked her heart up to mach speed!

She scolded herself for being crass. A crushing sadness overwhelmed her as she thought about his death. J. T. had been too young to die.