The Marine's Last Defence. Angi Morgan
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was a rolling suitcase against the wall next to her. “She homeless?”
“Naw, nothin’ like that. Lost her car, broke down a couple of months back, and she walks everywhere. Does jobs for people in Lakewood, picks up an extra shift around here sometimes. Manager don’t mind her sitting there when we ain’t busy.”
“You said she’s been here since midnight?” His victim had already been killed by then.
“Yeah, let me get you a carrier for these. I got a new box of ’em in the back,” Carl said, putting the last lid on a large cup.
“How much do I owe you?”
“On the house for cops.”
After leaving a five, Jake put his wallet away and leaned against the counter, watching the busy intersection. Predawn joggers, walkers with dogs, people driving by and going about their ordinary day. Busy, yet not a single witness. He took the lid off one cup and poured a good amount of sugar in. He’d need the extra calories today.
While he sipped, he watched, honing his skills, making mental notes. Passing the time like he had for so many years.
The woman Carl called Bree shifted in her seat, looking nervous. She’d obviously overheard the conversation with Carl. Most people were more curious for details. When he came across someone who turned away, covered their face and tried to act casual about doing so...it normally meant they were hiding something.
Or was he just being overly suspicious again, wanting to investigate a murder instead of paying his dues by getting coffee?
Stick it out. They’ll come around soon enough.
Carl loaded the coffees into the cardboard.
“Thanks, man.”
“No problemo. Come back when there’s not a murder. Gotta get ready for my breakfast regulars.” Carl waved and returned to the kitchen.
“I’ll do that.” Jake leaned his shoulder against the door, pushing it open for a fraction of a second. Hit by a blast of frigid air, the coffee carrier tipped toward his filthy coat. He let the door slam, successfully catching the coffees and balancing them against his chest. A tiny giggle from the corner. He looked up and locked eyes with Bree. The woman had a beautiful smile. No matter how brief or even if she was laughing at his near disaster.
She quickly hid her eyes by resting her forehead on her hand. Her reaction made him more than a little curious. He set the container down on the first booth’s table and deliberately meandered past the booth that separated them.
Speak. He stood there, waiting. Expecting...he didn’t know what. Anticipation took over his vocal cords, refusing to let them work. He didn’t want to ask her why she looked suspicious. He didn’t want her to be a suspect or a witness. What he wanted was her phone number.
Naw, he couldn’t do that. At least not as a police officer. He hadn’t asked for any phone numbers or called any that had been offered to him in the year since his divorce. Dang it. She was a potential witness. He should ask for her information, since she’d been here all night. Man, that is so weak. Just say something. His hand had reached inside his coat for his notebook before he realized he needed a pen.
Then her spine straightened, her hands dropped to her lap and she tilted her face up at him. Strikingly magnificent amethyst eyes. He’d never seen that color before.
“Do you need something, Detective?”
“I was...” The pen had been with the notepad earlier. He patted every pocket on his coat. “Can I borrow your pen?”
She didn’t turn away, just slid her larger spiral notebook in front of her and handed over the pen from between its pages.
“Thanks.”
“If you need one for the crime scene, I’m sure Carl has an extra. That ink’s actually pink.”
The old saying of a smile lighting up a room popped into his head. He would swear the entire diner had brightened when the corners of her mouth rose, silently amused that he’d be writing with her girlie-colored pen. He shook himself and wrote Carl’s name and then Bree.
“Ma’am, sorry to disturb you. Carl mentioned you walked here. Did you come through the park?”
“No, not last night. Was someone really murdered?” She visibly relaxed when she answered.
“Unfortunately, yes.” Sort of an odd physical reaction to the word murder. Don’t read anything into it.
“That’s so sad.”
“Yes, ma’am. Did you see anything unusual? Anyone running from the park or a car speeding away?”
“No. But I slept some after midnight.”
“I’d like your name and phone number, just in case we have new information and need to pursue it with you. You never know what detail might help.”
“It’s really hard to see out of these windows at night, Detective. I really don’t think there’s a need to put me in a report.”
He looked up to see the reflection of a man covered in mud—even on his face. He looked like an extra in a disaster movie. He agreed that from the booth you couldn’t really see much outside.
“Not for the report. It’s only in case I need to get in touch again. I’d prefer your cell number, if possible. Carl said your name was Bree?” He concentrated on the tip of the pen where it met the paper. Not on the disconcerted twitch that occurred at the corner of her eye when he said he wanted information about her.
“Yes. Bree Bowman. And I don’t have a phone, but you can reach me at 214-964-79— Well, shoot, I always get those last numbers confused.” She opened the spiral and removed a yellow flyer. “Here.”
“Jerome’s Pet Sitters. You work here?” He stuffed the paper in his pocket.
“I fill in when I have time. Jerome takes messages.”
“Is Bree short for something?”
“No.”
She shifted on the bench, looking as uncomfortable as he felt awkward. He knew cops who used the addresses and numbers of pretty girls. That wasn’t his style. He couldn’t legitimize pushing for her address. He’d get it if he really needed to get in touch.
“That should be enough for now.” He set her pen on the table, watching it roll to the edge of the spiral. “Thanks for your cooperation.”
“No problemo,” she said, imitating Carl.
“Right. Thanks again.” He scooped up the coffees, including his own, and headed for the door.
“Wait. Let me help.” Bree’s voice came from just behind him. “I can get the door so you don’t have a disaster with those cups.” She darted around him, pushed the door and kept it open while he passed through.
“Thanks for the help.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Like an idiot he stopped and took another look at her. And like someone who hadn’t flirted in a decade—which he hadn’t—he said, “You know you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”
She inhaled sharply and pressed her lips together. Maybe embarrassed. Maybe flattered. Maybe like she received that compliment a lot. “Thanks, Detective. But it’s really cold out.”
“Yeah, sorry. Have a nice day.”
“You, too.”
Just before the door closed, he heard another sweet giggle.
You’re such an idiot.
* * *
DAWN CAME AND WENT along with the ambulance and dead woman’s body. She’d had no identification, no keys, and to their knowledge, no one had reported her missing.