Lady Killer

Lady Killer

Gail McFarland

Copyright 2011 by Gail McFarland

Smashwords Edition

Other Titles by Gail McFarland:

Genesis Press/Indigo:

Dream Runner

Dream Keeper

Wayward Dreams

Lady Leo Press:

If Ever

Can A Sistah Get Some Love (Anthology)

BET/Arabesque:

Summer Wind

The Best For Last

When Love Calls

Bouquet (Mother’s Day Anthology)

LULU Books:

All For Love

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. For information, address: P.O. Box 56782, Atlanta, Georgia 30343.

Author websites:

www.http://fitwryter.tripod.com

www.http://fitwryter.com/books

PROLOGUE

Faux English clubroom wasn’t his favorite decor, never had been, but that changed quickly. It didn’t take long, a minute maybe less. The change began the second she walked through the door. No, what she did was more like floated in, actually – her walk was that smooth and effortless.

Yes, the minute she floated through the door, Gregory Quentin Walters knew that this was the woman destined to change his life. From across the room, he could see she was something else, something rare and special. Drop-dead gorgeous, all that beautiful black hair and golden skin – she looked like the kind of woman a man would die for. Walters watched her poise and progress, and the way she moved piqued far more than just his curiosity. He adjusted his body on the barstool and gave a barely secret tug to his trousers to better accommodate that fit of pique.

She hadn’t spoken a word, but she would, and he already knew her breath would be sweet, her voice musical, and her words politely eloquent. It was the rest of her that he wanted to experience. Just over average height, her body had the kind of sway and swell that could keep a man happily occupied on many a night. His eyes had yet to touch hers and his mind was already imagining the many ways he wanted to touch the rest of her. Just watching her, the way she owned the space around her, made Walters’ mouth water.

Hermes silk, knotted at his throat, seemed a little binding and he straightened the tie with a crooked finger, but he knew without looking, that tie was the only thing about him that was even a little off. Time spent before and after work pumping iron in the hotel gym paid off in the admiring eyes of a dozen slowly passing women. A man blessed with female satellites, he knew that the glorious creature floating through the doors of the Raddison Hotel’s oak walled bar would be by his side soon.

How could she not, he smiled at his dim but confident reflection in the mirror behind the bar. A winner, sharp enough to cut, he already knew he was the kind of man women spent their lives dreaming of and lusting for. From the broad, finely tailored shoulders of his suit to the bright signet ring on his finger, GQ knew he was nothing short of fine and if that beautiful woman had sight, she knew it too.

Hell, they didn’t call him GQ for nothing.

Moving his shoulders beneath the elegant drape of Armani wool, he made sure his eyes were not fully on the mirror. Just enough to watch her progress as she let herself flow across the room. Burgundy silk chiffon moved teasingly across her breasts and hips, stopping to flirt just above her knees. The scarf and tiny evening bag she carried matched her dress and shoes, and God knew, she was wearing them well. GQ turned his glass, timing his movements to match hers as she slipped onto the neighboring barstool. He smiled as he faced her.

She smiled back.

It was as though she’d come looking for him, the small talk was that easy. Almost before he knew it, Walters was confiding his nickname. It goes back to childhood, because of my initials, he smiled again.

That’s funny, she breathed, giving him a heavenly smile of her own. People have always referred to me by my initials, too. She let him take her hand. They call me LK.

LK, huh? Sounds lucky. He arched his brows conspiratorially. Are you lucky?

She smiled beautifully and whispered, sometimes. Especially when I need to be.

A small movement of her shoulder set something simmering just beneath his skin. Bringing her hand to his lips, his eyes never left hers as he touched her with a lingering grace. I like that.

I won’t need luck with you, though.

Really? The way he said it left no doubt as to intention.

Really, she confirmed, touching his cheek and giving him a look that could have sent an issue of smoke billowing from the top of his head.

Yes, Gregory Quentin Walters congratulated himself, this woman was very special. And, as lucky as her name sounded, he had the distinct feeling that this pretty woman was going to change his luck and his life. Forever.

Chapter One

When it snows on Valentine’s Day in Atlanta, Georgia, nobody is surprised. Weather known for felicity, would just as soon serve up sun as rain, with a dank side dish of wind.

When it snows on Valentine’s Day in Atlanta, Georgia, it makes little kids put aside the shorts they’ve been scheming to wear to school over the past two warm weeks. Lovers exchange gifts, secret smiles and sweet kisses, then link fingers in promise, or just because it’s the right thing to do. Old men settle back in comfortable chairs and give each other lopsided smiles, then they tell lies and fables about other improbable snows in the glorious south. Old women hurry down to the curb market near Grady Memorial Hospital, knowing that they’ll be able to get good pork and fine collards one more time before the weather breaks.

When it snows on Valentine’s Day in Atlanta, Georgia, homicide detectives turn up their collars, pull on their gloves, and wonder what else could happen on the city streets.

Detective Jasper William Ballantine wasn’t wondering anymore. His answer came in a troubling phone call, though the rest of the world seemed to be doing business as usual. His little cubicle hadn’t changed; scribbled notes and messages on pink while you were out slips and yellow post-its seemed to be everywhere. He stared down at his hands, dark, square and capable on his messy desktop. Can’t sit here all day, he mumbled mostly to himself. Promised the old man I’d come. Best be on my way.

Standing, he passed a thick hand over his close cropped, side-parted hair before pulling the smoky gray felt fedora lower over his eyes. Ballantine blew out a sharp blast of air, already knowing that this was a different kind of Valentine’s Day. The telephone call confirmed that. Buying time, he ran his fingers across the sharp crease in the crown of his hat. Today, the hat he’d affected because he thought it looked cool was heavy – though he still smiled when he remembered how much Dhana liked the big hat.

Dhana. Ballantine sighed as he reached for his heavy gray overcoat. How was he going to tell his ex-wife what had happened? She would want to know, and she deserved not to hear the news over television or blasting on V-103 in traffic. Dhana is a Psychologist, a shrink at heart. She’ll have more questions than I can answer right now.

He jumped when the huge shadow crossed him, blotting out much of the overhead light.

Jaz. I’m sorry, man. I just heard about GQ. Six foot-seven inch Benny Lewis, a big bear of a man who’d tried but never succeeded in pro football, clapped him on the shoulder and leaned, bringing his square brown face closer. Heard you were going over… At a loss, Benny stopped, the rich pink thickness of his full lower lip adding emphasis to the unasked question. His big knuckled hand dropped from Jasper’s shoulder and rested heavily on the worn wood of his desk. Old man Buchannan taking it hard?

Jasper nodded slowly, shoving his hands deep into his pants pockets mostly because there was nowhere else to put them. Yeah. The fedora dipped again as he continued to nod. About like you’d expect. You know, GQ was like a son to him – heck, he was his son. Jaz let his eyes rise, touching Lewis’ face briefly. His sniff was eloquent, and he closed his eyes. GQ and me, we were all the old man and his wife had.

Lewis studied his fellow officer and tried to read more into what he knew of him. How come they never adopted you? the big cop wondered, but it really wasn’t his business. Somebody said Ballantine was back in school, trying to get the last few courses on a Master’s Degree. Georgia State at night, a class or two each semester. It was almost like he was sneaking up on a Law degree, should be ready for the bar soon, though. Lewis shrugged it off, Ballantine’s education wasn’t what really determined him as a man.

There were other things, more important things that made Ballantine a man worth watching. To start, he was six-two, and two hundred-twenty pounds of rusty brown skinned determination. Muscle and speed made him a contender back in the days when he was on the street – a good eye and a quick mind made him a great detective. Top of his class at the Academy, gold shield first time he went up for it, Ballantine had more than a few commendations for bravery and performance.

On top of all that, he was a great right-handed batter when he wasn’t killing them as a shortstop in league play. He was loyal and one of the best men in the world to have at your back when you needed it. Good looking brother, too. But he was decent about it, not a stuck up "player’. Not a lot to know about a man when your best intention was to offer sympathy and condolences. Benny Lewis tried again.

Raised him from a little kid, I heard. Got to be hard, finding him like that, Lewis agreed with himself. The big man moved his shoulders to swing his overcoat back, letting his hands find his pockets. He rattled coins and shifted from foot to foot. You two were friends for a long time, I heard. Of course he’d heard. Every man and woman on the Atlanta police force had heard. They all knew about the fraternal relationship between Detective Jasper Ballantine, and the Chief’s nephew.

He was your Best Man when you got married, wasn’t he? Heard y’all had a pledge, something about, ‘from womb to tomb’?

Jaz nodded, his lips lifted in a bittersweet smile. They’d made the pledge after Liz Buchannan forced them to sit through West Side Story when they were ten or eleven years old. Me an’ GQ were gonna be like the Sharks and the Jets. We were gonna be cool, be together, though thick and thin, friends forever. The smile slid from his lips. Hell, we were gonna live forever.

He introduced you to your wife, didn’t he? Back when she was in undergrad school, at… Emory, wasn’t it? Lewis was still talking. Now, he shook his head sadly and rambled on. Heard when he first met her, he wanted her for himself, but the two of you had a whole lot more chemistry than the two of them did. He gave her up for you. Hell of a thing, man. Still, it was cool he managed to stay friends with both of you, even after the divorce. Encouraged, Benny Lewis bent forward and lowered his voice. Heard he never even hit on her after the divorce, ‘cause he was hopin’ you two would get back together. That’s cool, man, real cool.

Yeah, man. He was cool like that. Jaz tucked his lower lip between his teeth and bit down hard before pulling his hands from his pockets to snag the leather gloves on his desk. We went through a lot together. He swallowed over the thick lump in his throat. I gotta go.

Yeah. Lewis offered his fisted hand and was met in kind. He pushed his hands back into his pockets and watched Ballantine sweep from the room. Lose your brother like that. Hell of a thing, he whispered to no one in particular.

Jaz walked fast through the old Sears and Roebuck surplus building that now housed a large part of the Atlanta police force. How was any of what happened this morning supposed to make sense to anybody? Thumbing the elevator button, he realized how cold and numb he felt. The only other time he could remember feeling like this was when he walked away from the Courthouse the day Dhana divorced him. I guess this is the way you feel when you lose people you love, he told himself, stepping aside for the two uniformed officers leaving the elevator.

On the main floor, standing at the head of the bleak gray stone stairs, he pulled his collar closer and decided to brave the unseasonably cold morning. Looking eastward, searching Ponce de Leon Avenue proved an exercise in futility. Don’t even know why I thought a Number Two bus would be running, he grumbled, ambling down the stairs and heading west. Guess I just wanted something to be going the way I wanted it to, this morning.

His eyes searched leaden skies. Maybe I’m trying to pray. Maybe I’m tryin’ to pray GQ’s soul to a good, safe, happy place where you never hurt and the people who love you down here… He stopped walking, aware that he was already at the corner of Boulevard and Ponce. Walking fast and thinking out loud, he was also aware that people were staring at him. The young guys in the fire engine red jeep parked at the pump of the corner gas station eyed him intently, obviously wondering if he was a particularly well dressed wino. Jaz raised a hand and forced a smile. Two of the men gave fisted salutes and Jaz took advantage of the light to sprint across the street.

The orange and blue striped hulk of a white MARTA bus wheezed close and he climbed aboard. A dollar and seventy-five cents later, Jasper Ballantine sat in a molded plastic seat, watching people going about life. Watching people heading to Wendy’s for burgers, into the Family Dollar store, or the Payless shoe store, where they all seemed to have business. He marveled at the capacity of life to go on, no matter what the personal loss or tragedy – and losing a friend like GQ was indeed a tragedy.

Jaz finally pressed the yellow strip along the wall of the bus, alerting the driver to his stop, and stood. Getting off the bus, he walked the remaining distance to his destination, the Fulton County morgue.

The radiant cold of the metal door handle was barely noticed as he entered the building. Jaz refused to raise his head and look into the eyes of anyone passing. It would be too much to meet a familiar face and have to answer the inevitable question, What are you doing here?

He tugged absently at the buttons of his long coat and fixed his eyes on the elevator displays. Using a stiff thumb, he pressed the button. Nothing happened. He removed the cashmere scarf Dhana had given him. Shifting, he thumped his leather heel against the tiled floor. The silent elevators remained closed. Shifting from foot to foot didn’t make things any better.

Stairs, he muttered, moving deeper into the building. Gotta be some stairs around here.

His long stride nearly carried him past the narrow stairwell. Hand on the rail, he began his descent. This was the first time in all his years as a homicide detective, that he’d ever noticed the grooves worn into the center of the stone stairs. Black rubber treads, placed in the middle of each step were worn almost completely through at the center – worn thin by the passage of people doing final duty to death.

Doing final duty to death. The thought made him shake. Jaz willed himself to find a composure he didn’t feel and the trembling in his knees and along the ridge of his spine eased. He had to stop moving, stand perfectly still. Gripping the brass wall fixture holding the wooden rail in place, Jaz reminded himself of why he was in this building, on these stairs. I’m here for GQ, he whispered. I’m here for GQ and the Chief.

Thoughts of Ed Buchannan, the Chief, seemed to be a steadying factor. A ranking officer on the Atlanta Police Force, Ed had risen to the rank of Lieutenant, but his commanding personality always made those around him look up. Nobody called Ed Buchannan, ‘Lou’, especially not Jasper Ballantine, the man he’d raised from childhood. Jaz always thought of his foster-father as the man in charge, the man with the plan, the Chief.

Jaz felt the cold crawl of nerves move along his spine again. The Chief was a good man, always had been. He didn’t deserve to have something this ugly fall into his life. In all his sixty-some years… stunned Jaz paused, looking up at the ceiling – counting. Could it really be sixty-two years?

He did the math. I’m thirty eight, he ticked off fingers, and I went to live with the Buchannans’ when I was eight. The Chief would have been about thirty one or two, then – yes, that would bring him real close to sixty-two, now. Jaz frowned. Didn’t seem it had been that long ago.

Still tall and broadly built, the Chief weighed in at the same two hundred ten pounds he had on the day he’d graduated the Police Academy – no thanks to his wife’s great cooking. A long distance runner, Ed regularly outran most of the younger men under his command. His eyes were still sharp and clear beneath the creased shelf of his bronze brow. Even if his hairline had begun a slow retreat, the Chief had a youthful vibrance, and you didn’t want to disappoint him because it was such a pleasure to meet his approval. But, the fact remained. The Chief was getting up in years, and the only reason he should have been in this building today was… well, it shouldn’t be to identify the body of his nephew. It just shouldn’t be.

Jaz moved down the stairs and into the deserted hall beyond. He stopped for a throat-cooling sip at an ancient hip-high, white porcelain drinking fountain. Standing, looking down at the fountain that reminded him of something from a fifties schoolhouse, he used his thumb to catch stray drops at the corner of his mouth and smiled. As much work as they’ve done on this old building, they kept this relic. Random, nonsense thought, it comforted him and got him moving down the hall again.

Finally reaching his destination, Jaz hesitated and swore at the sight of the open doors to the waiting room. The Chief sat with his back to the doors. Jaz watched his hunched shoulders and bowed head, and thought again of how old this man he’d always thought of as invulnerable, really was.

Sixty-two’s not old. Jaz already knew what the Chief would say.

Alerted by some internal radar, Ed Buchannan turned to focus on Jaz. His ashen face, sunken by despair, stiffened, and his slow smile was off by a beat or two, when he stood, his arms open at his sides. Sorry to get you in here on something like this, son. I just didn’t know who else to call.

Jaz was touched, knowing firsthand of the Chief’s legendary love and respect for his wife Liz. It was an honor to know he merited this man’s trust and confidence. Standing a little straighter, he walked into his foster father’s embrace.

Naked, on a cold metal tray in the county morgue, Gregory Quentin Walters wore the kind of arrogant grin that cops the world over hated. In life it was a roguish, get-over, hail-fellow-well-met kind of smile that swept both men and women up in the cleverly teasing fun of his persona. In death, it was a frozen baring of teeth, no fun to look at.

Looking at the body on the closed circuit television screen, the two men glanced at each other and winced painfully. The grin wasn’t real. Bluish lips, drawn tight by the rictus of death, exposed orthodontically aesthetic white teeth and a far too wide expanse of pink gums.

Drawn by the blank spot left by the missing upper right canine tooth, both men leaned forward. Brows furrowed in unison as Jaz Ballantine turned to look at the older man. Ed Buchannan raised his shoulders and turned his lips downward, gravely disavowing knowledge of why this handsome man, his always impeccable nephew, might be missing a tooth.

Jaz pressed a button set into the stark white wall, darkening the screen between them, then rocked back in the brown vinyl chair. Forensics?

Still looking. Buchannan dropped his eyes. When he looked up again he wore the friendless, woebegone continence of a Disney dog character. You hear anything?

Jaz could have kept the negative shake of his head to himself. The Chief sank a little lower in his seat. GQ had been found five hours earlier, and his uncle appeared to be aging at a rate of about five years per hour. Jaz felt something in his gut twist. Who knew if the old man could even survive something as rashly devastating, and senseless as the murder of this much-favored nephew?

Clearing his throat, Jaz focused on a spot somewhere over Buchannan’s left shoulder. They’re still out there at his place in Lithonia, he said, knowing it did nothing for the older man’s pain. Last call I got, there was nothing on that single tooth. They’ve been checking the area in and around the stairwell where you found him.

The Chief shook his head again and sniffed. The back of his hand pressed his nose, then dropped to his lap. It was so much… The man who’d made a successful career out of resolving murder was having trouble getting the word out. He patted his pockets, dug out a wrinkled white cotton handkerchief. Jasper, boy, there was so much… so much blood... And the walls, it looked like he’d been running, maybe trying to get away.

Jaz nodded and let his eyes wander slightly, refusing to let himself grasp the single thought ratcheting through his mind. He didn’t want to admit, not even to himself, that he didn’t really want to know what kind of demon had pursued the man he’d once called brother.

Buchannan patted his eyes and passed the kerchief over his forehead before refolding it several times. They’re not going to give me this one, you know. They’ll try to tell me I’m too close, that I lack perspective. He looked down at the floor as he bitterly spat out the last word.

Still looking down, the veteran officer cleared his throat and spoke with difficulty. This case is going to Emerson and it’s not the same as having this case in my own hands, so I’m gonna ask you a favor, son. Not just for me and Liz, but for GQ. Especially for GQ. He managed to raise his eyes. Jaz, I don’t want this in the hands of the FBI, VICAP, none of them. The GBI can’t have this one, and it’s not pride, either. He thumped his chest, then pointed to Jaz. I want you to help me get him. Whoever he was, he did this to my boy. Emerson’s going to do his best on the investigation, but sometimes the best isn’t enough. The finger shook slightly. I want him. Whoever he is, whoever did this, I want him. Help me?

You got it.

Ed Buchannan’s face worked, creaky with suppressed emotion. No, son. You’re not thinking clearly, you’re promising too quickly. I’m asking a lot, maybe a little outside of what’s usual in the department, but I know you can do this for Liz and me. You were his friend and his brother, you’re my other son, I know you’re the man to help me.

Jaz nodded. I’m there. I’ll do whatever it takes.

I believe you son and I’m trusting in you, but our time is short, and it’s got to be done right. You know how touchy Emerson can be, so bear it in mind – I don’t want no comebacks on this, nothing that will legally mess this case up. I don’t want nothin’ to let this person, whoever it is, I don’t want ‘em to walk. Buchannan’s voice trembled slightly.

I understand. Jaz looked into the Chief’s eyes and realized again that this was the man he’d sought to honor all of his adult life. He’d loved this man almost from the moment he walked into his home as a foster child. If he’d been able to paint a picture of the man he most wanted to call father, it would have looked like Ed Buchannan. Jaz folded a hand over the older man’s and squeezed. You have my word, Sir.

Thank you, son. The Chief folded his shaking hand over the younger man’s and closed his eyes in relief.

I don’t understand. The whisper came from the door behind them. I don’t understand how something like this could happen.

The two men turned to face Liz Buchannan. If GQ’s death aged Ed, then it strengthened Elizabeth. Her heavy red wool coat was still buttoned against a cold she’d never felt, and a red and gold printed silk scarf draped her shoulders. She stood tall and stoic, her artfully dyed hair pulled back in an intricate chignon to reveal high cheekbones and flawless black skin. Carefully applied makeup bore slight stains and streaks, evidence of her tears. Framed like a beautiful ebony statue in the doorway, she might have been of any age.

How did this happen? she whispered raggedly. Even after the army. He moved out of the city, a better neighborhood, he said. Her eyes were gray and haunted, eerie against skin so dark, and Jaz knew that he would see them in his nightmares for weeks to come. GQ hated violence, hated it! Wouldn’t even keep a gun in the house, said it was an invitation to trouble. How did this happen?

Aw, Lizzie, her husband groaned softly. You shouldn’t have come. Ed opened his arms to his wife and sighed against her face when he held her.

Silly ol’ man. You know I had to come. Rapidly blinking eyes lost the battle with her tears. I had to come – I had to be with my baby. Safe within her husband’s embrace, her cheek touching his, Elizabeth buried her face on her grieving husband’s shoulder. I had to be with you.

Watching them together, feeling every bit the voyeur, Jaz envied the intimacy of their grief, the soothing closeness of a love that had taken years to grow into, and wished he knew – really knew how to share it. But, if I knew that, I would still be married.

The communication that Ed and Liz shared, was the bottom line. Jaz knew it was the bedrock of their marriage, that innate ability to share an almost psychic level of communication. They were two sides of the same shining coin. Ed looked like he was absorbing Liz’s pain, and she seemed to take what he couldn’t express and form it into the kind of emotions that Jaz knew the man in him had no sounds or words for.

Jaz fingered his soft felt fedora and stared at the floor, feeling more alone than he had since he’d lost his whole family at age eight. Watching this couple, married for more than forty years, mated for life, and branded with continuing passion, Jaz felt cramped with lonely misery.

Without someone like Liz to hold on to, Jasper Ballantine had no one. Oh, there were the other officers who would show up at the funeral, out of respect for the Chief. They would be decked out in their best and wearing black armbands. They would provide plenty good memories of GQ. Most of their stories would be raunchy and begin, hey, he was a character…

There would be the guys from Dante’s and O’Kelly’s, the ones who sat back and played the cool blues and hot, sultry jazz that had earned Jasper Ballantine his nickname. They would tell stories about his brother, stories Jaz already knew. They would nudge each other, grin, and talk about GQ’s prowess with a B-flat clarinet and the pretty women who followed him. The boy was bad, they would all say, meaning he was the best of his kind.

There would be the inevitable cadre of beautiful women, all with their most exquisite charms on display. Dressed for mourning, moving with the elegance of black swans, they would make their presence known. Each would claim closeness and an unforgettable memory of the man none had known well enough to hold or well enough to save.

Jaz watched Ed tighten his arms around Liz and wished hard, like a little kid. He wished for what Ed and Liz had. He wished for what he’d hoped for when he married Dhana. Dhana would know what to say, what to do. Holding her at a time like this, feeling the secure press of her warm body against the rigid tightness of his own, it might just be enough to feed the hungry thing that lurked in his heart.

Holding Dhana in his heart and mind like a talisman against the ugly things of life was too great a luxury for a man with a job to do. Dhana would know more than just the socially polite, politically right thing to say, to be included in the kind of grief that you needed to express before you could continue living after you lost someone like GQ.

Jaz sighed again. How was it Dhana Patterson was spending so much time wandering the twisted paths of his mind these days and nights? It was like fate, Karma, or an aggressive Universe had it in for him. Everywhere he looked, there was a lushly curved, long legged, longhaired, cinnamon skinned woman, just waiting to remind him of her. There seemed to be an abundance of thick-lashed winking eyes, the color of sweet melting chocolate turned his way, just a little too often these days.

Invariably, whoever the woman was, she had one of those throaty, suggestive voices like Dhana’s. With the voices came the lips, soft and rounded, pouting – just like hers. And lately, maybe because he was a little lonely around the edges, those warmly feminine voices and alluring lips uttered enigmatic invitations that Jaz knew he would have accepted in a heartbeat – had they come from Dhana Patterson. But they never did.

Jaz moved his hand across his face, bringing himself back to the present. Ed and Liz stood frozen in the center of the antiseptic room, holding each other like a life preserver. This isn’t right, Jaz thought. Standing, putting himself between them and the door that would have made them witness to their nephew’s demise, he laid hands on both their arms. I think you both need to head home. Go on, I’ll stay with him.

Ed and Liz looked at each other, each prepared to stay if the other offered.

Go on. I know you loved him, but there’s not a lot you can do for him right now. I’ll stay. I’ll be his family. Go, Jaz ordered, his voice soft.

Ed stood very still, then bent to retrieve his coat. His hand on his wife’s elbow, he looked directly into the mahogany depths of the younger man’s eyes. Anything happens, you’ll call? You won’t forget?

Jaz nodded solemnly, accepting the charge. You have my word.

No matter what, you’ll call? Liz.

Jaz bent to accept Liz’s kiss and sincere hug. Yes Ma’am, Aunt Liz, he said obediently, slipping in the childhood name, pleased that it seemed to ease her suffering. I promise I’ll call.

Boy, you know you’re too old to call me that in public. People will be thinkin’ I’m old enough to be your mother or somethin’. Placing her long fingered hand on his arm, Liz eyed his face closely. Jaz?

Yes?

Promise me one other thing?

Yes, my love. Anything.

Jaz, baby… she licked her lips, aware that she was about to ask for a lot. Jaz, I want you to call Dhana. She’s good for you, and she’ll be there for you. Promise me you’ll call her, that you won’t be alone.

His eyes flashed to the ceiling, the walls, then back to Liz. I’ll call her.

Promise me?

I’ll call her to tell her about GQ.

Liz reached across the brief space separating them, catching Jaz’s face in her long fingers. She tilted his chin until his eyes met hers and her gray eyes probed the depths of his brown ones. That’s not what I mean, boy and you know it. Jaz, nobody should be alone at a time like this and no matter what’s happened between you, you need her now. Call Dhana.

Her palm was warm against his skin before she released him. He dropped his eyes and silently kicked himself for the rash promise. Yeah, Aunt Liz. I’ll call her.

Tonight, Jaz. Call her tonight.

I guess I could call her for dinner or something. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and averted his eyes. She’s prob’ly busy. I’ll get her machine, but I’ll call.

Just remember, you promised, Liz insisted. Satisfied by his mumbled assent and tight nod, Liz gave his arm a significant pat. Turning, she followed Ed from the room.

You had to give it to her, Jaz thought with a small smile. Liz sure knew how to work a man – especially her men. The indulgent smile lingered on Jaz’s lips as he watched them leave the morgue, then died a silent death as he turned to face the door he could no longer avoid.

Why would a big guy like this be running from anybody? The words boiled out of the room as soon as the door opened.

Dave, I’m tellin’ you, these wounds, they all look defensive to me. He was runnin’. The white door opened easily and Assistant Medical Examiner Wendy Royals blocked access as she spoke over her shoulder. Suited in her green clinical garb, protective eyewear in place, she gave Jaz a quick nod and a wink as she moved to let him in.

All I’m sayin’, Wendy drawled, all I’m sayin’ is whoever did this was sure mad and he was tryin’ to get out the way. Look at how they sliced at him, not even a clear left-right, right-left pattern. Jus’ straight horizontal, deep vertical – now, that’s anger. An’ his hands and arms, looka there, you can see he was blockin’ somethin’, or least he was tryin’ to. Whoever did this, they was mad and he was gettin’ out the way, is all I’m sayin’. Her index finger rose and vibrated, disturbing the air between them. You know, when they brought him in with his hands all bagged an’ stuff, wasn’t nothin’ under his nails. No skin, no hair, nothin’ – jus’ all them cuts.

You talkin’ about GQ?

That man, Walters? Yeah, we were lookin’ at him…

Jaz hated the way his insides cringed at her words. He wanted to shout at the slender woman to quit moving her hands over his friend’s body like that. He wanted to yell loud enough to convince the world that his brother wasn’t dead. He wanted to scream and rage at the injustice and indignity of death and he knew that it would do no good. The only real thing he could do was to live up to his promise to Ed Buchannan. Jaz swallowed bitterness and leaned his shoulder against the gray and white tiled wall.

Wendy frowned, her broad nose wrinkling. I’m not even sure why we got him here. He was done all the way out in Lithonia, she pointed a silver-toned probe. He should have gone to DeKalb, not Fulton County. It’s not like he was over on Auburn Avenue, or at the Underground. She looked over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow to Jaz. This a favor for the Chief?

I don’t know, Jaz replied.

Wendy realized her mistake and looked away. I’m truly sorry, Jaz. I heard he was a friend of yours, that y’all was raised up together.

Thanks, but I’ll feel a lot better if you can tell me what happened to him.

Wendy adjusted the overhead mike and looked at Jaz. Your friend here was clearly the victim of misadventure. We’ve already noted he’s an African-American male, late thirties, in good health, no surgical scars, excluding the recent excision of his right upper incisor.

Excision of his…?

Yes, Jaz. His upper right incisor, the M.E. interrupted.

Wendy, do you really want to say ‘excision’? That sounds like it was done intentionally. David Carrol was a stickler for details, one of the reasons Wendy Royals liked working with him.

Yes, Dave. I do.

Okay, you’re the doctor.

Yes, Dave. I am.

Can I ask a question here? Jaz moved away from the wall. Are you saying you think someone, like a dentist, removed that tooth?

Wendy’s brown eyes were distorted by her heavy-duty eye protection. He wasn’t that lucky, Jaz. I did some checkin’ and there’re traces of metal on his gums, no indication of Novocain or anything and a large amount of tissue abrasion. No dentist did this. Her gloved finger tapped the dead man’s lower lip. Somebody snatched that bad boy out by force.

Searching her face for amusement, or hints of a really bad joke, Jaz found nothing. "You’re kidding – right? Somebody took his tooth? Why?"

They didn’ teach me to read minds at Meherry Medical, Jaz.

I’m not questioning your medical expertise, Wendy, Jaz soothed. He looked from the M.E. to her assistant and back. They looked at him blankly. Someone doing this to him though… Taking a tooth. It doesn’t make any sense. Anything else?

You mean besides the fact that he’s here? Wendy raised her eyebrows and shrugged. I haven’t finished yet, but the only thing that occurs to me is that this is kind of like another case we got, back ‘bout two-three months ago. ‘Member Dave?

Dave looked down at the slate counter. His gloved hands slowed, then stopped moving. Now that you mention it… that the guy from out in College Park, or was it Riverdale? Seems like it was around Halloween we had him in here. Dave tipped his head like he was listening to a faraway sound, then he blinked and stood straighter. Yeah, I remember it now. Yeah, he was cut the same way and missing a canine tooth, too.

Two men? Same thing?

Well, yes, best I can recall. The medical examiner used the back of her gloved hand to push a small black microphone farther from her face. Her eyes narrowed behind the plastic lenses. Jaz, you know, in Staff we review the cases we’ve covered, and I don’ rightly know who had ‘em, but there was a case almost like this over in Morningside and another in Decatur. They’ve all been pretty recent, like in the last calendar year…

All with the canine teeth missing?

Wendy smiled. They was all men, they was all African-American, they was all cut, and they was all missin’ a canine tooth. What’s that tell you?

Four cases, similar circumstances, Jaz scratched his head and looked directly at Wendy. She was giving him a headache. I guess my next step is to review your records, ‘cause this sounds like a serial…

Ooh, boy! Don’t you say that! Wendy threw her hands up in the air and moved her head with an almost gospel fervor.

You’re right, Jaz said thoughtfully. It’s too easy.

Lord, the M.E. moaned.

No, think about it. The Crime Analysts are still working, the final results haven’t come in yet and when they do, who knows what’ll turn up?

The lab tech leaned his elbows on the counter in front of him. What if it is a serial thing, David asked. You gonna turn it over to the…

No! This one is mine! Turning sharply Jaz made for the door.

Detective Jasper Ballantine, you scarin’ me. You makin’ this sound mighty personal. Humph! An’ the look on your face… Wendy stood away from the table with her arms crossed tightly beneath her breasts.

Personal? You don’t know the half of it! GQ was my brother – all the brother I’ve ever had. When neither one of us had anybody else in this world, we had Ed and Liz Buchannan. Now I’ve promised them that I’ll find whoever did this and that’s a promise I intend to keep.

You got on blue long-johns with a red ‘S’ on ‘em, up under your clothes? Wendy tilted her head and pressed her lips together.

What?

Dave Carroll snickered. She’s kidding, asking if you think you’re Superman.

Jaz took a deep breath and placed the fedora atop his head. Thanks for your help. I’ll get back to you.

Though he shut the door quietly behind him, the click seemed to echo for long seconds after the man was gone.

So, whatcha thinkin’, the Medical Examiner asked.

"That I’m real glad he’s not coming after