Jagger (Steele Shadows Investigations) Page 2

  Unlike good and evil, old was one concept I never thought about. I never assumed I’d reach the age to be considered old. Records are old, aversion to anal is old, the Karate Kid is old. I’m not old. If I’m being totally honest, I expected to go out years ago in a blaze of glory—in my vision, I’m wearing a sweatband in a mid-air Kung Fu leap with a ball of fire at my back. You know, like Rambo but without the quirked lip… … who is also now old, come to think of it—with one hand flashing the middle finger and the other wrapped around my nuts.

  Unfortunately, the universe had other plans for me.

  My pain finally dulled to what I imagine a severed organ would feel like. My hand mindlessly drifted to the bottle of pills in my pocket.

  Wait until you get home, a little voice in my head whispered.

  I straightened fully, cursing my bones, then took off down the graveled drive that cut between the headstones, the blue-glow of the moon lighting my way. I decided to avoid Main Street and cut through the woods of City Park.

  The night dimmed around me the second I stepped under the thick canopy of trees. My only light was from the dim lampposts that line the jogging trails. I knew every inch of those woods, that park, by heart. Not only from running the trails every morning, but from responding to countless noise complaints during my beat cop days before becoming a detective. It was a favorite spot among the local teens, their own little Hookah lounge right there in the middle of town.

  The clouds drifted over the moon and darkness engulfed me, my senses shifting to hearing and smell only. For a moment, I felt like I was back in my twenties, slipping from shadow to shadow on a black op that usually ended in more than one dead body. It felt good.

  God, I missed it.

  I stepped onto the jogging trail under the yellow spotlight of a lamppost, and that’s when I got that good ol’ feeling that I wasn’t alone. I paused, scanning from left to right when a soft chiming caught my attention. A distant song, carrying through the midnight breeze like a siren’s call. My brow furrowed as I looked in the direction of the sound, trying to figure out where it was coming from. It wasn’t music, in the traditional sense anyway, just random creepy-ass chimes, growing louder in the wind. Soft, tinkles of a song.

  The clouds parted, moonlight washing over me again as I stepped off the trail and into the woods, following the sound. More chimes, this time followed by a sparkle of lights flashing through the trees overhead. My hand instinctively slid to the gun on my hip as I picked my way through the brush, each flash of light increasing in speed as I approached. Like a freaking discotheque, or maybe a late-night fiesta of dancing cicadas wearing little red hats and shaking their maracas.

  The music grew louder. My senses piqued. My hand squeezed the hilt of my gun as I stepped into a clearing.

  A massive oak tree sat in the middle of the clearing with long, low branches, snarling around each other like arthritic fingers. A perfect climbing tree—aside from the fact that someone had turned it into a shrine.

  Dozens of wind chimes, crystals and strings of broken mirrors dangled from the branches, catching the slivers of moonlight and reflecting in a kaleidoscope of colors on the surrounding trees. I half-expected Cinderella to jump out of a pumpkin—something I would not have minded, by the way. The compliant, blonde maid was my first childhood crush. I mean, the woman could really clean a floor. The difference here, though, was that Cinderella didn’t carve Wiccan symbols into tree trunks.

  A rotted branch had been positioned at the base of the oak, a circle of candles flickering on top. And hidden among the branches sat dozens of voodoo dolls, their black, beady eyes staring directly into my soul.

  2

  Jagg

  I pulled the gun from my belt and did a three-sixty scan, the shadows from the candles taunting me, playing tricks on my vision. A less experienced man might have emptied a few rounds into the shadows, or perhaps dropped to his knees to repent.

  Not this man.

  Once I was certain I was alone—in the human form, at least—I slid my Glock into the holster and used my cell phone flashlight to scan the tree. One particular doll caught my eye, stringy, black spirals of hair fanning across a carved face. A flash of light lit the doll’s eyes.

  The hair on the back of my neck prickled.

  My gaze shifted to the slashes of moon through the leaves, spotlighting each doll, their beady gazes fixed on me.

  I was familiar with witchcraft. Even dated a few women who’d promised special powers. One of which required a number change and two doses of antibiotics to vanish. But it had been years since I’d come across a Wiccan shrine in the middle of the woods… Yards from the cemetery… Days before a full moon.

  I’m not too proud to say I was a bit of a nerd in school, as most highly intelligent people are. I took an interest in astronomy, particularly cosmology, where I learned about the highly debated theory that a full moon affects human behavior. “The Lunar Effect,” or “The Transylvania Effect,” suggests the full moon causes changes in behavior and exaggerates mental illness. Theories are just that, though. I prefer science:

  Every thirty days—twenty-nine point five, to be exact—the earth aligns between the sun and the moon, causing a gravitational pull called tidal force. Ocean water is pulled to the closest side of the moon, known as high tides. Cycles of mammals and marine life are linked to this phenomena. No one can deny its effect on earth. Here’s where the theory comes to play. The human body is made up of seventy-five percent water. That’s a lot of water. Many people believe this epic gravitational pull affects not only ocean water, but the water in our bodies as well, causing our system to go awry.

  And that’s when the crazies come out.

  You’ve heard the rumors that people and animals sleep less during a full moon, and crime is more common on those blessed nights. Here’s what I can attest to: I’ve delivered five babies, three in the back of a car and two in bath tubs, rescued a group of campers from two tigers who’d escaped their cages from a nearby zoo, and slapped cuffs on a group of nuns who’d decided to rob a liquor store while wearing nothing but titty tassels and Playboy bunny ears—each of these incidences happening on a full moon. Some of the wildest nights of my life have happened during full moons, most of which will remain locked in a vault, along with a pair of diamond handcuffs that I’m pretty sure once belonged to Tommy Lee. Now, also old, by the way.

  I pocketed my phone and secured my gun. Taking care not to touch any of the dolls, I pulled myself onto the lowest branch of the tree, then onto to the next, then the next, testing each before releasing my weight. Being a six-four, two-thirty one-time badass had taught me both the brittleness of branches and bones.

  “’Scuse me, Chucky,” I muttered, passing a doll that I swear had changed positions since I’d started climbing.

  Once at the top, I gripped the branch above me for stability and peered down at the cemetery in the distance, at the exact spot I’d been sitting not ten minutes earlier. A beam of moonlight highlighted the fresh grave. It was a perfect view of the gravesite, and of the funeral hours earlier.

  Coincidence?

  I didn’t believe in coincidences.

  Swatting a cloud of gnats, I climbed down the tree, this time with faster, swift movements reflecting my racing thoughts. My loafers hit the ground with a feminine whisper while I pulled my phone from the pocket.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  “Tanya, it’s Jagg.”

  I heard a rustle on the other end of the phone, followed by something clamoring against the floor, then a distant, ‘shit.’

  Finally, “Ah… Detective, good to—how can I help you?” Her octave increased with each stutter. She’d probably been painting her nails or scrolling through Pinterest.

  “Send someone out to the city park. I’ve got a fire hazard and some sort of Wiccan shrine I want to get eyes on.”

  “I’m sorry… a shrine?”

  “Yes. Shrine. A sacred place.”


  “Okay, where would you—”

  “Six yards east of the cemetery. Tell them to follow the music.”

  “Music?”

  “Is there some sort of connection issue here, Tanya?”

  “No. Sorry. Shrine, music, got it. I’ll have someone there right away. Can you please tell me—”

  I clicked off and swept my light along the forest floor, kneeling beside a patch of bent grass that was next to another, then another. I followed the boot prints past the Voodoo Tree into the thicket, where they disappeared. Weeks of no rain and sweltering temperatures would make it impossible to pull a cast from the prints, or discern the length, width, or tread of the shoes worn. Assuming shoes were worn, of course. Did witches even wear shoes? Are clogs considered shoes?

  I sat back on my haunches, surveying the ground. No cigarette butts, chewed gum, match sticks, vials of potion, pixie dust, or little green frogs with little golden crowns. Just a pile of deer scat and a few acorns.

  I was photographing the shrine when a twig cracked behind me.

  “Holy sh—”

  “Watch your step.”

  In full uniform, Tommy Darby, a recent high school graduate and even more recent academy graduate froze mid-stride, his big brown eyes wide, his mouth squeezed into a little “O.” Rumor was, the only reason Darby had been hired four months earlier was that he’d been the only person who applied for the position at BSPD. Doesn’t get more quality than that. Darby was as green as the stains that colored his tube socks, and to this day, I wondered if he either only had one pair, or simply never washed them. The kid was long and lean, with a pair of spaghetti arms sure to intimidate no one. To top that off, Darby had a smattering of freckles over pale skin, colored with a constant flush from either heat or nerves, I wasn’t sure which. His uniform was always wrinkled, stained with something I assumed to be jelly or Hershey’s syrup, and a size too big. He was the modern day Barney Fife. The kid had the high and tight, though, I had to give him that. His hair was always freshly cut and combed to the side, not a strand out of place. It was the only thing about him that ever seemed to be on point. He reminded me of a puppy—and we all know how I feel about dogs. Darby was eager, which I appreciated, but absolutely clueless. I did not do clueless well.

  Hell, I didn’t do eager well, either.

  “What is this, sir?”

  Sir. It was always sir.

  “You tell me, Darby.”

  “Looks like a shrine.” He didn’t move beyond the bush he’d froze behind.

  “Did you deduct that from Tanya telling you to respond to my call about a shrine in the woods, or from Tanya telling you to respond to my call about a shrine in the woods?”

  His eyeballs shifted to mine.

  Snap back at me, I wanted to say. Grow some fucking balls. But he didn’t. Snap back, I mean. Not sure about the balls. My guess was that the damn things hadn’t dropped yet.

  “Yes sir. Stupid question.” A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as a moment passed.

  “You waiting for a fucking invitation, boy?”

  “Sorry sir.”

  Darby stepped over the thicket, his eyes skirting between the voodoo dolls. This kid. I shuddered to think what would happen when he saw his first real-life homicide.

  I returned my focus to photographing the surrounding trees.

  “What’s the code for unlawful burning, Darby?”

  “5-38-310, sir. Is that right?”—How the fuck should I know?—“A class A misdemeanor and a five hundred dollar fine.”

  “Incorrect.”

  He looked over his shoulder at me. I waited, waited, waited…

  “Pretty damn hot out here isn’t it, Darby?”

  “Oh! The burn ban. We’re under a burn ban.”

  Christ. “That’s right and this triples the penalty.” Whatever that was. I picked up a handful of brown pine needles. “We’re smack dab in the middle of wildfire season. Wind is supposed to increase to fifteen miles per hour tonight. Those candles would’ve been on their side within the next hour.” I tossed the needles at his feet. “These pines would’ve gone up quicker than a trucker’s dick at Juicy Lucy’s.”

  He laughed at this. A girly cackle, really.

  “This ring a bell?” I asked.

  “Uh, well, yeah. I’ve been to Lucy’s a few times, I guess. Quarter drafts on Tuesdays. Your picture is still on the wall, by the way.”

  “That plaque was from two decades ago and the number relates to shots, not women. Just so we’re clear.” I deadpanned.

  “Of course…” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, yes sir, I’m familiar.”

  “Good to know, but I was talking about wildfires, not how many fingers Lucy can slide between her legs, you perverted son of a bitch.”

  His cheeks hit a new shade of red.

  I shook my head, then continued the good fight. “Eighty percent of forest fires are caused by human neglect. An ember can travel hundreds of feet. What’s hundreds of feet from here, Darby?”

  “Main Street.”

  “Exactly. Your little fire just turned into a mass evacuation, and probably a search and rescue, too, which cuts the manpower to fight the thing in half. With dry weather like we’ve been having, this fire could travel eight miles an hour—a mile an hour faster than your sprint, according to what I saw when Jenkins delivered a dozen jelly donuts yesterday. And double that in valleys and gorges. Got any valleys around here, Darby?”

  “More than I can count.”

  “Think close. Closer.”

  “Devil’s Cove, a few miles west of here.”

  “That’s right. That cove connects us to miles of forest. This town is surrounded by steep mountains, a ticking time bomb for wildfire season. Now, tell me again, what’s the charge for unlawful burning in this case?”

  “Uh, okay, let’s see. The penalty for leaving a fire unattended, like these candles, while violating a fire restriction, such as a burn ban, can lead to six months in jail and fines exceeding five thousand dollars. But…”

  “… But what?”

  “This particular incident didn’t cause a forest fire. So, it’s still a class A misdemeanor.”

  “Look around. What else do you see?”

  His gaze lifted to the carvings on the tree trunk.

  “Defacing of public property, because this is a city park. So, vandalism.”

  I nodded. “What else you, got, Inspector Maggot?”

  He ignored that one and took a few minutes to survey the shrine. Finally, he turned to me, a line of confusion squeezing his brows. “Do you know who did this?”

  “No, but I want you to find out.”

  Darby pulled a notebook from his pocket and scribbled something as I watched his little wheels turning. He finally looked up, inquisitive brown eyes narrowed.

  “This just doesn’t seem like that big of a deal to me, or worth our time to pursue, Detective. Forgive me, sir, but you’re notorious for letting misdemeanors slide. I heard about the time you caught a group of football players fighting a bunch of band kids in the park, and instead of arresting them, you laid out each one on their asses in what you called a self-defense lesson. And about the time you chased down a man who kicked a woman out at a stoplight, ran him off the road and slit his tires, only after stopping to pick up the woman. And then, there’s the story about the two women you caught soliciting prostitution on Main Street. You ordered them to clean the bathrooms of the women’s shelter for six months, only after someone called in a noise complaint behind Donny’s Diner, citing, I quote, two woman groaning, gasping, and multiple rounds of screams.”

  I cleared my throat.

  “So, Detective, my question is, what’s so different about this one? So, what? Some witches decided to have a little party. Who cares? Nothing serious came of it. Why not let this one slide?”

  I stared at him.

  Ten grueling seconds of self-restraint later, his puppy-dog eyes rounded.

  “… Unless you think this has someth
ing to do with Lieutenant Seagrave’s murder.”

  3

  Jagg

  I picked my way through the park, pausing at the tree line to check both ways before stepping onto Main Street. Not because I was worried I’d get hit by one of the three cars that had passed in as many hours, but because I didn’t want the insomniacs to see me emerging from the woods in the middle of the night. Berry Springs had plenty of insomniacs, or busybodies, if you will. They were the first at the diner every morning, eager to spread the evening’s comings and goings, or whatever conspiracy theory they’d drummed up in their heads the night before.

  Donny’s Diner was the hub of Berry Springs, the birth of all gossip, and the first place I went to catch a lead. That was the thing about smalls towns. Gossip was as valuable and heavily traded as gold. Donny’s was a stereotypical small-town eatery, inviting busybodies both young and old with cozy red leather booths, blue and white checkered curtains, and a soda fountain in the back. Damn good food, though. All southern, all day.

  I’d left Darby to his spinning thoughts at the Voodoo Tree where he ensured me he would search every inch of the area—not that I asked him to. I’d already searched and was confident I’d missed nothing, but hell, if that’s how the kid wanted to spend his evening, have at it. I didn’t know much about his home life, but assumed there wasn’t exactly a line of blondes outside his front door. Or brunettes. Or even red-heads.

  I made my way down the alley that cut between Donny’s and Tad’s Tool Shop, otherwise known as second church. My living quarters were on the backside of the diner’s brick building. The apartment was on the second floor, overlooking Main Street and the town’s square, which was the entire reason I’d rented it. No better place for a detective to live than right in the middle of the action.

  The rickety wooden staircase creaked and groaned as I made my way up it, mimicking the thoughts of my lower back. I unlocked the deadbolt, pushed open the door and was greeted by a humid wall of rotted trash. Nice. The place was dark, except for a pool of light on the brown carpet from the streetlamp outside. I flicked on the fluorescent lights, the room illuminating like a high school cafeteria. I tossed my suit jacket on the floor and hung my shoulder holster on the coatrack I’d dug out of the dumpster a month earlier. I grabbed the hunting knife I kept on the windowsill next to the front door, lifted it to my jugular and sliced the noose from my neck. The tie tumbled to the top of my loafers, where one of the tassels had fallen off at some point over the evening. Yeah, the shoes had tassels—well, only one now. I bent over and ripped off the other tassel. I wasn’t much into fashion but I knew to have only one tassel where there should be two was a major faux pas. The pleather wonders had been five dollars at a suspect’s garage sale. I got them for three, along with a shovel containing enough trace evidence to indict him for murdering his babysitter. I considered them my lucky shoes. Tassels be damned.