The Secrets on Forest Bend Page 2

  Once he traced the gun, he could put the case to bed. Barring some unforeseen factor, there wasn’t much he could do to help Eddie.

  Two days passed before Adam stumbled across a report detailing the long and disturbing life of the murder weapon. It was buried under a report on another case. He bit back a growl directed at Mai, still trying to get even with him by hiding his paperwork.

  The report caused him an entirely new set of problems. How did the weapon from his earlier homicide end up in the middle of this murder case? He knew it was trouble when he saw it lying there. He could have sworn he heard it laughing at him. Now he needed to do all kinds of legwork tracing the murder weapon to give Eddie any chance at a defense.

  His head said let it go. If Eddie had lied to him, he deserved anything he got. His gut urged him to dig a little deeper. He growled at himself as he pushed back from his desk. Probably a wasted effort, but he’d never be able to put it aside until he knew all the answers. He wasn’t sure which would haunt him more; the thought of an innocent man in prison or a guilty one walking free to kill again.

  Maybe a call to his partner would improve his mood. Adam pulled out his cell and pressed the first contact. Ruben Marquez would be out for several weeks, the result of a ruptured appendix. With all the budget cuts lately he’d be working alone until Ruben recovered.

  “Hey, buddy. Que pasa? How you feeling?”

  “I’m coming along. I’ll be fine if my mother and I can keep from killing each other until I’m able to go back to my own apartment.” Ruben’s voice still lacked its usual deep rumble.

  “That’s what you get for not having a lady in your life. Or should I say just one lady? Speaking of ladies, how’s your scar look? Will they be impressed with your bravery?”

  “It’s not as big as I’d hoped. I’ll tell them I was in a knife fight. There’s some truth to that. The doc had a knife, and I put up a fight. How’s it going there? You miss me yet?”

  “Only because you’re better at deciphering a paper trail. I have to run all over town chasing down a gun with a history as long as my dick.”

  “That short, huh?” Ruben chuckled. “Quit bellyaching and get to work. I don’t want to find a big stack of open cases waiting on my desk when I get back.”

  “I don’t bellyache,” Adam shot back.

  “Only to me and that dopey cat. If the cat starts answering you, we need to change places and you can lie in bed for a while. Talk about needing a lady in your life.”

  “I tried that. Then I really had things to complain about.” Adam stopped short and changed the subject before Ruben had a chance to remind him how many times he’d been warned to avoid Mai. “It looks like I’m not going to have time to stop by today. Take it easy and do what Mamacita says.”

  “Come for supper tomorrow night. I think she’s making chicken mole.”

  “You don’t have to ask me twice.” Adam’s mouth watered at the thought of Mamacita’s chicken mole. His own mother had always worked outside the home. While she usually prepared their meals, they were only something to fuel the body and stave off hunger, not the expressions of love Mamacita put on the table. He hadn’t realized the difference until he met Ruben.

  “I usually don’t have to ask once. Anyway, having you here will keep her off my back for an hour or two. I think she likes you more than me.”

  “Most people do, compadre. Most people do.”

  Adam thumbed off his phone as he hurried to the car. He needed to wrap this case up quickly. At thirty-four, he was young for a homicide detective. With Ruben out of commission and his feud with Mai well-known, if he let a two-bit drunk with a drug habit scam him, he’d become a laughing stock in no time.

  Once that happened, his effectiveness would be compromised and he might as well work traffic.

  Some detectives liked to trace a thread from the end back to the beginning. Adam preferred to start at the beginning and move forward. If there were gaps in the story, they were easier to spot when moving in chronological order. The history of the gun used in his latest homicide had gaps he could have driven the prisoner transport bus through, backed it up, and gone through again.

  With his own reputation at risk, he decided to start in the middle, with the last known owner, and let him explain how he had managed to misplace the weapon.

  Warm sunlight filled the spring afternoon. Adam’s spirits lifted as he slipped on his sunglasses. He breathed in the fresh, clean scent leftover from a recent rainstorm, and relished the excuse to get out of downtown with its noise, traffic, and exhaust fumes.

  He headed north on I-45, just past the Houston city limits. Bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes carpeted every available space. Beside the feeder road, a sign read “No Mowing, Wildflower Area.” Even the ever-present construction couldn’t keep him from enjoying the ride.

  Hidden between a used car dealership and a boat and RV storage area, a county road wound back off the freeway. Adam nearly missed his turn. The street sign was obscured by American flags of all sizes, flapping loudly in the breeze. He couldn’t figure out what buying a used car or clogging the road with an RV had to do with patriotism, but the idea of a boat did have some allure. Maybe he could afford one, now that he was out of debt.

  He paused as he parked the Taurus to evaluate the area. J. R.’s Guns and Firing Range backed up to a heavily wooded area with no other businesses in the vicinity. Several spotlights meant the area was well-lit at night. The building itself was old, but well maintained. The right side was two-stories and contained the gun shop. The other section had its own entrance, but was connected by an enclosed hall or breezeway. A freshly painted sign over the door read “Firing Range.”

  How could someone who took so much care with a building be negligent enough to lose a dangerous weapon? Where were the owner’s priorities? His good mood began to turn sour and a growl built up in his throat.

  He strolled in slowly, not wishing to announce himself until he had time to look around. The sales room was large, with well-placed glass cabinets and wall displays. A hint of gun oil and Windex lingered in the air. Not a smudge or fingerprint was visible on any cabinet. The merchandise was easy to view and arranged in logical groupings. Definitely the nicest gun store he’d ever seen.

  When a display of SIG-Sauers caught his eye, he stopped to study them.

  A woman’s voice called from the back of the room. “I hope you’re here to replace that shoulder holster. It makes your jacket bunch up on one side. Not a good idea if you ever want to go undercover.”

  Shit. Barely in the door and he was already made. His cop mode took over as he observed her. Early thirties, tall and slim, dark hair worn in some type of spiky arrangement, not a speck of makeup­­­­——why should she with that skin——and eyes like melted chocolate.

  “Besides,” she went on, those eyes measuring him, “it has to be uncomfortable after a long day. You’re rather large through the chest, but I’ve got a Falco double magazine that would be a perfect fit for you. It’s not cheap, but we offer a standard fifteen percent discount to all military and law enforcement personnel.”

  “No, thanks, that’s not why I’m here.” She was rather large through the chest herself, he noticed. A dark brown tank top revealed arms that were toned and strong. She certainly looked tough enough to belong in a gun store. He wouldn’t be surprised to find she could chew nails and spit out thumbtacks.

  She nodded toward the case he’d been studying. “You’re not planning to switch to a SIG, are you?”

  “No, I’m happy with my Glock.” This conversation was not going the way he planned. Maybe I should go outside and start over.

  “Good. I know the Coast Guard and Homeland Security are going with the SIG, and it has a certain sex appeal, but in my opinion you can’t beat the dependability of the Glock for someone in your profession. Now, I could upgrade you to a newer model if you’re interested.” She held his gaze and her eyes drew him in.

  Time to get this interview un
der control, although any woman who described a firearm as sexy had a definite appeal of her own. His ex-wife had never liked having a gun around, despite knowing what he did for a living when she married him. She claimed that was why she left him. He figured it had more to do with the lawyer she was seeing on the nights he worked late. Just one more in a long list of reasons to distrust attorneys.

  He held up his badge. “I’m Detective Adam Campbell, Homicide. I need to speak to J. R. Whitmeyer.”

  “I’m J. R. Whitmeyer.”

  “I’m looking for James Robert Whitmeyer, owner of this establishment. He’s listed in my records as a fifty-nine year old white male.”

  “That’s my father. He passed away about eighteen months ago.” A shadow crossed her face, but she blinked twice and it was gone. Adam knew instinctively she wouldn’t appreciate condolences.

  “I’m Jillian Rose Whitmeyer, the new owner.” She spread her arms, indicating the shop and merchandise. “What can I do to help you?”

  Plenty, but not while I’m on duty.

  He took out a photo of a large, matte black pistol with a distinctive toggle bolt on top and placed it on the counter in front of her. “What can you tell me about this gun? It’s a Luger P08. Our records show it once belonged to your father.”

  Eyes that had been open and friendly a moment before were now dark and cold. She still wore a half smile, but it didn’t go past her lips. She pivoted and took two steps toward a small door. “Billy, I need you out here to take care of the store.”

  A young man stepped around the corner, and Adam immediately began an appraisal. His eyes appeared clear, if a little vacant, but his arms showed signs of former drug use. He might be clean now, but how long would that last? Any time an obvious drug user appeared in a case, Adam’s radar kicked into overdrive.

  Billy didn’t look like the brightest bulb in the four-pack. In fact, he wasn’t sure Billy would even make a good nightlight, but it wasn’t his store, so he kept his mouth shut. Billy glared at him, and Adam gave him props for loyalty.

  “Sure thing, J. R.,” Billy said. He crossed his arms, as if protecting the store from the devil himself.

  Interesting. Did she use initials so she wouldn’t have to change the sign, or so she wouldn’t confuse Billy by making him learn a new name?

  She pointed to a coffee pot on the back counter. “Grab yourself a cup and let’s go upstairs where we can talk in private.”

  No problem. A caffeine boost was always welcome, and he never minded following a well-shaped ass up a flight of stairs.

  When she opened the door, not into her office as he’d expected, but into what was obviously her apartment, he was surprised. It was small, probably one bedroom and bath, along with the living area and a small eat-in kitchen. The furnishings weren’t new by many years, but they were clean and looked comfortable. In fact, the whole apartment felt warm and appealing. Not surprising, considering the effort that had gone into arranging the store downstairs.

  She pointed to an old-fashioned Formica table like the one his grandparents had used. He eased himself into the nearest chair, testing the ancient chrome legs before he put his full weight on them.

  As soon as he sat, she put her hands on the table and leaned forward. “Now, would you like to explain to me what the fuck the HPD is doing letting a gun that has caused so much misery get back on the street again?”

  He raised his eyebrows, but didn’t answer. Let her tell the story her own way.

  “Don’t give me that look. You wouldn’t have come here if something hadn’t happened. I know, a gun is just a piece of metal. It has no soul. But that gun is evil.” Her lips compressed into a thin line and her eyes narrowed to slits.

  The coffee was scalding hot—just the way he liked it—with a hint of hazelnut flavoring, resembling the tepid, burned sludge from the coffee machine at work in name only. He leaned back and took a sip. “I’ll take that to mean you’re familiar with the weapon in question. So what can you tell me about it?”

  “It’s killed three people that I’m aware of, and that’s in this country.”

  Whoa, who else was she counting that he didn’t know about? He hadn’t mentioned the teenage girl who was one of his open cases. He could live with Mai hassling him by delaying reports, but if he discovered she had intentionally withheld information on a case, he’d have to pursue it, no matter how much it pained him to report someone he’d once cared about.

  “Why don’t you start at the beginning? I find I can follow better that way.”

  Her shoulders relaxed slightly, but her eyes remained hard. “It belonged to my grandfather originally. He brought it back from the war. I have no idea how he got it, or why he kept it, but it was the only thing of his my father had.”

  “Yeah, a lot of returning servicemen smuggled weapons home in those days.” He’d seen plenty in collections and at gun shows. An unfortunate number made it onto the streets.

  “One day, when I was six and my sister Heather was thirteen, she got the gun out to play with.” Her face was impassive, not a flicker of emotion showed. “Someone, I’m not sure how it worked, decided her death was an accident, and must have given the gun back to my father because my mother used it several years later to blow her own head off. Since that wasn’t a crime, some idiot let my father take it back again. I found it last year when I was cleaning out his things.”

  She repeated the story calmly, as if she’d told it many times and it meant nothing to her. She didn’t fool him. He’d had years of experience reading people’s hidden emotions. The undercurrent of anger floating in the background might as well have been a neon sign.

  He sat his cup down, crossed his arms, and leaned back in his chair. This was a murder investigation. He couldn’t afford to let feelings of sympathy distract him. “That’s two. You said three.”

  “Whoever you’re here investigating. You did say you were from Homicide, didn’t you?”

  She was quick. He had to give her that. “When was the last time you saw it?”

  “About an hour after I found it.” Her words were clipped, but her voice was steady. “I drove straight downtown. No way would I allow that gun to cause any more misery. I marched into 1200 Travis Street, handed it to the sergeant at the desk, and asked him to have it destroyed. Now you’ve let it out again and it’s killed someone else.”

  Uh-oh. That was a development he hadn’t counted on. If she had turned it in, there should be a record. “Do you have any paperwork on that?”

  She pushed back slowly and stepped into the living area a few feet away. When she leaned over to search through a file cabinet, the edges of an intricate tat peeked from beneath the strap of her tank top. An overwhelming desire to know if she had any others swept over him. If she did where were they and what would they feel like, what would they taste like? By the time she turned around, he had his cop face back on.

  The form was bright pink, like the ones he remembered. He hadn’t seen one in a while, and it was possible they had changed. He held it up to the light. The signature was illegible, but he could make out the date and that should be enough to start with.

  “I’ll take this back to the office and check it out. Will you be around tomorrow? I can return it then.”

  “Most of the day. I have to go to my little sister’s volleyball game at three-thirty, and then we’ll probably get something to eat. I should be back by six.”

  “So you have another sister?” Why wasn’t that in his records? These games with Mai were undermining his work. He’d have to find out if the sister also had access to the gun.

  “Little Sister, as in Big Brothers and Big Sisters. I’m terribly proud of her. She has a scholarship to North Texas for next year. She’ll be the first in her family to go to college, actually, the first to graduate from high school.”

  She didn’t look like the mentoring type. His opinion of her had taken a nosedive when he met Billy. Now it began to edge back up. “I’ll be here before you leave. I’ve been
trying to figure out what to call you. Do you usually go by J. R.?”

  “I was Jillie when I was little, and Rose in school. When I took over this place, which was several years before my father died, I needed to be tough to deal with some of the characters around here so I’ve always answered to J. R.”

  “Why don’t I call you Jillian? It’s a beautiful name. If you don’t mind.”

  “Sure, that would be fine.” This time she wore a full smile, and it hit him like a punch in the gut.

  He left through the store, nodding to Billy on his way out, but his mind drifted elsewhere. If Jillian’s story was true, and he didn’t doubt her, then this case didn’t revolve around a lost or stolen gun. It hinted at a dirty cop on the force, someone working in his own building, someone he probably knew, and that set his teeth on edge. The possibility chased away his earlier concerns for his own reputation, along with daydreams of a bass boat and fantasies about Jillian’s possible hidden tattoos.

  Well, maybe not thoughts of tattoos.

  Jillian watched through the window until Detective Campbell pulled away. He was a big man, tall and solidly built, with a five o’clock shadow that probably appeared two hours after his morning shave. Even an expensive, well-cut suit couldn’t hide the width of those shoulders. The cheap knock-off he wore didn’t even promise to try. Everything about his expression and demeanor said, tough guy, don’t mess with me. It was a look he most likely cultivated for his job.

  That didn’t impress Jillian. She was used to dealing with tough men. She generally tried to appear tough herself. It was his soft hazel eyes, hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses, that had caught her attention, along with the light brown hair, which seemed to escape any attempt at discipline. She’d seen him brush it down with his hand when he came in the door. How hard a man could he be if he couldn’t control his own hair?

  Who was she kidding——a police detective? There wasn’t a worse choice for someone holding as many secrets as she did. Better she should keep her vow to stay away from men until she could call her life her own. Who knew? Maybe she’d find a way to bump into him then.