Review: Mann in the Crossfire by R. Weir

I had the opportunity to beta read the new Jarvis Mann novel for 

R. Weir. It is a another wonderful story of the smart mouthed 

Private Investigator with a knack for trouble and an eye for the ladies. 

Coming soon!

 

     Mann in the Crossfire by R. Weir offers another installment in the life of our intrepid hero, Jarvis Mann. Jarvis juggles two cases at once with the help of some friends and former associates. As usual, Jarvis finds himself at odds with powerful forces, both known and unknown. He risks it all to find out what happened to his former associate, Rocky. Jarvis battles LA gang members, Chinese mobsters, and his own worst impulses with only partial success. With the assembly of an unlikely team, even Jarvis can’t predict the twisty outcome.

     

     R. Weir continues to deliver interesting situations for his hero. As a fan of the Jarvis Mann series from early on, I am impressed with the way each story reveals a richer and more complex character, building on the previous novel. I love the way he uses minor characters from previous stories, fleshing out their backgrounds and pulling us further into the world of Jarvis Mann. 

     A fantastic read! 

1st Place Winner Carolyn Sanders Memorial Award WHITE COUNTY WRITER'S CONFERENCE

              This entry is a true story documenting one of the last days of my lovely sister-in law, Dorinda.  

Stormy Night

     “I’ve got her all set. She’s had her meds, so she should be comfortable. Try to get her to eat something and make sure she keeps drinking water.” The hospice nurse gave last minute instructions. “Watch her oxygen tubes. She should be fine until morning.”

     The house was quiet except for the droning of the AC unit pumping cool air and keeping the hot, Louisiana summer night at bay. In the master bedroom, the soft hum of the electric oxygen generator lulled all into a false sense of security.

     Roy escorted the nurse to her car and hurried back to his charge. The frail figure in the hospital bed barely resembled his beautiful wife of over 40 years. Cancer had ravaged her body for almost a decade. She had her lung removed and endured chemo and radiation. She’d fought and won at one point, going into remission for over 6 months. It seemed a cruel joke. Just as Dori regained her strength and resumed her life, the cancer returned with a vengeance. Now she struggled for every breath. Tumors ravaged her body, crowding her single lung, liver, and abdomen.

     “What can I do for you?” Roy’s sister San asked, standing by the bed.

     “My skin is so dry it hurts. Can you find some lotion that’s unscented? I can’t stand the smell.” Dori croaked from under the covers.

     “I have some unscented face lotion for sensitive skin,” San spoke up. Let’s see if you can tolerate this.” San held the open bottle under Dori’s nose.

     “Yeah, that’s okay,” Dori mumbled.

     San lifted the light blanket to reveal Dori’s emaciated legs. Carefully, so as not to disturb the life-giving oxygen tube, she rubbed liberal amounts of lotion into Dori’s dry skin. It absorbed the lotion like a sponge. “The nurse said you need to eat. What would you like? I’ll make you anything you want.” San spoke softly as she massaged Dori’s bony feet.

     “I don’t think I can eat.”

     “I’m here to make whatever you want. Isn’t there something, anything you think you could hold down?”

     “Ok. How about some dry toast. No butter.”

     “Dry toast it is.” San scurried to the kitchen while Roy propped Dori up on a mountain of pillows. A rumble of thunder announced the approach of a summer storm.

     San quickly returned bearing a paper plate with two pieces of dry toast. Dori smirked. “You didn’t cut the crust off.”

     “I didn’t know you wanted it all fancy.” San’s comment dripped with sarcasm.

     Dori grinned, looking like her old self for a moment. “You should know I like everything fancy.”

     It was an accurate statement. Dori had always been well-put-together; her flaming red hair coiffed, nails manicured, make up perfect. Her long, delicate fingers were typically adorned with sparkling rings. Roy enjoyed buying jewelry and Dori loved wearing it. Rings, gold chains, bracelets, pendants of precious and semi-precious stones, and earrings in all shapes and colors occupied her large jewelry armoire. Presently, Dori’s only adornment consisted of a paper hospital band around her thin wrist.

     A flash from outside drew their attention. “Wow. The storm’s getting closer.” Dori reacted to the lightning. The following clap of thunder sounded louder than before.

     “What are you girls gabbing about?” Roy entered with Dori’s water mug. “All filled up.” He smiled and took his wife’s gaunt hand. “Think I could grab a shower while you two talk?”

     Dori waved him off. “Go ahead. We need to catch up anyway.”

     San nodded to her brother. “We’re good. I’ll holler if I need anything. Take a shower.”

     San watched as Dori struggled to draw the liquid up the straw. “Having a little trouble?” She reached over to loosen the top of the mug. “Try that.”

     “That’s much easier. Thanks.” Dori whispered.

     “I heard that your brother Bob came for a visit today.” San propped herself up on the bed next to Dori’s hospital bed.

     Dori frowned. “It was awful. He just sat by the bed trying not to cry. I felt like I had to carry the conversation and I just don’t have the energy. He’s depressing.” She chuckled, in spite of the graveness of the situation. “Talk to me San. Tell me about the book you’re working on.”

     Often berated for her gift of gab, San launched into an animated description of the fantasy novel she was writing. Dori commented from time to time as she nibbled on her toast, even laughing at San’s antics. After a few minutes, a shirtless Roy appeared in the doorway.

     “It’s nice to hear her laugh.” He commented to his sister while pulling on a t-shirt. Lightning cracked outside, immediately followed with a boom of thunder that shook the house. “The storm is getting worse. Let’s hope it blows over.”

     Dori yawned widely. San rescued the water mug as her head sagged. “Let’s let her get some sleep.” She motioned to her brother.

     They tip-toed to the living room. “She probably won’t sleep long.” Roy collapsed into his recliner. “You might want to get some rest while you can.”

     “Oh, you know me. I can stay up all night.” San clicked on the television. The blue screen indicated a lost satellite signal. “The storm,” she sighed. Rain pelted the windows. Flashes of lightning lit up the night. The old house trembled with the resonating thunder. The lights blinked. San looked to Roy with raised eyebrows.

     “I’d better find a flashlight, just in case…” Roy’s shoulders slumped when the house went dark. “Shit.” He sprang from his chair. “I’ve got one right over here.” He fumbled in the dark for a moment, finally coming up with a flashlight. “There’s another one in the kitchen.”

     San edged her way to the kitchen in the darkness. Roy followed with the light. They rummaged through the junk drawer to find a second flashlight.

     “Roy.” Dori’s feeble call was barely audible over the din of the storm.

     Racing to the bedroom, they found Dori gasping for breath. “Dammit. The oxygen.” Roy rushed to Dori’s side.

     “Up,” she gasped. “Can’t breathe.”

     He punched the button on the hospital bed. “Dammit. There’s a manual crank under here somewhere.” San reached out to pull Dori forward as Roy stacked pillows behind her. While he searched for the crank, San found a small battery-operated fan. She placed it on the rolling table to blow directly into Dori’s face.

     “Better.” Dori croaked. “This hurts.”

     “I can’t see shit.” Roy’s fear and irritation was showing.

     “I’ve got a camp lantern in my Jeep. I’ll go get it.” San started for the door. “You okay for a minute?”

     “Yeah. I gotta have some light.” Roy nodded.

     San burst out the front door into the storm. Two steps off the porch, she was soaked. She ran to her vehicle, retrieving the lantern. In less than ninety seconds she was back, dripping on the carpet. The lantern lit up the room, but Dori was clearly in pain.

     Roy held Dori up. With San’s help, he found the crank to adjust the bed but it did little to alleviate Dori’s distress. Lying back, Dori couldn’t get enough oxygen for a breath. Pulled or propped forward, she could catch a breath, but leaning forward compacted the tumors amassed in her body. She was in a lot of pain. To make matters worse, Dori began vomiting.

     San held Dori in her arms, pulling her forward to get a breath, wiping her face with a cool washcloth. Dori could only remain in that position for about thirty seconds. She took a couple of breaths, then nodded for San to lower her back down. After about a minute in recline, San had to lift Dori again to get another breath. They soon found a rhythm. Thirty seconds up, then down. While Dori reclined, San cleaned the dark stains from her shirt front. The humidity and temperature began to rise rapidly.

     While San tended to Dori, Roy was on the phone with the hospice nurse. She was an hour away, in fair weather. The massive storm would triple that. He fumed and fussed but was ultimately appreciative that she was coming back.

     Dori’s vomiting spell only lasted a short while. She didn’t have much in her stomach, after all. Roy took over for his sister. Lift forward for thirty seconds, lower for one minute, lift for thirty seconds, lower for one minute. San fanned furiously with her notebook to stir the air. In a few minutes, she was drenched with sweat, adding to the damp from her dash into the storm. Perspiration dripped off the tip of Roy’s nose as he lifted and lowered his ailing wife.

     The temperature in the house rose to a sweltering, sticky ninety degrees. Lift forward for thirty seconds, lower for one minute, lift for thirty seconds, lower for one minute. For ninety minutes Roy and San took turns helping Dori breathe. Lift for thirty seconds, lower for one minute.

     The storm lashed the old house with wind and driving rain for what seemed an eternity. Eventually, the rain ceased and the rumbles of thunder rolled into the distance. There was little conversation as Roy and San continued; lift for thirty seconds, lower for one minute, lift for thirty seconds, lower for one minute.

     Finally, the lights blinked on as the power was restored. The hum of the AC was a welcome sound but the soft drone of the oxygen generator was a gift from God. Roy placed the cannula back on Dori’s face. She visibly relaxed as she received the oxygen. With San’s assistance, he changed Dori’s soiled shirt. They turned on three fans to stir the air and cool Dori’s room as quickly as possible. When the hospice nurse arrived, a full three hours after Roy called, San hugged her.

     The nurse administered nausea and pain meds to make Dori comfortable. Once Dori was settled, she eased into the living room to get a full accounting from Roy and his sister. The nurse found them both asleep, San on the sofa and Roy in his recliner. Exhaustion had overtaken them.

Honorable Mention - Take Me Away Award WHITE COUNTY WRITER'S CONFERENCE

Journal: Portland Trip

May 11, 2000

    

     In May of 2000, I set out on an adventure. I loaded two suitcases into my S10 truck and left Little Rock bound for Portland, Oregon. A new job opportunity awaited. My husband, Michael would follow with our remaining possessions and pets in July. I made the trek over half way across our vast country alone, leaving in the early morning hours of the 11^th. I had my first cell phone for safety. There was no GPS or Siri to guide me. I had to depend on the ancient method of using a paper map. My trip was well planned, having studied and marked my route carefully with the aid of my oft-traveled mother. Along the way I scribbled down journal entries to document the journey.

     Thursday, May 11, 2000. 7:30 am - Leaving Arkansas – laughed and shed a tear crossing the state line, unsure when I’ll be back. Celine Dion’s, The Power of Love playing on the radio – “headed someplace I’ve never been”.  NO FEAR!

     12:49 pm. Had a long stretch and a short walk just east of the Texas line to loosen up the kinks in my body. Still shooting for Albuquerque. Crossing Texas on the interstate is a long boring drive.

     Made it to Albuquerque! Sixteen hours on the road was grueling for my body but my mind is still wide awake. The flats of Texas and Oklahoma were pretty boring until just before New Mexico. The rolling plains, the plateaus with their beautiful reds and browns with green bushes are stunning. I could just imagine herds of buffalo dotting the landscape black.

     The craggy mountains surrounding Albuquerque are beautiful. The city seems tucked away, hidden in the midst of a group of rocky giants, lounging in the shadows.

     Friday, May 12, 2000. 6:30 am - Today is my vacation day. I want to cover some miles but I also want to see the Grand Canyon.

     7:30 am – New Mexico is beautiful. Sometimes the view is so overwhelming, the tears just stream down my face. The red, dusty colors differ so much from the South.   

     12:25 pm – Arizona stretches out before me like a great pink blanket. The vibrant colors of New Mexico give way to the pastel pinks and yellows. From here it looks like this country goes on forever.

     1:50 pm - I’m standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona.

     3:40 pm – Made the Grand Canyon! $20, But now I’m here. It doesn’t look real. The colors are so southwestern (imagine that). It’s a bit hazy because of the fires that have closed the north ridge, but it is awesome. The vastness, the enormity of the canyon is dizzying. It takes my breath away. The Colorado River looks too small from here to have carved this magnificent abyss. Rather it was the finger of God. He must smile at how easily impressed we are with His handiworks. Even with all the tourists, there is a stillness and a quiet as if the very air holds a reverence for the majesty of this sight.

     So many people. So many languages being spoken. So many children, smelling of Coppertone and Juicy Fruit. The Gift Shop has a fabulous view but the windows are dirty with the fingerprints of hundreds of tourists. They come by the bus load and pack the warm, stuffy Observation Station.    

     What in the world was I thinking? What made me think I could take in the Grand Canyon in a couple of hours? I could sit here all day. Alas, I cannot spend the hours I’d like and I lament I shall not be here for sunset. It would bring me to tears, I’m sure.

     The desert was beautiful. So many times I would like to have stopped and written my thoughts about the desert with the mountains looming in the distance. The sky even changes color. Over the desert it is crystal blue. The white clouds hang over the mountains, and on the other side it is hazy. Driving through the mountains was lovely but a little frightening at times. I still like Arizona and New Mexico better than California, but now that I’ve entered wine country, I may change my mind. It is getting prettier all the time with the vineyards and lush vegetation. (They water the roadsides in town to keep it that way.) I wish I had been able to stop and take a shot or two of the great windmills on the mountainsides. It was hard to even look at them as I was flying down the mountain at 70 with people passing me the whole time. California drivers, yikes! I’m outside Bakersfield now with a hell of a long way to go.

     Red Bluff, California. Another Days Inn. The bed is hard but the carpet is clean and there’s a huge claw-foot bathtub. I’m just a few miles outside Redding where I take 299 to 101 and the Pacific Ocean. Tomorrow is going to be a long day if I’m going all the way to Portland. I should sleep great after swimming in that big ole’ tub.

     Sunday, May 14, 2000. California Hwy 299 is a twisting, turning mountain pass winding its way through God’s handiwork. At every turn there’s another jaw-dropping vista. Whisky Lake is serene. The tree covered mountains wear every hue of green with bursts of yellow wild forsythia dotting the landscape. The steep rocky hillsides along the road are covered with wild purple sage. It’s hard to drive because I want to look at the scenery, but the road is dizzyingly curvy and it’s beginning to rain.

     The clear waters of Indian Creek bouncing, rushing over the smooth stones, the picturesque cabins, tin roofed Pool Bar, deer munching their morning away; all these things overwhelm me so much I have to stop and get it down lest I forget one moment. This little cutoff is a blessing.

     In Weaverville, two young mule deer casually trotted across the street right in the middle of town. This could take a while, because I keep stopping. Portland may have to wait another day.

     Even though some sort of mining scars part of the mountain, the variety of flowering vegetation is amazing. I don’t recognize them all. There’s peach and purple on the hillsides, all shades of yellow and small deep purple blossoms by the roadside. I’ve seen amazing Fuchsias and white Dusty Miller growing wild. Low clouds hang in the trees like they’re stuck there. Sunlight streaming though the higher clouds ignites the mountain in color. Again and again, I am overwhelmed.

     I’ve stopped at Tom’s Small Fry. It’s a store and café. I’m going to have a real breakfast for the first time in several days. I tried to call Michael to share this with him but my phone won’t work. We really must come back here. I could spend a week just staring at the river and mountains.

     What a great breakfast. All the backwoods country charm Michael would hate and I could live with forever. From the old man waiting tables and the two old guys sitting at the counter talking news and neighbors to the bored teenager sitting at the table outside, this place is adorable. There’s even what appears to be a bar of homemade soap in the single restroom.

     299 was an adventure. The adventure continues. The Pacific Ocean, oh my! I called Michael from Clam Beach, the first one I came to. The phone died and it began to rain. The sun was shining when I finally found another beach. I took off my shoes and walked in the icy surf. Got wet to the knees but it’s not like I don’t have dry clothes. I miss Michael. I wish he was here to share this. 

     The ocean is magnificent. White-capped waves crash into the shore. The foam chases me up the beach. Wow! Even when the water is just over my ankles, I can feel the power of the icy surf trying to pull me in. I could sit and stare at the waves all day but 101 is slow going and I have no idea where I’m staying tonight.

     My last night on the road: The hotel in Newport is the funkiest yet. No air! Radiator heat. Just a shower complete with mildew, but the sheets and carpet are clean and I have an ocean view.  As funky as the Willer’s Motel is, there is a big bunch of Calais lilies growing by the laundry room in the gutter run-off, like we’d do elephant ears back home. They provide delicate beauty to an unlikely location.  Beautiful.

     I’ve felt the presence of my guardian angel on this trip. At every turn, whatever I needed appeared. And the amazing landscape has reminded me that we live in a wonderful, vast and varied country. Tomorrow, Portland.

Arkansas Writer's Conference 1st Place Winner

A Day in the Life of a Serious Author

(Based on actual events. Names were omitted to protect the annoying.)

    

     If you are reading this, you are a writer. You know. Whether you write in your spare moments or full time, you’ve heard the comments. For some reason, those who are not writers seem to think that if you have an hour to write, it means that you sit down at the computer and type, non-stop, for an hour.  The uninformed say the silliest things.   

  “So, you’re a writer. It must be great working from home. How nice to have all that free time.”

     “How’s that book coming along? You still haven’t finished? How long have you been working on it?”

     “Can you run a little errand for me? It will only take ten minutes. You have plenty of time to get it done.”

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 “You can dog sit for us for the next few weeks, right? It shouldn’t be more than a month. What else have you got to fill your time?”

     While it is true that my schedule can be more flexible than the average nine to five workday; working from home is fraught with pitfalls and stumbling blocks to productivity. An average day often goes like this:

     I get up, walk the dog, let the cats out, and begin getting the husband off to work. After breakfast and a brief discussion of the morning news, I kiss my spouse and hand him his lunch as he walks out the door. The cats come in. I feed the cats, turn off the television and turn on my laptop. After a brief run through of my email and a quick glance at FaceBook, I find that it is noon. I let the cats out, step into my shoes and walk the dog. I ignore the sink full of dirty dishes and the overflowing laundry basket because I am serious about my craft.

     I open the word document that will become the novel I meant to finish two years ago. Reading through the last few pages, I find myself editing. The insistence of the meowing feline outside drags me from my chair. I let the cat in. It only takes a moment to throw in a load of clothes. (Even serious writers need clean underwear.) I get back to my desk. Staring at the blank space on the screen, I try to form the sentences to write the story I already know.

     After what seems an eternity, I’ve written four words.  The cat leaps onto my desk. I ignore him because I am a serious writer. I ignore him until he reaches out with his little paw to poke me. (He’s a poker.) I let the cat out. The other cat comes in. I spend another eternity staring at the blank screen. I write three sentences, delete two, write a few more, stare some more. The cat hops up on the desk knocking things about (she’s a little overweight) and proceeds to rub her

                                                                                                      

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face against the corner of my laptop, shoving it a bit with each rub. I get the message. I let the cat out. Since I’m up, I move the laundry to the dryer.

     I wonder, have I showered today? A quick shower revives me. I wear my daily uniform of yoga pants and a t-shirt. Since I must leave the house to run errands, I even wear a bra. I walk the dog, let the cats in, and spend the next hour jetting about completing mini-quests assigned by various family members.

     While out, I run into an old co-worker. “Are you still writing that book?” She asks.

     I resist the urge to flip her the finger and smile. “I’m working on it.”

     Back at home, I let the cats out and feed the dog. It is now nearly three o’clock. Hubby will get home at five. I spend the next hour and a half frantically doing research. (Modern serial killers, sword making, body disposal, medieval weaving, carrot cake recipes) At 4:30, Hubby arrives home.

     “Guess who got off early?” He asks. (Like I didn’t know) “I know you’re working. I won’t bother you.” He acknowledges that I am a serious author. He even closes my office door so that the television doesn’t distract me. I stare at the screen, hands poised above the keyboard, reaching for just the right phrase. I write two sentences before Hubby peeks into my office. “You won’t believe this.” He simply must show me a tweet by one of his favorite soap actors. (He’s secretly a soap fan.)

     “I love him”, I keep telling myself. He retreats from my scowl. Over the next twenty minutes, I manage to pound out a few paragraphs. Hubby’s excited visage again appears in my doorway.

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“You gotta see this double play.” I take a few deep breaths, trying not to think about how much lye it would take to dissolve his body. He’s not a big guy.

     “Seriously?” Something about my demeanor sends him scurrying back to the living room. I try to concentrate on the words in front of me but the muse has fled. It’s almost six anyway. I throw a frozen pizza in the oven for dinner. After a few mind-numbing hours of television, I do the dishes. Because I am a serious writer, my mind is always on my work.  Standing at the sink, elbow deep in suds, I have a great idea. Leaving my half-finished task, I retreat to my office to scribble down my ideas in a notebook. Three hours later, I can barely keep my eyes open. I’ve written almost one thousand words. Unfortunately, tomorrow I will delete nine-hundred-fifty of them. But for now, at least I’ve accomplished something. 

     If you’re reading this, you are a writer. You understand. Seriously.

Arkansas Writer's Conference 2nd Place Winner

A RED STILLETO

The strobing red and blue lights of the police cruisers guided Detective Hamilton Tucker. He parked his car a ways back so that he might survey the scene upon approach. The activity was on the north side of the railroad tracks in a depressed and nearly deserted industrial area.

     “Hey, Tucker.” A heavy set police officer waved him over. “Have you lost weight?” They both laughed.

     Tucker patted his belly. “Don’t joke. I’ve been trying to stay in shape. And Blake, it wouldn’t hurt you to say no to a burger once in a while.”

     “Yeah. Yeah.” Blake chuckled and rubbed his round gut protruding over his belt. “I passed my fitness test.”

     Glancing ahead at the still figure covered with a white sheet, Tucker’s mood sobered. “Tell me what we’ve got.”

    

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     Blake snapped to business, pulling his notebook. “Witness, Jackson Nelson, works for the railroad.” He began. They walked alongside the train cars toward the body. “Says they were coupling cars; he was checking lines or something, when she landed right behind him. Scared the crap out of the guy.”

     “Landed?” Tucker cocked an eyebrow.

     “Looks like she fell from the top.” Blake motioned to the round tanker car up ahead.

     “And the victim?”  Tucker stooped under the yellow tape.

     Blake followed. “No ID. 20 something. Caucasian female. Blonde. Well dressed. She’s been dead a while. We’re still waiting on the M.E. for C.O.D.”

     Tucker lifted the sheet. The girl lay twisted at an unnatural angle. He squatted beside the body to get a closer look. The morning breeze lifted her blonde tresses around the stillness of her pale face.

     “Now tell me what you see, Tuck. I see those wheels turning.” Blake had his notebook at the ready.

     “You’re right about the 20 something. And the clothes are high-end. Abrasions on her face and scalp where she hit the rocks, but no blood. She was definitely dead when she landed. The question is how did a girl in high heels get atop a tanker car?” Tucker shifted his gaze from the tanker, up the tracks, and back to the girl. He peered at a single red stiletto. “Manolo Blahnik. Very expensive shoes. Let’s find the other one.”

    

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     Tucker motioned to a young, uniformed officer. “Where’s my witness?” The officer nodded in the direction of a man sitting on the metal steps of the abandoned warehouse. “Find that other shoe. Check both sides of the train.”

     The man on the steps had his head down. His arms hugged his sides. “Mr. Nelson?” Tucker’s voice seemed to startle him.

     “Yes, sir.” He mumbled.

     “Are you alright?” Tucker leaned down to make eye contact.

     Jackson Nelson glanced up into the detective’s clear blue eyes and relaxed a bit. He sat up, unwinding his body. “Yes, sir.” He spoke up.

     “Shall I call you Jack?” Tucker motioned to the embroidered name above the left pocket of the man’s work uniform.

     “Yes sir.” Jack repeated.

     “I’m Detective Hamilton Tucker. Everyone just calls me Tucker, for obvious reasons.” Jack smiled and relaxed a bit more. “Now Jack.” Tucker’s voice was low and soothing. “Tell me everything that happened, starting with…”

     “I heard this loud thud behind me.” Jack interrupted. “I jumped around and she was just layin’ there and I could tell that she was…” He began breathing heavily.

     Tucker put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Wait, Jack. Calm down. Take a few deep breaths.”

     Jack complied. “I’m sorry. I’ve just never seen a dead body before.”

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      “That’s okay.” Tucker’s calm voice quelled Jack’s fear. “Start earlier. Run down the hour before all that happened. Where were you?”

     “I was checking the strings. This here used to be a railyard with warehouses and such but now it’s just a coupling station. Strings of cars get dropped and picked up. We were coupling ours.” He glanced back at the two men in railroad uniforms standing with Blake.

     “Do you always check the strings?” Tucker drew Jack’s attention back to task.

     “Usually, yeah.” Jack continued.

     “And where did these particular cars come from?”

     “We had a short string on the branch line. We coupled those first. These here came from a long string back down this lead track. It stretched all the way under the bypass.”

     “And you didn’t try to move or touch the body?”

     “No, sir.”  Jack was adamant. “It was obvious that she was, you know, dead. I radioed Frank and he called you guys.

     “Did anyone touch or tamper with the car she fell from?” Tucker asked.

     “No, sir. We just kind of stood around trying not to look at her until the first cop got here.”

     Tucker handed Jack his card. “If you remember anything else, call me.”

     The young officer trotted toward Tucker with an evidence bag. “I found your shoe, Detective Tucker. Well, not your shoe.” He grinned.

     “Just Tucker is fine.” He took the bag containing a red stiletto.

                                                                                                                                                5

      “Butler, sir. I’m Officer Butler.”

     “Let me guess, Butler. You found the shoe under or near the bypass.”

     “Yes, sir. Uh, Tucker. It looks like someone dumped her body from the bypass on to the tanker car below. If they did it at night, they probably didn’t know there were cars parked on the tracks.”

     Tucker slapped Butler on the shoulder. “Good thinking. When the cars jostled around as they got hitched up and moved, our lady slid off the round tanker.”

     Butler looked thoughtful. Tucker noticed. “What is it, Butler?”

    Blake finished with the others and sauntered over.  “He’s got that same look on his face that you get when the wheels are turning in your head,” Blake commented. “Speak up, Officer.”

   Butler obliged.  “Well, I was just thinking. I come over the bypass quite a lot and you see trains parked under there all the time. What if they meant to land the body on a car? If it had been a flat top car, the young lady may not have fallen off at least until the train got up to speed. She could have been dumped miles from here.”

     Blake looked impressed. “That’s a good point. But, what if they were trying to leave her body on the tracks below to get run over by the train to hide C.O.D.?”

     “That’s where I come in.” The M.E. was a tall, shapely woman with hot pink hair and skin the color of smooth dark chocolate. She snapped several pictures of the body from different angles. “My preliminary findings agree with you. Your girl was dumped. The odd position of the body

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tells me that she was tossed soon after she died. Rigor set in during the hours she was up there.” M.E. Les Lively pointed to the tanker car.

     “C.O.D.?” Tucker asked.

     Les bent to lift an eyelid. “See that? Petechial hemorrhaging indicates that she was strangled or suffocated.  The absence of ligature marks says suffocated. I’ll know more when I get her on the table.” Two orderlies zipped up the body bag and loaded it into the van.

     Tucker waited while Les signed the paperwork and handed it off to the orderly. “I know what you’re going to say.” Les flashed him her thousand watt smile. “I’ve already taken her prints and sent them electronically. If your girl is in the system, we’ll know shortly.”

     Back at the station, Detective Tucker poured himself a cup of coffee. His cell rang. He answered, “Tucker.”

     “Hey, Tucker. It’s Les. We got an ID on your girl from the train.”

     “That was quick.”

     “Her prints were in the system. She worked at a daycare a few years ago. They ran criminal background checks and prints. Our girl’s name is Jessica Lincoln.”

     “Thanks, Les. I appreciate it.” Tucker poked at his computer. “Hey, while I’ve got you, anything else you can tell me about Jessica Lincoln?”

     “Not yet. I’ve got the lab rats running a blood panel and some fibers we found on her. I’ll let you know as soon as I get anything. Oh yeah. She had a lottery ticket tucked into her bra.”

                                                                                                                                                7

     Detective Tucker found the DMV photo of his murder victim. The smiling face of the perky blond in the picture was a far cry from the pale stiff from this morning. Scribbling down her address, he grabbed his cell. He called Blake from the car. “Blake, can you meet me at 206 Cherry Avenue, apartment C? I got an ID on our girl from this morning.”

     “Sure thing Tuck.” The officer obliged. “I’ll meet you there in ten.”

     Tucker parked behind Blake’s cruiser. “Shouldn’t you have a partner?” Blake chided the detective. Tucker growled and shot him a look. They headed up the sidewalk toward apartment C.

     From behind them, a young woman called out. “Can I help you?” Two young ladies in nail salon flip flops heel walked toward them.

     “Do you know the girl that lives here?” Blake asked.

     “I live here.” The tall brunette spoke up. “What’s this about?” She looked concerned. “Did something happen to Jess?”

     The other girl exclaimed. “I’ve been texting her all morning. I knew something was wrong. I even called her mother.”

     Tucker flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Tucker. This is Officer Blake. May we come in and speak with you; maybe take a look around?” His voice was low and soothing.

     “Come on in.” The girls waddled inside. “What happened? Is she okay?” They spoke simultaneously.

     “First let me get your names.” Blake snapped open his notebook. “Do you both live here?”

                                                                                                                                                8

     “I’m Amanda Franklin.” The first girl was short and stout with rainbow colored hair in a short bob. “I live a block over on Blossom Court. Jess was supposed to be at the nail salon this morning for pedicures. She loves pedicures. But Lydia said she didn’t come home last night. Isn’t that right Lydia? I texted her, like a million times and even called her mother, but she hasn’t seen her since last week. Is she missing? Has something happened?”

     Blake looked at Tucker. Tucker nodded his consent. Blake patted the girl’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this but we found Jessica’s body this morning.” Tears and wailing ensued.

     Tucker motioned to Blake. “You get their statements. I’ll have a look around.” Tucker noted the apartment was furnished with mismatched older furniture. Jessica’s bedroom was something of a surprise. It was sparse. There were inexpensive art prints on the walls, a futon mattress on the floor, and a small dresser. He checked the closet. There were designer labels on more than half the items there. He continued through the apartment while Blake calmed the girls and took their information.

     Upon leaving, Tucker took notice of the old car parked out front. “That belong to one of them?” He nudged Blake.

     “That’s Lydia’s ’99 Mazda. You got something? You have that look in your eye again.”

     Tucker looked thoughtful. “Maybe. We’ll see.” He headed for his car. “Oh, Blake. I owe you one for taking their statements.”

   

                                                                                                                                                9

      “Yep. Drinks are on you this week.” Blake handed Tucker a piece of paper. “Here’s their info. I figured you may have some follow up questions. See you back at the station.” He waved and got into his cruiser.

     Back at the station, Blake found Detective Tucker at his desk. “What do we have, Boss?”

     Tucker eyed him. “I’m fairly certain I know what happened. We need to get those girls in here for questioning. A confession always makes things easier. Bring the young ladies. You can put them in the interrogation room together.”

     “You think one of those girls…never mind. I know better than to argue with your gut.” He sprinted for the door.

     The grizzled detective sat across from Lydia and Amanda. “Is there anything you ladies need to tell me that perhaps you neglected to tell Officer Blake?” Lydia shook her head.

     “I wish I knew something else to tell you.” Amanda began to tear up again. “Jess is my…was my best friend.”

     “Can you tell me about this?” He plopped down an evidence bag containing a lottery ticket. “It seems Jessica had a winning lottery ticket on her.”

     Lydia perked up. She looked hard at the ticket. “You found it? I knew that it was a winner.” She reached for the bag.

     Tucker moved the bag from her reach. “That’s evidence.”

    

                                                                                                                                                10

     “That’s funny,” Amanda commented. “Jess never spent money on anything frivolous. Lydia is obsessed with the lottery.” She elbowed her friend. “You always think you’re going to hit the jackpot.”

     “I bought the ticket,” Lydia spoke up. “I should get it back, right?” She licked her lips.

     Detective Tucker’s steel blue eyes drilled into Lydia’s nervous gaze. “I know what happened. You can tell me your side and it will go easier for you.”

     Amanda looked puzzled. “What? What is he talking about?” She stood. “What’s going on?”

     “Amanda, why don’t you go with Officer Blake. Lydia and I need to have a conversation.” Tucker’s manner commanded the rainbow-haired girl. She left the room in a daze. Tucker focused all his attention on Lydia. “I know you killed your roommate over the lottery ticket.”

     Lydia broke. She cried angry tears. “Those winnings will get me out of debt. I can pay off my student loans and quit working at the coffee shop.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “She’d just spend it all on clothes. Always with the designer clothes. She sold her car to buy those stupid Manolos!” She fumed. “She’d rather ride the bus, she said. But what she really meant was that I could take her wherever she needed to go. She said she had to dress for success. She was a barista with an art history degree!” Lydia was shouting. “So yeah. I couldn’t take it. She said she didn’t know where the ticket was, but I knew she had it. I was putting a bag in the kitchen can because her majesty couldn’t be bothered to take out the trash. It was so easy.” Lydia laughed scornfully. “I threw the bag over her head and held on until she stopped twitching.”  Lydia breathed a sigh of relief.

                                                                                                                                                11

      Tucker pushed a legal pad and pen in front of her. “Write it all down, including how you moved the body, and sign it.”

     Lydia looked up at him with haunted eyes. “After dark, I carried her to my trunk. It was surprisingly easy. She didn’t weigh that much. I dumped her over the bypass. I imagined she’d be carried out of town.”

     “Write it down.” Tucker tapped the pad.

     “What about my lottery ticket? You said it was a winner. Am I going to get that back?”

     “No. As I said. It’s evidence.” Tucker shook his head. “It was a winner. You had three numbers. You killed your friend for $200.”