Ain't Your Bitch (Interracial Urban Erotica)(157)

She moved down the page further.

Robbery unlikely. She was found with a wallet containing seventy-three  dollars in various denominations, a credit card, and a Minnesota-issued  state I.D., no drivers' license. Which meant that someone else had taken  her there, perhaps a taxi.

Time of death was officially placed an hour before the call came in,  around 9 P.M., and that was about where the official details stopped.

They'd made calls to the taxi companies, seeing if any drivers  remembered her face, but it took time for that kind of information to  come back, and they probably hadn't gotten an answer yet. Beyond that,  though, there wasn't much.

Jamelia sucked in a breath and collapsed the mess of papers into a  single pile, then put it back into the box, the folder on top. There was  more to cover, but she needed a break. Part of her was beginning to see  exactly why she shouldn't work on this case, but she ignored that part.

She slid sideways into the seat of her computer chair and tapped in the  keys to her password. The welcoming blue desktop screen smiled out at  her. She'd thought it would somehow be helpful for it to say something  motivational, so she had settled on a picture of a pretty blue bird  flying and gave a pithy line about keeping on trying until you flew.

She had about forty e-mails. Wasn't that supposed to go through her  phone? She furrowed her eyebrows. No, she'd just changed her damn e-mail  password. It had silently locked her phone out, without ever once  actually prompting her to change it. She cursed under her breath and  opened the inbox.

A sale at a local sporting goods store had somehow made its way in,  along with a dozen social media notifications. They were all deleted  just the same way, with only enough attention to figure out what it was  supposed to be before she deleted it. She didn't need any baseballs, and  she sure as hell didn't need to tell some website if she knew a Craig  Hutchinson. Where the hell did these sites even get ideals like that?

One, though, caught her interest. Her breath hitched as she saw it.  Becca had sent her an email. She didn't recognize the email, but then  they'd never corresponded through it. But RebeccaRusso85 was definitely  her, and when Jamelia clicked open the message, sure enough, the style  fit perfectly.

Either Becca had sent her this email, or someone was working very hard  to make Jamelia think she had, and as crazy as things seemed with  Becca's death, Jamelia wasn't ready to declare that it was a vast  conspiracy to mess with her head and commit the perfect murder.

Dad was fine, she started off with. He's been drinking less. That seemed to have gone out the window the minute that Becca left.

She met a guy online, he seemed great. They'd been talking for the  better part of a year. She hadn't wanted to bother Jamelia with it when  her work was so busy. But now they were going to meet up, and they'd be  right in her neck of the woods. Could she stop by and maybe get a cup of  coffee? It would be so wonderful to catch up on old times. If she  didn't hear back, she'd assume yes.

Jamelia remembered the day that Becca had scheduled. She'd spent the  whole day on her back in a 3rd-floor ski resort suite. She cursed out  loud. What was she thinking? What was wrong with her?

She should never have left. Now Becca was dead. No more chances to catch  up. She moved over to the bed. Maybe daytime T.V. was the right choice.  The name Becca gave for her internet boyfriend stood out in Jamelia's  memory, though.

Who in the hell was Craig?





Nine



Jamelia looked at her paper. How disappointing. Two questions. One of  them had been answered, thankfully. She was in Los Angeles to meet some  guy. Craig something. Possibly Hutchinson, since that was the only Craig  on her public friends list. The first solid lead she'd managed to find.

Then she looked up at her computer and clicked on his name. It brought  open a page with a large picture and a whole lot of nothing else.  Private. Only available to friends, it said. Did she want to make a  friend request?

She didn't. Instead, she just looked at the picture.

He was tall, blonde, broad-shouldered. He looked good. Not too big, but  you could tell he worked out. He was standing next to a motorcycle, but  it wasn't a Harley or anything big like that. She guessed from her  limited experience it was probably a 750cc something-or-other.

He wasn't smiling in his profile image, but that seemed to be the  fashion these days, with some crowds, and this seemed like the kind of  guy who thought smiling would make him look like a wimp.

"Jeez, Becca, what were you getting involved with this kind of guy for?"         

     



 

She was already painting a picture of Craig in her head before she ever  spoke to him, but that was how everyone worked, wasn't it? He probably  belonged to a so-called motorcycle club, probably had done a few  recreational drugs once or twice at least. Possibly more, but she wasn't  going to overdo her estimation at this early stage. He might own a gun,  depending on whether or not he'd been hauled in for the prior drug  usage. If they'd managed to catch him before, then he was a felon, and  if he was a felon, he definitely owned one, only it wouldn't come up  with a records search.

On the other hand, if he wasn't, then the odds were only fifty-fifty.  Most people in California weren't keen on guns, and politicians liked it  that way. Jamelia could take them or leave them, but since it was part  of her uniform she ended up choosing to take them most of the time.

Her phone rang again. The same number she hadn't recognized before. The Captain, then.

"Russo."

The Captain was using his hard-ass voice and it didn't fit with his words. "How's Judge Judy doing?"

"I imagine she's great, Captain, why? Is Judge Judy a murder victim?"

"Don't be an ass, Russo. There's been a mix-up. Come back to the station, I need to watch you shred those files."

"What the hell, sir?"

"Don't you give me that, I gave you that stuff and I can take it away  just as easily. Now come in and you'll get the whole explanation, and  until then you can pack up the files and get your ass here, and then you  can go home and get your daily Judge Judy out of the way until you're  off paid suspension, is that clear?"

Jamelia could feel her face twisting into a gargoyle-esque mask of fury, but she forced herself to smooth it out.

"Understood, sir. I'll be there in ten."

"I'll have Assanti waiting for you outside to take custody of the files. Then come and see me."

"Understood."

She clicked the button to hang up and slipped her phone into her pocket.  So much for that. She just had to hope there was a god damned good  reason for this, because if not, heads were going to roll. She wasn't in  any sort of way prepared to just accept that she couldn't do anything  to help her sister. No chance in hell would she take that.

The drive took nine minutes and she took another to cool down. She  didn't get a chance to finish her meditation, though, when a knock came  at her window. Assanti stood outside, tall and sporting a deep tan like a  guy from Jersey Shore. He gave her an apologetic smile when she looked  up at him.

The idea of slamming the door open to hit him with it flashed through  her mind. She waited for him to get out of the way before she opened the  door. It was just too tempting.

"Russo, I know you're not happy about this, and I just wanted you to  know that I have the deepest respect for your work and if it were up to  me, you'd be working right alongside my guys."

"So who is it up to?"

"Some suits from Quantico, it seems. This isn't the first time that  they've found cases like this, I guess. We put out feelers for any  similar crimes, but nothing really caught our eye. Apparently the  federales see it differently."

She snorted. God damn Feds think they know everything. Think that the  locals are just yokels. It was the same story everywhere you go, and the  same every time they got involved. They'd poke around a bit, realize  they have no contacts in the area, no idea who these people are, and  then usually bungle the damn investigation.

Well, she wasn't going to let that happen this time.

"You mind if I get those files? I'm supposed to take custody of them  from you and bring them over to their guy. He'll probably shred 'em,  since he's already got copies of his own. Oh-and, did you take any  notes?"

She gave him a blank look, and then after a long silence. "Oh, you were  being serious? Of course I took notes, Assanti, did you think this was  my first case?"

She let the frustration touch her voice, and what was supposed to be lighthearted sarcasm came out angry and bitter.

"Sorry I asked. Can I have those, as well?"

She reached into the car and pulled out the steno pad, peeled off the  top sheet, and put it on top of the box, where it stayed for exactly  half a second before being blown off and catching the breeze.

"There you go," she sneered, and started inside.

It wasn't his fault. He was good at his job, she figured, but not as  good as she was. And she was angry at being taken off-but Assanti had  already apologized for that.