Page 21 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The rain had finally stopped by the time we pulled into one of the angled parking spaces that surrounded King George’s historic Towne Square, though pewter clouds still threatened overhead like a storm that couldn’t make up its mind.

It was one of those picture-perfect spaces filled with reminders of a different era—cobblestone streets, American flags, gas streetlamps, and antique hitching posts.

But today, something felt off. Maybe it was the way the Spanish moss hung too still in the humid air, or how the usual foot traffic seemed sparse for a weekday afternoon.

Even the cheerful pink-and-white-striped awning of Lady Jane’s Donuts, nestled between a women’s clothing boutique and an art gallery in the middle of the block, looked somehow garish against the brooding sky.

“The baby wants a donut,” I announced. “And then tacos for lunch.”

Jack’s mouth quirked in that way that meant he was fighting a smile. “The baby’s pretty opinionated for someone who doesn’t have a job.”

I snorted out a laugh and Jack opened the door for me to Lady Jane’s.

The bell chimed with false cheer as we entered, the sound somehow too bright for the heaviness that had been following us all morning.

The interior was a deliberate throwback to simpler times—white subway tiles, vintage cake stands displaying the day’s offerings, and mason jar light fixtures that cast a warm glow over everything.

The sugar-scented comfort of yeast and glaze bombarded my senses and I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes.

Behind the counter stood Jane herself—a woman in her early forties who looked like she’d stepped out of a 1950s magazine and never quite found her way back to the present.

Her dark hair was styled in perfect victory rolls, her red lipstick was flawless, and she wore a fitted blue dress with white bobby socks and saddle shoes.

A frilly apron tied around her waist completed the look, though I’d always suspected the vintage aesthetic was carefully calculated to charm the steady stream of male customers who kept her business thriving.

She looked up as we entered, and her face immediately lit up with recognition—though her gaze lingered on Jack a beat too long for my comfort.

“Well, well,” Jane said, her professional smile not quite reaching her eyes.

“Sheriff Lawson and Dr. Graves. I saw that awful business at the cemetery on the news. Must’ve been terrible finding that poor man like that.

” She smoothed her apron with careful hands.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here before, Sheriff. ”

“I’m usually too busy to stop in,” Jack said, his tone professionally neutral.

“That’s a shame,” Jane said, her smile sharpening just slightly. “Your deputies certainly find time. They keep me in business.”

“As long as they can run down a criminal then what they eat is between them and their sugar dealer,” Jack said smoothly.

“Oh, they stay in shape,” she said, her smile knowing in a way that made me wonder how many of Jack’s men she was keeping physical fitness tabs on. “And after seeing the top cop for the county in the flesh I can see why the standard is so high.”

I cleared my throat and Jane’s unrepentant gaze turned my direction.

“What can I get you? Your usual?”

“We’re here on business,” I said. “Is Leena working today?”

“Called in sick,” she said, the aggravation thick in her voice. “Third time this week. If you ask me, she’s either pregnant or on drugs.”

“We need to speak with her,” Jack said. “In an official capacity. Do you have her address?”

“Is she in trouble?” Jane asked, looking more curious than concerned.

“We just need to ask her some questions,” Jack said, his tone carefully neutral. “Her address?”

“Sure, sure.” Jane pulled out her phone and started scrolling. “Leena Cross. Lives at 47 Mockingbird Lane in the Willows Apartment Complex. Not a great area of town.”

“We appreciate it,” Jack said. “And I’ll take that donut you mentioned. Can’t let good hospitality go to waste.”

I was weighing whether or not I’d lost my appetite after watching Jane’s calculated interest in my husband, but by the time I’d made the decision I had a bag of fresh pastries in my hand and Jack was ushering me back outside.

As we walked back toward the Tahoe, I felt eyes on us from every direction. The few people moving around the square seemed to be watching without watching, their gazes sliding away just a second too late. Even the windows of the shops felt like they were staring.

“That was weird,” I said.

“I appreciate your restraint in not clawing her eyes out.”

“I really wanted a donut,” I said. “I figured that might put a damper on things. But just in case, it’s probably best you don’t go there again. She seems aggressive.”

“That’s the talk around the bullpen. That place is like a cop’s kryptonite. There’s a pool going to see who ends up with her.” He hesitated for a second. Long enough to let me know he was thinking twice about saying something.

“What?” I asked.

He was silent as he navigated the narrow streets and headed out of downtown. And then he said, “My guess would have been Cole. She had her hooks in him pretty good, and she wanted a ring out of the deal. I thought for a time he was going to cave.”

“You’re kidding,” I said, shocked at that bit of news. “Surely a guy like Cole would know to stay far away from a woman like that.”

Jack laughed. “A woman like that screams trouble, and that’s exactly the kind of woman that most cops are attracted to.

When you add in sex then even an experienced pro like Cole can be wrangled.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline rush. Who knows.

But cops tend to make terrible decisions when it comes to their personal lives.

I think it’s because they always have to make the right decisions in their professional lives. ”

“And you?”

“I’m different,” he said, giving me a wink.

“I made all my stupid decisions about women when I was younger. I’ve gotten smarter as I’ve aged.

Marrying you was the best decision I’ve ever made.

And you still give me the adrenaline rush.

I haven’t completely recovered from seeing you tied to a chair and that bastard hitting you. ”

“Just another day at the office,” I said.

“Which is weird since I’m the cop and out on the streets and you’re the one who’s supposed to be safe in your lab.”

“Here, have a donut.” I shoved one of the eclairs under his nose. “You’ll feel better.”

Twenty minutes later, we were pulling into the Willows Apartment Complex, and the feeling of being watched hadn’t left me. This was a run-down area of King George, close to the county line, just before you crossed the Rappahannock River.

The buildings were generic brick rectangles that squatted like sleeping beasts under the threatening sky, surrounded by patchy grass that looked more dead than alive. Everything about the place screamed temporary—a way station for people who didn’t plan to stay long enough to care.

Building C sat at the back of the complex like it was trying to hide, its entrance marked by concrete steps that had crumbled at the edges. The hallway inside smelled like industrial carpet cleaner and something else—something organic and unpleasant that made me breathe through my mouth.

Apartment 47 was on the second floor, behind a door that had been painted institutional beige so many times the handle looked like it was drowning in layers of paint. Jack knocked, the sound echoing off the narrow hallway walls with hollow finality.

Silence.

He knocked again, harder this time. “Leena Cross?”

The door across the hall cracked open before the echo died, revealing a slice of face belonging to a woman with gray hair and eyes that held the kind of sharp intelligence that came from watching neighbors and filing away their secrets.

“She ain’t been home since yesterday,” the woman said without being asked.

“Heard her leave around six last night with that strange boy who’s been hanging around—the one with the thick glasses.

Then they came back around midnight, making all kinds of racket.

Then she left again, alone this time. Haven’t seen her since. ”

The woman’s eyes fixed on me with uncomfortable intensity. “You’re that coroner, aren’t you? The one who found the dead man. I seen you on the news.”

“Did you see what she was driving?” Jack asked, steering the conversation back on track.

“That ugly black car of hers. Looks like a hearse.” The woman’s gaze never left my face. “There was someone in the car with her. She was making so much noise I kept an eye on her until she left. Just to make sure nothing hinky was going on.”

“Good thinking,” Jack said, but the woman snapped the door shut with the finality of a coffin lid.

“Friendly place,” I said. “I’m guessing the guy in the car was Sheldon. He’s mostly drawing a blank from what happened, but maybe he’s heard from her.”

“Good idea,” Jack said. His phone erupted into sound, the ringtone cutting through the oppressive quiet like a scream. He answered on the first ring. “Lawson.”

I could hear Cole’s voice through the speaker—urgent, clipped. Jack’s face went through a series of micro-expressions as he listened, each one grimmer than the last.

“When?” Jack asked, and the single word carried the weight of someone who already knew the answer would be terrible. “Are you sure about the registration?”

Jack was already walking down the hallway and toward the stairs, so I followed after him.

“We’ll be right there,” he said, hanging up.

“What now?” I asked

“Cole and Martinez ran the partial plate from the surveillance footage.”

“And?”

“It’s registered to Dr. Victoria Mills.”