Page 8

Special Agent Jack Stone

With only three hours of sleep under my belt, the morning sun feels like an intrusion rather than a welcome.

The fact it’s hardly morning anymore is another thing I need to grapple with.

As soon as my lids cracked open, I shot a message to Mitch and asked if he could drop by my cabin.

There aren’t any new messages from Fallon or Nikki and for that I’m grateful. That means they’re probably still dead to the world. We were shooting texts in our group chat well past five in the morning, and seeing that it’s almost nine-thirty, that means I got roughly a whopping three hours of sleep.

I throw myself in the shower, and by the time I get out Jet has already let Mitch into the living room.

The Deckers were saviors to Jet and me after our family imploded. Mom went to prison for knocking back liquor stores and Dad went in for possession of heroin at exactly the same time. My older sister was living with friends at the time. Jet was already eighteen, no room for him in the foster system, and I was seventeen, about to age out myself. But a social worker linked us up with the Deckers who graciously offered to take us in. I finished out my senior year with their son Mitch at Aspen Heights High.

I figure he may have known the women who were targeted better than I did. Mitch and I had the same senior year; Jet was one year ahead of us and out of school at that point.

“Rough night? You look like crap,” Mitch says with a smile like only he can do.

Mitch is tall, dark hair, dark eyes, and always happy. I don’t see why not. There’s not a thing that’s ever gone wrong for the guy. He was an only child until he got saddled with my brother and me. My sister never really got into the Decker picture. She kept up the disappearing act and is hard to keep track of even to this day.

“Thank you,” I tell him with a scowl. “You want coffee?” I say, moving toward the kitchen, eager to help myself to a cup of joe.

“I brought it,” Mitch says, heading to the kitchen table where Jet is already sucking on a cup from the local coffee shop and there’s one for me, too.

“I hope it’s black, strong, and lethal,” I moan as I take one of the brown cardboard cups for myself and toast Mitch with it. “Thank you.”

Mitch looks sharp in a dark navy suit and red tie. Unlike Jet whose hair is mussed and eyes are rimmed with what looks like dark bruises.

Jet is tall, lanky, and sinewy, although with less muscles than should qualify. He’s been an alcoholic for as long as I can remember, and for a good portion of our teenage years, I was right there with him. I cleaned up when we landed at the Deckers’ house, but he snuck liquor and coke and whatever else he could find to continue with the destruction of his existence.

Cocaine was my thing for a while, too, and every now and again I’d love to have a few lines to get me through a rough patch. Last night would have been great.

“Jet,” Mitch says as the two of us join him at the table. “I heard they couldn’t keep you tied down at that rehab center last week. You okay? You need a ride back that way?”

“No.” Jet is quick to reject the offer. “I’ve dried out enough for now. Jack likes to make it a challenge to wet my whistle. I’m content with just being fed for the time being.”

I’d make a quip about growing up, getting a job, getting a life, but it’s nothing that hasn’t been said before and I’d rather not waste the energy. I’m going to need every ounce of it for what the day ahead is going to bring.

“So what’s the plan?” Mitch asks the questions for me, looking at Jet from over the rim of his coffee as he takes a sip.

“There’s a help wanted sign down at the diner.” Jet gives a greasy smile in my direction.

“No way,” I say, aborting a sip of my coffee to get the words out faster. I shrug at Mitch. “It belongs to my partner’s mother and he knows it. He’s just trying to get under my skin.”

“I’m just trying to get a life,” Jet huffs my way as if he means it.

He doesn’t.

Mitch lifts a brow. “Special Agent Fallon Baxter?”

Mitch and Fallon met at the coroner’s office a couple of weeks back. I can tell she made an impression on him. The wrong one.

“Yes, her,” I say, shooting him a look that suggests we change the topic.

“So what’s up?” Mitch lifts his chin my way while bringing his coffee to his lips again.

“I’ve got a couple of cases that came in last night. A kidnapping out in Aspen Heights and a murder in Cedar Grove. I thought you might want to know about them.”

“Why’s that?” Mitch’s demeanor darkens a notch and I can tell he’s wondering if this has something to do with the morgue. The Deckers own and operate the morgue down in Elmwood. Mostly it’s just Mitch these days since Jim and Sarah have all but retired.

“The kidnapped woman is Brittney Walker. She was taken from a house she was showing in Aspen Heights.” I pause long enough for his eyes to widen a notch. “And miles away in Cedar Grove, someone broke in and stabbed Robin Lowell to death.”

Mitch inches back, his face losing color. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Is this connected?”

“I think so,” I say. “Although I can’t stake my life on it. But these women do have something in common outside of both being from our senior class.”

“I dated them both.” Mitch’s lips turn down as he glowers at me and nods. “And so did you.”

Silence clots up the room before Jet sighs hard. “Dude.” He lands his coffee hard on the table. “You’re both in deep.”

“Neither of us is in anything,” I say, looking at Mitch. “Between you and me, we dated nearly every girl we graduated with. At this point, it hardly means a thing. Do you remember anything about them? Were they troublemakers?”

I spent all night scouring my memory for anything that could have stood out.

“We only went out with troublemakers,” he says without missing a beat. “That was essentially our type.”

“True,” I grunt. “Do you still have your yearbooks?”

I didn’t own one myself. It cost a mint and I didn’t have the money. And even though I held down a part-time job back then, I didn’t want to fork out what amounted to an entire day’s wage. I figure Mitch had one, that was good enough.

He thinks on it a moment. “They’re at my parents’ house. I’ll run over and scoop them up for you.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I fish it out. It’s a text from Fallon.

“Baxter is headed to the coroner’s office,” I say. “I’m heading that way, too.”

“Then that’s where I’ll find you,” Mitch says.

He takes off and I throw on my shoes. I threaten Jet to stay the hell away from the diner as I dart out the door.

It looks as if I’m going to be catching up with Robin Lowell once more.

Too bad it’s with her corpse.