Jacob King is more than one kiss and a lot of pissing me off. That becomes utterly, completely obvious when, in the midst of a courtroom that is press-laden, he’s chaos in an unexpected way. I sit in the front row, just behind Evelyn, where she sits at her DA assigned table and despite the buzzing crowd all enthralled by the billionaire CEO and his dead wife and child, I know the moment he enters the courtroom. I have this sudden, intense, overwhelming awareness of him that I’ve never had with any other person in my life. I fight the urge to turn and look behind me, certain he’s close, perhaps in the row directly behind me, but I resist my need for confirmation. I’m simply not willing to let anyone know that I’m looking for him, especially since he’s not the only one I feel. The slayer is here. I know because I sense him, too. I can’t explain how I know that either, but somehow I really do have a stalker, but his name is not Jacob, and he’s here now, too.
I pull my phone from my jacket and text Jacob the exact words he spoke to me earlier: You feel it, right?
His reply is instant. Yes, but I don’t have a visual.
I am more relieved than I should be at his reply and confirmation that he is here. I’m not supposed to need comfort. I’m supposed to give it, and usually that works out well. I’ve learned, like most detectives, how to remain sympathetic to those I help, but also know how to tune out the parts of my job that would destroy me: those human parts that I can’t allow to exist, and survive this job. But that talent is failing me now. The idea of being watched for years, and not knowing it, has shaken me in ways that I don’t ever want to be shaken, and having Jacob at my back isn’t all that bad after all. Kissing him isn’t all that bad either.
I type a reply: Where are you? but before I hit send, a loud rumble of murmurs draws my attention to the door to the left of the judge’s podium where the defendant is being escorted into the room. That defendant being Bruce Norton, the tall, dark, and obviously deadly, thirty-eight-year-old tech CEO billionaire who I damn sure know killed his wife and unborn child. The pretty boy who’s now traded in the orange jumpsuit I put him in for one of his ten-thousand-dollar suits. I want him back in that jumpsuit.
Sticking my phone back in my pocket, I watch Norton’s attorney, pretty boy Davis York, re-enter the courtroom after a previous departure, from the same door Norton had entered. In a blue suit that competes in price tag with his client’s, he and his client take side by side seats at their table. I wonder how York looks at himself in the mirror every morning, but then, men like him tend to look in their wallets, at their cash, not at themselves. Though I have a feeling both of these slime bags tell themselves how gorgeous they are, how inferior the rest of the world is to them, every single day of their lives. I decide right then that I don’t like pretty men. On the other hand, I apparently do, in fact, like ruggedly handsome men, which is what I’d called Jacob, a conclusion I base on the fact that, I sure as hell did kiss him back and enjoy every damn moment of it. Well, until afterward, when I had to hear him point out how much I enjoyed it.
York looks over at the DA’s table, and gives Evelyn a wink sure to be reported in the news. I watch Evelyn’s perfectly manicured fingers tightening around her pencil, indicating her well-communicated dislike for the bastard, as well. She leans over and speaks to her co-counsel, her long blonde silky hair draped down her navy suit dress and I imagine her saying just that: bastard.
The judge is announced and the packed courtroom is instantly on its feet. The insanity of shoulder-to-shoulder bodies here for a bail-related event, proof that a good-looking billionaire always steals the show. In this case, the lives of his wife and unborn child, as well.
York stands. “Judge, my client is the CEO of a company that not only provides jobs for this state, but contributes substantially in taxes. By leaving him out of the driver’s seat, and behind bars, the performance of that high-performing employer is in jeopardy, thus so are jobs and tax dollars.” He lifts a folder. “I have fifty character references for your review.”
Prepared for just this action, Evelyn stands up to present the counter that she and I prepared. “Aside from the fact that the defendant is filthy rich, and has the means to flee the country, he stands to inherit even more money from his wealthy, deceased wife.”
“Objection,” York says. “We don’t have the bodies. She may well have used her money and ran away.”
“We’ll show evidence that clearly shows the defendant killed his young, beautiful, rich wife, and her unborn child. As for a flight risks,” she holds up a folder of her own, “I have the only character reference that will matter. The female detective on the case who the defendant attempted to seduce.”
“Objection, judge,” York calls out yet again. “Do you know how many women proposition my client daily? When he turns them down, they get vicious. And that’s what this entire case is about. A jealous female detective who lashed out when she didn’t get a sugar daddy.”
I don’t react but Evelyn laughs, offering a quick, well prepared rebuttal. “Should I object to the ridiculousness of that statement,” she asks, “or the sexist narrative, or how about I just let the court know that the detective in question recorded the conversation?” She flaps the folder in the air. “I have the transcript right here.”
The judge, a fifty-something distinguished-looking man with dark salt-and-pepper hair, motions to the court clerk. “Bring it to me.”
“Objection,” York shouts. “I have not had the opportunity to review the transcript.”
“I have a copy for you,” Evelyn says sweetly, walking one to him, while the clerk hands one off to the judge.
York studies the statement, but I can’t make out his face. He sets the file down and the courtroom watches the judge read his file, before looking up sharply, focused on Evelyn. “Is Detective Carpenter present?”
“She is,” Evelyn replies.
“I’d like her to validate this statement.”
“Objection, judge,” York calls out. “This is highly irregular and—”
“Overruled,” the judge bites out.
I stand up and walk toward the gate, while Evelyn directs the appropriate people to allow my passage. Both pretty boys turn to look at me, and in turn, I give them both direct, cold stares. I join Evelyn, who has a hard look on her face, and together we face the judge.
“Detective Carpenter,” the judge addresses.
“Yes, your Honor?” I say.
“Please tell me in your own words what took place.”
“Evidence directed my focus to the defendant. When my questions became uncomfortable for him, he tried to kiss me, and then asked me to leave the country, and the investigation behind to travel to Europe with him.”
“To which you said?” the judge asks.
“I asked him who would find his dead wife and unborn child’s bodies while we were gone? And of course, judge, at this point, I wonder who would run his company. Obviously, that wasn’t the same concern just one month ago, when this took place, that it is now.”
York pops to his feet. “Objection. Snark is not evidential testimony.”
“Fortunately,” the judge states, “this is an informal proceeding.” He looks at me again. “Detective, do you believe he meant to flee the country?”
“I believe he meant to ensure he didn’t have to flee the country by winning my favor, which unfortunately for him, belongs to his dead wife and child.”
The judge studies me for several beats and then says, “You’re dismissed, detective.”
I nod and exchange a look with Evelyn, a nervous but confident energy between us, before I return to my seat, but before I even sit back down, I hear, “No bail.” There are murmurs in the court and the judge hammers his desktop. Chaos erupts, and Evelyn gives me a celebratory thumbs-up, but as pleased as I am with the ruling, it’s not over. For the next fifteen minutes, I am trapped in the center of chatter, objections, and finally, finality in the judge’s decision. When it’s all said and done, I push my way through the crowd, but not before pretty boy attorney catches my gaze, and surprisingly, there’s amusement in his eyes. Almost like he’s playing some cat and mouse game and we just took the bait he wanted us to take. But we won. His client is stuck behind bars. Unease rolls through me. What does he know that we don’t?
He turns away and I make my way through the crowd, but I don’t see or feel Jacob anymore. I don’t see or feel the slayer either, which leads me to the conclusion, that maybe, just maybe, Jacob found him, and he’s now following him. I’d find comfort in that, but I have this sense of disorder that started with pretty boy attorney and his smile. I head toward the stairwell, and I’m one flight down when my cellphone rings. I glance at the caller ID, unfazed by the unknown number, considering I hand out my card freely.
“Detective Carpenter,” I say, exiting the courthouse.
“Detective,” a mildly familiar male voice states. “Interesting. Are you fucking with me? Is this a game?”
“Who is this and what do you want?”
“Davis York,” he confirms, “but you know that, right?”
I stop walking and freeze. Pretty boy attorney? “How did you get my number?”
“I had a message that it was urgent that I call this number, no name given.”
“Who gave you the message?” I ask. “Your billionaire baby-killing client?”
“He’s innocent, detective. And a security guard gave me your number. You weren’t behind it?”
“If I wanted to talk to you, I’d walk right up to you.”
“Uh,” he says. “Someone must think they’re entertaining.”
I fight the urge to glance around me and look for that someone, if there is a someone other than his client. “Perhaps they saw the smirk you gave me in the courtroom,” I say, heading down the stairs.
“Smirk. Interesting. I never have considered myself a smirking kind of guy. But why don’t we have coffee and talk about it?”
I hang up before he can try to get information from me, only to find Detective Rodriquez, waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, and he does not have a donut to offer me this time. “What a coincidence, Rodriquez,” I say, joining him. “I think you’re the only grown man I know that can pull off a black suede jacket and dress pants and not look like he’s going to junior high prom.”
“Coincidence?” he scowls, ignoring my commentary on his attire. “What the fuck? I got a message you needed back-up.”
“What are you talking about? Who gave you that message and when?”
“You wanted me to meet you here.” He pulls his phone from the blazer he’s wearing and shows me the message from the front desk at the precinct: Carpenter needs backup. Meet her on the courthouse steps when the bail hearing adjourns.
A foreboding feeling slides through me but I downplay it to Rodriquez. “The switchboard owes you a donut. That message wasn’t for you.” I turn and start walking toward the subway, hoping to get rid of him and call Jacob, but it doesn’t work. Rodriquez falls into step beside me.
“Who the fuck was it for then?”
“Someone taller, bigger, and a better kisser than you,” I say, trying to distract him from a problem I don’t want him in the middle of now or ever.
“You’ve never kissed me,” he points out. “You don’t know that.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Says the virgin detective.”
“Why are you still with me right now?” I ask, not about to be lured into a conversation about my sex life, or lack thereof, with Rodriquez.
“Any lead on finding the rich dude’s dead wife?”
“No,” I say, glancing over at him. “Why?”
“I know a guy.” He reaches in his pocket and hands me a name and number. “You need to know him, too.”
I glace at the white piece of paper with a name and number written on it. “Why do I need to know this guy?”
“He makes problems disappear,” he says, as we approach the entrance to the subway. “If your billionaire CEO made his dead wife go away, he’d be the one to make it happen.”
“And you know this how?” I ask, stopping at one of a dozen gates that require a card to be swiped before they open.
“I’m supposed to know shit,” he says.
“But why do you know this guy?” I ask.
“It’s my damn job, Little C.”
I swipe my card through the gate and walk through, expecting him to do the same, but on the other side, he’s not there. I turn and find him walking backward, away from the terminal, but still facing me. “I forgot a meeting I need to be at,” he says, giving me a two-finger wave. “Call my guy. He can help.” He turns and leaves.
Meeting, my ass, I think. He just doesn’t want to tell me how he knows this guy, and now I have no service, which means I’ve missed the chance to call Jacob about whatever the hell these weird games are that someone is playing with me. And where is Jacob, who stalked me until I actually wanted to find him? I head into the terminal and once I’m on my crowded train, I set my Spidey senses into action, and I just don’t think he’s here. Someone from Walker Security must be, but I don’t know who or where.
The ride is short and I’m street-side quickly, a short walk from the station, with service returned to my phone. As soon as I hit the sidewalk, I expect my cellphone to ring or Jacob to step to my side. He doesn’t. A bad feeling rushes over me. What if Jacob was a trigger and the slayer went after him? I take my phone from my pocket and dial his number. It goes to voicemail and I have a sudden realization. He is Mr. Professional, but he kissed me. Shortly after Adam showed up and made himself known to me. Either Jacob asked to be removed from my protective order or he was pulled by Royce Walker. Or he was killed by the slayer.
Arriving at the precinct door, I stop walking and lean on the wall, quickly locating the Walker Security phone number. I punch it into my cell, only to be greeted by an answering service. “I need to have Royce Walker and Jacob King call me. It’s Detective Jewel Carpenter and it’s urgent.”
Concerned for Jacob, I consider calling my father, but I don’t want to worry him, and surely the answering service will get the message to Royce for me and quickly. I decide I’ll give them fifteen minutes and no more. If necessary, I’ll go find a Walker Brother to help me. And Jacob is a Green Beret. He’s not a boy scout, as proven by his handling of his weapon, not to mention the kiss.
I head inside the building, and remember that stack of cards on my old desk. I head to that level and today everyone is gone or has their head down, with only one stray “Little C” shout before I arrive at my desk. Rodriquez is nowhere in sight, but then neither is the card I’d left on my desk. Which is odd. Really damn odd. The others are here. Maybe I took it to my new office and just don’t remember, but I don’t think that is the case. “Detective Carpenter!”
At the sound of Lieutenant Ross, or rather, my boss, shouting my name, I rotate to find him standing in his doorway. “Get in here.”
I assume he wants to talk about the bodies I have yet to produce for the trial, rather than the good news that the billionaire killer is still behind bars. That’s his job. Push me. And push some more. Unfortunately, I think, crossing toward him where he waits for me in the doorway, I have an obligation to tell him about the slayer. Upon my arrival, he steps back and allows my entry. I clear the doorway and cut left to the seats, only to find Jacob standing in front of the desk, facing me. Adrenaline races through me, driven by anger and betrayal, and with my boss at my back, I walk up to him, and say, “Asshole” in a semi-low voice before Lieutenant Ross’s door shuts.
Jacob gives me a cool gray stare, but he doesn’t react, because of course Mr. Robot is back, though not to stay. I’m going to take care of Jacob King like he’s never been taken care of before. And soon.
He’s going to find out that I’m also more than the kiss he used to manipulate me. I’m the kiss he’s never going to forget.