CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 

 

It was five thirty in the morning and Trace had already had two cups of coffee. He exited the 210 Freeway at Fair Oaks Avenue and headed north towards Kiki’s house. He’d been up since four, inexplicably unable to sleep, and had waited an hour before showering and getting in his truck.

He stopped at a Starbucks once he got off the freeway and got two cups of coffee. A couple of miles up Fair Oaks was the turn for Kiki’s house and he made the right-hand turn to the east. Her house was two blocks down on the corner and he could already see it, the big bastion set against the coming dawn. He could also see several police units and an ambulance parked all around it and, suddenly, his happy morning wasn’t so happy. In fact, he was immediately concerned. His heart leapt into his throat.

The coffee was forgotten as he came to a screeching halt across the street because her house was surrounded by rescue vehicles. Turning the truck off, he bailed out and ran across the fairly busy street without looking, dodging between two cop cars and charging through the old wrought iron gate, which was open. There were cops in the yard, on the porch, and other people he really didn’t care about and couldn’t make out in the darkness. The first cop he came across reached out and grabbed him.

“Hold on, there,” the African-American officer had a grip on his arm. “Who are you?”

Trace was fairly close to a state of panic. “I’m… the woman that lives here,” he stammered. “I’m her… boyfriend. Is she okay? What happened?”

The cop didn’t let him go. He put the radio microphone clipped to his collar up to his mouth. “What’s your name, son?” he asked quietly.

“Rocklin. Trace Rocklin.”

The officer contacted someone on the radio and gave them Trace’s name. There was some chatter coming back, but Trace was ready to explode.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed. “Would you just tell me if she’s okay? What happened?”

The cop let go of him and held up a soothing hand as he exchanged information with someone on the radio. Trace finally heard someone clear him to be there but he was directed to remain outside with an escort for the moment. The cop acknowledged the instructions before answering Trace.

“The paramedics are with her,” he finally said.

Trace didn’t know if he felt better or worse. “What in the hell happened?”

“Break in,” the cop replied. “So… you don’t live here with her?”

Trace shook his head. “No.”

“It’s just her?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

The cop wriggled his eyebrows. “Hmmm,” he put his hands on his hips, a rather beefy man with a shaved head, and looked around the yard. “You know, I remember this house growing up. The neighborhood is a little better now than it was when I was a kid, but a woman living in this area alone… I don’t know if I would be comfortable with that. The projects around the corner at Summit and Painter are the worst in the city. They’re still pretty bad.”

Trace couldn’t disagree. “She bought the house to restore it,” he explained, but he really didn’t want to talk about the house. He wanted to talk about Kiki. “Can I see her, please?”

The cop shook his head patiently. “The detectives are still questioning her. You can when they’re finished.”

“Why are they questioning her?”

The cop scratched his chin, rather reluctantly. “The guy that broke into the house is dead,” he said, somewhat quietly. “It’s a clear case of self-defense, but the detectives still need to question her.”

Trace’s eyes widened. “Did she kill him?”

The cop nodded slowly. “Looks that way.”

Trace couldn’t help it; his jaw dropped. “Oh, my God,” he breathed, trying to wrap his mind around the news. “Well, hell, does she at least have a lawyer with her while they question her? Why can’t I go up there and at least sit with her while this is going on?”

The cop patted him on the shoulder to calm him down because he was getting agitated. “Hold on,” he said as he spoke into his radio again and some chatter went back and forth. “I’m working on it.”

Trace was agitated and upset, making it difficult for him to stand still. He shifted around on his big legs, his gaze moving over the yard, the porch, and all of the activity going on. There were cops in the bushes, on the porch, checking windows, and shining their flashlights on the ground as they looked for evidence. Then, a cop emerged from the front door carrying something in his arms. It took Trace a moment to realize the man had Stanley. He bolted for the dog before the African-American cop could stop him.

“Bullfrog,” he went straight for the dog with his arms out. “Can I please have the dog? Is he okay?”

The cop holding Stanley only handed him over when the African-American cop nodded at him. Trace collected Stanley and scratched him on the head.

“Hey, buddy,” he actually hugged the dog, glad to see him. “Are you okay?”

“He’s fine,” the cop who had brought the dog out of the house spoke. “He was in the shower enclosure the entire time. Not a scratch.”

Trace looked at the tall, rather heavy-set white cop/dog-handler. “How’s Katharine?” he wanted to know. “Can I please see her?”

“One of the detectives is going to talk to you in a minute.”

Trace knew he had to be satisfied with that for the moment. At least he was getting somewhere. He stood there and held the dog, petting his head for a few minutes before finally setting him to his feet so he could go do his doggy business. He ended up following Stanley around the yard as the dog sniffed and dug around, being typically nosy. This went on for about twenty minutes until a handsome man in a pair of dark slacks and a dress shirt approached him from the house.

“Hi,” the man extended his hand to Trace, who took it. “I’m Detective Bugh.”

Trace shook his hand and released it. “Trace Rocklin.”

“Nice to meet you,” Bugh said. “Mrs. Conrad wants to see you, but I wanted to talk to you first and kind of explain what’s going on.”

Trace bent over and scooped the dog up before he could run off. “I’d appreciate it.”

The detective motioned him to walk with him towards the house. “I take it you don’t live here with her?”

Trace shook his head as he followed the detective. “Not yet,” he replied. “We were, in fact, discussing that topic today.”

Bugh nodded. “When was the last time you saw her?

“Last night at about six.”

“Do you have a house key?”

“No.”

“Where do you live?”

“Monrovia; about ten miles to the east.”

“And you were there all night?”

“I was.”

“Any witnesses to that?”

“I saw one of my brothers at about ten when he swung by my house to pick up a tool chest I had. Why?”

The detective shook his head. “Just asking,” he replied. “It’s all routine; especially when there’s a death involved.”

Trace sighed heavily as they mounted the steps to the porch. “So what happened?”

The detective opened the enormous front door. “As far as we can tell, a single intruder broke in at around four in the morning,” he said as they stepped into the cavernous sitting room, dimly lit by a single floor lamp. “He broke in through the utility room by smashing a window and climbing in. So he comes inside and makes it upstairs where Ms. Conrad is hiding in the master bathroom. The intruder hears her, kicks the door in to get to her, and she’s waiting for him with a pair of scissors. A fight ensues and she manages to shove the scissors into his left eye, into his brain. Pretty much killed him instantly.”

By this time, Trace was staring at him in shock and horror. “Oh, God,” he breathed. “Is she really okay? He didn’t… rape her, did he?”

Bugh led him over to the stairs that went up to the second floor. He paused and faced Trace. “He didn’t rape her,” he muttered. “Look, we think the guy was a drug addict looking for money, or drugs, or whatever. He was probably high, which made him crazy, and he attacked your girlfriend. There’s no question of that. She’s terrified and banged up, and she’s been throwing up pretty steadily since we arrived. We called the paramedics but she doesn’t want to go with them. For her sake, she really should. The guy smacked her around pretty good. I agreed to let you come in to the crime scene to see her in the hopes that you could talk her in to going to the hospital.”

Trace felt sick. He nodded, firmly, and followed the detective up the stairs and into the dark hallway on the second floor. There were more cops up there, plus fire department personnel. The hallway ended at the master bedroom and he entered the fairly crowded room, including the body of the burglar still lying in the bathroom doorway. The Crime Scene Investigation team was there, photographing and cataloging everything.

The sight of the blood and body didn’t bother him in the least; he’d seen much worse during his days with the CIA. In fact, it hardly registered with him other than the man was white and young. His focus was on Kiki, sitting on the bed in full view of the death and blood. The first thing he did was growl.

“Jesus,” he turned to the detective. “Does she really have to sit in here with this mess? Couldn’t you have at least moved her to another room for questioning?”

Kiki heard Trace’s voice, turning to see him in the bedroom doorway holding Stanley in his arms, looking rather distressed. The tears that had so recently fled returned as their eyes met and her face crumpled. Tears poured down her cheeks. Trace went to her immediately, setting Stanley on the bed so he could put his arms around her.

The first feel of his arms around her, safe and strong and warm, did Kiki in. She sobbed deeply, her face in his shoulder, as he held her tightly. She was still terrified, disoriented and overwhelmed with everything that had happened. It was rather ironic that her first real embrace with Trace had to be over a crisis, but she didn’t care. In fact, she was hugely grateful for it. She’d never felt more comfort, from anyone, in her life.

Trace was feeling much the same sensations. It was warm and wonderful and delicious to have her in his arms, but the circumstances were less that desirable. Regardless, he was thrilled, and he’d never felt more protective over anything in his life. .

“Hey,” he kissed her head, “let me get a look at you. They told me you got pretty banged up.”’

Sobbing, she wouldn’t let him go when he tried to get a look at her injuries. She just wanted to be held, so Trace gave up trying to loosen her grip and just held her, rocking her gently as she cried. She caved into him and he held her snuggly, loving the feel of her against him in spite of the circumstances. He could have very easily lost himself in that embrace. But then he began to look around, seeing the paramedics watching what was going on. The guys had gloves on, and it was obvious they’d been trying to examine her. Given her mental state, Trace was pretty sure she hadn’t made it easy. He was a bit firmer when he pulled back the second time.

“Hey,” he said, gently but firmly. He cupped her face between his two big hands. “Let me have a look at you, okay? You’re scaring me to death. Where did he hurt you?”

Kiki struggled to calm down, her sobs now reducing to hiccups. “I… I don’t even know,” she sniffled. “It all happened so fast.”

He sighed sympathetically and kissed her forehead. “Did you let the paramedics look at you?”

She nodded, pale and watery-eyed. “Uh-huh.”

He looked as if he didn’t believe her. “Did you really.”

Again, she nodded. “Well… I tried. I think I did. But I don’t need to be looked at. I’m okay.”

He looked up to the three men standing next to the bed, who looked back at him with various expressions of disbelief. Trace suspected what their expressions meant. He nodded his head in Kiki’s direction.

“Go ahead,” he told them softly. “Do what you need to do.”

Kiki stiffened up but Trace put a big arm around her shoulders, calming her. “I won’t leave, I promise,” he said, trying to position himself so he was blocking her view of the corpse in the bathroom door. “I’ll sit right here. Bullfrog and I would feel a lot better if you’d let the paramedics examine you. He’s pretty shook up; look at him. He’s all kinds of crazy. I think you need to let the paramedics look at you so he’ll calm down.”

That brought a weak smile to her lips as she glanced over at Stanley, who was now sleeping on the pillow behind her like he’d been on a three-day drinking binge. The dog was as far as he could be from being shook up. With Trace’s calming presence, the paramedics were able to do a bit more than just take her blood pressure and give her a cursory exam. She gagged once during their exam, dry-heaving as a result of her nerves, and the paramedics were gentle with her about it. As they worked, Trace watched closely. He even helped them when they wanted to get a look at her right forearm but she wasn’t too forthcoming in showing them. Detective Bugh stood by, taking notes.

“Are those marks on her forearm defensive wounds?” he asked the paramedic.

The older paramedic with the dark hair and blue eyes nodded. “Yes,” he said clinically. “She’s got them on her hands, too, and on her left forearm to a lesser degree.”

Bugh jotted notes before looking at Kiki. “Do you remember much after he broke into the bathroom, Mrs. Conrad?” he asked, not unkindly. “Did he say anything? Did you immediately try to fight him off or did you first try to get away from him?”

Kiki was in a daze, watching them examine her right arm. “I’m not really sure,” she sighed. “He kicked the door in and then everything seems like a blur after that. I had the scissors in my hand because it was the only weapon I had and I just started slashing at him when he came at me. He… he pushed me or hit me. I don’t really know, but I fell on the floor and he started kicking me. So I stabbed his foot, I think. I remember hacking at his shoes. He started yelling and when he bent down, I slashed at his head.”

“That must have been when you stabbed his eye,” the detective said quietly. “He probably bent over as a reflex action when you stabbed his foot.”

Kiki nodded, not really wanting to think about that moment in time. “I don’t really know,” she said, rather listlessly. “All I know is that his head came down and I aimed for it. I knew if I didn’t kill him, he was going to kill me.”

She started to weep, softly, and Trace hugged her as he looked up at the detective. He didn’t want her getting all worked up again. “Are we done with this?” he asked softly. “I’d like to get her to the hospital.”

Bugh nodded. “Actually, that’s the most coherent thing we’ve gotten out of her since we arrived,” he said. “We can stop for now but I’m going to want to talk to her again tomorrow, once she’s had a chance to calm down and rest.”

Trace nodded but he was already impatient, already wanting to get Kiki out of that room with the dead guy in it, a constant reminder of her brush with death.

“At least let her get some sleep,” he said. Then he looked at the paramedics. “I’ll help you get her downstairs.”

The paramedics were already moving as Trace stood up, pulling Kiki up with him. She was trembling; he could feel it. Bending over, he picked her up and cradled her against his broad chest, but the moment he started to move, she balked.

“My dog,” she said. “I don’t want to leave him behind.”

She was starting to get panicky. He gave her a squeeze. “Let me get you downstairs and then I’ll come back for Bullfrog. I promise I won’t leave him behind, okay?”

That seemed to calm her down and she nodded. He kissed her cheek and took her downstairs where the ambulance attendants and the gurney were waiting. Kiki eyed the gurney.

“Trace,” she said softly. “I really don’t think I need to go to the hospital. I didn’t break anything. I just want to go to sleep.”

He was gentle with her. “Honey, I’d feel much better if you’d just let the doctor check you out to make sure you’re okay,” he said, his voice low. “It scares the shit out of me to think of you fighting with that guy. He could have really hurt you. I just want to make sure you’re okay. For my own peace of mind, will you please just go and get checked out?”

He turned it around a little, making it seem like she was doing him a favor by going to the hospital. She was reluctant, but agreed.

“Okay,” she said as he set her to her feet. “But will you please come with me? I don’t like hospitals.”

“Of course I will,” he said, rubbing her back soothingly as the paramedics coaxed her onto the gurney. “I’m going to go upstairs and get Bullfrog and meet you there, okay?”

“Okay.”

He bent over and kissed her on the lips, the first real kiss between them. It was as soft, warm and sweet as it could possibly be, and he kissed her again just because he liked it so much. Then he winked at her.

“I’ll meet you over there, I promise,” he murmured. “But I’ve got to go get the dog before he starts tearing people up. He’s so damn vicious.”

She giggled. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

“Anytime. He’s my wingman, remember?”

She grinned as the paramedics got her situated and the ambulance attendants strapped her down. At least she was smiling, which he was thankful for. He continued to stand there and smile at her as they got her oriented and wheeled her out of the front of the house just as the coroner was entering. He thought it might set her off again but she didn’t even look at the guys in white. She just lay there, head turned and eyes closed. When she was finally wheeled through the door and heading to the ambulance, Trace bolted up the stairs and back to the master bedroom where the investigation team was winding up their fact finding mission. He went straight for Detective Bugh.

“I’m going to the hospital with her,” he told the man, “but I need to fix the broken window downstairs and secure the house. Can I go ahead and do that?”

Bugh nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I think we’re pretty much finished here. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure this all out, so give us a couple of hours and we should be finished.”

Trace nodded, digging in his pocket and pulling out a business card. He handed it to the detective. “Call me when you’re finished so I can start getting the place secured,” he said. “I’d appreciate it.”

Bugh looked at the card. “Rocklin Construction?” he snorted. “You guys did the new police wing.”

“I know.”

Bugh tucked the card into his pocket. “I’ll call you when we’re ready to move,” he said. “But you might want to consider getting a cleaning company in here to take care of the blood on the floor. She’s not going to want to come home to this.”

“I’m way ahead of you on that.”

The detective nodded and Trace went over to the bed where Stanley was snoring. He was also farting up a storm. Trace wrinkled his nose at the stinky dog as he shook him awake before picking him up with one arm. With the other hand, he dug into his pocket for his cell phone.

He was making calls before he even left the house.