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Physical Forces by D.D. Ayres (8)

 

Macayla knew the exact second it went wrong. The courtroom had been filled with the hum of voices—not unusual before the bailiff called the room to order with the appearance of the judge. In that moment, only she saw the man enter the child custody hearing room of the Tallahassee courthouse, the beginnings of his smile telegraphing his intent.

He came straight toward her and her partner Katie, a mixed Lab, who was a courthouse facility dog. They were sitting off to one side, waiting with this man’s ten-year-old daughter until it was time for her to testify against him in a domestic abuse case.

That little puff of air. It escaped between his fleshy lips like the sigh from the neck of a balloon.

And then she was looking down the barrel of a pistol. Everything after that disappeared behind the metallic glare of that hollow eye.

No time to scream.

There was only the impulse to throw herself over the child hugging her dog. To shield, protect, block whatever came next.

She didn’t feel her body moving. Only dimly registered the flash. Barely heard the shot.

Pain. Searing through skin. Tearing into muscle. Cracking bone. The stunning sensation of fire, inside, stopping her breath.

*   *   *

Macayla opened her eyes, staring at nothing until her vision adjusted and she realized she was looking at the ceiling of her bungalow on 49th Street in Gulfport, Florida. She didn’t need to glance at the clock. She knew what time it was: five forty-seven a.m. She woke every morning at the same time. Every time.

It had been nearly six months since she’d woken scrambling into reality from that particular nightmare, a year since the actual event.

She should feel grateful for the half-year reprieve. Except that it had been replaced three weeks ago by a different specter, of an infrared image stalking her with a flame-barreled gun. Now the uglier memory had reinserted itself into her life. Two experiences blending together in horrifying detail.

She felt a bit sick, like she’d been too long in the Florida sun in a small boat, on a rocking sea.

She put a hand to her mouth and levered herself upright. “Not going to hurl. So not going to do that.”

Her voice sounded dry in the silence, like the heaves would be if they defied her and came anyway. “It’s just a dream. Just a friggin’ dream!”

Maybe. But nothing about the dream, or her reaction to it, had altered in any way during the past year. The same flop sweat as before made the sheets stick to her torso and legs like Saran Wrap. The same sick pounding of her heart remained long after her eyes were wide open to reality.

Months of counseling had helped. She no longer felt the guilt of not shouting out in warning. She was a hero. Everyone said so. Because the child’s life had been saved by her.

But she’d lost Katie.

Macayla opened her mouth as wide as she could, until she felt her jaws would crack. She’d learned that trick in middle school. Opening your mouth really wide pinched the tear ducts shut. An important bit of knowledge for a girl navigating seventh grade. And now.

Not thinking about Katie.

Not owning a dog or cat helped. Sticking to helping others hold on to their precious pets. That was enough for her.

Her gaze lit automatically on the lead-glass dolphin night-light plugged into the wall a few feet away. The cheerful blue-and-white creature was in midflight, tail arched to complete a backflip over a curl of silver surf. She’d bought it in a baby store to keep her company at night. Something to focus on when life threatened to overwhelm her. How shameful was that?

She’d once heard a TED Talk where people heralded as heroes tried to make sense of the impulse to risk everything for a stranger. They all said the same thing.

“It seemed the right thing to do. I didn’t really think about it.”

Didn’t think.

Those two words still haunted her, a year later. That was her greatest failing. When something or someone was in trouble, she often didn’t stop to think. Like yesterday. First when the Pom nearly ran into the street, and then later when she saw those guys destroying her car, she’d acted without stopping to think. If she’d thought twice about her actions, she could have kept Oliver from getting into a fight. For her.

That thought brought her up short. Oliver had fought for her. And been injured, though he’d clearly won that battle.

She couldn’t help smiling at the memory of him grinning like a kid, with blood running down his face. She’d been both horrified and a bit turned on.

“You hypocrite.” The words hung in the silence.

Some women thought men getting in a fight for or over them was sexy. The idea had never appealed. She didn’t want anyone in jeopardy for her. Why should she feel a surge of lust for a man who was a stranger, just because he’d bested two other guys?

Okay, not just because of that. Oliver Kelly was something else. Funny, irreverent, and caring. He’d offered to buy her a meal when he thought she was a street person foraging for food. Not your average guy. More than charming.

He had a very nice smile. She liked nice smiles.

Maybe she should have been nicer.

Make that definitely.

So maybe she’d go to see his male revue after all.

Feeling a little less shaky, she palmed her cell phone off the nearby table to check the time. “Crap!” It was now after six a.m. She was supposed to report to Jefferina Franklin, who’d been on a stakeout overnight. They were meeting in twenty minutes. The PI business had a lot in common with shift work. Assignments often meant working at night and sleeping as one could find time during the day.

Mac peeled herself free of damp sheets and swung both tan legs over the side of the bed. The painful catch in her lower left side caught her by surprise.

She stood up gingerly and felt along her left side below her ribs. Something must have gotten wrenched when she was stiff-armed to the ground the day before. She’d been so pumped with adrenaline, it hadn’t registered. The soreness was a reminder that, though it had been a year, she had not gotten away without her own scars, emotional and physical.

Hit man.

Sam’s words drifted into the sun-drenched bedroom like an unseen specter.

Mac shivered and reached for the T-shirt she’d peeled off during the night. The police didn’t believe she’d witnessed a crime? Yet she had video proof of the altercation. What did they think happened?

Professional hit.

That sounded like something from a thriller. She was just a pet detective. She’d just been in the wrong—no, the right place, at the wrong time. Still, it wasn’t her problem. There’d been nothing in the media about the crime—no, non-crime. Nothing to connect her to what she’d witnessed. Or her discovery of the greyhounds. She’d never even met the greyhound owners. Jefferina had been the contact. Whatever had occurred had nothing to do with her. She was safe. Right. Safe.

*   *   *

Mac occupied one of the pair of chairs that flanked her boss’s desk. She’d just finished recounting the details of her rescue the day before. Debriefing, Jefferina called these verbal reports.

Jefferina Franklin, owner of Tampa/St. Pete Recon, sat behind her desk at the offices located just off Beach Boulevard in Gulfport. She wore a crisp collared white shirt, open at the throat, a khaki jacket with matching slacks, and moto boots with buckle and zipper details. She had a face that could best be described as majestic, high planes of forehead and juts of cheekbone wrapped in rich brown skin. Today her crisp dark hair was pulled back in a neat chignon, her only concession to the pre-storm humidity blowing in off the bay a couple of blocks away.

As for her expression, it said cop-calm but ready for anything, an unusual mind-set for the office when it was just the two of them. Mac just had no idea what had put her boss on guard. But she knew to tread lightly.

Finally Jefferina spoke. “The Pomeranian owner wasn’t happy about the vet bill you stuck her with. She called to say she has her own vet and would have taken Wookie in herself.”

Mac seldom had to defend herself. Something definitely didn’t feel right.

“Wookie had been on the streets for days. He smelled awful and his fur was a mess. His owner would have been horrified if I’d brought him to her looking like that.”

“That’s what I said, more or less.” Even Jefferina’s smile had an edge. “I told her we saved her the pain and guilt of seeing what happens to a pet with a less-than-vigilant parent. She wasn’t too happy to hear my opinion.”

Mac could believe it. She was feeling a bit defensive at the moment, and her boss was defending her. “Does this mean I’m stuck with the vet bill?”

“Not a chance. But from now on take photos of the beasts in the condition and location in which you find them.” Jefferina wasn’t a dog or cat person. She didn’t dislike them, but her allergies made them a misery to be around. That’s why Mac never brought her rescues into the office.

“Guess there won’t be any repeat business there.”

“We’ll see. The owner admitted that Wookie’s a runner. Usually gets away in the neighborhood and is soon apprehended. This is the first time she’s needed to call in professional help.”

Mac eased back into her chair. If Jefferina was defending her, she’d done a good job. Now was the time to introduce the next issue.

She quickly related what had happened to her car, omitting her run-in with Massey because it had amounted to nothing useful. She ended with, “My collision coverage doesn’t cover attacks with a baseball bat, so I’ll be riding the bus every day for a while. Under the circumstances, I need to ask for an advance on the wage I’m due Friday.”

Jefferina frowned at the request. She pinched pennies until they squealed. “Business has been a little slow. I made a few calls last night to clients with outstanding bills. Told them to settle their accounts or they’ll be hearing from my attorney shortly.”

“I understand.” Mac swallowed her disappointment. She’d learned since working here that, like attorneys, PIs often had trouble collecting their fees.

“Deadbeats,” Jefferina continued, as if picking up on Mac’s thoughts. “Lucky for you, pet recovery clients pay promptly. The Pomeranian’s owner paid in cash.” She pulled out her wallet and counted out five twenty-dollar bills for Mac. “Will that hold you until Friday?”

Macayla nodded. “Thanks.”

“There’s something else we need to discuss.” Jefferina played with one of the studs in her ear. They were diamonds. “What do you know about a petnapping operation in the area?”

“Nothing worth repeating.” When her boss continued to stare at her, Mac relented. “I heard from a policeman yesterday that there have been some dognappings in the area. He called them scrap metal crimes.”

“Anything else?”

Mac shook her head, still unwilling to bring Massey into this. That was her fight.

“Because I got a call this morning from the St. Petersburg police. They find it odd, in retrospect, that you found the bodies of those racers when they couldn’t.”

“They’re just jealous I did their job for them.” Mac smiled to lighten the moment, but Jefferina didn’t return it. Something was going on here. Something she needed to get the right end of. “What, exactly, did they say?”

“It’s more accurate to say they were fishing. They’ve heard rumors on the street about those dognappings—that someone calling herself a pet detective is behind the animal thefts. She hires a local hoodlum to steal the animal then hits up the owners with promises to find the lost pet, for a fee.” Jefferina lifted a dark impenetrable stare to Macayla. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with you, would it?”

Mac felt as if a bucket of ice water had been upended over her head. “You think I’d do something like that? Steal animals in order to make money?”

“Would you?”

Jefferina asked the question so matter-of-factly that it took a second for the hair to rise on the back of Mac’s neck. “You know me. I’ve worked for you for nearly a year. What does your gut tell you?”

Jefferina shrugged. “I was a cop. I don’t have hunches. I go on facts. And you’ve been less than open with me in the past.”

The temperature in the room fell to Arctic levels, causing a shiver to pass through Mac, but she didn’t give in to her anxiety. “What are you talking about?”

“I ran a background check on you before I hired you. I do that for everyone, employee or client. You never told me you worked for child advocacy in Tallahassee. Or that you are a licensed counselor who worked with a courthouse facility dog for three years before you abruptly quit.”

Mac held back her flash of temper. “So?”

“You weren’t honest and I find that troubling.”

“The past wasn’t relevant.”

“The past is always relevant. You could be making good money in your former occupation. Yet you choose to leave it behind and work several part-time minimum-wage jobs just to keep a roof over your head.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“No. But here’s another way to look at it. You just asked me for an advance. That means extra cash would come in handy for you. And you weren’t open about your private life, or your work history. Two red flags that you’re hiding something.”

“If you know my history, you know I’ve never done anything illegal.”

“In my line of work you quickly learn that anybody is capable of almost anything, given the right motivation or stress factors.”

Her mention of stress made Mac stiffen. “Do the police think I had something to do with the disappearance of those greyhounds? Or is it you?”

Jefferina shrugged. “Convenient, is how the lead detective put it. And the business about the shooting that same night? You’re the sole witness.”

She remembered Sam saying the same thing.

Mac reached for her purse, angrier than she could remember being in maybe ever. “Is this where I confess? Because I’ve got to tell you, this is where I would confess, if I was guilty. But I’m not.”

She put the money she pulled out of her purse back on the desk. “You can send my severance check when you collect the full amount you owe me.”

Jefferina looked slowly from the bills back to Mac. “Unless you are working a side angle, you’re going to need that.”

Mac said nothing as she held her boss’s hard gaze. But there was no guessing what was going on behind her blackberry eyes. “Either you trust me or you don’t, Jefferina. I can’t work for someone who’s suspicious of me.”

“Did I say I didn’t trust you?”

“You said I wasn’t honest with you.”

“You weren’t. And I don’t like that. But maybe you can make me understand it.”

Mac took a beat. This was the last conversation she wanted to have with anyone, ever. “You read the media accounts of what happened in Tallahassee. It was awful, all the way through. Worse of all, I got tagged as the hero of the hour. Everywhere I went that’s all people wanted to talk about.”

Jefferina sat back. “You make that sound bad. Who wouldn’t want to be known as a hero?”

Mac flinched. “Anyone who’s been one.”

She could feel the solid weight of her boss’s gaze on her but she was done explaining, even if she knew she’d said precious little.

Finally, Jefferina stood up, her jacket flaring just enough for Mac to notice the weapon she carried. “I could use an extra pair of eyes in the field today.” She looked Mac up and down. “We have just enough time to drop by your place so you can change.”

“I meant what I said. Either you trust me or you don’t.”

Jefferina sighed. “I run a business that requires discretion and sensitivity, with sometimes paranoid clients. That’s why I do background checks. I wouldn’t have hired you in the first place if I didn’t think I could trust you. That doesn’t mean I won’t continue to ask the hard questions from time to time. It’s who I am.”

Macayla supposed that that was as close to a vote of confidence as she was going to get from her boss. “I don’t know how to prove myself to you.”

Jefferina smirked. “Continue doing good work and bringing in fees.”

“What about what the police say?”

Now she smiled. “The police are only as good as their efforts. Somebody might be running around stealing dogs but, so far, it’s all speculation. When they find that person, you’ll be busy doing something else, for me. You ready to work now?”

Mac nodded. “I’m ready to work.”

They were seated in Jefferina’s Jeep Wrangler before she spoke again. “About what happened to your car. You might as well be prepared. The sheriff’s department and the St. Petersburg police are looking at it as a possible squabble among thieves. That you didn’t pay off your dognappers, and so they took revenge.”

“Isn’t that a big gigantic stretch?”

“They’re holding back the details, Mac. I don’t know what else they have. This is where I say, be careful.”

Mac stared straight out the window, feeling anger curl through her like heat off the tarmac.

“You need to get in front of this, Macayla. If anything else suspicious occurs you want to tell me first.”

That was the second time in the last twenty-four hours someone had offered to be her confessor. Sam. Now Jefferina.

She was a suspect. At least a person of interest for the St. Petersburg police. Had been for, what? Weeks? Ever since the greyhounds disappeared?

Mac turned slowly to meet her boss’s gaze. “I’m not guilty. Of any of this.”

Jefferina nodded. “I believe you.”

Mac felt the squeeze on her heart relax. “What changed your mind?”

“Call it a gut feeling.” Her boss gave her a wide smile.

“You don’t believe in hunches.”

“Almost never,” Jefferina agreed. “So let’s go with the novelty of this one for now.”

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