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  Jazz looked away. “Let me take a nap and eat some protein, man. I can’t do much more right now.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Jazz scrambled out of his reach before he could stop her. She went down the hallway. The spacious bathroom next to her bedroom was one of her splurges. The waterfall showerhead set in the ceiling was another. Soon she stood under the stream of warm water covered in foaming multicolor bubbles. When the glass shower door slid open, Jazz didn’t speak. Don lathered his body, and they stood under the water together. He put his arms around her and nuzzled her neck. Jazz felt sad, terribly sad. Still she said nothing. They exited the shower. Neither spoke as they toweled themselves dry. She went into the small closet and silently held out a pair of men’s cotton draw string pants. Don didn’t react. He put on his underwear and the pants. Then he followed her out of the bathroom. Once back in the living room, soft music came from her sound system. The digital clock on it said it was three in the morning. Candy Girls had closed two hours before in keeping with city ordinances.

  “You want anything? I can scramble eggs or make coffee.” Jazz started for the kitchen but he pulled her back by the hand.

  “In a minute. Come here.” Don led her from the kitchen to the sofa in her living room. He sat down bringing her along. “I’m guessing you don’t want more. And before you answer, let me say I’m not rushing you. You need room to breathe, I got that.”

  “So we can see other people?” Jazz raised an eyebrow at him.

  Don pulled a large hand over his face, sighed, and looked at her. “You ain’t gonna make this easy on me, huh?”

  “I’m not trying to make it anything for you. I’m telling you what I need. You’re right, I need room to breathe, but that means more to me than just, I don’t have to check in with you daily. Look, I’ve been through some serious shit. I don’t feel all tingly and want some guy buying me roses. One therapist says I have attachment issues. Whatever. I decide who I see and when I see him.”

  Jazz spoke matter-of-factly, and mostly she believed the speech. Except resting her body against his solid muscles did make her feel… sheltered. Still she had to think through what was happening. He was one of the few good men she’d met. Willa’s adopted father, and her foster brothers made it four. Not good considering the number of men she’d known, including her lousy no-show father. So she steadied herself for his anger, disgust, and a heated exit from her life. Don held her hand without speaking for five minutes.

  “Good enough.”

  “Wait, what did you just say?” Jazz stared at him in shock.

  “I just want you to loosen up with me, tell me anything. Know that no matter what drops in your life, you can call on me,” he said, his deep voice calm and steady.

  “Nah, that was too damn easy. I’m sayin’ if I want to be with another guy…”

  “Yeah, just be safe and I’ll do the same. I won’t put you at risk.”

  “Uh, yeah, I mean, goes without saying. I…” Jazz stammered. “Damn.”

  “And Filipe?” Don said.

  “Always used condoms, he…”

  “Great, but that’s not what I meant. Are you over him?” Don gazed at her steadily.

  Jazz didn’t try to lie. Don somehow knew that despite what she might have told others, Filipe had a rough edge sexiness that fed her more than any other guy. She hadn’t fallen in sloppy romance novel love, yet Filipe’s combination of being rough and then talking sweetly in that smooth Latino accented English… did something to her.. She also remembered his cold, deadly way of making enemies suffer. Jazz shivered at the memory.

  “Done and over. Took a minute, but Filipe is a dangerous guy. ”

  “I I played it so Filipe won’t think I snitched on him.”

  “Unless Kyeisha and Cleavon decide to tell him different,” Don said..

  “I had sense enough not to confide in Kyeisha. I knew she couldn’t be trusted with secrets.” Jazz gave a hiss of contempt. Despite her dislike of the woman, Jazz felt a chill when she remembered the bloody finger found in her house. “Kyeisha may not be talking to anybody ever again.”

  “Yeah, but that leaves Cleavon. He needs to be dealt with fast.” Don’s deep voice sounded like a contained thunder of doom.

  Jazz twisted to face him. “Hell no to what you’re thinking.”

  “S’cuse me?” Don’s dark eyebrows went up as he gazed back at Jazz.

  “Don’t be trying to play the handsome prince protecting me. I’m not one of those wimpy chicks you see in the movies. You know, being so stupid somebody has to save her ass all the time,” Jazz said.

  “You think I’m handsome, huh?” Don put his large left hand on her thigh.

  Jazz shook free of his touch. Heat from his flesh seeped through the silk fabric of her robe. Combined with his voice, and smoky dark eyes, Don seemed to weave a spell clouding her mind.

  “Stay out of this shit with Cleavon unless the case is yours. And I don’t think it will be even if he’s charged with murder. Your old partner is trying to bullet-proof your career.” Jazz stood up and walked to the kitchen. She glanced at the clock. Almost four in the morning. It would soon be time for breakfast.

  Don followed her. “So Armand talked to you the other night. He’s my pal, but he needs to mind his damn business. Word for word, what did he say?”

  “He talked some serious sense. I’m under a spotlight, and my history ain’t squeaky clean. Oh, he didn’t have to tell me outright. Look, the man has your best interest at heart.”

  “Your speech about wanting to be free and easy was bullshit. You’re trying to protect my career, is that it?” Don crossed his arms. “I wish y’all would recognize that I’m a grown-ass man. I got this far on my own. And no, I don’t think with my dick. I like being a cop.”

  “All I’m sayin’—”

  “No,” Don cut her off. “You think I’m all muscle and no damn brains? Cleavon is a drive-by shooting waiting to happen. I want him off the streets for more than one reason.”

  “If your bosses think I’m hooked up with Cleavon or any of those drug dealing gangbangers, and they find out your doing me, they’ll have the excuse they need to block another Black man from rising to the top.” Jazz picked up the glass coffee pot to fill it with water. Then she stopped and turned to him with a sigh. “Don, much as we complain about the police, decent Black folks want y’all on the job. And they need more good guys like you.”

  “Damn.” Don blinked at Jazz. He leaned against the granite countertop for support.

  “Yeah, I said something nice about the authorities. If you tell anybody, I’ll call you a lie,” Jazz wisecracked. She became serious again. “I’m guessing Miller will try to keep you far away from any case involving Cleavon. All you have to do is let Miller help you.”

  “Okay,” Don said softly.

  The way Don looked at her made Jazz feel something she hadn’t felt in years, self-conscious. She turned her back to him and started making coffee again. “Unless you don’t care about having your career turn to shit. Up to you. I’m used to having my reputation in the toilet.”

  “You know something?” Don said, his voice still gentle.

  “I know a whole lot more than you apparently,” Jazz retorted, not daring to look at him. The affection in his eyes and tone put a scare into her that a gang of thugs couldn’t. She jumped and almost dropped the coffee grounds when his lips brushed the back of her neck.

  “I’ve found something rare in you,” he whispered. Then he stepped back. His voice returned to its normal timbre. “I hope you offer me breakfast. You wore me out, girl. The least you can do is fix me a slice of toast or something.”

  Jazz had to recover before she found her voice. “Don’t come up in here expecting to be fed on the regular, Detective Addison. I’m hungry; otherwise you’d be shit out of luck today.”

  “I’ll get three hours of sleep before I have to report for work,” Don shot back. “I need
nourishment to handle them mean streets.”

  “Humph, then you better keep your damn kitchen stocked.”

  Jazz giggled when he gave her backside a playful swat. The charged emotional atmosphere between them eased. She relaxed into the laid-back back and forth teasing. After scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and coffee, Don got dressed and went home. But not without a lingering kiss that left Jazz troubled again. Jazz had to get it across to him. She didn’t want his career hurt; that was true. Don would make a positive difference as a cop. More truth. But Jazz meant what she’d told him. She didn’t have it in her emotionally to be tied up in some deep love affair. Once he woke up to the fact that something inside her was broken, Don would pull away. For good. She knew it would happen without having a psychic tell her. What Don wanted, needed, was the whole hearts and flowers package, complete with sappy wedding vows and kids. And Jazz couldn’t give him any of those things. Later when she was about to get in bed, she noticed the cotton drawstring pants. He’d left them neatly folded on the chair.

  “Damn,” she murmured and headed to the kitchen for more coffee. This time with a healthy shot of bourbon added to it.

  *

  She dreamed of being in at Crestworth Middle again. She wore the school uniform. A bell went off and she sprinted for the door at the signal of freedom, ignoring the teacher yelling at her to slow down. Fourteen year old Jazzmonetta Vaughn flipped Mrs. Peterson a middle fingers and kept going. Another trip to the vice principal’s office for sure. The jingle went on and on until Jazz woke up in the present and then stopped. The annoying sound was replaced by pounding that grew louder. Jazz mumbled curse words into her pillow. She rolled over and grabbed the second pistol she owned from the nightstand.

  “If that damn carpenter is up this early, he’s going to need a doctor.” Jazz stomped across the bedroom floor as the pounding continued. Then she stopped in her tracks and looked down at her nakedness. She muttered more profanity as she pulled on panties, a pair of blue jeans and a loose sweatshirt.

  “Jazz, come on,” came a gruff voice.

  “You in trouble whoever you are, cause I don’t smell smoke. If my house ain’t on fire, waking me up ain’t gonna be good for you,” Jazz shouted.

  Pain thudded at her temples so that she could hardly think straight, increasing her rage. She marched to the door and flung it open. Byron put a finger over his lips. He seemed not to even notice the small semi-automatic pistol she held.

  “Shhh, keep it down. I got Kyeisha downstairs. Found her on your steps.” Byron looked around nervously. “I got Doc patchin’ her up.”

  “Wait, what the hell you talking about? What time is it?” Jazz squinted. Shadows fell across the landing of her apartment.

  “It’s almost five o’clock.” Byron tugged at her free hand.

  “In the damn morning?” Still gripping the gun in one hand, Jazz stumbled down the short flight of stairs behind him.

  Byron panted as he urged her on. “In the evening. We cleaned up and locked the place tight last night. I came over to get the place ready and…”

  “Wait minute. Slow the hell down. I’m getting queasy.” Jazz pulled against his momentum.

  “C’mon. I told Doc I wouldn’t be gone long. He’s scared shitless as it is and…”

  “You got to let me have a minute here, Byron. Damn.” Jazz rubbed her forehead with the hand holding her pistol.

  “Damn, girl. Don’t wave that piece around at me,” Byron whispered.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah.” Jazz made sure the safety was back on. Then she stuck the pistol under the back waistband of her jeans. No sense in scaring Doc even more.

  “It’s Saturday. Our big night. We got to figure something out before Lilly and Tyretta get here. They can’t keep their mouths shut. Chyna is working tonight. She’s high-strung, will scream her head off if she sees the blood.” Byron’s words tumbled out as his panic rose.

  “I’m surprised Doc agreed to come over here.” Jazz leaned against the brick wall of Candy Girls.

  “He’s my friend,” Byron replied simply. For him that explained it all. “Ready?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Jazz followed him through the back door, down the hall, and into the smaller of two store rooms. Neat rows of boxes showed how much care Byron and Rochelle took with the merchandise. A desk sat in one corner of the room. Invoices covered the gray metal top. An air mattress sat in another corner, used in cases when a customer was too intoxicated to drive. Since Byron and Tyretta kept an eye out for those getting wasted, it wasn’t in use often. Still Byron kept it clean, or at least it had been.

  Jazz took deep breaths to settle her nerves and stomach at the dark red blotches as Kyeisha lay there, eyes closed. Doc straightened up and rubbed his back. He wore dusty Army green slacks. The long sleeves of his plaid shirt were rolled up. Disposal rubber gloves covered both hands.

  Doc’s full name was Herman Bailey. The non-practicing general practitioner had a shady history, just like many people who ended up in that part of town. Doc had practiced in the neighborhood since the late sixties when most other residents were white like him. He still lived in his brick home three blocks away. As whites moved out and the population changed, Doc stayed on. Doc’s prescription drug habit resulted in early retirement. In fact, it was the Louisiana State Medical Examiners strong invitation that he take a rest. Doc didn’t learn. He tried practicing part-time and he went back to using. Or maybe he never stopped. Losing his license two years later meant his exit from the healing profession became complete. At three years clean, he realized a new profession was a great idea. He made custom hardwood furniture.

  “Took you long enough to get back here.”

  “Sorry, Doc, but Jazz was sleep and…”

  Doc waved a hand wearily. “You called 911? I don’t know how she made it here. If she managed to walk, then she’s one tough cookie. But I don’t think so.”

  “Let’s call one of your buddies to drop her off at the nearest emergency room,” Jazz whispered to Byron.

  “You got no time for making phone calls. She won’t last much longer; dehydration, blood loss, shock. Not to mention she could have internal injuries. This unfortunate young woman has been beaten within an inch of her life.” Doc looked down at his “patient”.

  “He’s right. She didn’t get here by herself.” Jazz rubbed her head in an attempt to clear her thinking.

  “I’ll call 911, say I found her up the block and brought her here,” Byron said as he gazed at Jazz. He seemed to know what she was thinking.

  “I can’t stay. Judge Price said he’d find a way to toss my rear end in prison if I got into more trouble. I cleaned up her wounds. Put proper bandages on ‘em, the best I had in my car.” Doc headed for the door, but paused to look at Byron. The older man nodded and then slipped out.

  “Thanks, Doc,” Byron said at his disappearing shadow.

  “Why didn’t you take her someplace else? Damn.” Jazz pressed both palms on the sides of her head.

  Byron pulled out his cell phone. “She needed help fast. I’m calling 911 like Doc said.”

  Jazz grabbed his hands. “Wait, just wait. Maybe we could put a sheet in your car and drop her outside Mid-City General Hospital and—”

  “You heard Doc. She needs a paramedic and…”

  Jazz and Byron froze as sirens whined in the distance. Both hoped the sound would fade away. The pulsating scream at other vehicles to get out of the way grew closer. Footsteps signaled someone coming—several someones. Jazz gripped Byron’s forearm, but before she could speak, a policewoman entered the room, gun drawn. She assumed the standard shooting position.

  “Drop whatever is in your hands. Put your arms up. Now,” she shouted, her voice bouncing from the walls.

  A second officer stepped around her to aim as well. “Do it.”

  “Cell phone,” Byron croaked in. He dropped the bright blue device.

  The officers got Jazz and Byron out of the storeroom, careful to keep
distance between them. The female officer turned on lights along the way. Rochelle came out of the kitchen with a knife in one hand and a large onion in the other. She squeaked when a male officer spun to confront her, his gun pointed.

  “Drop the damn knife,” he yelled.

  “Ye-es, yessir. I’m cooking. Don’t kill me. Oh Lord, please don’t shoot me.”

  Rochelle threw the knife far from her. She flung the onion in a different direction. Crying and pleading, she got to her knees. Moments later, Lt. Armand Miller came in with Lorraine of all people. She looked around the nightclub before focusing a hostile gaze at Jazz.

  “What did I say? I been telling y’all that no-good bitch is evil. I knew she had Kyeisha up in here,” Lorraine spat.

  “I’m going to kick your ass, Lorraine, and it’s long overdue.” Jazz lunged toward her, but the policewoman moved fast. And she was strong.

  Don came in. He took in the scene with a deep frown on his handsome face. Miller gave him a warning glare, jerked his head toward the exit. A muscular white officer with red hair stepped forward. He spoke close to Don’s ear. Even so, Don didn’t move. The man dropped an arm around Don’s shoulder. Don shrugged free with a sharp movement. Still he left the nightclub ahead of the man.

  Miller turned to Jazz and Byron. “Somebody better start explaining why a missing woman is here half dead.”

  “She…” Byron stopped when Miller raised a hand.

  “Crawford, talk to the man,” Miller said to another uniformed officer.

  “Got it. This way, sir,” the brawny police office pointed to the side entrance.

  “Don’t want us to get our stories together, so you interview us apart. Going to be a long night.” Jazz tried not to sound as shook up as she felt.

  “You got that right. Well?” Miller stood legs apart, a stylus poised over his four inch wide smart phone.

  “I was asleep when Byron woke me up, dead to the world.” Jazz stopped when the poor choice of words rang too loud in the club.

  “Hmm,” was Miller’s only reply. Still his dark eyebrows twitched up.“He said Kyeisha was lying in the alley or something. No, I don’t know how she got here. No, I don’t know where she’s been. I have no idea who beat her or cut off her fingers—or why. That should cover all of your questions. Since I didn’t get my full hours of sleep, I’d like to go back to bed.” Jazz tucked a couple of stray tendrils that kept falling across her eyes behind her left ear. Miller nodded as he scribbled on the touch screen with the stylus. “Uh-huh. So you were up late last night.”