Page 12 of Just Friends

“Don’t need one,” she replied. “I can have it in my car without a permit.”

Impressive, she knew that; it turned him on. “Where did you get it?”

She sighed and crossed the room and crammed the duffle bag into a locker. “I don’t know. It was some guy out behind a strip club at the edge of town. That’s legit, right?” She shot a smile at him over her shoulder. She was screwing with him, trying to deflect the conversation.

He stood still, hands on his hips and gave her the stare that had most suspects spilling their guts.

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, Detective,” she mocked. “I got it at the gun store across the square. I filled out the paperwork, and they ID’d me. It was all legal.”

“When?” Hoping this query would yield an answer that she didn’t realize he was looking for.

She shrugged. “A few months ago.” She paced around.

He took another step in her direction. “How many months ago?”

She wrinkled up her face and shook her head. “I don’t remember, like right before Christmas. Why?”

His heart thundered. Right after she’d found Kyle cheating on her and left him. Intuition had told him something else had transpired, but he’d not been on the receiving end of any confidences. “Why did you get it then?” he asked, keeping his voice low and even as he moved in front of her.

“Seriously, it’s America, Mister, weapons out the yin yang and you’re asking me about the only gun I’ve ever purchased.”

“I am.” He reached down for her hands. He interlaced her cold fingers in his. “Tell me.”

She dipped her head looking at their hands. “Yeah, all right. I was newly single, thought I’d get it for safety. But I soon discovered, I don’t like it and don’t think I’d be able to use it in a situation. So, I put it in the trunk… So there.”

“A gun’s not safe there. It could get stolen.”

“Then…just take it and stop worrying.”

“I already did,” he replied.

“I swear to God; you will make me roll my eyes right out of the sockets.”

“Who did you need protection from? Kyle?”

She looked at him flabbergasted, dropping his hands she stepped backward. And for a brief second, he saw a flash of fear in her eyes before anger replaced it, and he realized she was better at hiding than he’d known. He’d pushed with one question too far. “Rebecca,” he reached for her, but she shoved a finger in the air to warn him to stay away.

“I have to get to work, and you have to get to court.” She spun and walked out.

Four

Weasel got the call as he exited the courthouse, two deceased subjects turned up in a gravel lot on Coopers Road. This dashed his hopes of returning to the Ellis Diner and trying to make things right with Rebecca. He arrived at the location, the overgrown rocky property on the edge of town that was littered with a variety of trash, and if one looked close enough, a few discarded needles. The responding officers on the site had set up a shield to keep the individuals from the view of the highway. He stepped out to the unmistakable sound of a baby crying. What the hell?

He walked up and met Morrison with the log book; he signed into the crime scene. The kid’s screams were getting louder and more distressing. Weasel made his way past the screen to survey the place. A beat-up, rusted out silver Pontiac with one black door sat just inside the entrance. A male and female in the front appeared deceased. And a baby approximately two years old in a child restraint seat in the rear. “The fuck?” He whirled around at the only uniform there besides Morrison. “There’s a kid in the damn car. Why?”

“We’re supposed to preserve the evidence,” he responded. “Who are you?”

“Detective Anderson, and I’m in charge. Proper procedure is taking pictures and get the minor out.” Swearing a blue streak, he marched to the side of the automobile where the poor innocent thing was strapped in and too young to comprehend what was happening. They had at least opened a door. “It’s a child; not evidence. You left him in here with dead bodies, for Christ’s sake.” When he neared, he held his breath against the odor, cursing to himself. The youngster, crimson-faced, tears streaming, wore a filthy shirt and an overflowing diaper; not even sure of the gender. “Who was initially on the scene?”

“I was driving by when I spotted the vehicle.”

Weasel glared at him. “Who are you?”

“Drew Dotson,” he said. “It’s my first week.”

“No shit,” he replied. Dotson appeared to take offense, but he didn’t care. To leave a kid sitting in his own filth alongside dead people, who were possibly his parents, was bull. “Camera and gloves, now,” he barked. Dotson jumped and fled. Weasel swore again and grabbed his radio and requested additional assistance, the coroner, and Social Services. “And close off the damn street,” he yelled after Dotson.

After he’d snapped a few photos to document how they’d found the scene, Weasel put the latex gloves on and carefully unbuckled the toddler. The little one had cried to the point of adding vomit dripping from his legs. Then Weasel straight-arm carried the still upset and exhausted baby to his SUV where he stripped the disgusting mess off of the child. He stuffed back his anger at the scorching red skin he discovered under the diaper. It had to hurt. “It’ll be all right, buddy,” he said to the baby and hoped it was true. He snapped pictures for documentation before cleaning him. Morrison arrived at his side and somehow had a diaper, wipes, and rash cream. “Let’s get you all fixed up,” he said to the child in the same way he’d talk to Danny.

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