CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

Sunday

 

Just because the Majestic closed at 2a.m. didn't mean he was able to leave then. It had been after 3:30a.m. before Jack was in his Jeep and driving back to his shitty apartment.

He'd stayed until everyone had cleared out of the place, and because he wanted to grab some photos of Franklin . . . Carol . . . exiting the building. She'd arrived just before midnight and spent most of the night at the bar and glaring at Marilyn. But she'd kept her distance. When she'd finally left, Jack noticed she hadn't left alone, but with a young man in street clothes who Jack didn't remember seeing before in the club. He'd have to ask Ginnie if she thought Franklin was sleeping around.

By the time Jack closed his apartment door, it was 3:54, and less than thirty seconds later, he was asleep before his body landed on the sofa.

It wasn’t until the urgent need to piss woke him from a dead sleep that he realized three things: one) it was past noon, two) he was still fully dressed, including his jacket and boots, and three) he was getting too old for this shit.

Fortunately, his client's husband seemed to frequent the Majestic, so Jack could kill two birds with one stone—get the photos Ginnie needed while performing the job Chad hired him to do. However, it was blatantly clear to Jack he was no longer a night owl. The last couple nights had been hard on him, and he'd be back at it again tonight.

After showering and changing, he headed to his desk to download last night's video and work on both case files.

Three hours later, he was so deep in concentration, going over club video and extracting still images of Franklin as Carol, that he jumped when the phone rang.

"'Lo," he grumbled into the phone.

"I take it you haven't eaten today." Ray chuckled down the line.

Jack put the phone on speaker then leaned back in his chair and stretched. He swiveled around to face the window and let the sun warm him. "What makes you say that?"

"You sound grumpy."

"Tired. Late start is all. What's up, brother?" Even to him, his reply sounded stilted.

"You still coming over to watch the game? It's nearly four and you said you'd be here at three. So . . ."

Jack spun back to the desk and checked the time on his computer screen. "Shit! I'm sorry. I picked up a new case, and a new security gig. I didn't get back until nearly four this morning."

"And?"

"And I've been working on case files and lost track of time."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And when are you getting your ass over here? The game is going to start soon. Maria has already made her famous nachos, salsa, and guacamole."

Jack threw back his head against the seat and squeezed his eyes shut. Maria Navarro was a damn fine cook.

"Of course, if you're going to be a no-show, I guess it means more for me, eh?"

"Like that's stopped you in the past." Jack didn't give Ray the chance to respond and said, "Give me twenty."

 

Streetlights appeared to chase him across the city as they seemingly popped on when he passed them. By the time he maneuvered the Jeep into a space directly across from Casa Navarro, the sun was just touching the horizon and casting the city in a dusky golden glow. The curtains in neighboring houses had been drawn across windows, the interior lights just visible where they didn't fully meet.

Jack grabbed the paper bag off the passenger seat, exited the car, then locked the doors with a click of the remote over his shoulder as he crossed the street.

Ray and Maria's house was located in the city's Excelsior District.

As with the rest of the city, the Excelsior District has its own unique history. At the southeastern edge of the city limits and practically in Daly City, the land had been registered with the city in 1869 as the Excelsior Homestead, part of Rancho Rincón de las Salinas y Potrero Viejo—Ranch at the Corner of the Salty Marsh and the Old Pasture—and had been part of the Mexican Land Grants of the 18th and 19th centuries.

After the 1906 earthquake, then owner, Emmanuel Lewis, had built two hundred homes for the city's newly homeless. A similar task at the same time was being carried out in the Sunset District where Jack and his family had lived—the same house was still sitting unoccupied.

Lewis' daughter, Jeanette, had her hand in naming the streets—north-south, streets were named for capital cities, and east-west, avenues were named for countries. Casa Navarro sat on the hillcrest on Dublin Street near Russia Avenue.

Casa Navarro was a relatively modern construction though, dating back to the '50s, and was one of the few houses on the street with a double garage. Ray parked his old red Silverado pick-up truck in the driveway so he could leave at a moment's notice if he was called into the station early or for emergencies—not that it fit in the garage—so Maria's car was the only one using the double space. When Jack mentioned he was going to rent a storage space, Ray had insisted he store his Jeep in the second bay rather than paying the extortionate prices traditional auto storage yards charged.

The missing Silvarado made Jack worry that Maria had gone into labor, even though it was still too early for the baby's arrival. He stepped under the nest of bougainvillea vines framing one side and the top of the door, devoid of flowers this time of year, and knocked. He hoped everything was okay.

"Jack!" Maria exclaimed when she saw him on her doorstep. Her extended belly looked very ripe, but otherwise she appeared fine. Relief shot through him.

He met her halfway for a hug and kissed her cheek.

"Come in, come in. Ray will be back soon." She pulled him inside by the hand and guided him into the kitchen. "He ran to the store for me."

Jack set the paper bag on the counter and extricated a small potted plant, a net of ripe avocados, and a six pack of Pacifico and set them on the counter.

"A little something for your collection," Jack said, handing Maria his gift. With as many houseplants as Maria had, he wasn't sure where she'd put this one, but he never arrived without a little special something for her as a way to say thanks for all the work she put into the Thursday dinners and the occasional special event gathering, even if it was just a Sunday ball game. "There isn't a label on it but the flowers reminded me of pink chilies."

"Schlumbergera Bridgesii—Christmas Cactus. I've always wanted one of these. Thank you, Jack." She kissed her fingertips and touched his cheek before moving to put the plant on top of the fridge and out of direct sunlight.

Jack hooked the net of avocados on a finger. "My contribution to the guacamole. Where do you want them?"

"I'll take them." Taking them and the beer in hand, she navigated the kitchen like a dirigible as she moved her rotund body methodically around the space. She set the avocados on the drainboard and put the beer in the fridge. Before closing the door, she took out two bowls and set them on the counter beside a large empty bowl. She removed the plastic lids then dropped a small spoon into each. "You're always so thoughtful, but you know, you really don't need to bring anything. You're family."

"All right. I'll stop then."

"Don't you dare! Especially with the plants."

"I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner."

Waving his comment away, she said, "Ray told me you picked up two new jobs this week. That's good, right?"

"If by good you mean lucrative, then yes. I could really do without the long nights though. That's part of why I'm late. The hours are kicking my—" Jack stopped short. "My backside."

"I'm not a tender flower. You can say ass, Jack."

"Sounds like you're calling me a jackass." She glanced over with the look on her face. He could interpret it as he wanted.

Jack watched Maria retrieve a grease-spotted paper bag from on top of the fridge and take it over to the empty bowl. Instead of emptying the bag he knew contained her homemade tortilla chips into the larger bowl, she left it on the counter and turned to face him. Worry now filled her expression.

"Are you okay, Jack?"

"Sure, why?" He tried keeping a smile on his face.

"You look tired."

Jack crossed his arms in front of him. Was he putting up his defenses? "Like I said, I could do without the late nights, but I'm fine." Please turn around and put the chips in the bowl. Do anything, but please don't press this.

"Ray told me what happened the other night. I have to admit, I'm worried about you."

"I'm fine, really. There's no need to worry," he tried assuring her, but her worried look remained.

Maria rubbed her belly for a moment then looked up at him again. "The baby is kicking. Do you want to feel?"

He didn't. Not really. "Sure." He moved to stand beside her and let her guide his hand. His large palm nearly covered the side of her extended belly. He felt the baby kick the moment he touched her. Then another. He pressed his palm against the spot, his legs nearly collapsing from the memories suddenly flooding his mind, of Leah pregnant with Zoë and the hours he'd spent feeling his daughter growing in the womb. From the memories of the day she was born and the absolute joy of holding her in his arms for the first time. And the few short years of seeing her growing every day and learning and laughing.

He tried snatching away his hand when the vision of his daughter's lifeless body punched him in the heart, but Maria held him fast. He shot his gaze up and met hers, finding it full of steely determination.

"I know this time of year is hard for you. Look at me," she said, forcing his gaze back on hers when looked away. "I can't possibly know what you're going through, but I think I understand. I must tell you. I'm worried. Sometimes it feels like . . . like you're pulling away from us."

"I'm not—"

"Let me finish. We don't see you as much these days. Ray said he's tried calling you but you don't pick up. He's gone by your place and you're not there. You've started missing dinner nights. And tonight, he said you forgot to come over. This isn't like you, Jack. The two of you are practically joined at the hip. Even after all this time since you left the force. But these days— We need you, Jack."

His heart pounded hard as he blinked back emotion. He didn't want Maria seeing him cry. "I'm here." Did his voice sound as weak to Maria as it did to him?

"Jack, listen to me. We need you. We all do." She squeezed the hand he still held on her belly. "I know you still grieve for your family, but don't let it take over your life. You can have a normal life and still find whoever did those horrible things. It's okay to do both." She put her free hand against his face and used her thumb to smooth away the moisture now on his cheek. "We're here for you, Jack. Both of us. If you can't talk to Ray, talk to me. I loved Leah. She was like my sister, so it's been hard for me too. Ray and I knew we would have a family one day, and we wanted Zoë to be a big sister to our children. I meant what I said. We are family. Your loss is also ours. We should be able to turn to each other whenever we're in need. I want you to remember that."

He nodded. "I know. I appreciate it, but—"

"No buts, Jack. I know you talk with Father Nick. I just want you to remember you still have family to turn to."

Jack gazed at the tiny pregnant woman before him. Her face was so full of sincerity that it took his breath away. He understood and believed everything she said. Had he been pulling away from the Navarros? He made a point of hiding his darkest thoughts from his friends. Hell, he didn't even tell Father Nick about the darkness, about the black dog and the Parabellum round with his name on it. No one needed to know that shit. Especially Maria.

"I know, Maria, and I appreciate it. But really, I'm fine." He slipped his hand out from under hers and bent to gently hug her. After a long moment, he leaned back and gazed at her again. He palmed her cheeks and leant in to place a kiss on her forehead. "I love you for caring."

Maria's smile was genuine. The tension on her face softened. "Don't let Ray hear you talking like that to me." They laughed lightly.

"Too late. Why do you love my wife?" Jack and Maria spun toward Ray. He stood at the kitchen door with a large reusable shopping tote slung over his shoulder.

Jack stepped aside to reveal the bowls filled with guacamole and salsa and bag of tortilla chips on the counter.

"Ah! Say no more."

Maria discreetly wiped the tears from her eyes and reached for the tote. "Put the chips in the bowl, mi amor, while I put these things away." After shooing away her husband, she pulled the items from the tote—bananas, pickles, chocolate ice cream, two six-packs of Pacifico beer, and a net of limes. She put the beer in the fridge beside the six-pack Jack had brought, and everything else onto the cutting board. She scooped some of the ice cream into a bowl and topped it with sliced banana and pickles. After slicing some limes, she put the rest beside the net of avocados. Moving past the men, she said, "I'll put the enchiladas in the oven in a little bit." Jack didn't miss the look she gave him before disappearing down the hall with her bowl and spoon.

Ray said, "Her crazy cravings are still sending me to the store at all hours. I thought this would be over already," he said, putting the ice cream tub in the freezer.

Jack chuckled. "Yeah, no—"

Ray's face screwed up when he saw the plant on top of the fridge and cast Jack a quick glance, but he didn't say anything as he reached in and extracted two bottles of Pacifico, popped them open then stuffed sliced lime down the bottle neck. Grabbing the chips in one hand and both bottles in the other, he motioned toward the living room.

By the time on the wall clock, the pre-game stuff should be over by now and the first quarter started. Jack stuffed a roll of paper towels under his arm and took the bowls of salsa and guacamole into the living room. Ray shoved over plants on the coffee table to make room for the bowls and beers before they both made themselves comfortable to watch the game.

 

"We need to talk," Jack said as the half time show began. He didn't bother looking to see who was performing, but he couldn't miss the smell of Maria's cooking filtering in from the kitchen. "I need help with something."

After a short pause, Ray said, "You always do this."

"Do what?"

"Every time you get a new job, you come to me for case files. If you're going to work cases that need department intel, you need to get your ass back in the office and get it yourself. Legally!" This wasn't Ray's first dig at him, and Jack knew it wouldn't be the last. Until his friend actually followed through with his refusal to help him, there was no reason not to maintain the status quo. "You hear me, Jack?" Ray spun to face him. "I'm not fooling around. I got a kid on the way and can't afford to get kicked off the force for supplying you with records. Or worse, get knocked down to . . . a desk job." He noticeably shivered.

Jack tried stifling a laugh as he asked, "Are you done whining yet? Even though you're a hard ass, Haniford loves you, so you ain't going anywhere. And I don't want you to give me the files." He paused, then innocently added, "I just need you to look at them and tell me what's in them."

"Same damn thing."

"Same but different," Jack offered.

Ray grunted. "I thought you were hired to follow that socialite's husband."

"It's become more—"

"Complicated. Yeah, yeah. Story of your life, amigo. And it always inevitably involves me."

"You're just jealous I can get away with shit you can't. And somewhere in the back of your mind," Jack poked his friend in the side of the head just above his ear, "you get some perverted satisfaction knowing you're involved, yet at the same time, you have total deniability because you're not actually the one skirting the law."

Ray smacked his hand away. "The hell, you say!"

"And . . . I think it involves your suicide in the Haight."

That shut Ray up for a long moment. "I'm listening," Ray said, casual interest now pouring from the tone of his voice.

"Huh! See? Secretly, you love it."

Ray huffed. "If I'm directly involved, it's a different story. Anything I can learn to help me solve a case . . . you know the score."

"Yeah, well I'm pretty sure this one is already closed, but it needs to be reopened. Along with a handful of others."

"Go on."

"Your victim's name is Michael Smith. Lived alone in the Haight. If you're as good a detective as I know you are, you will have seen the costumes in his closet, and a lot of makeup and wigs—"

"How'd you know?" Ray cut in. "We're still trying to locate the next of kin before releasing any information to the public."

Jack nodded. "Mm-hmm. It was deemed a suicide by shooting. Through the mouth, right? And no suicide note. Stop me when I'm getting cold."

"You're psycho or something."

"I think you mean psychic."

"No, man, you're psycho, but go on."

Without naming his client, Jack filled in Ray about following Franklin to the Majestic, what he'd learned from the club's owner about the first five victims, and that he thought the victim he'd found in the club's driveway three weeks ago was tied into a larger case that also now involved Ray's suicide victim because he also was a performer at the Majestic.

"Fuuuck me! If they weren't suicides, that would make . . ." he counted on his fingers.

"Seven, Ray. The five girls in the dance group, my homicide in the club's driveway, and your suicide in the Haight."

"Do you think there's another serial killer in the city who's targeting the club for some reason?" Ray asked.

Jack shook his head. "As much as I hate to say it, I think so. That, or gay hate crimes. If they're focused on the club, it may be because of the competition."

"Where do we go from here?"

"We?" Once partners, always partners, whether or not Jack was on the force. It made him all warm and fuzzy inside. "I'm going to see Cutter after the game. You can come along if you want."

"Whatever plans you two are hatching can wait," Maria said as she passed the living room. "Put the game on pause and come eat."