Jeanette pulled her bathrobe tighter as she sat down. Kept the towel wrapped around her head from falling off as she leaned forward. Poured a fresh glass of wine before settling in to open the package that had shown up at the front desk two days ago.
The staff at the Tranquility Inn were a special kind of incompetent. Almost willfully petty in their disregard for their guests.
She had an important conversation with the millennial concierge, one that had seen her aim her pistol at another human only for the third time in her life. But nobody broke in to catch her running around naked since Stan Manning, so that was nice.
The first thing to come out of the padded envelope was another envelope. It was full of cash. She didn’t count it, just set it aside and took a drink of her wine. It was a little too sweet, but it would do.
The next thing was a folder. The last thing was a letter.
Hey Kid.
That’s what Mallory Black had always called her. Ever since their first meeting when Jeanette had been drunk and sobbing. Just beginning to sober up in a county cell after a long time away from the badge.
She’d been a deputy for ten years. Had only ever drawn her weapon at the range. Filling in for Deputy Chase Dalmers one night, and they were attacked in a dark trailer. Her partner – a young deputy everybody called Casework because nobody could pronounce Cascewyk – was shot in the throat. Jeanette caught one above her right knee.
The flashes had blinded her. The crashing echo swallowing even the sound of her own scream as she drew and returned fire. She had managed to get the lights on, and the man that had been beating his wife was dead in the door leading into the bedroom.
A gun in his hand. Blood pouring from the hole in his shattered skull. Eyes wide and staring in dumb surprise.
The bed was also covered in blood. More than Jeanette could have imagined in one body. The pregnant wife of the abuser. Shot under her left breast. High on her right shoulder. Shuddering and crying. Hands flopping uselessly as she tried to cradle her belly.
Jeanette called it in. Collapsed at the foot of the bed.
She woke up in the hospital after days of surgeries and close calls. The bullet fired by the wife beater had cracked her lower femur above her knee. Nicking the popliteal artery on its way out. She had almost bled to death in the trailer. Again on the operating table. Now she was out of danger with a long recovery ahead.
Even after discovering the mother and baby — Beatrice and Ivana Drake — had survived … she still wouldn’t talk about what had happened. Never bothered to defend herself.
Her silence fueled the mob. Increased the outrage against her and the current sheriff. It was all political, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t close her eyes without seeing all the blood.
Knowing Ivana grew up with developmental challenges from being removed from the womb early. The trials coming for Beatrice. Living with no spleen. Raising a medically fragile child.
No husband. No father.
Jeanette didn’t care what happened to her. As long as they didn’t have to live without assistance. So she kept quiet.
Began drinking. Lashed out at those around her who tried to help. Shawn left her. Took Jeanie with him. Her beautiful little girl that everybody said was just like her.
She hoped not.
She even watched the livestream of Mark’s new marriage on LiveLyfe. Jeanie walking down the aisle with a basket full of rose petals. Throwing them like confetti. So beautiful.
Jeanette decided to stay away. Just in case Jeanie was like her.
She was cleared of all charges after the investigation, but by then she was a drunk divorcée living in a trailer of her own. A meager disability payment keeping her in rent and booze.
Whatever was left, she sent to Beatrice. Cash in an envelope. Didn’t bother to check if she got it or not. For all she knew, it went to heroin, but she liked to imagine Ivana in a new dress. Or those shoes that flash when you took a step. A fancy doll with hair that was almost real.
The night her life changed again began unremarkably. A tuna sandwich and two bottles of wine while watching Columbo. Then there was a scream from the trailer across the lane.
Manda Price and her third boyfriend of the month, Dennis … something. Jeanette pulled the edge of her curtain aside. Saw into the living room of the other trailer. Dennis lit by the glow of the old TV. Holding Manda by the throat. Fist drawn back.
The punch was devastating. She later found it had broken Manda’s jaw, nose, and orbital socket. Still nothing compared to what happened to Dennis.
The softball bat sat in the corner by the front door. A little something to discourage the Funk & Wagnalls salesmen. It felt like ice in her head as she stalked through the grass to the rickety front steps. Knocked on the door with a balled fist.
Dennis wasn’t surprised to see her, but the kick to the balls certainly got his attention. Then she followed him inside where she worked him over with the aluminum. Manda looked dead.
There was nobody there to protest. To stop her.
She didn’t kill him, but she still went too far. The cops found her standing over him. Out of breath. Leaning on the bloody bat like a cane.
Black had darkened the hall outside the cell. “Hey Kid.”
No sympathy. Just appreciation for what she had called a job well done.
Mallory Black was a fan of her work.
I wanted to follow up sooner, but they are watching me. For a long time. Probably even further back than I think. I can’t afford to get caught now that we are so close.
Jeanette didn’t know what they were so close to. When Black had sent her down here to watch Stan Manning and his friends, she hadn’t told her why. Didn’t detail what she was supposed to be looking for. Just a bunch of money. A few clues — names, pictures, and a general area — and instructions to watch and wait.
She finished her wine. Poured a fresh one as she sat back to finish the letter.
I found out Stan had sent me a package. It was supposed to detail the crimes of some important and powerful people. Something that would further my own dark investigation. Something that would confirm some theories I’ve been struggling with ever since I had to pull my own head out of my ass about Frank Grimm.
So, Mallory Black was conducting her own investigation on the side, one that might be frowned upon by the higher-ups. One that would get her in trouble if found out?
It had been Black’s idea for Jeanette to start a private investigation firm, something that would benefit women more than most other programs. Where a gal could get her hands dirty doing the work often required – usually overlooked. Like beating a guy up with an aluminum softball bat.
Most of her cases were done for free. Donations came in a few times a month. Help from cops, female lawyers and caseworkers, doctors and nurses putting time in.
She could stay drunk the times she chose. Get some meaningful work in. Sit on the beach every now and then. She had even taken Stan’s advice on sunscreen. She hadn’t stopped watching him, though.
Enclosed is all the evidence I have been able to save from the purge. It’s not much, but it is enough to get you deep into something that you may not be able to get out of. I still have a career. No offense, but you have nothing to live for.
Jeanette shrugged to herself. Just to watch Jeanie grow up? Maybe not much to somebody else, but to her it was everything. Still, she wasn’t offended.
Look into it or don’t. Spend the money on the investigation or extend your vacation. I don’t care. If they are watching me closely enough to know to confiscate something sent to me, they probably know about you. Watching the news tells me a lot, but not enough. A senator “killed by a train” on his way to confess? The silence of the media and state law enforcement on the ongoing investigation into sexual misconduct allegations? They call it teenage prostitution instead of what it really is. Child rape. That makes me sick to my fucking stomach, but the people being protected are far more powerful than you or me. I need to know what was in that package, and the only way to do that is to ask Stan Manning. I don’t know if he’ll survive long enough to satisfy my curiosity, so I’m turning it all over to you. Remember what I said to you the night we met.
Jeanette had asked her how she could ever get out of the hole she had dug. Mallory Black had smiled. “It just takes one win. You had a big one tonight. How’s it feel?”
Jeanette wiped the tears from her cheeks. Remembered what it felt like to smile. “Pretty fucking good.”
Black nodded. “Good. In the morning when they let you out, go get another one. I’ll pick you up for breakfast. We got a lot to talk about.”
Instead of the restless night she had expected, she’d slept like a baby.
She turned the letter over. Pulled the towel from her head and shook her hair out. Poured another glass of wine while she opened the folder. Pictures and charts. Handwritten notes. A handy key in the upper corner.
Blue is for what I know. Red is for what I suspect.
The last page was a timeline that tied it all together. It started with blue — Frank Grimm kills Malick Briar. Bounced between colors until ending in red.
Senator Mickelson murdered in cover-up.
The last notes were also in red under a big question mark circled twice.
What was in the package?
What is Stan Manning trying to do?
How much protection does Ty Kirby have?
I fucking hate that guy.
Is Ossi-Pro legit or a front?
How high does it go?
Should we quit after just one win?
Jeanette closed the folder. She could keep going or give up and soak in some more sun. So many happy hours in Key West. A glass of wine with an ice cube or two under an umbrella in the sand. While knowing a woman is in danger? Children being harmed when just one win could be enough to save them?
Mallory Black had given her a choice knowing full well what she was going to do.
Keep watching Stan and his little friends? See where they led her? She’d already followed them to the rusty luxury of that double-wide by the ocean.
It couldn’t hurt to go a little further. Black was mostly right. Jeanette had nothing else.