|
Jailbird
"So, I wonder how she's doing
From Blue Chalk by John Gorka
Prologue
The slam of a car door broke the peaceful quiet of the tiny ground floor apartment. "Quick! Your father's home! Hide!" The young woman hustled the small child into the make-shift closet and pulled the sheet that functioned as a door across the opening. "Now don't make a sound. If he can't find you, he can't hurt you." The child obediently crouched in the far corner of the dark alcove. A door crashed open followed by the bang as it shut. "Where are you slut?" came an inebriated voice, full of anger and hatred. "I'm here." The woman's voice was soft and timid, the child strained to hear it. Heavy footsteps entered the small bedroom. The man sniffed the air. "You've had someone here, haven't you?" he demanded. "No, James, no." The loud sound of flesh slapping flesh filled the air, followed by a dull thud as the woman landed on the bed. "You're nothing but a whore. I know it. You have men here when I'm gone. You think I don't bring home enough money to support you and that brat. So you sell yourself. You think I don't know what you do?" The child in the dark winced and cowered as the sound of the man's fists striking the woman came over and over. The woman did not cry, but the child could hear her timid pleas. "Please, no. It's not true. Don't hit me, please." "You get what you deserve woman. Whores and sluts like you don't deserve to live." There was a strange gurgling noise the child could not recognize. A small, unobserved peek through the curtain was more than enough. Large, thick, strong hands around a slim, delicate neck. Then nothing but the man's heavy breathing. "You got what you deserved, whore." Heavy footsteps left the room and there was silence. Terrified, the child remained in the closet for two days. Demands from the stomach and bladder went unheeded as the child waited. Waited while the room filled with police. Waited while the man was cuffed and taken away. Waited while they placed the woman in a black bag that zipped closed, put her on a long table with wheels, and rolled her away. Waited in the empty silence for darkness to come again and then sun to rise once more. Then the child darted out of the closet, ran for the door of the apartment and just kept running. Running forever.
Chapter One
"Cole! My man!" "Well, here comes the man himself." "Cole! Buddy. How ya doing?" Cole Armstrong, a well-built six-foot two, dark blond, full-time cop, part-time musician, stopped two steps into the room and looked at his three friends. Jimmy Carrington, Cole's best friend since elementary school. Five foot eight, close-cropped brown hair and eyes, with the build of a wrestler and a voice like Lindsay Buckingham. Bruce Willoughby, the drummer, reminded Cole of a character in an old television show called Room 222. Tall, blue eyes, with the fair skin of most red heads. Woody Hannaford, keyboardist extraordinaire and the strong silent type. Six foot ten inches tall, Woody could have been a professional basketball player, but he had chosen not to play ball after high school. His one love was the piano, it came before all else. Cole could sit and watch his mahogany fingers run up and down the ivory keys for hours on end. Now, all three pairs of eyes were focused on Cole and he knew something was brewing. "All right guys, what's up?" He put his guitar cases carefully on the floor. The trio looked at him, expressions on their faces he'd seen elsewhere so many times he'd lost count. Usually they were accompanied with the words, "Honest, officer, I didn't do it!" "Nothing's up." Jimmy smiled. "Why does something have to be up?" Cole shook his head. "Uh, huh pal. I'm not buying it. I walk in here and find you three with your heads together instead of warming up. Then I'm welcomed like a long lost brother. You guys want something. Spill it." The three looked at each other, their eyes conveying messages back and forth. No one seemed to want to be the one to confront the leader of Ancient Rebellion. "That bad huh?" Cole sighed, picked up his gear and moved over to the rehearsal area and started to set up his instruments. "We aren't starting until someone talks." He spoke with his back to them as he plugged in his acoustic guitar with electronic pickup. "Yeah, well we were just talking." Jimmy shuffled up to his best friend's side. "Of course we read the paper this morning." Cole looked over his shoulder, eyes wide. "You actually read the paper? You?" That comment got him a rough slug in the shoulder. "Okay, look." Woody sauntered up and seated his long legged figure on the stool to Cole's left. "We want to know if you can pull strings to get Alex back in the band." Cole became still. Alex's face appeared before him as though he'd seen her yesterday. Bleached-out hair, oval face with hazel eyes that flashed green when she was riled, which was most of the time. At length he looked up into Woody's dark brown eyes. "What do you mean?" "We figured," Bruce entered the fray. "That you being a cop, well you ought to be able to convince the judge, or whoever, that working with us is good rehabilitation too." "Now, Cole, before you blow up." Jimmy put out a hand. "We know you may not be comfortable around her right now. But in time that should pass. It's been close to twelve months and we're still getting people asking us when she's coming back." "She only sang with us that one night!" Jimmy nodded. "Amazing isn't it? The people really liked her. We need her. She's our ticket to bigger and better things." Cole shook his head. "I still don't get it. I didn't read the paper this morning." That drew a chorus of "What?" Cole held his hands up in surrender. "I've been out of town. Went down to the ocean for a couple days." "I thought you were in charge of that serial killer case." Woody looked at him in wonder. "I am. But the damn case is driving us all nuts. Chief practically ordered everyone to take a couple days off and get away from it. So, when it was my turn, I went surfing." He shrugged. "Tough life," Bruce muttered. "Anyhow. Someone bring me up to speed here. I thought Alex wasn't going to trial for several weeks yet." "Right." Jimmy started fingering his electric bass. "This new hot shot lawyer King Marshall finally hired for her seems to be working miracles." "What do you mean?" Cole's head jerked up and he stared at Jimmy. "Did you know that guy you've been looking for finally showed up?" Cole's eyes narrowed. "No." The Bay City police had been looking for Harry Sheppard for months in connection with the Alex Masters case. No one denied Alex had shot police Lieutenant Anthony Morello, the question to be debated in court was whether it had been in self-defense. The entire case centered around a robbery at Bay City Central Bank a year ago. At present the prosecution had nothing more than circumstantial evidence tying Alex to the robbery and the murder of Roger Beauregaurd. The state claimed Beau, as he was known, spearheaded the plan to hit the bank on the one day when it would have more than twice its normal amount of cash on hand. Alex claimed that Morello was the mastermind behind the heist and had killed three people to cover his involvement. Harry Shepherd seemed to be the only person who could prove, or disprove, Alex's allegations. Now, Jimmy filled Cole in on the news. "Must have been right after you left town then, 'cause it was a day or so ago. Just sort of showed up and said he wanted to talk." "What!" Cole had been kneeling on the floor, turning dials and knobs on the sound system. This news brought him to his feet. "Well, he really hasn't said much. Yet. But he said he could clear Alex if the District Attorney would cut him a deal." "So you're saying they just let her go? Just like that?" "No way," Woody chimed in. "But it was enough to get her out of jail. She's now under house arrest. The hot shot lawyer arranged for her to get into some kind of job rehabilitation program while she's out." "Yeah." Jimmy took over once more. "So we figured if they let her out of the house to type all day, surely they should let her practice and perform with us. It's her real career, we all know that." Cole sighed and shook his head. "You guys are nuts. One: there is no way on this earth any judge or parole officer is going to let her do it. Two: you could probably promise her immediate freedom, all charges against her dropped, and a million dollars. She still wouldn't do it." All three men looked at Cole in astonishment. "What do you mean she wouldn't do it? She loved it the night she sang with us. She was born to be a professional singer." "Maybe so. But not with Ancient Rebellion. She wouldn't step within a foot of this group for all the record deals in LA." "What makes you an expert?" Jimmy's voice was sour with disappointment. "Jimmy, for God's sake! I arrested her. Remember? I'm the big bad wolf." "Oh come on, you're a defense witness!" Cole shook his head. "Doesn't matter. I'm still a cop. The one that read her her rights and put the cuffs on her after she shot Tony. I handed her over to the beat cops and that's the last I saw of her." A loud clump came from the drum set. Everyone looked at Bruce. "Really? That's the last time you saw her? All this time and you've never --" "Bruce, she's been in jail. Why would I see her?" The drummer shrugged. "I just figured, conferences with her lawyer, that kind of thing." "You watch too much television. Can we rehearse?" Cole brought the discussion to an abrupt close. The other members of Ancient Rebellion turned to their instruments and in moments the room was filled with classic rock music. * * * Alex Masters meandered along the shoreline of the bay, enjoying each delicious splash of the waves against her feet. She swallowed deep breaths of the salty, sand-spiced air, absorbing it like a drug. She could almost feel it infuse her blood system with a gentle calmness and sense of reassurance. The beauty of freedom after almost twelve months in a crowded jail cell was overwhelming. She wanted to stretch her arms out and spin around in circles. The only damper on her spirit was the feeling that everyone on the beach was staring at her. Did they recognize her face from newspaper articles over the last year, or did they understand the meaning of the bracelet she wore? It seemed like everyone must know who or what she was. Did they think of her as a prostitute, a cop killer, or just a con who should still be behind bars? Alex gave herself a mental shake. She couldn't think like that. This was her third chance at a fresh start in life. Wasn't the old cliché "the third time's the charm?" She had to make this work. Not that she would enjoy working under the constant eye of Big Brother as a clerk typist in the Bay City Police Department. Having spent half her life in Lafayette where the cops were the enemy, this was going to take a major attitude adjustment. She continued on down the beach toward the condo. Which brought her thoughts around to King Marshall. She smiled thinking of him. Only a higher power, if one existed, knew where she would be at this moment if it weren't for King. Since the day she wandered into Bay City and onto the streets of Lafayette, King had been her savior. Most people probably wouldn't see the notorious crime boss in that light, but for Alex no other description suited. He found her a place to live and an occupation. So what if it had been a run down apartment building, and she walked the streets to put food in her mouth? At least she'd had a safe place to call home. Safe is relative, depending on where you come from. One day King invited her to live with him. He treated her like a little sister. Alex spent hours in his library learning to play the piano. He taught her a lot about business in general. Life had been wonderful. Until King was arrested. Even then he had taken care of her. Bought her the condo and a new car. She had insisted on finding her own job in the "straight" world. And again, everything would have been perfect if she hadn't found herself stuck in the middle of a bank robbery. Now she awaited trial on three counts of murder and accessory to armed robbery. At first she resisted King's attempts to help. Months in jail, and a public defender who seemed to be getting nowhere on her case, caused her to reconsider. Alex allowed King to hire Sheila Dixon to defend her. Sheila stepped in like a whirlwind and soon had the case turned upside down. There was no doubt in Alex's mind that somehow King was responsible for the sudden reappearance of Harry Sheppard, the man who could prove her innocence. For it to have taken King this long to find him meant Harry was adroit at hiding. But his presence also proved King Marshall's power even from behind bars. So Alex was free, in a sense, once more. And she owed it all to King Marshall. This time she was not going to screw things up. She would follow the rules, obey the orders and be a good girl. Even if it killed her.
|
