The Call: (A Harper & Lane Short Story) Read online

  The Call

  A Harper and Lane Short Story

  Tony Healey

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination, or used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2016 Tony Healey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any way without the author's express written permission.

  Contents

  Dedication

  THE CALL

  About Tony Healey

  HOPE'S PEAK

  Dedication

  For Sharon, who believed

  THE CALL

  (This short story is a prequel that takes place prior to the events of Hope's Peak.)

  1.

  Her finger traces a round scar on his chest and she thinks: This was a mistake.

  Harper has been lying with her head on his chest, watching him breathe for the past ten minutes, wondering how it happened. Stu stirs, opens his eyes. He looks down at where her finger is drawing a tight circle around his scar. "When were you shot?" she asks him.

  "A while back. Went straight through, missed my lung and a few vital arteries."

  "Jesus."

  "That's why I wear that," Stu says, indicating a chain on the nightstand. She doesn't remember him taking it off. In fact, she doesn't remember a lot—just the good parts—the rest is a comfortably hazy blur. "My lucky bullet."

  He reaches over, lifts it up and drops it on his bare chest in front of her. A bullet with a hole drilled in the top and a thin chain running through it.

  "Pretty cool," she admits. "Not sure I'd want to wear the thing that nearly killed me as a piece of jewellery, though."

  "Well . . ." Stu says, taking the bullet from her so he can look at it himself, turning it over. "It's kind of a reminder."

  "Of what?" Harper asks.

  The bullet and chain are swallowed up in his closed hand. He smiles at her, but there is something else in that smile—a sadness. "Doesn't matter."

  Harper sits up. The fan whirs on the ceiling, pushing the warm air around. She can see Stu's eyes taking her in; her face, her breasts, her bare-naked body in the early morning light.

  "I don't know how this happened," she says.

  "I'm pretty sure I remember . . ." Stu begins, chuckling to himself.

  "No," Harper says, getting off the bed. Stu props himself up on one elbow. "I mean, us getting together like this. Stu, I'm not so sure it's a good idea."

  "A little late for that, isn't it?"

  Harper rolls her eyes, walks into the bathroom, runs the shower. She catches sight of herself in the mirror and thinks: Why not? Why can't I have a little happiness? Something of my own?

  She thinks of Stu's scar on his chest, a reminder to the end of his days of the shot that nearly killed him. The balls of the guy to wear the bullet on a chain around his neck.

  He's not the only one with scars. Difference is, nobody sees mine.

  Harper stalks back into the bedroom where she finds Stu getting into his trousers.

  "What're you doing?"

  "Isn't it obvious?"

  "Stu, don't be like that."

  "Look, I'm not being like anything," he tells her, his voice surprisingly calm, surprisingly even. "I'm going back to my place for a shower."

  "Have a shower here."

  Stu buttons his shirt, hastily tucks it into his trousers and rolls his tie up, shoving it into his back pocket. "Jane, I think we both need to freshen up. Clear our heads."

  He walks over to her, places his hands on her hips, pressing his lips against hers. Harper can do little more than watch him walk to the front door and pull it open. Stu glances back at her before closing the door and Harper knows she must say something—anything—but before she can, he is gone.

  She walks numbly back to the bathroom, and steps into the shower. The water is hot, and good, and in minutes the fog from last night's booze has started to dissipate.

  Where do we go from here?

  It was only meant to be a few drinks, a little downtime following a long day. But it turned into something much more, the two of them kissing at the back of The Gator's Snap, her tongue in his mouth, the feeling electric, like two crossed wires crackling. They went back to hers, falling through the front door, hands over each other's bodies, the both of them filled with want and need. She realises now he's had the same empty, vacuous space inside; a cold spot that needed just a little warmth, the kind only love, or something like it, can provide.

  When Harper walks back to the bedroom there are three missed calls on her cell. All of them from the station.

  Never a break, she thinks.

  2.

  She pulls up outside his place, where he's stood fixing his tie. "I barely had time to dress myself," Stu complains, getting into the car.

  Harper looks at his wet hair. "Or dry yourself."

  "Homicide?" he asks.

  "Afraid so," Harper says. "Listen, Stu . . ."

  He shakes his head. "Let's not do this now. Not with a dead body to deal with. Later, okay?"

  "Okay," Harper says. She puts the car into gear. "We can grab coffee on the way."

  "Yeah, I need it."

  * * *

  There are reporters from the local news channel already outside the crime scene. They're pressed up against the CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS tape stretched across the front lawn, trying to get that one lucky shot of someone or something coming in or out of the house.

  Harper parks ten yards down the street, at the first available space. The tarmac shimmers under the hot sun. "How did the press get in on this?" she wonders aloud, draining the last of her coffee, returning the empty cup to the holder.

  Stu shifts in his seat as he finishes his own. "Pisses me off."

  "Huh?"

  "The fuckin' press. Bunch of vultures. Who knows how they caught wind of it. Maybe a beat cop looking for a bribe. Plenty of that going about."

  Harper sighs. "You and your conspiracy theories."

  "I'm probably right though," Stu says.

  "Yeah, probably."

  They get out, push through the reporters and cameramen and duck beneath the cordoning tape, flashing their ID's. Raley hands Harper some rubber gloves from his jacket pocket. Harper knows he often walks around with a bundle of rubber gloves on him, just in case; like a horny teen with a pocketful of prophylactics.

  "Thanks."

  "Hey," Stu says as they approach the front porch. Uniforms cover the house, and a flash goes off inside the house—the crime scene photographer documenting everything he can before forensics begin their work in earnest. "Don't you find it ironic Morelli puts us two on this case?"

  Harper frowns at him. "Stu, we do these cases all the time—" it takes a second for what he's saying to click. "Oh. I get you. Yeah, it is a bit."

  Before transferring to Hope's Peak, she had been married. Stu was going through the final stages of his own divorce when they were first partnered up. Now here they are, tasked with aiding the investigation of a man killing his own wife in cold blood.

  Gotta admit, it is ironic, Harper thinks.

  "Come on," Harper says, hitting him on the arm. "Let's get this show on the road."

  * * *

  The house is hot as a sauna and Annabelle Pritchett has been cooking in the heat. She lays on her side, arms haphazardly above her head, one leg over the other as if she's collapsed and is unconscious. Harper moves around to the front of the victim and it's impossible not to see how she has been killed. There's something about a slit throat that gets you every time. Pritchett lays in a congealing pool of her own blood, a ten inch gash open all the way around her neck.

  "Look," Stu says, hunkering down next to the victim. Harper follows suit, watching as he lifts the victim's right hand. "Skin under the nails."

  Harper looks about. The furniture is all over the place. Everything in the living room is in disarray from the struggle that took place. Blood splatter has coated the walls, the floor; it's everywhere. "Jeez. Look at it in here."

  "Definitely a fight of some kind. Right before he cut her throat," Stu says, shaking his head. Harper watches him lower the victim's hand back down, then pat it gently. It's one of her partner's most attractive qualities—his humanity. There are enough cops who lose that part of themselves that feels any real empathy for victims of violent crime. They become complacent. Stu isn't one of them.

  "Poking at dead bodies again detectives?" a voice asks from behind. John Dudley approaches ahead of the forensics team, still working on his gloves. Harper bites her tongue. There's always something about Dudley's slimy demeanour that makes her want to slug him in the gut.

  "Didn't know you were going to be here," Stu says.

  Dudley stands with his hands on his hips, regarding the dead woman on the floor, the overturned coffee table. "Some serious shit went down in here," he says.

  Stu grimaces as he mumbles "Very astute," under his breath.

  "Morelli ask you to assist?" Harper asks.

  "Something like that," Dudley tells her. "So I heard we got a runner."

  "Yeah," Stu says. "Husband slit her throat, left her there on the floor to bleed out, and took off. There's an APB out for his blue sedan, but so far no luck. Nothing on the traffic cams in town, either."

  "Nice guy," Dudley says, moving past them to squat next to the body.

  Harper sho
ots Stu a look that lets him know, in no uncertain terms, that she wants to get going.

  "Well, uh, we'd better make tracks. Stanley Pritchett doesn't have a criminal record, it's very hard to pin down just what kind of guy he is. I've got a few names, so we'll pursue those first, see where they go. They might help us build a picture," Stu explains. "You know how it is. If you understand these people more, you have a better chance of tracking them down."

  "Uh-huh," Dudley says.

  Harper can't hold it in any longer. "Why the hell did Morelli think this'd be a good idea?"

  "What's that?" Dudley asks, standing, eyebrows raised.

  She indicates the scene around them. "We've got this."

  "He thought you might need the extra assistance," Dudley says, his voice cold and flat.

  "Well, we don't need to be micromanaged," Harper tells him. "This is what we do, Dudley."

  He shrugs. "Regardless, the captain wants another perspective on this. The press is gonna make a big deal out of this case. And, no offence, you're new around here. It's good PR to see local cops at the scene."

  "Hey," Stu steps forward, thumbing back at Harper. "She's been my partner the past twelve months."

  "Yeah, and some of us have been here for years," Dudley says. "Anyway, I don't give the orders. I just take 'em. Some poor bitch got her throat cut last night? Not my problem. Getting ordered to come here and help out . . . that is my problem."

  "Come on," Harper says, walking away. "Let's leave the detective to assist with the body. Maybe the cameras outside will feature him in the six o'clock bulletin."

  Stu glares at Dudley as he stalks past, following Harper out into the sunshine. He wrestles his shades from his shirt pocket. "Fuckin' prick. I hate that guy."

  "Me too," Harper says, looking back at the house. "But at least Morelli is giving us support."

  "Not that we need it."

  "Hmm," Harper slides her own sunglasses on. "Look, we're gonna be stars, Stu. Maybe Dudley won't be the only one on the TV tonight."

  A reporter has his camera aimed their way, filming as they walk down to the crime scene tape and duck beneath it.

  "Apparently he has a brother, lives the other side of town. Couple of uniforms are already at his workplace, asking about," Stu tells her as they get back into the car.

  "Any other siblings?" Harper asks. "Parents?"

  Stu shakes his head. "Just a brother."

  "Okay," Harper starts the engine. "The brother it is."

  * * *

  Ernest Pritchett scratches the side of his neck; a red rash has developed there, and he notices Harper looking at it. "It's the heat, you see."

  "Uh huh," Harper says. Ernest leads them through to his living room. A Dobermann lounges on a dog bed in the corner. There is a television turned down low, the blinds are half closed and the room is hazy with cigarette smoke. It isn't a dirty place, just the home of a man living on his own with nothing better to do than watch TV.

  "Have yourselves a seat," he says, gesturing to the sofa nearest them.

  Stu perches himself on the edge of the sofa, flipping his notepad over to a blank page. "So, when was the last time you heard from your brother Stanley, Mister Pritchett?"

  Ernest sighs as he lowers himself into a recliner. "A week, maybe two weeks ago?"

  "Right," Stu says, writing that down.

  "I can't believe he killed Anna like that," Ernest is saying, shaking his head. "I mean, who'd have seen it coming?"

  Harper frowns at him. "You didn't?"

  "No!" Ernest gasps. "They were happily married. And I say this as someone with two failed marriages under his belt. If there were two people I'd have bet on sticking it out forever, it was Stan and Anna."

  "What about tensions? Issues between them you might have caught wind of at any point?" Stu asks.

  Ernest shakes his head. "Nothing like that. Honestly, I wish there was something I could tell you." The Dobermann gets up, stretches out and pads over to the two detectives. Stu ignores the animal; Harper lets it sniff her palm, then strokes its black glossy coat as Ernest continues to speak. "He worked at that car factory his whole life. I served in the gulf war. That was my last outing before I packed it all in. Saw a lot of things, detectives. Went a lot of places. We were chalk and cheese, my brother and me. I wanted more, he settled for what he had. I guess that's the way it goes sometimes."

  Stu nods knowingly, writing his notes.

  "So you'd say he was the homebody type?" Harper asks.

  "For sure," Ernest says. "Like I said, I thought him and Anna were for keeps."

  Stu looks up. "Well, sometimes it doesn't work out like that."

  Harper feels the sting in Stu's words. She wonders if Ernest has picked up on it too, but the older man doesn't seem to have noticed. He's still talking, and Stu is back to jotting everything down in his scrawled handwriting. Harper thinks about her own failed marriage; when they arrived at the scene of Annabelle Pritchett's murder, Stu noted the irony of the pair of them—two divorcees—getting assigned the case.

  The same could be said about us getting put together as partners in the first place, Harper thinks. Two fuck-ups who tried at relationships and failed. Who can say we won't fuck up again?

  She tunes back into the conversation. "So, no phone calls or text messages?"

  "No," Ernest shakes his head. "A visit here either last week, or the week before, like I said."

  "Okay," Stu says, getting up. The Dobermann pads over to where Ernest is sitting and rests its head in his lap.

  Harper smiles. "How old is the dog?"

  "She's ten," Ernest says, looking at her. "An old girl now."

  "Looks good for it," Harper says.

  Stu casts about, his features tight. "Hey, uh, do you mind if I use the John? I drank a big cup of joe on the way over here, and . . ."

  "Course you can. Just down the hall there. Left's the kitchen, toilet's on the right."

  "Thanks," Stu says, giving Harper a funny look as he walks past.

  She frowns at him: Huh?

  "Won't be a minute," he tells her.

  Straight away, Harper knows Stu isn't going to the toilet. He's going to have a poke about Ernest's place, looking for any sign that he's being less than truthful.

  "Mind if I smoke, detective?" Ernest asks her, popping a cigarette between his lips and lighting it from a scuffed and dented Zippo.

  "Hey, it's your place," Harper tells him.

  "Care for one?" he asks, offering the pack.

  "No thanks. Smoking's never been my thing."

  Ernest looks at the tip of the cigarette. "Nasty things, really. I just can't seem to give 'em up."

  "It's a habit that's hard to break for a lot of people," Harper says, hoping to keep the conversation ticking along until Stu is finished with what he's doing.

  "Started when I was serving," Ernest says, blowing a cloud of milky white smoke up at the ceiling. "Maybe it's too late in the day to give it up. A man gets to my age, you've gotta think the damage has been done already, you know?"

  Harper watches as Ernest's dog walks out into the hall.

  Oh great.

  "Well you know what they say. It's never too late," she says.

  The dog barks.

  Ernest frowns down the hall at it. Harper looks. The dog is facing the kitchen, giving another shrill bark at whatever is bothering it down there.

  "Damn dog," Ernest says, hoisting himself up from his recliner. "Fucking thing's always barking at something. Wonder what's got up its nose this time."

  Harper follows Ernest out of the living room, down the hall and into the kitchen.

  "What is it?" he asks the dog. Ernest looks up, eyes narrowing when he notices a door on the other side of the kitchen is ajar. He turns to Harper. "What's going on here?"

  Before Harper can answer, Ernest has yanked the door open and thundered down the short set of steps that lead from it into a darkened garage. Stu is examining the car he has in there, using the light of his phone to look it over.

  "What the hell? I thought you were taking a leak!" Ernest shouts. "This is private property, you can't go poking about in here."

  "Harper, hit those lights," Stu tells her.

  She flicks the switch on the wall next to her, the twin fluorescent tubes stuttering to life.