Caught Off Guard Page 13

A wave of something not so fresh burst out the door and pushed us backward.

  “Barf,” Mrs. Norton said. “That trash needs to be taken out.”

  “I agree.” Sour milk and meat gone bad made me think of smells around dumpsters. I lifted my shirt and covered my nose, as if that would make it better.

  Mrs. Norton gestured for me to precede her. “After you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Gee, thanks.”

  The TV volume seemed to triple when I stepped inside.

  “Hey, Brad!” I yelled over the din as I stepped cautiously into the space.

  Mrs. Norton came in behind me, grabbing the back of my shirt like I was a line leader.

  I cut her a do-you-mind look. She didn’t get it, instead jerking her chin up to tell me to keep going. We slowly shuffled toward the living room.

  “Brad, wake up, dude!” I yelled, ignoring the cramping in my stomach, a warning sign if there ever was one. Something was off, and my instincts were screaming at me.

  Yet I continued to walk toward the unknown. I rounded the corner first and gasped, bile rising up my throat. I spun and pushed Mrs. Norton back into the kitchen, toward the door.

  “What the…” she said, fighting to get around me.

  I didn’t let up. “You don’t want to see that. He’s dead. Can you go to your place and call the police?” I needed to find a bush to upchuck in.

  We made it outside and sucked in a deep, cleansing breath, an automatic response to the fresh air.

  “He’s dead?” She looked around me but made no move to go back inside.

  I nodded and scanned the property. Seeing no bush, I instead headed for a hose and spigot and lost my dinner there. With one hand on the brick wall and the other on my stomach, I focused on keeping my eyes open because whenever I closed them, I saw Brad Jenson in his chair, bloated, discolored, eyes wide open, dried foam coating his mouth.

  “I’ll call the police,” Mrs. Norton said. Her back door slid open.

  I leaned my head against the cold brick wall and turned on the spigot. From the hose, I splashed cold water on my face.

  A few minutes later, Mrs. Norton came back and stood beside me.

  I turned off the hose and rolled my head sideways against the brick so that I could see her better. She held out two glasses.

  “The cops are on their way.” She moved a glass of amber liquid toward me. “This is whisky. It’ll help with the shock.” Then she held another glass out, with clear liquid. “This is water because you’ll need it to chase away the bad taste.”

  I grabbed the whisky and tossed it back, letting the liquid burn down my throat in a single swallow. I chased it with the water.

  “We should go around front,” I said, albeit hoarsely.

  “I told them to come around back.” She closed Jenson’s door then took the glasses from me. “Come on. Come sit while we wait.”

  She gestured for me to follow her to her patio with outdoor furniture, a table and two armchairs with faded cushions.

  She set the glasses on the table before sitting in a chair. “Thanks for stopping me from seeing him.”

  I nodded. “A couple months ago, I watched a man die. I didn’t know was dying. I thought he was choking or something. Anyway, I thought that was the worst thing a person could see, but this was right up there with it.” I picked at my already chewed-down nail.

  Mrs. Norton shook her head. “How’d he die? Gun? 'Cause I never heard anything like that.”

  I shook my head. “The TV would have muffled it. But I don’t think a gun was involved.”

  She shuddered. “How?”

  “Overdose, maybe?” But I was guessing. Maybe he choked on something he was eating. But even as I thought that, I recalled the scene, and no food was nearby.

  The police arrived and took our statements. The coroner followed. We watched from our chairs; though, even that felt too close.

  The cop—his name tag read Burns—asked, “Did you touch anything inside?”

  I shook my head but glanced at Mrs. Norton. “Did I touch the wall?” I couldn’t remember.

  The moments leading up and right afterward were a blur, leaving only the crisp, clear image of Brad in a chair, his arms back almost like they were tucked behind the chair, his chest forward, his head upward like he’d been looking toward something.

  “No, I don’t think so. And I didn’t touch anything either. I was holding on to her.”

  I nodded.

  “And why were you there?” the cop asked.

  Mrs. Norton said, “I was there to get him to turn down the blasted TV. She was there because she’s a PI and wanted to talk to him about her friend who’s been charged with murder. She works for that guy who killed the Pioneer quarterback.”

  The cop studied me.

  “I can take out my license if you want.”

  He put his hand out. From my back pocket, I pulled out my PI license and placed it on his palm.

  He said, “And it’s just a coincidence that you came here and you two connected?”

  I shook my head and told him about my first visit and Mrs. Norton’s call that afternoon. “I’ve been looking for Mr. Jenson for a few days now.” I couldn’t tell him that Brad’s cards had been unused and he’d basically been off the grid since Saturday.

  “Do you think he overdosed?” I asked.

  That was possible, yet something felt off, something about how Brad was sitting or the expression of surprise on his face. However, I’d never seen anything like that before, so my barometer for what’s to be expected didn’t exist.

  “The detective will check all angles.”

  Following that remark, another guy, mid-forties, with a buzz cut, graying temples, and the beginning of a spare tire, wearing jeans and T-shirt and a gun in a shoulder holster, stepped out of Brad’s apartment. He looked familiar, but my brain was too foggy to place him.

  “I’m Detective Daniels,” he said. “I know Officer Burns has taken your statement, but I’m going to need you to tell it to me. I apologize for making you repeat it.”

  A crime-scene tech stood at the sliding door and brushed fingerprint powder across the handle and glass.

  I said, “You’re going to find my prints on that glass. I was trying to look into the apartment earlier.”

  Detective Daniels moved our glasses off the outdoor table, placing them on the ground, then sat on it. “Start at the beginning. What’s your name?” He held a small, palm-sized notebook in his hand, his pen at the ready.

  “Samantha True.”

  He glanced up at me. “You’re the PI working the Gunn case, right?”

  Then his name and face clicked in my mind. He’d been one of the arresting officers in AJ’s case.

  I nodded and jerked my thumb toward Brad’s place. “And that guy in there. He was a trainer for the Pioneers. I spoke to him a few days ago, and he warned me about this case. Said he was sorry AJ got roped into this. What does that mean? Guess I’ll never know because now he’s dead, and AJ wasn’t the one who killed him either.”

  19

  Thursday

  Late the previous night, the Portland cops had given me the okay to go home, calling Jenson’s death a likely suicide. Thankfully, Lockett was staying with me and took care of Simon.

  Detective Daniels cleverly skirted any questions I asked about McVay’s case, but contact was contact, and I felt maybe he would meet with me, should I put my name in with the front- desk warden at the police department.

  Exhausted from the night’s events, I spent part of the morning lying in bed, going through the articles Toby had sent about Lil’ Megalodon and his agent falling out. The sounds of Lockett banging around in my kitchen forced me out of bed.

  “What’s your plan?” Lockett asked over home-brewed coffee. My mood was ugly, so going down to Java Magic didn’t seem like a good idea. I didn’t need Lark Ogilvy to tell me my aura was black.

  “I want to talk with DeShawn Cook. Apparently, he’s McVay’s neighbor.”
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  Lockett, about to take a sip, paused. “You’re kidding.”

  I filled him in on my visit with Rich Sweezy and how he’d lied about his relationship with Lil’ Megalodon and who knew what else. I showed him the folder with the photos Sweezy had handed over as his alibi. I also shared what I’d learned that morning.

  I added two scoops of sugar to my coffee in hopes of sweetening my mood.

  Lockett said, “I had a conversation with McVay’s new agent, Nick Hutton.”

  I arched my eyebrows in interest. While I’d been assigned the old agent, Lockett had taken on the new one, Nick Hutton.

  “And?” I said.

  “It looked like McVay was going to go elsewhere. Hutton and McVay had an offer on the table from an East Coast team that McVay liked. The Pioneers refused to match it. The deal was contingent on McVay getting his team to the playoffs. A likely probability.”

  “Did the fact that he sat out a few games matter?” I thought McVay had a lot on the line when bad luck chased him down.

  “Not as much as the PEDs did. The team started to waffle some, Hutton said. Another team stepped in and offered less—not much less, mind you. They didn’t care about the PEDs.”

  “Was McVay interested?”

  Lockett smiled. “Here’s where it gets interesting. McVay wasn’t interested the first time they made an offer. But he was after he popped positive and the other team started to balk.”

  I picked up my mug and moved to the couch, settling myself in a corner and propping my feet up on my coffee table. “What makes an All-Pro quarterback with a fantastic record want to walk away from his winning team? Everyone says they were playoff bound and had a good chance to go to the Super Bowl. Who gives that up?”

  Lockett shook his head. “I can’t find anything in McVay’s life or past to answer that question. He didn’t have a life. Only football.”

  I said, “Maybe that’s the answer. Maybe he was lonely out here or something? He had no family. No significant other. He broke up with his ‘friend’ and agent.” I made air quotes around friend because Sweezy didn’t strike me as the sort to be a good one. “Maybe he wanted a fresh start.”

  Lockett put a palm out to gesture his disbelief. “From what? Nothing here was stopping him from having a full life.”

  Our gazes met and locked.

  “That we know of,” I said. “He’s got cameras all around his house. Is he paranoid? If so, what of? He’s got no personal life. He wants to leave a winning team, sure, for more money, but he’s set up for becoming one of the greats, and he’s gonna trade that on for cash? Why not have both? He’s got a good reputation except, all of a sudden, he pops positive on a drug test. It’s not lining up.”

  “I agree.” Lockett stood. “You said you’re going to talk to the neighbor and friend?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m off to talk to AJ again. We need to talk to some more players that were close to McVay. Once you talk to the shark rapper, call me.”

  I laughed. “You got it. Over the fridge is a travel mug for your coffee.”

  He gave me a thumbs-up and busied himself with preparing to leave. I dictated a text to Precious.

  Me: Meet with Lil’ Megalodon today?

  But the text didn’t say “Lil’,” autocorrecting to “leal,” which forced me to send a second text with the shark and record emojis.

  Precious: No. Maybe tmrw.

  Well, that won’t do.

  I gave up the comfort of my couch and went into my room to change, putting my hair in a braid then donning jeans, a pullover tunic-style sweatshirt, and my puffy jacket. I left five minutes after Lockett, stopping to wave to Stella through the window at the newspaper.

  The rain was a drizzle, and the temps were low and not expected to rise, mimicking my mood. I crossed in front of the market and had stepped into the road to cross to where LC was parked when I heard my name.

  I turned to find Leo coming out of the market, a bag of oranges in his hand.

  He caught up with me. “I heard about you finding the trainer’s body. Sorry.”

  He was dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt in shades of green, a white T-shirt underneath, and a thick outdoor working jacket. He touched my arm, and I wanted to melt against him for comfort. But the friendship between Leo and me was still new. Even though his kid brother was one of my best friends, Leo and I hadn’t been in each other’s lives until Carson died. Prior to that, we hadn’t seen each other in ten years. So instead, I leaned against LC but gave his hand a squeeze of appreciation.

  “I don’t think I ever want to see something like that again.” I pressed my palms to my temples because closing my eyes made me recall the image vividly.

  “Suicides are tough.”

  I dropped my hands and stared at him. “That’s the thing. I overheard Daniels say something to the photographer last night, something that struck me too.”

  Leo raised his eyebrows, waiting.

  “He wanted shots of the positions of Jenson’s arms.”

  “Because?”

  “They were like this.” I mimicked how Jenson had been in his chair: chest slightly out, head thrown back with his chin up, his arms back as if they had been trapped behind him.

  “Easily explained, I’m sure. But your creative mind is saying what?” He gave me a crooked grin.

  “Remember when I was in school for crime-scene photography?”

  Leo nodded. “I remember your first assignment, when you threw up all over the—”

  “I had the flu!” I punched him on the shoulder.

  He chuckled, rubbing his shoulder. “That story never gets old.”

  I thrust my key into LC’s lock. “I’m out of here.”

  Time was supposed to make embarrassing moments easier, but that one wasn’t any more tolerable than it had been back then, maybe because that event, my first assignment, was a turning point in my life. I did, after all, go into stupid, soul-eating studio photography for ten years.

  Leo placed his hand over mine, stopping me from getting into LC. “Come on. Don’t be mad. Tell me what you saw that made you think of that night ten years ago.”

  “It’s not so much what I saw but a gut feeling that something about this wasn’t right, and the more I think about it, the more I think it had to do with his position. If he committed suicide by popping too many pills, why didn’t he slump in his seat?”

  Leo shrugged. “It would depend on what he popped.”

  I nodded. “I suppose. But it looks almost like his hands were tied behind him.”

  Leo arched an eyebrow. “Or he’d been convulsing. Where you headed?”

  “To see a shark rapper about his friendship with a dead quarterback and maybe trip him up into confessing he murdered him.” I unlocked LC and opened the door.

  Leo closed it. “You think this rapper might have killed McVay?” He kept a hand on the door, keeping it closed.

  “I think it could be anyone. So why not a rapper he went to college with? A guy he shared an agent with. This same agent that Precious said he was mad at because the agent jacked something up.”

  “And what was that?”

  “From what I read in the few articles Toby sent me, it would seem that there’s this insanely hot podcast, The Morning Rap, and it’s a big deal to be on it. Lil’ Megalodon was asked to be on it. Only he no-showed. And let me tell you, the fans of the show are eating him alive on social media.”

  “What was the reason he didn’t show up?” Leo leaned his shoulder against LC, still keeping me from leaving.

  “Communication error with his agent.” I jerked a thumb to one side, telling him to move.

  “The agent might have messed up this deal?” Leo didn’t budge.

  I nodded. “Yeah, the timing of it appears to coincide with McVay drop-kicking his agent to the curb. I’m just gonna go by and see if my new rapper friend might want to get all this off his chest.”

  Leo shook his head. “Sounds like motive. I’m going with yo
u.” He pushed off LC and pointed at his pickup, parked two spots away from mine. “I’ll drive.”

  I feigned indignation. “You got a problem with my vehicle?”

  He chuckled. “Nope, and that’s what makes you mad? I thought you’d tell me to butt out. That you got this.”

  I shook my head. “Nope. I love a sidekick. Why do you think I was so freaked out about Toby and Precious being able to protect themselves? Because I like having them along with me. You packing heat?”

  Leo, who’d been leading me to his truck, paused. “You think we’re gonna need it?”

  “You never know with me,” I said and pushed past him.

  “This is true,” he said and met me at the passenger door, opening it for me.

  We splurged on drive-through coffee and pastries from one of the many coffee shacks scattered throughout Washington. Then we crossed into Oregon and headed to Lake Oswego.

  Leo gave a low whistle as we pulled up outside McVay’s house. “Nice.”

  “Not nice enough to keep McVay in town. He was trying to get out of here.”

  “Was his house for sale?”

  I put up a finger to signal he should wait then pulled out my phone. “I didn’t see anything inside his house that indicated that.”

  Leo groaned. “Please don’t tell me about your breaking and entering.”

  As I typed in McVay’s address, I asked, “Is it a B and E if the doors are unlocked?” I scrolled through the sites. “According to the World Wide Web, his house wasn’t listed.”

  “Doesn’t mean he couldn’t have been talking to someone about it but never got it finalized before he was murdered.”

  “Yep.” I pushed the door open then stood at the front of Leo’s truck and looked at the houses to either side of McVay’s. “Either one look more like a rapper’s house?” I wasn’t above knocking on both doors but hoped to get it right the first go.

  Leo said. “I’m sure Toby could find out.”

  I gave a mock gasp. “Are you saying I should hack a system to get the info?”

  Leo shook his head. “You three are a bad influence on me.”