Ground Zero, page 8
part #1 of Zero Hour Series
“Sure, but I need to make a quick detour upstairs. I know Kelsey is responsible for the cupcakes and balloons, so I’d like to thank her in person and offer her a cupcake.”
“No problem.” Locke seemed much more relaxed than he was that morning. If Sawyer didn’t know better, he’d say Locke’s “personal business” included him letting off some steam. Sawyer refused to think of the ways his partner achieved it.
Sawyer’s visit with Kelsey was brief. He hugged and thanked her for the treats and passed the pastry box around, making fast friends with the cyber tech team. He stopped by his desk long enough to unlock the bottom drawer and grab the file before heading to the conference room.
“Where do you want to start?” Sawyer asked, dropping down in the chair opposite from Locke’s.
“The only update I have so far is from Jerry, who’s our most seasoned analyst on the tech team. He was unable to detect any background noises that gave our guy away. I asked him to email the scrubbed version to me, and I couldn’t detect anything. I’ll cue it up for you to listen to if you want, but I want to warn you it’s really disturbing.”
“The brutal murder or the message Putz was spewing before he died?” Sawyer asked, thinking of what Kelsey said earlier.
“Both. Would you like me to recap it for you, or do you want to hear it?”
“Recap,” Sawyer said without hesitation. “If the trained professional couldn’t pick out background clues using high-tech equipment, I certainly won’t.”
“The hate message of the week was that gays are the cause of the hurricane barreling toward the southeast Atlantic Coast states. Savannah has become overrun with them, and this is God’s way of cleaning house,” Locke said somberly.
“That’s not a new message,” Sawyer said, rolling his eyes.
“That’s as far as he got before someone started cracking his skull. You don’t even hear a door open or footsteps. You just hear Putz getting cut off by a loud thump and what sounds like his body crashing to the floor. The loud thumping continues for about ninety seconds. The assailant doesn’t let out a peep the entire time—not a grunt, a curse, or a groan. They just keep clobbering him. Ninety seconds doesn’t sound like a long time, but a person can strike something with a bat dozens of times in that span.”
“Jesus,” Sawyer said. “Did Jerry think the recording was too clean?”
“He didn’t rule out the possibility it was scrubbed before it was uploaded, but he said it would have to be high-end equipment to erase the signs of editing from him. He found no evidence someone had tampered with it.”
“So, no clues from the recording. I think the next two likely interviews need to be Jacque, the yoga instructor, and Rocky Jacobs, the private investigator. Who first?”
“I’d say Jacque,” Locke replied. “The PI could be in the field. I’m not a fan of investigators, but some of them are good guys. It’s best not to piss them off needlessly, so I’ll call his office and request a meeting if you call and see if the yoga instructor is at his studio. I imagine he does in-home sessions for clients, and it makes no sense to drive to his studio if he’s not going to be there. I’m sure Melody has informed him of our conversation today, so he might have gone to ground.”
“Deal.” Sawyer dialed the number to the studio and listened to it ring while Locke did the same with the PI. A receptionist picked up on the third ring. Rather than tip her off he was a cop, Sawyer softened his voice and said, “Hello, sugar. Can I please speak to Jacque? My best friend told me he is the master at what he does, and honey, I’m in desperate need of his help.” The receptionist politely told Sawyer that Jacque wasn’t in and wouldn’t be available for a few days. “Oh, surely he has a private number for his best clients. I know my girl wasn’t playing with me about that. Come on; help a queen out.” It was no good. The receptionist was trained well to guard her employer’s information. “I’ll just call him back later this week. Thank you, sugar.”
When Sawyer disconnected the call, he looked up and caught Locke staring at him with his mouth hanging open.
“No luck. Jacque isn’t scheduled to be in the studio for a few days. I guess we’ll need to go knock on his door. Did you reach the PI?”
“I had to leave a voicemail message,” Locke replied without blinking.
Sawyer snapped his fingers, breaking his partner’s trance. “What’s your problem?”
“Am I dreaming right now?”
“How about I slug you and we find out?” Sawyer suggested. “So what? I can get campy if the situation calls for it.”
“Funny,” Locke said dryly. “I’m serious, Key. Who are you really?” He held up a finger. “Asshole.” Two fingers. “Speaks legal shit and computer geek.” Three fingers. “Attracted to nerds.” Four fingers. “Son of a legendary supermodel.” Five fingers. “Campy on cue.”
“You forgot the sexy-voiced Adonis part.”
“That’s your list, not mine. How the hell didn’t I know that Evangeline Freaking O’Neal is your mother after the paper ran all those articles about you for nearly a year?”
“It’s Evangeline Frances O’Neal. They didn’t print the familial connection because my mother is the sweetheart of the South and above reproach.”
“Huh.”
“Attracted to nerds?” Sawyer questioned.
“I’m a detective. I didn’t miss the cute little exchange between you and the café owner. He has something for your headache all right.”
“Listen, Locke. You can keep a running tally on my attributes, or lack thereof, all you want, but I’m drawing the line at you removing your shoes and socks to count them out with your toes.”
“How about this finger?” Locke asked, flipping him off.
A well-lubed middle finger was one of Sawyer’s favorite things in the world, but it wasn’t something he’d tell Locke. Just thinking about it made him want to squirm in his chair. He tapped a few things into the laptop and pulled up Jacque’s home address. “Come on,” Sawyer said, scooting his chair back and getting to his feet. “Let’s drop by the yoga master’s house. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Locke snorted, forcing Sawyer’s eyes up to meet his. “Something tells me you’d have better luck if you stopped by the cybercafé on your way home.”
“I’m dropping by in the morning to interview Becca, who is a potential witness,” Sawyer said, not taking the bait.
Locke opened the conference room door and gestured for Sawyer to precede him. “According to the grapevine, you’re now older than I am. Age before beauty.”
It was Sawyer’s turn to brandish his middle finger.
“Are you sure you looked up the right guy,” Locke asked when he pulled the Charger up to the guardhouse in front of the ornate gates keeping unwanted visitors away from the ritzy gated community in Isle of Hope. “This guard shack looks more like a miniature castle. I think it’s constructed of real stone and not that fake stuff.”
“We’re in the right place. Jacque, the yoga master, lives here. His business and home are registered under the name Clark Seaver,” Sawyer said.
“Yeah, Jacque sounds more pretentious than Clark, which allows him to charge more per hour for his sessions.”
“Are you implying his yoga studio is a front for an escort service or something?” Sawyer asked his partner.
Locke didn’t answer him because a guard ambled over to the window and opened it. Frigid air Sawyer associated with a meat locker rolled out of the guardhouse, but he understood the need for excessive chilled air when he saw the guard was dressed in fine livery that would rival the best-dressed doorman in New York City. Only the guards at Buckingham Palace dressed better than this guy. At least he wasn’t forced to wear one of those big hats.
“Gentlemen,” the guard said. “What can I do for you?”
Locke showed him his badge. “We’re here to interview a resident. Will you kindly open the gate?”
“Which resident?” the man asked.
“I’m not required to answer that, so I won’t.” They didn’t want Clark Seaver, aka Jacque, going to ground.
The guard held up his hands in mock surrender. “I was only asking. There’s no need to get testy.” The man punched a button and the gates opened. “Have a good day, Officers.”
Locke closed the window and drove through them. “Can you believe the way he’s dressed. Does the queen live back here?”
“I know a few queens who live back here, but I don’t think that’s what you meant,” Sawyer quipped. Many of the prominent members of the LGBTQ+ community lived in this neighborhood. Even though he’d attended several parties here over the years, he wasn’t familiar with all the street names or the layout, so Sawyer had entered the address in the car’s GPS back at the station.
Locke followed the directions, navigating the pristine paved roads winding past immaculate homes for a few minutes before answering the question Sawyer had asked when at the guardhouse.
“I didn’t mean to imply the guy is up to anything illegal or sleazy, but it’s hard for me to believe he has enough clients like Melody to make this possible,” Locke said.
“He could be a trust fund baby,” Sawyer suggested. “Maybe he’s financially free to follow his passion.”
“Which is teaching people to stretch and breathe?”
“There’s more to yoga than stretching and breathing.” Sawyer looked out the passenger window, catching a glimpse of the palatial estates between breaks in the dense trees surrounding them, and remembering the last time he’d been back here.
It was before Victor was diagnosed with cancer, and they’d only been married for a little over a year. They were still in the honeymoon phase where they couldn’t get enough of each other. Victor had kept his hand possessively on Sawyer’s thigh during the entire trip unless he needed it to drive. They’d pulled up in front of their friend’s home and kissed like they might never get another chance before going inside.
Sawyer swallowed down a lump of sorrow. He knew this day was going to be difficult for so many reasons, and he dreaded going home to a quiet house. He used to love his birthday because Vic made them so special, but now he wished he could forget he had them. Breathe in. Hold. Release.
“You’ll get to use your yoga skills a lot around me.”
“I already have,” Sawyer said when Locke made the final turn on to a winding, paved driveway. Sawyer let out a sharp whistle when the house came into view. The large two-story stone and glass structure sat at the top of a hill overlooking an immaculately groomed yard.
“How do you get grass this green?”
“It looks like the same kind they use for professional baseball fields. He’s even hired a landscaper to cut it in the same kinds of lines you see at ballparks.”
“It makes me want to stomp across it,” Locke shamelessly admitted.
“Piss on it too?”
Locke chuckled. “Busted.” Locke parked the Charger in the middle of the circle drive in front of the house. “I hope this guy is home and is willing to talk.”
“I guess we’ll find out,” Sawyer said, pushing open his door. “Damn. Could it get any hotter out here?” He slid his finger beneath the neck of his shirt, trying to peel it away from his damp skin.
“I told you to lose the tie earlier. It’s only going to get more humid because another storm is rolling in,” Locke said, gesturing to the dark clouds in the distance. “I figure we have about forty-five minutes to an hour before it hits. Hopefully, we’ll be back at the station poring over threatening emails, hate letters, and the neighborhood canvas notes from the uniforms. I wouldn’t refuse coffee and a second round of cupcakes.”
Sawyer followed his partner up the broad set of steps leading to the front door. “I shouldn’t eat another one, especially after eating one of those bear claws Chief Rigby’s wife made.”
Locke stopped suddenly and turned to face Sawyer with a stern scowl on his face, making him lurch to a halt too. “Are you fucking with me right now because I was a jerk to you earlier?”
“You were a dickhead to me earlier, but no, I’m not jerking around with you.”
“Chief Rigby gave you one of her coveted bear claws?”
Sawyer studied Locke’s expression to see if he was the one fucking around. His astonishment looked sincere. “Yes. They are delicious, so I guess I can see why she doesn’t share…often.”
Locke narrowed his eyes. “You asked for one, didn’t you?”
“No. She offered, and I accepted.”
“I’ve worked for Rigby for five years, and I’ve looked longingly at those bear claws dozens of times. She’s never once offered one to me or anyone else in the precinct.”
“That you know of,” Sawyer countered. “Maybe they’ve all had a crack at her bear claws, and they’re just not telling you.”
“That’s cruel.”
“You should try playing hard to get and stop drooling in her office.”
“You—”
“Detectives Locke and Key, I presume.” Locke spun around, and both detectives stared at the shirtless, sweaty man standing in the doorway. Sawyer would recognize that voice and body anywhere but hoped like hell he was playing it cool. On the job or not, he couldn’t resist letting his gaze roam over the chiseled pecs, tight abs, and bulging biceps on display. At least Sawyer kept his eyes above the waistband of the man’s mesh shorts, although he knew what he’d find if he allowed his eyes to keep traveling south. “Melody told me you’d probably stop by. Come on in.” The glistening hunk turned around and headed inside his house, leaving the door open for them to follow.
“You don’t get a body like his working on a yoga mat,” Locke said. When Sawyer didn’t respond, he turned and looked at him curiously. “What’s wrong with you? Do you know him or something?”
Sawyer cleared his throat. “Something like that.”
“This isn’t the time to be coy,” Locke said tersely. “Did you pick this guy up at a club or something? If so, you can’t be involved in questioning him.”
“No,” Sawyer assured him. “I’ve never met the guy before today.”
“But you do recognize him from someplace. Where?” Locke’s eyes widened suddenly. “Porn?” he guessed. Sawyer nodded. “Gay porn?” Sawyer nodded again. “Is his junk as big as the rest of him?”
That wasn’t a question Sawyer expected a straight man to ask, but it snapped him out of his daze. And made him question those rumors again. “Jesus. I’m not answering that. Come on, dickhead.”
Sawyer left Locke standing there gaping and wondering while he went in search of Clark, aka Jacque, aka Randy Dagger. As soon as he walked inside Clark’s home, Sawyer noticed a gorgeous black-and-white photo of a naked Clark Seaver wrapped in the embrace of an equally stunning nude man.
“That’s a gorgeous photo, Mr. Seaver,” Sawyer said, not bothering to hide his admiration. He didn’t have to confess he recognized the photo from Vic’s all-time-favorite porn scene.
“Thank you. It feels like a lifetime has passed since we took the photo.”
Sawyer heard Locke enter the house then stutter to a stop. He knew if he turned and looked, Locke would be staring at the sexy picture. It was hard to miss since it was at least five feet tall and three feet wide.
Clark Seaver chuckled and said, “Can I interest either of you in something to drink? I have lemonade, water, soda, and iced coffee.”
“I would love a glass of lemonade,” Sawyer said.
“I’ll take one too,” Locke added.
“Follow me to the kitchen, and you can interview me there.”
Locke didn’t say anything until they reached the kitchen. “I must say, this is a beautiful home, Mr. Seaver. Forgive me for my boldness, but I didn’t realize yoga instructors earned this kind of money.”
Seaver blew out a breath. “You’re wondering how many other scams I’ve run besides the one I helped Melody with, right?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Locke admitted.
“The answer is zero. Are you Locke or Key?” Seaver asked him.
Sawyer reached over the kitchen island and offered his hand. “I’m Detective Key, and this is my partner, Detective Locke.” Locke might not like him throwing the word partner around, but it was true, and he could get over it. “Sorry for the lack of introductions.”
“No problem,” he told Sawyer then turned to Locke. “I only helped Melody out because she’s my friend.”
“Not just your client?” Sawyer asked.
“No,” Seaver said. “To paint a clear picture, I need to set the stage a bit. I met Melody Jameson during our freshman year in college, and we became immediate friends. She was bright, smart, and full of life and she didn’t care I was gay and fucking other guys on camera to pay my way through college. She is the most loyal person I’ve ever met.” Seaver paused, searching the detectives for any signs of derision or surprise. “You either knew it already, or you have the best poker faces I’ve ever seen.”
“Or both,” Locke said ambiguously. “What does this have to do with Melody Jameson’s marriage and your willingness to help her out with Roland Putzinski?”
“Mel and I lost touch after graduation. It was just sheer luck when we ran into each other at a coffee shop here in Savannah. She’d changed so much I almost didn’t recognize her.”
“We’ve seen her before-and-after plastic surgery pictures,” Sawyer said. “I can see why you might not have known it was her right away.”
“It was more than her looks, Detectives. Her confidence and sparkle were gone. Instead of looking into vibrant blue eyes, I was looking into the lifeless, dull eyes of a doll. I had to know what happened to my friend, but she wasn’t willing to talk about it. I offered to help her work through her stress with yoga, and she started opening up to me after a few months. Discovering she was married to that monster was a complete shock.”
Sawyer accepted the glass of lemonade from him without managing to stare at his broad chest. “Did you train her at your studio or her home?”
“We started out at my studio but then moved the sessions to her house while Roland was at work. This was before he was fired from his job. I had no desire to run into the son of a bitch. He left for the radio station each morning around seven thirty, and I would arrive at their home around nine.”
