A soft light peaked through the separation of the curtains. Allie's eyes opened, but they were heavy with the consequences of the lack of sleep and too much tequila provided.
This is getting ridiculous, she thought. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, throwing the blankets off her.
Her sleep was continuously interrupted. She would dream, wake up, fall back asleep, then go back to dreaming again, waking up all night.
She stumbled her way to the coffee pot; her brain fog was thick. She stubbed her toe on the coffee table. She then proceeded to verbally vomit a flow of swear words that would have netted Bruss a hundred dollars.
She looked up, and Malibu was standing in front of her.
"JESUS CHRIST!"
No, but I can get a message to him.
"Fuck you, Malibu!"
Another bad night?
"What the fuck do you think?"
It would be best if you had coffee, Caretaker. Or a Snickers bar, you're not you're when you're bitchy. Then again, you're kind of always bitchy.
When her brain fog cleared from too many cups of potent coffee, she got dressed for the day. Her wardrobe was just below what you would call business casual. She never wore heels. She never wore skirts, and she never wore dresses. She had spent her entire life in a uniform. Her CCU's in the Corps, her NYPD blues when she was on patrol. It had affected her daily civilian clothing choices. She only dressed up when someone got married, had to go to court, or paid her respects to the dead. She never understood why someone would dress in a way that would make them physically uncomfortable all day. The same went for makeup and hair.
She wore a clip or a ponytail in her hair, and her makeup of choice was cherry chapstick. Luckily, her supervisor at the station didn't mind how she dressed as long as she didn't look like she was going to paint the living room or just rolled out of bed. She chose a pair of black jeans, a black sweater, and her Black and orange running shoes.
Caretaker, would it kill you to look nice on a random Monday?
"Would it kill you to remain dead and get the fuck out of my head?"
Hey, I said I was going to haunt you. Didn't you read my letter?
"Many people say that, but they don't ACTUALLY do it! I have to go to work. It's not take a figment of your imagination to work day. So can you please go fuck massively and totally off somewhere else, please."
She put on her coat, grabbed her coffee, and was out the door.
********************************************************************************
She walked to her car, which was an entire building's parking lot away. Her car was decent, and she still had two years left to pay for it. It was a green Chevy Impala, and she hated green. She had worn shades of green for twelve years in the Corps, and unfortunately, it was the only color available on the lot.
Are you ever going to get a new car?
He was in the passenger seat.
"Do we seriously have to have this fucking conversation again!"
OOOOOH, I'm so telling Bruss.
"Good, go fuck with him for the day."
What would you be if I wasn't here?
"Sane Malibu! I would be sane! You are the ONLY reason I drink anymore."
She drove through the city.
So, what was last night's dream about?
"You know how fucked up it is that I talk to you instead of a therapist, right?"
Yeah, but a therapist will think you are insane for talking to a spirit.
"You're not a spirit. You are a manifestation of my PTS. A coping mechanism. An immense pain in my ass coping mechanism."
Whatever helps you sleep at night. That still makes you batshit crazy. You know that, right? Tell me, it's the only way to get it off your mind. Plus, you have a fantastic ass. I would love to be a pain in it.
"You were in it. Like so many others."
OH MY GOD, CARETAKER!
"MY DREAM! YOU WERE IN MY DREAM. IS THAT ALL YOU THINK ABOUT IS SEX?"
I'm dead. But according to your rationale, if you're thinking about it, then I'm thinking about it, and you are always thinking about it.
She laughed. "Fuck you, Malibu!"
Yes, dear God! Tell me about the dream.
"I just graduated from infantry school. I was on my way to train at MOS {Military Occupational School}"
Yeah, Military Police. You were a kickass cop. I can see why you do it now. Yes, dear God! Tell me about the dream.
"I became an E-6. Kaplin referred me to the scout sniper program, and we were paired up together. "Shooter, spotter, shooter, spotter..." Kaplin told us. So here I am, stuck with a blonde kid from Malibu, California. Ken Hall. Malibu Ken."
Do you know how much I hated that nickname?
"Your name is Ken Hall, and you're a blonde from Malibu. We weren't going to call you Dave."
You have such an excellent nickname.
"Yes, I got it because of my actual name. Malibu Ken. Can I continue? I was so mentally drained. Being a scout sniper is more than just hitting targets and figuring out which way the wind blows. You know that just as well as I do."
Being your spotter was more than just telling you how far the subject was. It was the most challenging job in the Corps.
"I was good at it, wasn't I?"
Really good at it.
"You know you were outstanding, too. Better than me. It's not something I am immensely proud of. You are the only person who I talk about it with, and YOU'RE NOT EVEN A FUCKING PERSON!"
Hey, I take offense to that. You do know that there are living people who love you, and you know that you can trust them.
"I won't risk losing my huge fanbase of two people who can stand to be around me."
I know. I had to die to get away from you.
She gave him a dirty look.
So what else besides you were graced with my presence was your dream about?
"Bitanaia."
Oh God. No wonder you didn't sleep well. You need to forgive yourself because if you don't—
"Oh, look, we're here. Storytime is over."
OK, good talk.
She pulled into the lot and waved at the toll worker. She thought she got here early enough, but the lot was already close to full. She parked in one of the last two rows. The place was not worth the monthly fee.
"We'll have to pick this up at a later date."
So we will never speak of this again.
"Exactly. You're smarter dead than you were alive."
Scathing Caretaker.
*************************************************************************
She reached for the large iron handle on the door of the 6th. Her hand was cold, and the handle was even colder. Before she could open it, it was opened from the inside. Standing in front of her was Bruss.
"Turn around. Don't even bother. We caught another body. We gotta go," he said, pulling his coat on.
She hung her head and sighed so hard you could see her shoulders lift. She followed him back down the steps and around the building.
Field trip!
He sounded like an excited child.
"Someone is dead. Don't be so excited."
Hey, I'm dead. Am I not allowed to meet new people?
The unmarked car they signed out smelled heavily of Old Spice.
God, I hate the smell of shitty cologne. Someone needs to have an intervention with Curtis.
Lt. Martin Curtis was their supervisor. He was a big man, big and tall. He was about two years too late for retirement. He was divorced. He worked too much and was home too little. His children were grown, and both were already out of college. His son was "some kind of computer fixer guy," and his daughter, Makayla, was the county coroner and Allie's best friend.
They rolled up on the scene and saw what looked like half the department. "What the hell?" she asked
"That's five bucks, Kingston."
Actually, she owes you like a hundred, and you should have heard her this morning. I think she invented new swear words. Have you ever used the phrase cock waffle in a sentence?
Malibu said from the backseat. She gave him a side eye in the mirror.
"Words in the Bible don't count," she said, getting out of the car.
She showed the patrolwoman her badge. The officer lifted the yellow crime scene tape, and they started towards the sea of cops standing in a semicircle. It was like Moses parting the Red Sea. She had a presence. She walked with authority. Bruss started falling behind. He quickened his pace and was now in step with her. Even though Bruss had a couple of years on her, he knew she led, and he followed. He was OK with less paperwork.
Mikayla was squatted down next to the victim. Allie joined her.
Oh, it's hot, coroner.
"Morning, Allie Cat," Makayla said.
"Hey, Makayla. Don't call me that," she sounded annoyed.
Malibu laughed hard.
That's still so fitting; you know the slang definition of an Allie Cat, right?
"Do you know the definition of drunk, don't you? And let's not talk about shit you know absolutely nothing about since you've been dead."
A man with a thick mop of sandy brown hair was standing with his back to them. There was a bright yellow FBI on his black jacket. He was towering over everyone else on the scene. He was ginormous. Sturdily built, broad-shouldered, muscular, and that was just his backside, which was also impressive.
She spoke through clenched teeth. "What the fuck is a Fed doing here?" she said. Even if he does have a phenomenal ass, I still don't want them involved.
Makayla looked at her as she removed the blue tarp to uncover the victim's face. "My guess is this is what he's doing here," she said.
"Oh Christ," she said. She kept her voice quiet and slowly shook her head from side to side. "Does her father know?"
"Why do you think the Feds are here?"
Bruss was slack-jawed as he gazed down. They didn't even know he had joined them.
"Is that who I think it is?" he asked in a hushed tone.
Everyone was trying to keep their decorum.
The FBI agent turned around and approached them. He spoke for the first time. His voice carried a tone of no-nonsense. His face was locked into a serious expression.
"Well, if you think that's Brice Crawford's daughter, then you are correct."
She looked up and threw him a short glance. He gave her a double take. She returned to the body while he stared at the top of her head. He remembered her hair and how it tumbled down her back and rested on her shoulders. It was pulled up into a claw clip, the kind she wore on the night they met. The way her black sweater clung to her body was tantalizing. The black jeans hugged her ass and made her legs look longer. She looked just like he had remembered.
"Awe, man. This just got really sticky. She's a high-profile victim. Whoever this one they are brazen. Brice Crawford's daughter," Allie said.
"Well, he may be brazen, but he's also stupid," the agent said. "I would love to know why he chose her when he knew this would cause uproar at city hall."
Brice Crawford is the wealthiest man in Northeast Ohio. He made his money in real estate: high-end, million-dollar real estate. He was the intermediary between high-end clients and sellers. He wasn't a real estate agent; he was the money man. Allie has never met him; she lives in a nine hundred sq. ft. apartment.
His daughter, Melody, was known in the community. She did a lot of fundraising and charity work. She volunteered at the women's and children's shelters and ran food and clothing drives. Cleveland will mourn her loss.
His voice sounds familiar; do you think his voice sounds familiar?
She spoke under her breath.
"Would you please get the fuck out of here?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you," the agent said.
She looked up and gave him a once-over. She lingered on his bright green eyes. They were the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen, yet she felt like she had seen them before. He was captivating. She felt a connection when she looked at him. She quickly looked away.
I bet you like the color green now, don't you?
She wanted to strangle him. She was going to lay into him. She looked around. Malibu was finally gone.
****************************************************
His heart had stopped when he saw her. It had been months since his encounter with her at Ava's and that bittersweet night with her. He had stopped by Ava's numerous times, hoping to see her there. She looked right through him with no recognition on her face. He didn't know what to do. She obviously wasn't a personal trainer who took a couple of self-defense classes at the YMCA. He put his hand out and introduced himself.
"FBI special agent Dean Carron," he said, with a southern accent he was desperately trying to hide.
She extended her hand and gave him a short shake.
"Wow. You have a grip like a vice," he said, shaking her hand.
She stood up. He was a big man, phenomenal shape, about 6 '6, maybe 250. His front was even better than the back.
"And you shake hands like you're meeting my mother. Look, Dan..." she said.
He had a slight smile. "Dean," he said.
"My bad. Look, I'm going to assume you are here doing the mayor a favor, and I don't give a rat's ass who you are doing a favor for. I don't care how special of an agent you are. If you want to join my investigation, more power to you, but don't get in my way. Call me Detective Kingston or just Kingston. Don't call me Allie," she glanced at Makayla, "or Allie Cat."
How she spoke to him solidified that she didn't have the slightest idea who he was.
Makayla stood up and brushed her hands on the side of her pants.
"OK, Detective Kingston, we get it. Your dick is bigger. Now, put the ruler away and zip up," she said. "Hi, I'm Makayla, and if you don't mind me saying, you are the hottest man I have ever laid eyes on. Speaking of eyes, I have never seen anything like yours. Absolutely beautiful."
He smiled at her. "Thank you. I appreciate the compliment," Dean said.
"Do you know who Billie Joe Armstrong is?"
"Yep. Lead singer of Green Day. I have heard my eyes are like his, only a little darker," Dean said.
"YES! Exactly. Nice teeth, too. Braces?"
"No, that's just how they came in."
"OH, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! DEAD BODY PEOPLE!"
"Carrying on. The victim here has a laceration across her abdomen. Just like the Jane Doe we had last month. She didn't die immediately. She would have been able to see her intestines while she lay dying. It looks like she was raped or sexually assaulted, the same as the other victim. I'll know more when she's on the table."
"That's the same MO. Most likely the same unsub {unknown subject}. Sometimes I wonder, maybe this world is another world's hell."
"Damn, girl, that was deep," Makayla said.
"Aldous Huxley," Dean and Malibu said together.
He's hot, and he's smart too. Remind you of anyone besides me?
"He doesn't remind me of anyone, and he sure as shit doesn't remind me of you."
Someone didn't eat her Snickers.
"OK, you're hot, but I am not going to agree you're smart."
Well, I dated you, so you're right.
She turned her attention back to Dean. "Very good, Cowboy," she said. "Now, thanks for standing around my crime scene. I hope your future involvement includes you being involved. Or call ahead, and we can bring you a chair. It must be exhausting standing around doing nothing."
"Allie Cat, zip up already," Makayla said exasperatedly.
Allie turned her back to him and started to walk away, raising her arm in the air. "Don't call me that," she yelled back.
Jesus, Detective Kingston, could you be more of a bitch?
"Yes, I can, and no one would know that better than you."
Dean watched her walk away. A good-looking cop with jet-black hair walked by her.
"Kingston," he smiled.
"Alvarez," she smiled back.
"Still looking good."
"I could say the same. Love the new haircut."
"Love everything about you," he said.
She watched his ass as he walked by. When she turned around, he turned and looked at hers.
Dean wasn't overly excited to see this kind of exchange. He recognized the man from one of her photos in her apartment. Her smile did make his heart skip a beat. He remembered that smile. He had thought about it for months.
"He's a cop, and he works with her. And apparently, there is still something between them. Well, I'm fucking screwed," he said under his breath.
Bruss followed her back to the car. He drove away and stayed quiet for a short time. "That FBI agent, Carron, is a fine-looking man. I've seen him somewhere before.
"Patrick, don't even go there," she said. "Also, I'm confident you would remember meeting the Incredible Hulk's older brother.
His face fell into a serious look as he drove through downtown Cleveland. "Allie, you need to get a social life. I'm not talking about drinking alone on a Thursday night, throwing back an entire bottle with your buddy Jose."
The man is right, Allie. I would not mind going out.
Sounds good to me. I can drink you away.
"Remember, what we do is not a sprint. It's a marathon. I don't want you burnt out before we get to the finish line."
Oh... my... fucking God! This is your partner! Has he met you?
"He means well, asshole."
"Patrick, you don't have to worry about me or my social life. I am doing just fine."
OH MY GOD! YOU ARE IN SUCH DENIAL!
She still didn't do the whole dating thing. She was still a loner who went out and did shots. Every person she ever loved has died: her mother, her father, her little brother, Ian, Malibu, and a half dozen of her brothers and sisters in arms. The rest of them just ended in heartbreak.
Did you ever think of telling him the truth?
"Why? So he can turn me into the shrink for a schizophrenia diagnosis?"
Caretaker, I'll be sitting right here when you come up with a better excuse.
Allie was exhausted by the time she got home.
Welcome home, dear. How was your day?
"You were there for half of it.
Yeah. Speaking of which, the big guy--
"Don't you start too, Malibu."
What? I was going to ask if he looked familiar at all.
"You know what, he does."
Really? I thought so, too. I swear I've seen him before.
"You know he looks like Sergeant Major Anderson."
What! Dude, Anderson was 6′2, 215. That man looks nothing like Anderson. Are you sure you're not thinking about someone else?
"Then, who do you think he looks like besides Alan Ritchson and not Anderson?"
That's a good comparison, but he's bigger than them. Dwayne Johnson, but with better hair. Alright, Caretaker, I need to tell you something.
"What would that be, Malibu?"
He wanted to tell her about Dean and their magnetic attraction. He knew for a fact that she still felt it, but she needed to remember and figure it out for herself.
Never mind. It's not important.
"You can't do that. You can't say I need to tell you something and just back out."
You're still so beautiful.
"OK. Thanks."
One more thing.
"What Malibu?"
Can I see you naked again? That was a fantastic welcome.
"Dude, you ambushed me in my apartment. It was not voluntary."
It used to be.
"Wouldn't I just be looking at myself anyway? A figment of my mind. Remember."
You can't blame a guy for trying. So, that FBI guy--
"Want to watch Heartbreak Ridge?"
Excellent talk, Caretaker.
"I don't know what you want me to say. Is Dean attractive? Of course. So did every other woman on the scene."
I think you're the only woman he had his eyes on.
"I am done with this conversation. I don't need a matchmaker, so if THAT is why you are here, you can go now because it will never happen."