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Chapter Fifteen
Detective Young sat in his chair with his feet propped on the corner of the desk. Through the glass windows surrounding his office, he could see the police station was in full swing, the officers working like busy little bees. A perp had been brought in a few minutes ago and was chained to one of the benches along the far wall. He thrashed uncontrollably, looking like an epileptic, and shouting that he was an angel sent to do God’s bidding. If he had a nickel…
Sitting in the station for a couple hours was almost better than watching a movie. The action was great, the drama superb, the only problem was the food sucked. At least the coffee was decent, but that was because he picked his up at the little shop on the corner instead of drinking the sludge they brewed in the break room.
Young tapped the end of his pencil on the desk, using the rhythmic beat to get his mind back on track. The Lefebvre case was kicking his ass. As of now, the kid was still comatose and he had no leads, other than a late model blue pickup truck, to go off of. He wished people could remember license plates as well as they did every detail down to the second of what happened at a scene. Did they even realize how many late model blue pickups there were in this city, let alone the country? The numbers made his head pound.
He had no choice but to go the old fashioned route with this one, which basically consisted of stabbing around in the dark and hoping you nicked something. So far, he had questioned the club owner, Luke Reed, and over the past few days he paid visits to each of the wait staff on his payroll aside from one. Terri Cunningham, Caucasian female, late twenties, blonde hair, green eyes, married, though divorce was pending.
Slipping into his blazer, Detective Young strode out of the office.
***
It only took ten minutes to reach the Cunningham residence. As the detective got out of his unmarked and hiked up the short drive, he noted that the neighborhood was clean and well-maintained. The little ranch house fit right in with its nondescript white siding and box hedges that had grown shaggy with neglect. There was a truck parked in the driveway and he performed a visual sweep of it on his way up. It was newer, a little dusty from the recent rains and the vanity license plate reading RNMOVR gave him a chuckle. Curious, he stopped to look through the windows.
The interior was covered in dark grey upholstery, a few papers lay balled up on the floorboard of the passenger side and an empty McDonald’s cup laid sideways on the dash.
“Can I help you?” a strong male voice asked from behind him.
Detective Young turned around with a casual smile on his face to find a tall, blonde gentleman standing there with his arms folded across his chest and his eyes narrowed, waiting for an explanation. He experienced a brief moment of recognition, feeling like he might have seen him somewhere before, but he couldn’t place him. With all the people that he came into contact with each day, though, it wasn’t surprising that he might feel that way. Shelving that thought for the moment, the detective pulled his wallet and flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Howard Young with the TPD. I’m looked for Mrs. Terri Cunningham.”
Usually, a person had one of two reactions: either they perked right up at his mention of being a detective and got all cheery and helpful, or they turned suspicious and cold, a defense mechanism when they had something to hide. This guy had one level, and it seemed to be locked on cold and suspicious.
“Terri’s not home right now,” he said sternly.
Howard Young wasn’t one to be intimidated, not after some of the types of people and situations he’d experienced in his years with the force, but he knew when someone was trying to intimidate him. Standing as tall as his five-eleven frame would allow, Howard drew back his shoulders and presented the impenetrable wall of confidence he was known for. “I see. Do you know when she will be home,” he pressed.
“Soon enough,” the man replied.
Howard nodded, looking past him at nothing in particular. The noonday sun caused him to squint, and he cursed inwardly, realizing he had left his sunglasses on his desk back at the department. Finally, he said, “Could you tell her I need to speak with her as soon as possible?”
The man tilted his head. “She in trouble?”
“No, nothing like that. Just a case I’m working on that I need to ask her a few questions about.” Howard stuffed his hands in his pockets, took another look around, and then shrugged. “Well, I won’t keep you.” He started back down the drive. Then, less than two steps later, he stopped and turned back around. “Detective Howard Young,” he reminded. “You’ll tell her?”
“Sure,” the man said, his words and body language stiff.
Somehow, he doubted that. Howard smiled anyway. “Good, thanks.” He began to leave, then turned back again. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Randy,” Randy said stonily.
“Randy,” Howard repeated. “Boyfriend?”
Randy’s lips pressed into a firm line for a moment before relaxing again. “Husband,” he snarled. Clearly, Howard had hit a sore spot, which happened to spark the detective in his blood.
Howard’s eyebrows rose to reflect his surprise. “Husband? Didn’t I read somewhere about a pending divorce,” he said as if to himself.
“We’re reconciling,” he said with a cocky lift of his lips, forming a disingenuous smile.
“Ah.” Howard just stood there a moment, looking Randy in the eyes. It was a tactic he often employed to see if the person would falter, but this man appeared as immovable as a mountain. Finally, he took what information he had and started back down the drive to his car. “You have a good evening, Randy,” he called back as he opened the car door. “And don’t forget to tell your wife I stopped by.”
Randy’s glacial glare followed him down the street until he rounded a corner, severing visual contact. One thing that made Howard Young an excellent detective was that he was persistent and always followed his intuition. Right now, his intuition was flashing like a neon sign. Something about that whole situation was off, and he would bet his pension that Randy Cunningham was the problem. There was something about him that screamed malicious intent, and Howard immediately took a dislike to him.
What he wanted to do was head back to the station and run this Randy character through the system, see if anything popped up, but he had to focus on the task at hand: tracking down Terri Cunningham. That meant he needed to pay another visit to Sunset Black.
***
Randy kicked the door shut behind him, fury igniting his blood like wildfire in his veins. A detective! No doubt this was about that kid he’d introduced to the grill of his truck. That would just figure, he thought angrily as he paced the room like a caged animal. It would be just his luck that a washed-up detective like Young would tear his world apart over some insignificant punk who’d never been taught boundaries, just when he was putting the pieces back together. Just who did he have to kill to catch a break around here?
