Deception at Castle Rock (Amelia Grace Rock 'n' Roll Mysteries Book 2) Page 7

  Mickey's face became pinched. "What's wrong?"

  I slowly swiveled my flashlight back down the bus aisle until the beam of light rolled over Sid's body. Mickey stared unblinking at the body for several moments, not seeming to understand. Then the blood slowly drained from his face.

  "Sid?" He looked from his band mate back to me, panic making his eyes go wide. "Is he…?"

  I nodded.

  "Sid!" Mickey cried. He struggled to his feet, but his legs buckled, and he went crashing back to the floor. He brought me down with him. Mickey landed on top of me, taking my breath away—not in a romantic way. For several seconds, I really couldn't breathe.

  I fought to suck air back into my lungs as Mickey's weight pinned me to the floor. Limbs tangled, we both struggled to free ourselves. Mickey rolled off me and onto his back, and sweet oxygen returned. "Ow," I gasped as I lay there, panting.

  "Sorry," Mickey said, equally breathless. He pushed himself to his feet and then offered me his hand. We huddled together, staring down at Sid's lifeless form. Mickey's hand slid into mine and gripped it tightly. "What happened to him?" he asked sounding hoarse.

  "I was hoping you could tell me," I said softly. I looked up at him, my expression serious. "The police are on the way, Mickey. Do you remember anything about last night? Why were the two of you here instead of back at the hotel with the others?"

  Mickey knit his brows together, and his eyes squeezed shut. "I…I can't remember." His voice was thick with unshed tears. "He hit you, and I was mad. So mad I wanted to hurt him."

  I sucked in a breath. "Seeing him lay a hand on you earlier…I should've killed him for that." I recalled the dark, angry look in Mickey's eyes when he'd spoken those words the night before. "I should've killed him…"

  I blinked at Mickey, a cold fear snaking through my chest. It wound its way down my arms, leaving me feeling paralyzed. I have to get out of here. With a halted breath, I broke out of my frightened trance and withdrew my hand from Mickey's grip.

  He cocked his head to the side and stared at me, confused. His jaw tightened, and he reached out to grab my hand again, pulling me back to him. "Wait!" His dark eyes bore into me. "I didn't kill Sid," he insisted. "You know that, right?"

  I gulped down the golf ball-sized lump in my throat and glanced at the floor where my flashlight lay. Its light shone directly at Mickey's gray and white Vans sneakers. The rubber on the front of both shoes was smeared with dark, dried blood.

  "Tell me you believe me," Mickey demanded, his voice jumping in pitch. He tightened his grip on my fingers.

  Terror ballooned in my chest, pushing its way up into my mind until I could barely think straight. Get out! Get out! chanted the voice in my head. Trembling, I reached my free hand behind me, feeling for the small can of pepper spray tucked into my back pocket.

  Mickey released me and staggered back a step, his gaze darting from me back down to his hand. I held up my own newly free hand, noting that my fingers were several shades lighter where he'd cut off the circulation when he squeezed. "I'm sorry," Mickey said in a small voice. "I didn't mean to hurt you. But, Ame, you have to believe me. I don't know what happened, but I know I didn't kill Sid."

  He opened his mouth to say something else, but I didn't wait to hear the rest. I whirled and bolted toward the front of the bus, leaping over Sid's corpse like a hurdle. There was a crashing sound, followed by the thud of heavy footsteps as Mickey chased after me, calling out my name.

  I scrambled down the bus steps, one finger still firmly planted above the trigger of the pepper spray can in my right hand. My eyes struggled to adjust to the blinding brightness of the morning sun after spending nearly fifteen minutes on the dark tour bus. As I paused, squinting, movement brought my attention to the left. Shock reverberated through me as the muzzle of a handgun protruded from around the front corner of the bus. A familiar tidal wave of terror washed away all thoughts of Sid and Mickey, carrying me back to the last time I'd found myself staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.

  No! my mind screamed, and my fight-or-flight instincts kicked in. I jerked my hand out in front of me and mashed the trigger of the pepper spray.

  A cry of surprise and anguish erupted from my assailant as he walked into my line of fire. The man dropped to his knees, and his gun slipped free of his grasp and skidded across the gravel. The cloud of terror fogging my brain slowly dissipated. Heart still hammering, I stared down at the dark-haired stranger as he writhed on the ground, clawing at his face. My gaze settled on the City of Atlanta Police patch sewn into the arm of his navy blue uniform, and my stomach knotted. This man wasn't some criminal or murderer, trying to attack me—he was a cop.

  "Amelia!" Mickey cried, pulling my attention back to the tour bus's side door. He staggered down the steps, looking from me to the policeman with wide eyes. "Shit! What did you do?"

  "I didn't know he was a cop," I said, my voice shaking. Mickey stepped toward me, and I backed away, aiming my pepper spray can in his direction. "Stay away from me," I warned. I flicked a glance back to the man on the ground and cringed. The skin around his eyes was swollen and red, and he was groaning and fumbling for his radio. The officer wouldn't be able to protect me if Mickey really was a psycho killer—and it was all my fault.

  "Drop your weapon!" barked a woman's voice behind me, and my heart skipped a beat. "Put your hands where I can see them—both of you."

  Panic seized me again, and I froze, dropping the spray can. It clattered to the ground and rolled several feet before stopping against Mickey's bloody sneaker. I looked up and saw that the color had drained from his face. He looked like a pale, frightened child, his eyes darting nervously from me to the figure behind me. He slowly raised his hands in surrender, and I followed suit. "Get on the ground," the voice commanded. Mickey and I eased down onto the gravel.

  A pair of black boots stomped down next to my face, and I instinctively jerked my head away. "I said don't move," the woman warned. Hands came down and wrenched my arms behind me, securing my wrists with some kind of extra-strength zip tie. I tilted my face to peer at the nervous-looking blonde policewoman glaring down at me. "You're under arrest," she said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I gaped up at the female officer as she recited my rights. "Wait!" I protested. My heart thrumming in my chest was so deafening that I could barely hear myself speak. My gaze flew to the plastic nametag clipped to the policewoman's uniform. "Officer Watts, this is a mistake. He startled me—"

  "You assaulted an officer of the law," Watts said curtly. Her blue eyes narrowed as she tightened the tie that bound my wrists together. "Stay put," she instructed, and then she moved over to Mickey to secure his arms behind his back.

  A low moan pulled my attention to the other officer, still writhing on the ground a few yards away. His round face was splotchy and pinched with agony, and his eyes were growing puffier by the minute.

  "You all right, Thompson?" Officer Watts called to him. Thompson opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a gurgling, choking sound.

  "It was an accident," I pleaded again. "I would never intentionally assault a cop."

  The female officer ignored me and reached for her radio. "Dispatch, this is Watts requesting backup at my 20," she said. "We've got an officer down. Thompson needs medical assistance." She flicked a glance from me to Mickey. "I've got a Caucasian female, approximately five-foot-five, mid-twenties, auburn hair, and a Caucasian male, approximately five-foot-eleven, mid-twenties, brown hair. As soon as backup arrives I can verify the report about the body."

  "Roger that," a nasal male voice responded over the crackle of the radio.

  With any threat of immediate danger now gone, the fog of fear and panic lifted, and I went limp on the ground. Going through the emotional wringer over the past hour had squeezed every ounce of energy from me. All that was left was frustration over my current predicament. "This is just flippin' fantastic," I muttered under my breath. All I'd wanted to do that morning was surp
rise Emmett with breakfast in bed, but instead I'd stumbled onto the scene of a murder my ex could've possibly committed—and I was under arrest for assaulting a cop. When he woke up, Emmett was going to be surprised, all right.

  "I'm sorry, Ame," Mickey whispered.

  I swiveled my head to glare at him. "What for?" I snapped. "Passing out in a drunken stupor next to your bandmate's corpse? Or killing him?"

  "You know I didn't do it." He sounded hurt.

  "Shut up," Officer Watts ordered, laying her hand on her gun holster. "Not another word outta either of you, got it?" She stood over us until her backup arrived. Mickey and I were separated and ushered into separate squad cars. I ducked my head as a pudgy, gray-haired policeman guided me into the backseat of his cruiser and then slammed the door behind me.

  What really happened last night? I wondered, watching Mickey disappear into the back of the other vehicle. I truly didn't know what to think. Mickey had seemed so confused when I shined my flashlight beam to show him Sid's body. My ex-honey had never been able to lie to me when we were together, and there was nothing in his reaction to seeing his dead bandmate that suggested he was being less than honest. Still…a thin line of doubt traced its way through my thoughts. Mickey had been angry with Sid the night before, angrier than I'd ever seen him. I frowned. For the most part, he still seemed like the same sweet, funny guy I fell in love with years ago—but was there something darker hiding beneath the surface? Was the ex-love of my life really capable of cold-blooded murder?

  * * *

  An hour later I was cowering in a cinder block cell downtown. Thanks to an influx of DUIs and drunk and disorderly charges from Saturday night, I'd been ushered straight to holding and was still waiting to be processed. My purse and cell phone were confiscated, but at least I could enjoy the comfort of my shorts and halter top for just a bit longer before having to trade them in for an ugly jumpsuit. Of course, behind-bars fashion was the least of my worries. What a Sunday this was shaping up to be—I had discovered a dead body, been arrested, and was now facing felony charges, all before my morning coffee.

  "What're you in for?" drawled a woman sitting near me on the concrete bench. She was younger, probably in her early twenties, with a narrow chin and high cheekbones. A thick layer of last night's sparkly makeup was smeared above her hazel eyes. Her hair was dyed a golden tint so shiny that it couldn't be natural. In fact, in the harsh lighting of our shared cell, I could see her real hair color—a dark, blackish brown—beginning to creep back through her scalp. Root rot. That's what Kat would call it. I grimaced at the thought of my bestie, who would probably be finding out about Sid's murder and Mickey's and my arrests any minute now. I hadn't been granted a phone call yet, so hopefully Kat would reach out to Emmett—knowing I was in jail instead of dead in the gutter might ease his worry by at least a fraction.

  "You dumb or somethin'?" Goldilocks asked, jarring me from my thoughts. She squinted at me. "Or deaf?" The young woman held up her hands and made several exaggerated gestures that I assumed were a poor attempt at sign language. "Whaaaat aaaare yooooou iiiiiin foooooooor?" she practically yelled, stretching out each syllable.

  I winced. "Assault."

  "Assault?" Goldie's gaze traveled to the bruise on my temple, and her face pinched with concern. She lowered her voice. "Honey, was your man beatin' on you? Bless your heart!"

  I held up my hands. "No, no—nothing like that. I, er, sort of attacked a police officer." My cheeks colored.

  Goldie's eyebrows shot up. "You fought a pig?" She grinned. "That's badass!" She leaned toward me, offering her hand for a high five. I declined with a tiny shake of my head, but it didn't dampen her enthusiasm any. She sat cross-legged and leaned forward, her thin face cradled in her hands and her elbows propped on her knees. "Tell me all about it," Goldie said, her eyes dancing with excitement. "Did ya sock him good? What kind of weapon did ya use? A bat? A pipe? Or did ya clobber the sucker with your bare hands?" She caught the shocked look on my face and shrugged her shoulders. "What? A girl's gotta know how to defend herself."

  "It was pepper spray," I admitted, my tone sheepish. "And it was an accident." I watched as the young woman's face fell in disappointment. "What about you?" I asked to change the subject. Judging from her skin-tight leather skirt and barely-there tank top, I had a pretty good idea why she was here.

  Goldie blew out a breath. "Prostitution," she said, making air quotes with her fingers. She rolled her eyes. "It's a load of bull, though—I ain't no hooker. I get that a lot, probably because of my job."

  I arched a brow. "So you're…a stripper?"

  "Uh-huh," she said brightly. "Well, actually I prefer 'exotic dancer.' I work down at the Saucy Minx, near Little Five Points." She stuck out her hand and pumped mine up and down.

  "Ah. Explains the outfit," I blurted.

  The girl's smile faded. "These ain't my stage clothes," she said coolly.

  Whoops. "Sorry." I bit my lip. "I didn't mean to offend you." It was my turn to sigh. "It's just been a really long morning."

  Goldie shook her mane of shiny hair and grinned at me. "It's cool. Name's Jenny, by the way—but everyone calls me Coral. That's my stage name—I dress like a mermaid and sing dirty sailor songs for my routine. And I wear coral-colored nail polish and matching pasties on my nipples." She waggled her fingers in front of me so I could see the pinkish color of her fingernails. Her hazel eyes lit up. "Hey, wanna hear one of my songs?" She didn't wait for me to respond. Luckily, as she began to belt some tune about, er, sea men, there was a buzzing sound and the cell door slid open. A tall, muscled guard filled the threshold and stood glaring at us, his arms folded over his chest.

  "You," he barked, aiming his hard gaze my way. "Come with me."

  I gulped. Time to get processed. This is it. I'm officially a criminal. Fighting back tears, I rose from the cell bench on wobbly legs and shot my cellmate a helpless look. "Nice meeting you, Jenny," I said quietly.

  "Call me Coral," she said. "Good luck, Pepper Spray Girl. When you get out, you should drop by the Saucy Minx sometime." Her lips curled up at the corners. "First lap dance is on me!"

  "Thanks," I mumbled, my face flushing. I waved good-bye and then turned toward the guard, raising my arms in front of me so he could slap handcuffs on my wrists. To my surprise, he turned and stepped back into the hall without cuffing me. I followed him in stunned silence, wondering if this was some kind of trick—or maybe he was trying to win over my trust so I'd cooperate when they were ready to question me about Sid and Mickey.

  After being buzzed through several more secure doorways, we reached the drab-looking lobby of the Atlanta City Detention Center. Instead of being handed a stack of paperwork, the clerk handed over my purse and phone. "What's going on?" I asked, eyebrows scrunched together.

  "You're free to go," said the cop behind the counter.

  My heartbeat fluttered. "I don't understand." I sent a questioning look over my shoulder at my escort.

  "Officer Thompson dropped the charges," the man said. I waited for him to go on, but instead he flagged down a passing officer. "Take her to APD," he said to the short, sandy-haired cop. "Dixon's waiting for her in the bullpen."

  Dixon. My ears perked at the familiar name. Detective Ben Dixon investigated the murders at Castle Rock last fall. We hadn't always seen eye-to-eye—especially when he'd listed my best friend as his top suspect—but we had a mutual respect for one another. If Detective Dixon was assigned to solve Sid's murder, then I'd do my best to cooperate.

  Still dubious (yet seriously grateful!) over my sudden release, I followed the officer out to the ACDC parking lot where he ushered me into an unmarked car. The beige-colored Atlanta Police Department building was a short, two-minute drive away on Pryor Street. As I followed my escort down the catwalk that led to the double-door entrance, I retrieved my phone from my purse. There were two missed calls, two voice mails, and seven texts. I swiped open my text inbox.

  Three of the messages were from Bronwyn
, which wasn't surprising, given that her father was an APD police sergeant. She'd probably heard news of Sid's murder and my arrest on his home police scanner.

  HOLY CRAP, AME! said Bron's first message, in all caps. I opened the second. Just talked to Dad. They're dropping the charges. Hang tight! The third was simply a picture of a "Get Out of Jail Free" card from the board game, Monopoly. I shook my head, a little smile curling my lips for the first time in hours.

  The three messages from Kat were short, also in all caps. Based on the time stamps, she'd sent them in a rapid-fire succession:

  OMG! Are you ok??

  What happened?

  On my way!

  She'd sent the last message only fifteen minutes before I opened it. Bless her—my best friend hadn't even waited for my phone call. She was already on her way to bail me out. I'm fine—charges dropped I texted back. Headed to APD. Wait for me in the lobby.

  The final message was from Emmett, also saying he was on his way downtown. My heart swelled in my chest, and my eyes grew misty again. It meant a lot that my friends and boyfriend would drop everything to come to my rescue. I wondered if the remaining members of Royal Flush were doing the same for Mickey right then.

  "Excuse me," I said to the sandy-haired cop just before we reached the entrance. He turned and eyed me warily. "Do you know if the man I was with has been released too?" I asked.

  The cop grunted and shrugged his shoulders. "No clue," he said.

  My chest tightened, and unease settled back in my stomach. Stay calm, I reassured myself as I followed the officer into the building. Maybe Dixon will have some answers.

  We passed through the lobby and entered a familiar hallway. I glanced up as I was escorted past one of the doors along the right wall, Sergeant Eddie Sinclair's office. I'd visited Bronwyn's father there once last November when, much to the Sarge's dismay, I'd taken it upon myself to try to help his men solve the murders of two of my close friends.