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  HURT

  Lila Bruce

  Hurt

  Copyright © 2015 Lila Bruce

  All rights reserved. Without reserving the rights under copyright, reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or any other means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. Such action is in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law.

  Unauthorized reproduction of distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Hurt

  Copyright © 2015 Lila Bruce

  Original Publication Date: January 2015

  Author: Lila Bruce

  Cover Art by: 3 Rusted Spoons Cover Design

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The Author wishes to recognize the superior musical talent of Michael Bublé, Harry Connick, Jr, and the immortal Man in Black himself, Johnny Cash.

  With much appreciation to Mimi and Connie-Susan for their continued and extraordinary support.

  To Jackie – Because I said so, that’s why

  Chapter One

  In Nicole Landers’ mind, the world was broken up into two distinct sets of people. There were shower people, and then there were bath people.

  Shower people usually had someplace to be and a particular time they had to be there. They almost always wore watches and, although they constantly were stopping to check the time, they rarely had any to spare. That’s not to say they didn’t find opportunities to enjoy the finer moments of life, because they did. Rather, in Nicole’s opinion, shower people generally had a plan for how things were to go. On those rare occasions when things didn’t go according to plan, their world seemed to fall apart, if only for just a little while.

  Nicole considered her girlfriend Jamie Tate to be a shower person.

  She, herself, was a bath person. Bath people approached life a little more laid back, a little less restricted by schedules. They realized that sometimes the bathtub got too full while you were lighting candles and pouring in the bubble bath. While it might be a minor inconvenience, it didn’t make the bath any less enjoyable. If you didn’t have time for the bubble bath on a particular day, it wasn’t that big of a deal. You would just make time later.

  As she watched the tall police detective with hair the color of copper rush frantically from the bathroom to the bedroom and then back again, Nicole pondered the likelihood of converting Jamie to a bath person.

  “Oh, my God, tell me it’s not eight o’clock already,” Jamie said in between rotations. She had a bright pink bath towel wrapped around her otherwise naked body and held a toothbrush in one hand.

  “Actually, it’s ten after eight,” Nicole answered matter-of-factly as she reclined against the headboard of her queen-sized bed. She’d been watching Jamie’s mad scurrying for almost thirty minutes, the spectacle having been brought on by the sudden failure of the water in Nicole’s shower to heat up. After checking and subsequently re-lighting the pilot light in the hot water heater, Jamie, having allotted herself exactly fifteen minutes to shower and dress, found herself twenty minutes behind schedule. Or at least that’s what she’d shouted out at least three times already. Nicole had offered to try and help Jamie get ready, but after having been told—snapped at really—that Jamie “had this”, Nicole had decided to crawl back into bed and watch the show.

  “Shit!” Jamie called out from the bathroom. “Are you out of toothpaste?”

  “In the top drawer,” Nicole shouted back.

  Jamie appeared a minute later, still in the towel, with a white cotton bra slung over one shoulder and a pair of black slacks over the other. She ran around the room, looking at the ground as if searching for something. She stopped at the foot of the bed and fell on her knees. Nicole raised one eyebrow, trying to figure out what Jamie could possibly be looking for under the bed.

  “Are you sure I can’t help you?”

  “Nope, I said I got it,” Jamie muttered, jumping up from the hardwood floor holding a black oxford shoe and then sprinting back into the bathroom.

  “You know, you wouldn’t have half this much trouble if you would break down and move in with me,” Nicole said as she heard the clattering of something hitting the bathroom floor, immediately followed by the sound of Jamie cursing. “Or me in with you. This back and forth between houses is silly.”

  “Darlin’, can we talk about this later?” Jamie called out from the bathroom.

  From the bed, Nicole snorted, but said nothing. It was a discussion they had not been having for the past few months now. Whenever Nicole brought the subject up, Jamie quickly changed it.

  Jamie emerged from the bathroom after a few moments dressed in the bra, slacks, and one shoe, her wet hair hanging loose around her shoulders. “Have you seen my other shoe?”

  “I believe it’s in the laundry hamper.”

  “Why the hell would it be in the hamper?” Jamie asked as she limped across the bedroom to the pale yellow clothes hamper in the corner.

  “That’s the direction you threw it in last night when you were stripping off your clothes. Maybe if you hadn’t been in such an all-fire hurry to ravish me as soon as we got home, you’d know where it was this morning.”

  “Oh that’s right,” Jamie said, retrieving the shoe from the top of the hamper and quickly sliding it on her foot. She looked at Nicole and grinned. “Maybe if you hadn’t worn that sexy little red dress to dinner last night, I would have been able to show a little more restraint.” She walked to the closet and pulled a dark green blouse off one of the hangers. “And I don’t seem to recall any complaints from you last night, Miss Landers,” Jamie pointed out as she buttoned up the blouse.

  Nicole smiled.

  “I didn’t say I was complaining.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Jamie said, stepping over to the bed. She sat down beside Nicole and slid up against her. “Maybe if you’re not doing anything tonight, we could schedule a repeat performance?”

  Nicole blushed as she ran her fingers through Jamie’s damp hair.

  “I think that can be arranged,” she murmured, bringing her lips to Jamie’s in a soft kiss. Nicole moaned as Jamie brought one arm around to draw her in close, deepening the kiss and lightly grazing Nicole’s bottom lip with her teeth. Nicole closed her eyes, breathing in the lavender scent of Jamie’s shampoo.

  Jamie groaned and pulled back, her fingers lingering on Nicole’s cheek.

  “I’m going to be late for court if I don’t leave now,” she said in a husky voice, her eyes dark with passion.

  “I know, sweetie. Are you not going to dry your hair?”

  “Don’t have time,” Jamie said, shaking her head. “I’ll just turn up the heat in the car on the way to the courthouse and hope for the best.”

  Nicole took Jamie’s hand and kissed the inside of her wrist.

  “You’re insane. Be careful. I’ve got to get moving myself in a few minutes. It’s my turn to take Nana to her doctor appointment today.” Since her mother’s passing a few years ago, the care of Nicole’s elderly grandmother had fallen to Nicole and her brother Steven. He lived with his family several miles east of Chattanooga, but was still close enough to share in their gr
andmother’s bi-monthly trips to the doctor’s office.

  Jamie rose from the bed and straightened her blouse.

  “I will. Have fun with Nana and tell her I said hello.”

  “Don’t I always?” Nicole said dryly, pushing back the pale pink comforter and swinging her legs to hang off the side of the bed. “And I will. Oh, I forgot to tell you. I was talking to Julie yesterday and she said that new Mexican restaurant you mentioned the other day is finally open. I was thinking we should check it out and maybe invite her to tag along. She’s dumped her latest love interest, so you won’t have to pretend to be nice to anyone.”

  “I’m always nice to people,” Jamie said, pursing her lips. “But that last guy was pretty much a jackass. I know she’s your friend and all, but God, she needs to be a little more choosy.”

  “We can’t all be as lucky as I am,” Nicole answered with a sly smile.

  “I can’t disagree with you there. Well, I need to get going.” Jamie bent down and lightly kissed Nicole on the forehead. “Love you,” she whispered and then hurried out of the room.

  “Love you too,” Nicole called after her. A moment later she heard the sound of the front door closing.

  Sitting on the bed, Nicole gave a little sigh, absently curling and uncurling her toes as she thought about what she was going to wear. Looking at her bright red toenails, she decided that she would get a quick shower this morning, rather than a bath. She would put that off until later in the evening. Maybe after a nice meal and a few drinks she would begin phase one of Jamie’s conversion and show her the pleasures of a really good bubble bath.

  Chapter Two

  “…and so can you explain to the court how you and your partner came to be at that location, Detective Tate?”

  “We were completing a canvas of the area in an attempt to locate any possible new witnesses to the shooting.”

  “And did you locate any new witnesses, Detective?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Jamie watched as Assistant District Attorney Megan Riley glanced down at a file folder laid out in front of her on the wooden podium that stood at the front of the courtroom. Deceptively diminutive, Megan was only a few inches taller than the podium. What Megan lacked in size, she more than made up for in attitude. More than one defense attorney had learned the hard way that while Megan Riley looked like she should be teaching kindergarten, the pixie-like blonde with wire-rimmed glasses would give the devil a run for his money.

  “Your partner, Detective Samuels, testified earlier that it was during this canvas that you encountered the defendant, Mr. Thompson. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jamie answered, glancing at the wiry man with dirty blond hair sitting at the table to her right. She couldn’t help but think that in his button-down white shirt and khaki pants, Russell Thompson would look at home at any one of the fraternity houses at the local university. With his neatly pressed clothes and clean-shaven face, the young man sitting at the defendant’s table glaring at Jamie looked nothing like the bearded, lice-infested meth addict she and her partner had arrested in the spring for shooting two men in a drug deal gone bad.

  “Could you please explain that encounter to the court?”

  Jamie nodded.

  “Detective Samuels and I had just completed interviewing a potential witness when we observed a man, Mr. Thompson,” Jamie nodded in the direction of the defendant, “matching the description of the perpetrator walking down the street.”

  “And what was that description, Detective?” Megan interjected.

  “Witnesses on the night of the shooting had reported seeing a white male, blond hair, approximately six-feet tall, wearing blue jeans and an Ohio State University hoodie running from the scene immediately after the shots were fired.”

  “And Mr. Thompson was wearing an Ohio State University hoodie and blue jeans when you encountered him?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did you identify yourself as police officers to Mr. Thompson?”

  “We did.”

  “And what happened after you identified yourselves as police officers?” Megan asked, staring at the jury as she asked the question.

  “Mr. Thompson then fled on foot.”

  “He fled on foot. So he ran?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Megan looked back to Jamie.

  “Could you please explain to the court what happened next?”

  “Detective Samuels and I then gave chase. After approximately two blocks, the defendant stopped running and surrendered.”

  “Do you know why he suddenly stopped running and surrendered?”

  Jamie shrugged.

  “I don’t know—maybe he got tired of running.”

  Megan raised one eyebrow at the reply and looked down her glasses at Jamie, a sure sign that she wasn’t happy with the response. Jamie knew that she would hear about that one later. Megan ran a tight ship and made it clear to any law enforcement officer testifying in one of her cases that unless specifically asked to explain something in detail, all answers were to be kept to yes or no. Opinions and speculations could be twisted by defense attorneys, so Assistant District Attorney Riley wanted the facts and only the facts in ‘her courtroom’.

  “Upon apprehending Mr. Thompson, did you advise him of his Miranda rights?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And after advising Mr. Thompson of his rights, was he then placed under arrest?”

  “Not immediately, no.”

  “And why not?”

  “There was insufficient evidence to effect an arrest. Running from police officers, while suspicious, is not a crime in and of itself. At that time, our intention was to detain Mr. Thompson as a material witness and determine what, if any, connection he had to the shooting.”

  Megan nodded and glanced down at her file again.

  “And, Detective Tate, did you search Mr. Thompson before taking him in for questioning?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And what, if anything, did you find in your search of Mr. Thompson.”

  “A Berretta 950 twenty-five caliber pistol.”

  “And where was this pistol located?”

  “In his front pocket.”

  Megan walked from the podium and to a table at the front of the judge’s bench and picked up a clear plastic bag containing a small handgun. She stepped to the witness box and presented the bag to Jamie.

  “And is this the pistol you located on Mr. Thompson’s person?”

  Jamie took the bag from Megan and looked closely at the pistol inside.

  “Yes,” she said nodding.

  “Your honor,” Megan said, addressing the silver-haired judge presiding over the case, “if it would please the court, the State would like it noted that Detective Tate identified People’s Three as the weapon recovered from the defendant.”

  “So noted,” the judge said, nodding slightly. Megan returned the bag to the table and then walked back to the podium.

  “And, Detective Tate, what was the caliber of bullet used in the shooting of Ron Butler and Marvin Atkins?”

  “Twenty-five caliber,” Jamie answered.

  “Thank you, Detective. I have no further questions at this time.” With that Megan gathered her file from the podium and walked to the prosecutor’s table.

  “Your witness, counselor,” the judge said, motioning to the lanky defense attorney who sat beside Thompson. He rose and walked to the podium that Megan had just vacated. Jamie knew most of the attorneys in town, but was not familiar with this one. Looking at the man with artificially black hair and a bright yellow tie, she wondered if Thompson’s family had brought him in from out of town and then had her question answered when the attorney opened his mouth.

  “Thank you, your honor,” he said in a distinctly Northern accent. Pennsylvania maybe, Jamie thought. Or possibly Ohio, given the hoodie that Thompson was wearing on the night of the shooting.

  “Officer Tate—”

  “Detect
ive,” Jamie interrupted quietly.

  “Excuse me?” the attorney asked, drawing back from the podium and narrowing his eyes.

  “It’s Detective Tate,” Jamie said with an overly sweet smile, ignoring the look that Megan was throwing her way. “Not officer.”

  “Of course,” he said. “So, Detective Tate you testified that the weapon was located in my client’s front pocket, is that correct?”

  Jamie nodded.

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “And did Mr. Thompson tell you that the weapon in question belonged to him?”

  “No, he did not.”

  “In fact, Mr. Thompson has denied that the gun is his all along, is that not correct Detective?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “So, it’s possible, then, the weapon’s owner is someone other than Mr. Thompson?”

  “The weapon that Mr. Thompson was in possession of at the time of his arrest? Yes, it’s possible.”

  “Right,” the attorney said, drawing out the word as he glanced down at the legal pad he had placed on the podium. “But Mr. Thompson has never admitted that the gun is his, has he Detective?”

  “No,” Jamie answered again, shaking her head.

  “And in his statement to you, Mr. Thompson advised that he was in between residences at that time and had borrowed clothes from a friend, isn’t that correct Detective?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  The defense attorney nodded and then began to pace behind the podium, looking at the jury as he moved.

  “The Beretta 950, that’s a small weapon, is it not Detective?”

  “I suppose.”

  “It weighs less than a pound, does it not Detective?”

  “I’ve never really taken the time to weigh a Beretta 950,” Jamie answered. She had an idea of where the attorney was going with his line of questioning and glanced over at Megan, who gave Jamie the slightest of nods. “But, yes, I’d say that’s about right. Give or take.”

  “Give or take,” the attorney repeated. “So, in your professional opinion, isn’t it possible then that the true owner of the weapon left it in the clothing and Mr. Thompson, simply borrowing clothes from a friend days after the shooting, had no idea that the gun was in his front pocket?”