Wake of the Storm - The Mason Storm Series Book One

Chapter 22

I'm sitting here in Loca Moca, still parked with the windows down, let- ting my viewpoint of the secret rendezvous with Melanie Pennington run wild. She didn't elaborate on why the relationship between her husband and only child was bad, but I could tell from her body language, the worst-case scenarios are a definite possibility. One thing's for sure; a lot was left unsaid.

My mind's bouncing through all of my conversations concerning these murders and stops at the one with Mia yesterday in front of the Pennington's home. Her summation of Arthur Pennington's possible role continues to stay out front: Maybe he's more involved. Maybe the second body was just a cover-up. A faint smell of insidious clings to Mrs. Pennington's words about her husband's past, and maybe even present, behaviors. Wonder what he has to do with all of this?

Eventually, I force myself to open the envelope. There are two black and white eight-by-tens of a fairy-tale saga cut short and Sophia Pennington is the heart of the story in both. I'm tortured by her face; too hard and too wise looking for someone so young. She's beautiful though, with the same captivating features as her mother.

The first picture was taken at a distance, from behind a windshield. Her head's thrown back and she's sharing a laugh with a male, who appears to be around the same age, only he's rough around the edges. His arms are covered in tattoos and there's one creeping out of the top of his

tattered T-shirt. They're standing in front of what looks like any one of a hundred apartment buildings in the area.

The second photo is of her walking across what appears to be a campus. She's carrying a backpack over her shoulder and has a book in her hand. The picture was taken much closer this time and the background doesn't offer as much detail, though I do see what I'm guessing are students coming out of a building off in the distance. If I had to shoot off the cuff, I'd say our Sophia was back at college.

I glance back down at the investigator's number, scribbled on the back of the envelope, and can't place the name. I decide to phone him to see if we can arrange to meet later on. It's his voicemail. I leave my name and number and ask him to return the message as soon as he can. I call Mia's cell and get her voicemail, too. I leave a quick message, letting her know we need to talk, and that I'm on my way.

I arrive at the department and aim for my parking spot in the far corner, away from everyone else. I take a deep breath before exiting the car. A confrontation is coming; I know it. It's nothing new. Happens every time my memoirs are smeared across the front page.

I open the front door and all eyes in the room are on me. The air is soiled fat with bitterness while the remains of last night's arrests waiting to be booked, are scattered around the room like dirty laundry. There's a grossly-obese man lying face down in a pile of vomit on the floor of the drunk-tank. Two hookers, with clothes covering their working parts, are being questioned and photographed. One is popping her gum, just waiting for the process to be completed so she can return to her pimp, while the other puckers up with tears in her eyes. I make my way toward the back, waiting for the inevitable obligatory, run-off-at-the-mouth from my fellow officers.

I make it just past what I call the small-time, where the dicks aren't good enough to be called Tracys, when someone calls my name. I turn around. It's not a friend, or even close to one. It's Kenny Mathews, one of the dicks.

"So, the Super Storm makes the front page again!" He cracks then looks around the room for acknowledgement he's scored the first hit.

"Every dog has his day, I guess." I respond, just trying to avoid another fight.

"It always seems to be your day, Storm."

Now the attention of the entire room is on us and I reluctantly find myself in the ring once again. I hear the snickers of his buddies bubbling up close by, giving him the nerve to push just a little further.

"I hope you don't let this one get away, too. Although, I don't see as how you have anything left this one can take," he adds with an ugly smile, clearly pleased with himself.

I take a step closer, so we're nose to nose. "If I were you, Mathews, I'd keep my face out of the paper, my nose out of other people's business, and work on catching the little green man who took a crap in the back of your throat." Asshole!

I can feel the levity of the room take control as the laughter shifts from jabbing at me to him. I can see he's looking for a comeback, but I don't wait. Instead, I turn back toward the stairs and take them two-by- two up to the next battle.