Love Bite (Just One Bite #1) (2 page)

Nearly two
weeks ago, on their ninth wedding anniversary, Jonah set out to the convenience
store to get a pack of cigarettes and put gas in the car. He chatted with the
clerk for a few minutes according to the police, and then went back to the
frozen goods case. He told the clerk, whom he'd often talked with on his trips
to the store, that he wanted to surprise Diandra with her favorite ice cream.
Jonah had been accosted and dragged into an alley on the way back to their car,
as best as the cops could tell. They were still not sure what type of weapon
made the fatal wound, leaving his throat a red ruin, a gaping grin. The lemon
ice cream lay melting, running into the pool of blood beneath his body. A pack
of cigarettes was found in his pants pocket, wrapper still intact.

Diandra was
dressing when the knock came on her front door. Expecting a delivery of yellow
roses, which Jonah never failed to have delivered each year, she was surprised
to find two uniformed officers on her doorstep. Her smile faded and her hands
dropped to her side, tip money forgotten. As they spoke the words that would
destroy her world, the last coherent thought that went through her mind was, “I
didn’t apply any makeup, I must look a sight!” Then she fainted at the bottom
of the stairs.

Diandra talked
to the officers while lying on the couch in Jonah’s den. A glass of water in
her hand, she listened calmly while they told her what they knew- next to
nothing. Her husband died violently in an alleyway in broad daylight and no one
saw or heard a thing. She tuned out quite a bit of the actual conversation- not
on purpose, but she was nauseous and could hear her own heartbeat pounding too
loudly in her ears, her blood rushing through her body. She meant to listen to
everything they said but it was hard to hear them over all that noise.
Distantly she remembered reading once about going into shock following a
traumatic event. She supposed that could be the case here- if this wasn't
traumatic she didn't know what was.

One officer,
whose nameplate said Stefano, leaned against the wall looking bored while the
other shifted his weight from one foot to the other. A crazy voice in the back
of Diandra's head told her to offer him the use of the bathroom. She ignored it
and finally the voice shut up. Stefano spoke in a voice heavily laced with New
York- the accent was thick enough to walk across. His tone and manner both
suggested he'd rather be anywhere but here, and the look on his face made it
clear he considered this a shit detail. He addressed the topic of how her
husband's body was discovered and she forced herself to pay close attention
this time.

“Ma’am, it
appears this homeless lady knows nothing and had nothing to do with it, but I
can assure you she’s being questioned very thoroughly downtown right now. We
searched her and it doesn’t seem like she took anything off of his body,
although with those types you never can tell. If she's withheld any information
you can be sure we'll have it before too much longer. If she’s innocent we’ll
release her with twenty dollars for her time. Although I imagine that will go
to booze or drugs instead of food,” he finished cynically.

The man's
partner, Williams according to his nameplate, straightened up briefly from his
bathroom dance to jab an elbow into the man's gut, ignoring the vicious glare
he received in return. When Stefano turned his face towards Diandra once more
he wiped the look off of his face. Apparently he wasn't as dumb as he acted
because he recognized that he was on the verge of a royal ass-chewing. She
couldn't stand stereotyping, and he was doing a fine job of that. The dancing
man never lost his look of distaste as his partner attempted to backpedal and
redeem himself in the new widow's eyes.

Diandra
ushered the two officers out with a moue of distaste a few minutes later,
making a mental note to let their lieutenant know how inept they were for this
type of situation. She sat heavily on the stairs where she’d earlier collapsed,
taking a few deep breaths to calm herself before walking into her little
office. She calmly picked up the phone and made the only call necessary- to
Alexar Thompson, the chief of police. He was Jonah’s boss, but also his best
friend. If anyone could be trusted to give her information on what happened
today it was him. And no one would dare refuse the chief of police information
about the loss of one of his men, nor anything else he needed. Therefore he was
the perfect person to provide her with what she needed. The first step was to
have that poor, homeless woman released and brought to her. She was certain
things were not what they appeared to be.

“My name is
Lizbeth Snyder, and I really wish you’d tell me why I’m here,” the homeless
woman said brusquely as Diandra opened the front door. Lizbeth was intimidated
by the beautiful slate blue Cape Cod home. She could see the ocean behind the
house, even while standing in the crushed oyster shell circular driveway. Her
automatic reactions to this insecurity contradicted one another. One part of
Lizbeth wanted to apologize for daring to step onto the immaculate property,
even though she’d been asked to do so. Asked? Ha!
Ordered
was more like
it! The other part of her wanted to be nasty and aggressive with this stranger
for making her feel this way.

The lady of
the manor’s appearance sure didn’t help, Lizbeth thought angrily. With that
gorgeous hair and strange purple eyes she was blessed enough. Then to stand
there in that beautiful black skirt and matching cashmere sweater that screamed
money? Life really wasn’t fair, as though she didn’t know that already. She
could practically hear the judgments running through this stranger’s head.

Diandra
realized she was being weighed and measured, and most likely found lacking. All
of her possessions were actually strikes against her. She smiled inwardly. The
woman looked angry enough to actually spit flames at the moment, and Diandra
couldn’t blame her. She was entirely out of her comfort zone, and unless she
was very much mistaken, the woman’s anger was actually a façade for her fear.
After hearing this woman out perhaps they’d see what they could do about
balancing the scales a little.

She ushered
her into the little parlor she’d made her own and asked her to have a seat.
Lizbeth looked doubtfully from her dingy clothing to the pale pink upholstery
on the overstuffed armchair and reluctantly sat down. The housekeeper quietly
brought in a tray with two glasses, a pitcher of ice water, and a little side
dish of lemon. Diandra poured Lizbeth a plain glass of ice water, and then made
herself a glass with a wedge of lemon. She hoped that the act of settling down
with beverages might make this conversation easier, friendlier.

“Ms. Snyder,
I’m the woman whose husband you found,” Diandra began.

Lizbeth cut
her off. “Hey, I told the police what I knew, which was nothing. I saw nothing,
I know nothing, and I didn’t take anything of his either!” she said hotly. “Of
course, take one look at someone like me and make judgments. Why not, everyone
else does. What utter bullshit!”

Diandra simply
sat back on the powder blue loveseat and eyed the woman across from her coolly.
She used the time in between to study her in return. Although she knew the
woman was homeless, she could see that Lizbeth was fairly clean. She didn’t
have that underlying smell that some of the others did- that scent of fear,
embarrassment, anger and hopelessness. She had shoulder- length chestnut brown
hair that, while ragged, was obviously cleaned recently. Her baby blue eyes
held a curious mixture of pride and resentment- they seemed to say, “I know you
wouldn’t know it, but I’m better than this.” She had long, dark eyelashes that
framed her eyes beautifully. Lizbeth would actually resemble a porcelain doll
were it not for the suspicious, hostile eyes and street-thin frame.

The slightly
skeletal set of her body was only noticeable in her face, as the rest of her
was hidden under layer upon layer of stained, torn and discolored clothing. A
bulky parka was layered over a sweatshirt, under which the neckline of another
shirt (or two, or three) was visible. She was also wearing sweatpants that
bulged oddly as if there were a few layers of pants underneath as well. Lizbeth
had figured out, like most of the homeless, that her clothes were safer if she
were wearing them. And, like the rest of her, her clothes were mostly clean.
Stained, but not filthy.

Lizbeth picked
up her glass of water, then set it back down without taking a sip. She glared
under the careful scrutiny, waiting for Diandra to start speaking again or kick
her out of the house. God only knew where she’d sleep tonight…

But that was a
problem for later. Right now she needed to figure out what this rich bitch in
front of her wanted. Lizbeth had answered every question the police asked her,
no matter how demeaning, or how rude, or how many times they asked. She knew
how this went down. They had to grill her before they could let her go. They
finally got around to asking if she had any identification. Unfortunately the
answer to that was yes. Reluctantly she handed it over, and then settled in to
answer the same questions yet again.

They were
finally ready to turn her lose when the cop who had run her I.D. came back in
the room. He handed the cop in charge a file, whispered to him a minute, then
left the room. Then the questions resumed, starting with the one she had
dreaded answering. “Why didn't you tell us you used to be a cop?” She blinked
and returned her attention to her present situation.

Diandra gave
her a small smile and started again. “My name is Diandra Malone, and my
husband’s name is…” She stopped, wiped a tear, took a deep breath and started
again. “His name was Jonah. Today we were married nine years. Now, I don’t
believe you’re guilty of anything. That’s why I demanded they let you go. I
wanted you here so I could find out what make you call the police. Don’t get me
wrong, I’m grateful you did, but most people wouldn’t. I know Jonah’s dead, and
the cops explained some of how he died. Maybe something you say will provide me
with a reason why. The cops didn’t seem much interested in that answer,”
Diandra sighed.

“Ma’am, how
could you possibly decide that when they’ve had the case for a little over five
hours?” asked Lizbeth, curious in spite of herself. Interest in things like
this was bad for her, she knew that, but she couldn’t seem to let it go.
Sliding into the story now, she finally picked up the glass of ice water and
took a deep sip before setting it down carefully again on the bamboo coaster
Diandra had passed to her.

“It was the
way they talked around me, studying me and my house. The way they focused on
you and only you, more worried about who had found him and not who killed him.
The way they never once asked me what time Jonah left the house this morning,
or why he left to begin with. And most importantly, Ms. Snyder, it was the fact
that although he was obviously identified, they never once gave condolences,
even though he was a fellow cop.” Diandra’s eyes narrowed a bit while
remembering that detail. “That just seemed so wrong to me, all of it.
They
seemed wrong to me, so I decided to talk with you.”

Lizbeth pursed
her lips. That explained why they'd grilled her the way they had. Homeless
former cop finds the body of an off-duty cop? That certainly didn't look good.
She realized there was more to Diandra than meets the eye. Apparently satisfied
with whatever it was she saw, she nodded once and explained how she came to
find Jonah’s body. She explained what she’d never discussed with anyone- how
she came to be on the streets to begin with.

“Three months
ago I lost my job and my home. I was a cop, and a damned good one,” Lizbeth
stated with some pride. Diandra was unsurprised to see fire in Lizbeth’s eyes,
a glimpse of the old Lizbeth inside. “I was investigating a drug cartel that
somehow always slipped through our fingers long before the District Attorney’s
office got involved. Some sniffing around, interviewing witnesses, and checking
paperwork netted me some partial proof that there was corruption in the
precinct. Nothing too obvious, you’d really have to dig to find the problems. I
just happened to be the first person to dig, and I dug deep. Unfortunately a
lot of my ‘proof’ could be considered circumstantial and I didn’t even have
enough evidence to pinpoint where the corruption actually started, or how deep
it ran.

“Anyway, I
went to my commander and the head of Internal Affairs and laid it all out to
them, every single drop of proof I could dig out. I promised them more, much
more, if they would give me the time and space to sniff out more. I don’t like
dirty cops, and at least one person in the precinct was dirty. The next week I
was summoned in to see my commander. It seems my drug screen came up positive
for cocaine and heroin. A drug screen I’d never taken- a screening I knew
nothing about. Pleading my case was worthless- I was out of a job.” Lizbeth
took a deep breath, knowing that there was still so much more to tell yet, but
part of her felt lighter for letting it go. For months she’d held her story
inside, letting it fester. It felt good to let it out- it felt healthier.

She took a sip
of water before continuing. The ice had melted, but neither woman noticed. “No
criminal charges were filed. I was allowed to pack up my things quietly and
leave with no fuss. Yet somehow, my landlord found out about the circumstances
and I was evicted. The lease on my townhouse had a strict policy against
recreational drug use and I was in violation of it, or so the officer who
called them stated.” Lizbeth's eyes burned with that long- ago injustice and
Diandra pretended not to notice, even as she silently noted the change in her;
the change that would be her saving grace and get her off the streets once
more. She carefully straightened the fitness and home décor magazines on the
table to give Lizbeth time to speak once more around her anger.