North Downing: A Dezeray Jackson Novel: Sinfully Scandalous Mysteries, #2

Back Porch Writer Press

Fremont, NE

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Click here: Kori D. Miller

COPYRIGHT © 2016 BY Kori D. Miller

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Kori D. Miller/Back Porch Writer Press

2570 County Road 12

Fremont, NE 68025

www.koridmiller.com

Publisher's Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales

is completely coincidental.

NORTH DOWNING/ Kori D. Miller—1st e-book ed.

For all the badass women in the world who haven't embraced their badassery, yet.

MELODIES ARE JUST HONEST. They can only be what they are. Words have the capacity for deception. They're full of subtext, and some of them are cliché and overused and vernacular. They're tricky. All I can say is, words are tricky. - ANDREW BIRD

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Thank You!

About the Author

A Conversation with the Author

Upcoming Books

More Books by Kori

Acknowledgments &Kudos

CHAPTER ONE

JAMES KEENEY ENTERED the six foot by nine foot, white-walled room wearing the traditional khaki attire. His lanky frame didn't fill out his state-issued shirt, and the extra fabric of his pants gathered around his ankles. I waited near a rectangular, wood table with four chairs, two on each side. Keeney's crooked smile revealed the yellowed teeth of a long-time smoker. The door made a noticeable click when it shut behind him. That was always unnerving. Being locked inside the Nebraska State Penitentiary in Lincoln, NE, even if it's as a visitor, has never been on my bucket list. I could see the back of the officer's head through the small window in the door as he moved away. Keeney pulled out one of the chairs, his back to the door, and sat. I took the seat opposite his, opened a small notebook, and waited for him to start talking. It was Wednesday morning, and to be honest, I wasn't in the mood to talk with Keeney, but I felt sorry for him.

Thanks for meetin' me. I didn't think ya would. His Southern drawl was more pronounced than I remembered.

What's this about, Keeney?

He took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, propping his left arm on the back of it, and smoothed his goatee. His hair had whitened since I last saw him. He leaned forward, resting his right hand on top of the table.

Seriously, Keeney, I don't have all day.

They wanna string me up for a murder.

What?

Yeah. Me. A murder.

Whose murder?

Some chick named Bridgeton.

Bridgeton? You're going to have to give me a little bit more to go on.

Sarah Mathews Bridgeton.

I shook my head. The name seemed familiar, but I couldn't place it.

Someone, not me, killed her about a year before you got to Omaha.

And you know her because?

I may or may not have burglarized her house.

I pushed back from the table, ready to go.

Wait! Keeney reached for my hand, then thinking better of it, pulled it back. Probably remembering the beatdown I gave him when we met.

You gotta help me. I didn't do it. I mean, yeah, maybe I was there, but I didn't kill her. She was dead when I got in. Or nearly, anyway.

I stared at him for a beat, trying to recall what made me decide to accept his request for a visit. Dark circles formed around his droopy eyes.

Look, Ms. Jackson, I ain't got no one else who can help me. I got some shit for brains PD. That's all, and he looks like he'll piss his pants in front of the judge. Besides, I ain't done nothin'. Not this time.

What do you expect me to do, Keeney?

You know, do your thing. You're a PI. Do some PI shit.

PI shit?

You know what I mean. I need your help. And I can pay ya.

Really? With what, stolen jewelry?

Nah. I got money. Go see my girl, Mazy. She's in South O, off of Twenty-fourth and Vinton. He gave me the address. Will ya help me?

That was the million-dollar question. It was more like should I? I had a soft spot for this piece of shit, two-bit burglar, and I couldn't explain why, but did I want to spend my time doing his public defender's job? And what about his PD? They have people who can do this crap for them. I noticed Keeney was staring at me, still expecting an answer.

Well, will ya?

Yeah, I'll help you, but you're paying my usual rate.

No problem. I gotchya covered. He held up three fingers on his left hand.

It's the other hand, dumbass, I said, and stood to leave. Keeney screeched his chair back and stood.

Thanks, Ms. Jackson.

AFTER LEAVING THE PEN, I headed to Yia Yia's pizza on O Street for a few quick slices before heading back to the office. I was still standing in for my former colleague, Haithem Nazari, at Tracer International. For a Wednesday, the lunch crowd seemed sparse, but I wasn't going to complain. Thirty minutes later, and with my stomach satisfied, I ordered a few of Dalton's favorites to go and returned to the office.

Guards greeted me as I entered the building. I approached their large round desk to sign in. The guard station was a new addition to the main entrance.

Is that Yia Yia's? one of them asked.

Yep.

Damn. Now I want pizza. My wife's gonna be pissed if I come home with a full lunch box, though, he said.

Maybe you should rethink the pizza, then. Getting on the wrong side of your wife sounds like a bad plan, I said.

No doubt, he said, and waved me past the recently installed gates.

After Haithem disappeared, the company higher-ups decided to strengthen the visible security presence in the building. He wasn't taken from here, but they wanted the staff to feel more at ease.

Have a good afternoon, Ms. Jackson, he said, as I disappeared behind the elevator doors.

Dalton was waiting for me when I exited the elevator on Haithem's floor. He had a habit of doing this, and I couldn't figure out how he knew when I was coming. I'd started making it a game, varying when I'd leave and return, but he always seemed to know.

The security desk calls you, don't they? I said, as the doors closed behind me.

Ms. Jackson?

Never mind. What do you have for me on Keeney? I'd sent Dalton a text message while I was eating lunch, asking him to get as much detail about James Keeney's most recent incarceration, and the death of Sarah Mathews Bridgeton. We started walking the long hall to Haithem's office. I still couldn't call it my office. I knew he'd be back, but for now, it was better if people believed he was dead. At least, that's what he and Patrick Murphy, my—shit, I don't even know what to call him—believed.

We walked past Dalton's desk and entered the expansive, well-appointed office. Haithem had impeccable taste in everything. A large, brown, leather sofa sat against one wall. In front of it was a hand-carved, ornately detailed wood table. He'd gotten it from Morocco, if memory served. In front of his desk, were two high-backed, brown leather chairs. He wasn't much of a collector, but he did have two beautiful paintings on the wall behind his desk. In all the years we'd known each other, I'd never asked him about them, but after spending the past few months in his position, I wanted to know the story behind them. There was always a story behind the items he chose to display.

Ms. Jackson, here are the records for Mr. Keeney. It appears that his recent incarceration is the result of habitual B&Es. I knew that already, but I let Dalton continue. He's serving ten years for his most recent offense.

And what about Bridgeton?

Now that is interesting. He handed me a second file. Sarah Mathews Bridgeton is the daughter of Michael Allen Mathews, the famed investor.

I shrugged and shook my head.

You don't know who he is?

Not a clue.

Dalton proceeded to give me every detail about Michael Allen Mathews. The guy was married for more than fifty years. They had three children—Sarah and Michelle, who were twins, and Michael Allen, Jr. Michael Allen, Sr. was worth millions. The estate was split among the kids when he and his wife died.

According to several articles Dalton had found, the couple's private jet had crashed into the side of a mountain three years ago.

Well that sucks. I was kind of hoping for a happier ending. Where are the siblings?

Michael Mathews lives in Omaha, but Michelle is a wanderer. Her last known address was in New York City, but that was several years ago.

What about Sarah Mathew's husband? What's his name?

Cal Bridgeton. He's still the Chief Executive Officer for Bridgeton and Myers. His partner is Sam Myers. He's the Chief Financial Officer.

What kind of firm is it?

A prominent engineering company, but they're pretty leveraged from what I could dig up so far.

I'll start with them. See if you can get me a meeting with Bridgeton.

FRIDAY MORNING I PULLED my Jeep into the parking lot of Bridgeton & Myers. The building extended at least ten stories into an overcast sky. When I'd left my house, it smelled as if it was going to rain, not one of those cool, cleansing rains, but more like a torrential downpour, so I'd grabbed my raincoat and an umbrella. I opened my Jeep door; rain began pounding the ground, and me right with it. I slammed my car door, headed for the entrance to the building, and nearly ran a guy down in the process.

Oh, wow! I'm so sorry, I said, as he fumbled with the door and opened it so I could pass in front of him.

Not at all! Please, after you.

He followed me inside and we took a minute to shake off the extra water.

May I help you find someone?

Yes, thank you. I'm here to see Cal Bridgeton.

He smiled.

You're Cal Bridgeton?

He nodded.

Hi, I'm Dezeray Jackson. I wiped my hand on my pant leg, and then extended it to him.

It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Jackson. Why don't we go upstairs to my office and get a cup of coffee to warm up?

That would be great.

We rode the elevator in uncomfortable silence to the tenth floor. When the doors opened, he motioned for me to precede him. A small reception area occupied by a woman, two men, and the receptionist, who according to the nameplate on his desk, was Daniel, all looked in our direction. Cal Bridgeton acknowledged the guests with a nod and simple hello.

Daniel, this is Ms. Jackson. She's early for our appointment, so please let the others know that I'll be with them shortly.

By others, I assumed he meant the people waiting in the reception area, but I wasn't sure. Clearly, they had just heard what he said to Daniel.

Shall we get that cup of coffee?

I followed him into a large office. To the left of the door there was a seating area. To the right, his desk. An expansive bookshelf lined the wall behind his desk and was filled with engineering and business books. After taking my coat, he invited me to sit on the couch. A moment later, Daniel entered the room with a tray holding two cups of coffee, creamer, and sugar. He set it onto a table between us.

Thank you, Daniel.

Daniel smiled. Not a genuine smile. It was more like annoyance, with a side of scorn. I made a mental note to have a chat with him.

So, Ms. Jackson, how may I help you? Bridgeton sat across from me with a clear view of the door.

When Dalton made this appointment, he was careful not to reveal what my intentions were. I wasn't confident that Cal Bridgeton would want to help James Keeney prove his innocence.

I'm looking into the death of your former spouse, Sarah.

He shifted in his seat, crossed his legs, and folded his hands in his lap.

That's been resolved. What questions could you possibly have? The police notified me that they found her killer already in prison. Someone named James Keeney.

Yes, they did, however, I've been retained by Mr. Keeney.

Retained by Keeney? Why?

He says he didn't kill your wife and he found her, alive, when he broke into your Regency home.

Another shift. Either his chair was very uncomfortable or I'd hit a nerve.

The police assured me that Keeney killed my wife. They found DNA belonging to him in my house.

That's true, but from what I understand, there's nothing connecting him to stabbing your wife.

You're here to help him get away with it.

No. I'm here trying to decide whether the police have the right person. Keeney has a long history of breaking and entering, but not of violence. His record is clean on that front. It doesn't make sense that he'd change his MO and stab someone.

It does if she surprised him, which is what the police believe happened.

Look, I understand your need for closure, more than you know, but what if he isn't the person who killed your wife? That would mean the killer is still out there, and an innocent man is likely going to spend the rest of his life in prison.

Bridgeton stood and walked to his desk. Without turning back, he said, He's not innocent.

The meeting was over, as far as Bridgeton was concerned.

Mr. Bridgeton, I said, as I set my coffee on the table and stood to leave. If you could just tell me what happened that night, the things you remember, I'd appreciate it.

When he turned to face me creases had formed across his forehead and his jaw had tightened.

Everything you need to know is in the police reports.

Mr. Bridgeton?

We're finished here.

I thanked him for his time, grabbed my coat from a rack by the door, and left his office, closing the door behind me. More people were waiting in the reception area, and Daniel was sitting at his desk clicking at his computer keyboard.

Daniel?

He looked up and smiled. Yes, Ms. Jackson?

Have you worked here long?

Since the beginning.

About seven years, then?

Uh, huh.

So, you probably knew Mrs. Bridgeton?

Oh, yes. Lovely woman. Fabulous sense of style. It's too bad what happened to her.

I'd love to talk with you more about that sometime.

He sat up straighter, and leaned forward as if he had some secret to share.

I could tell you so much more.

Really, like what?

Cal Bridgeton's office door opened. Startled, Daniel sat back and pretended to look for something, then he scribbled his contact information onto a small piece of paper. Handing it to me, he said, Ms. Jackson, these are the directions you need. It shouldn't take you more than a few minutes to get there from here.

Daniel, please send in the first applicant, Bridgeton said. Ms. Jackson, if there's nothing else, we have work to do.

Thanks, Daniel, I said.

I waited until the elevator doors closed, and then read the note. Daniel wanted to meet for lunch at a place called Flare. It was new. I hadn't been there but read about it in the Omaha World-Herald. Flare opened a few months ago with a menu designed to test your spice limits. The chef, the article said, was influenced and inspired by Thai, Indian, and Spanish cuisine to create an infusion of taste sensations. When I read that, I knew I had to try it.

Daniel and I wouldn't be meeting for a few hours, so I took a quick trip to the library on Ninetieth and Dodge Streets to do some research. The crime-scene files weren't accessible, but I could read all the articles the paper wrote at the time. I was pretty sure I'd also find a video or two. Someone like Sarah Mathews-Bridgeton doesn't get killed without a whole lot of news media coverage.

After an hour of searching through the online database of the Omaha World-Herald, and reading at least fifteen articles about Sarah Bridgeton's murder, I felt good about my understanding of what the police, and public, believed happened. Cal Bridgeton had been attending a late meeting with a potential client. When he returned home, he discovered Sarah's body in their living room and called the police. One article reported there was a delay between the time he found her and when he called the police, but no other articles followed up about the discrepancy. The police spent months investigating Cal Bridgeton, but never found anything connecting him to his wife's death. They had to rule it a homicide, and it ended up in the Cold-case Unit.

I decided I needed more information about the Bridgetons, so I began searching past issues of Omaha Magazine, The Reader, Encounter, and Omaha Home. Several articles about Sarah's charity work appeared in Omaha Magazine and The Reader, and one profile about her family, before she married Cal Bridgeton, appeared in Encounter. She and her sister weren't just twins, they were identical. Their younger brother, by two years, resembled them so much that he could have been a fraternal sibling. They'd all attended Brownell-Talbot. The twins graduated from Creighton University. Michael studied business before joining his father's company after graduating. Sarah earned an economics degree and eventually began working for various nonprofit groups.

Michelle was the maverick. She skipped graduation, opting to travel instead. Eventually, she landed jobs in the fashion industry, usually, as an assistant. At the time of the article, Michelle was living in New York City.

My search continued and I found articles announcing Sarah and Cal's wedding. Their ceremony was at the Joslyn Castle about five years ago. By all accounts, Cal and Sarah Bridgeton were a happy couple and involved in the community. They knew or had access to all the right people, mostly because of Sarah's parents. That was probably what eventually led to the police stopping their investigation of Cal Bridgeton. Being connected to powerful people, alive or dead, could keep you out of trouble. That, and nothing useful at the crime scene.

Their marriage happened two