The man looked up and down the street as if he might spot an ex-con trying to sell pie at one of the twin houses or row houses lining the street. They were nicely kept homes, many with hardy potted mums lining their front stoops or Halloween decorations arranged on their porches. Roxborough was one of the nicer blue-collar neighborhoods in Philadelphia. “Do they sell any?”
“I wouldn’t know. Look, I think you have the wrong house.”
“I’m looking for Jocelyn Rush,” the man said. He reached up and adjusted his nasal cannula. Jocelyn noticed a tremor in his fingers.
She suppressed a sigh. “That’s me, but I really don’t have time—”
“Please,” the man said. “It’s important.”
Jocelyn looked behind him, searching for signs of Caleb. She had to get rid of this guy before Caleb showed up. In the back pocket of her jeans, her cell phone vibrated, no doubt a message from Caleb that he was on his way.
“What’s this about?” Jocelyn asked.
He slid the clamp that held the two sides of the cannula tubing down and back up until it pinched the loose flesh at the underbelly of his neck. “I need to hire you. It’s about a case.”
Her cell phone vibrated again. She exhaled noisily. “I have an office, you know.”
The man smiled. “Yes. I know. Your assistant—”
“My partner,” Jocelyn corrected. “Anita.”
“Your partner, Anita,” he parroted, “told me you were at lunch. I would have waited, but I don’t have a lot of time.”
Jocelyn put a hand on her outthrust hip. The thong rode ever deeper into her crack. “Anita gave you my home address?” She asked skeptically.
The man chuckled. “No, she kicked me out. She’s something, that one.”
Anita was typically great with clients and generally made up for Jocelyn’s occasional abrasiveness, but she took shit from no one. This guy must have been pretty persistent if Anita had thrown him out.
Jocelyn stepped out onto the porch, backing him up two steps, her posture rigid. “Who are you, and how did you find out where I live?”
He stumbled backward, his feet tangling with the portable O2 cart. He reached out for something to help him keep his balance but found nothing. Quickly, Jocelyn grasped his arm. The last thing she needed was some guy suing her for falling on her porch. She could feel his bones beneath his crepe paper skin. She held tight to him, steadying him. When she pulled her hand away, she could see the skin beneath it already bruising where her fingers had been.
Great.
Before she could apologize for intimidating him, nearly knocking him over, and bruising his arm, he spoke again, his words spilling out so rapidly it took her a moment to process what he was saying. “Kevin Sullivan recommended you. He said you guys were partners when you were with Northwest Detectives. I’m a former detective. Homicide. Name’s Knox. Knew Sully a long time. He said you were good, you were tough. I looked you up. Researched you. When your assistant—I mean partner—wouldn’t call your cell, I got your home address from an Accurint search. I know, I know, it’s pushy and I’m sorry, but I’ve got CHF and COPD and cirrhosis. I’ve only got four to six months to live. There’s this old case. I need to solve it before I—before I—you know, before I go. I found something new. I know this probably seems nuts, but like I said, I don’t have much time. Please, I need to clear this one. It’s important.”
He stopped abruptly. His mouth moved to say more, but his lungs couldn’t keep up. Jocelyn could hear him wheezing as she stared open-mouthed. He reached back, twisting some dials on his oxygen tank. He was about five shades paler than before. In the back of her mind, a little voice told her to offer him a seat before he collapsed. But then he drew himself up to his full height, only a few inches taller than she. He clenched his jaw and stared straight at her with an unflinching gaze. She had a flash of how he must have looked on the job. Strong, masculine, imposing.
“So,” she said. “Knox. What is that? First name? Last name? Both? Like Cher or Pitbull?”
A hint of a smile at the name Cher, then confusion blanketed his face. “Pitbull? Who the hell is that?”
Chapter 5
October 16, 2014
“Pitbull is an entertainer, like Cher,” Jocelyn said.
Knox scratched his head. “Oh, well, I never heard of him—it’s a him, right?”
Jocelyn nodded.
Knox went on, “My full name is Augustus Knox. Everyone just calls me Knox.”
Jocelyn forced a smile. Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket again. “Look, Knox. I’m sorry to hear that you’re . . . sick.”
“Dying.”
She pulled her phone out but didn’t look at it. “Okay, dying. I’m happy to help you, but right now I’m expecting . . .”
The word “someone” died on her tongue as she finally looked at her phone. Caleb had texted her several times.
U won’t believe this but we got a warrant for the Powell suspect. I’m gonna miss our lunch.
I’m really sorry.
Babe?
I’ll make it up to you.
Babe?
Jocelyn sighed.
“Get stood up?” Knox said.
“More or less . . . Tell you what. Give me a minute, and you can come back to my office and tell me about your case.”
She slipped back into the house and texted Caleb.
Damn you. I’m wearing a thong. It’s ok. No worries. Was about to stand you up for a client anyway. Go get em.
As she was on her way up the steps to change out of the offending thong, he texted her back.
Keep it on. I’ll be over tonight.
“Sure you will,” she muttered as she slid on a pair of granny panties, moaning with pleasure. She dressed quickly and met Knox back on her porch.
“I’ll meet you at my office,” she told him as she locked her front door.
When she turned he was smiling sheepishly, again fidgeting with the oxygen tubing. “About that,” he said. “Could you—do you think you could give me a ride?”
“You don’t drive?”
He fanned his hands out in front of him. “Well, sure, I drive. I just—I lost my car, and seeing as I’m dying and all, I didn’t see much point in getting another one.”
“How did you get here?”
“SEPTA. The 9 bus drops me right up the street,” he explained. SEPTA or the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority was Philadelphia’s public transportation system.
“Fine,” Jocelyn said. “Let’s go.”
He was silent in the car; the only sound was the hum of his oxygen. She could feel him staring, and when she looked over, she realized he was focused on her hands. “It’s the left one,” she said, lifting her left hand from the steering wheel and turning it back and forth so he could see the scars on either side. “Yes, it hurt like hell. Still does sometimes. Yes, I was scared shitless. Yes, I still get nightmares, and no, I don’t have any desire to discuss it.”
Knox nodded. “Didn’t think you would.”
On her last assignment as a Philadelphia police detective, Jocelyn and Caleb had solved what the press had dubbed the Schoolteacher Attackers case, involving three men who had raped and crucified high-class prostitutes, one of whom had worked as a schoolteacher by day. The scar was from a nail that had been driven into her hand by one of the attackers.