The Last Jar--Tim and Grace

Chapter 1

Grace checked in to the Peppermill Hotel on Virginia St. The hotel underwent a massive expansion in 2007 which doubled its room count. The expansion occurred right when the recession hit; as a result, room occupancy fell to a 10-year low. In response, the hotel slashed its room rates from Sunday—Thursday, and the Seattle PD was able to get a large room with two king beds for $45/night, the cost of toothpaste and aspirin at the convenience store. The rooms were normally $40, but smokers' rooms had a $5/night premium. There was no way Grace was going to stay in a hotel room in a strange town without being able to smoke.

"Where can I find some Diet Pepsi?" she asked the desk clerk. She drank more than a gallon of the stuff a day.

"We have a small gift shop around the corner."

"Does it sell the 2-liter bottles?"

"No. For that you need to go to a grocery store," the clerk replied. "The nearest one is about a mile down Virginia St."

"Get me a cab, then." Grace wasn't walking any farther than she needed to.

"Yes ma'am." Boy, this woman was sure rude. Hope she didn't gamble and lose—she'll become a real bitch if that happens. Big, too. Not only tall, but large—big bones, big hands, big shoulders. The clerk was a small Filipino woman who had never seen a woman as large as Grace.

"Please step to the entrance and a cab will be waiting for you."

"Ok. Thanks. I'm going up to the room first to stow my gear. Put my guns in the safe for me. I'll get them when I go to work later."

The clerk gathered the two weapons and stepped away from the front desk. Weapons had to be checked by the shift manager. He brought out paperwork for Grace to sign acknowledging that the hotel had no responsibility for the weapons, but was merely storing them for her. She signed the paper, retrieved her copy.

Neither gun was loaded. She checked a Glock 40 caliber and a 38 revolver, her service weapons on her job as detective. She didn't know whether she would need them here, but she figured it would be better to have them and not need them than need them and not have them.

She stepped into the cab. "Take me to the closest grocery store," she said.

"Ok. That's just down the street."

Less than 5 minutes later, the cabbie was outside Raley's.

"Keep the meter going, this will just take a minute."

"Sure thing."

She strode into the store, cruising the aisles looking for her favorite drink. The store had a promotional display just inside the door, a huge pyramid of 2 liter bottles. She grabbed 6, went to the self-checkout, and returned to the cab. It was less than 10 minutes altogether.

"Ready. Back to the hotel."

Later, she set up her iPad on the hotel desk, and pulled up the information about the case of Brad Andrews. Brad was the export-import agent that committed suicide in Seattle, and was linked to the Reno suicide.

Along with the case information, a label showed the name and telephone number for the Reno PD detective in charge of Rick Davis's case, Tim Hedley. She called his cell.

"Hedley here."

"Tim, this is Grace Nowak from Seattle. I just got to town, and wanted to meet with you about the Davis case." She was a no-nonsense cop. No niceties about the weather or anything else—her job was to find out what was happening in Reno and get the hell back to Seattle as soon as possible.

"Hi, Grace. Welcome to Reno. Our forensics team has completed its review of the crime scene and collected all the evidence. Did you rent a car, or should I pick you up?"

"Didn't rent a car. On a tight budget, like everywhere."

"Yep. So are we. Our DNA samples are backed up for 2 years because there's no funding for testing."

"That sucks. Well, our forensic computer guy still hasn't gotten me anything on the computer in the stiff's office, and that case happened 2 weeks ago. Since there wasn't a murder, we couldn't move it to the front of the line."

"Just two weeks? We have to wait 2 months to get this computer analyzed."

"Wow. You're really strapped down here, aren't you?"

"Yeah. It sucks, too. I just wonder what we could do if we had the resources."

Grace noticed a parallel thought process with Tim's. She had said that same thing many times in Paterson, NJ, when she entered law enforcement. There were so few resources, the officers had to use their imaginations to fill in the gaps.

"Well, no matter how much money you have, there's never enough to do what you want."

"You're right about that," Tim replied. "Where are you staying?"

"The Peppermill. Nice place."

"It's twice as big as it used to be. And it started out as a 16 room motel."

"Looks like they've been successful."

"Yeah, I guess." Tim had been called to the homes of some of the owners' children. Like too many privileged offspring, they thought that money suspended the rules. The kids were jerks, condescending to anyone beneath their lofty position in the Reno social pecking order. Rowdy rich kids were a waste of police resources. But their parents paid heavy taxes, so the kids were protected. And when parties happened in the hills overlooking Reno, police stayed away unless they heard gunshots. No one ever seemed to get into trouble up there. Drinking, loud music and racing souped up cars was just the way things were done.

Tim continued. "Listen, let's get together for dinner, and we can discuss the case in private. What's your pleasure?"

"Well, I've been looking for a place that serves decent beer. Are there any brew pubs in town?"

Tim thought a moment. "The Flowing River has a good selection; all their beers are brewed on-site. Decent food, not fancy. How does that sound?"

"Sounds good. What time?"

"I need to get a workout in, so let's say 7 PM, Ok? I'll pick you up in my truck. Don't like to advertise when I'm not on duty."

"Sure. I'll be standing outside the main entrance. Look for a big gal, 6 feet tall."

"Ok. I drive a black Ford F150 pickup. See you then."

Grace decided to take a shower after all. She hadn't planned on it, but this sounded like a date.

No, not a date. She was just meeting the detective in charge of the case, picking his brain, reviewing the evidence file...

Grace hadn't been with a man in months. She was intimidating to most men she met in the course of her daily activities because she was so tall and big. Her equally big persona and distant nature succeeded in alienating the men who weren't put off by her physical presence.

But beneath the brusque exterior was a woman. A passionate, hungry woman. A woman who wanted love. She had long since resigned herself to not finding what she desired more than anything—even more than solving crimes. So she did what many people did—threw herself fully into her work. The dedication and passion she could have put into a relationship was channeled into her job, and she was on the verge of becoming the Chief of Detectives in Seattle.

All she had to do was play nice with the Reno cops.

She decided to nap before her shower. As she curled up in the king, she tried to imagine what Tim looked like.

Knowing her luck, he's probably 5'4", married, and has a bunch of kids and two mortgages.

Oh well.

Shit.

She dozed for nearly an hour, then roused herself at 6:30. Realizing she had almost no time to prepare, she jumped into the shower, hurriedly set her hair, and put on a bare amount of makeup—just a bit of blush, eyeliner and mascara, and pale lipstick. Nothing fancy, just the basics.

At 6:55 she strolled to the main porte cochere. There, a spotless black Ford F150 4 door pickup truck was idling in the customer pickup lane. Then, a gigantic man climbed out of the cab, spotted her.

"Grace? Tim Hedley, Reno PD. Good to meet you." He offered his massive hand.

Grace didn't know what to do. This was the biggest male she had ever seen. He made her feel like a petite child. She shook his hand, looked up at him, saw a gigantic rippling chest, massive powerful arms, and a surprisingly delicate face. His eyes were hazel, a perfectly symmetrical, sharp-jawed visage, full sensuous lips with a dazzling smile, hair cut short, military style.

"Hop in. The restaurant's just down Virginia."

"Thanks. Is Virginia St. the main drag? Seems like most everything is along this street."

"Well, sort of. Back before the highway was built, it was the southern route out of town if you wanted to travel to California or Lake Tahoe. It runs through the center of town, where all the main casinos are. And you can take it north to Oregon if you want to spend a lot of time on two lane roads. Here we are."

They pulled up to what looked like an old house built in stages over decades. Tim hopped down, moved to the passenger's side, opened Grace's door. She wasn't expecting that.

"No need to treat me like a lady. My coworkers call me the Jersey Bitch."

"But you're still a lady to me. So far, anyway. As long as you don't bitch me out, that is."

"Ok." She smiled. "I need a cigarette before we go in. That will keep me from bitching you out."

"Suit yourself. I'll get a table that's isolated, so we can go over this stuff in private. Don't want any snoopers."

She watched him walk into the restaurant, noted his broad shoulders, narrow hips, and tight, sinewy ass and legs.

She hoped he was single.

Reno might not be too bad after all.

Chapter 2

The Flowing River Lounge was a restaurant run by two entrepreneurs who loved good food and great beer. The restaurant was four levels, including a rooftop terrace. Tim moved to the terrace and staked out a corner table away from everyone else. He brought the case file with him; it was easier than lugging around his laptop. The Reno PD hadn't upgraded the laptops in 3 years, so they were bulky and slow compared to the current ones. Tim preferred paper anyway—it was more engaging to him than staring at a computer screen.

From the parking lot, she saw him make his way up the stairs. She was transfixed by the command he had over his body—he seemed to move like a panther, well-controlled but hiding raw power just beneath the surface. She felt a stirring between her thighs, a feeling she had forgotten about for a long time.

Stay on point, damn it! He is here to share about the case, not anything else!

That body of his is sure yummy though.

Grace brought her iPad to the restaurant. It wasn't issued by the Seattle PD—she bought it for herself. The nicest thing about it was that she could log into the police department's database. After her cigarette, she joined him on the terrace.

"Nice view from up here. What mountains are those?" She pointed to a ridge west of town.

"That's one spur of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The peak is Sunflower Peak. Having the mountains close by is nice. We don't get a lot of snow here, and it's a short trip for hiking, camping and boating. I try to get away whenever I'm off. Didn't happen this weekend, though; it was my turn for Sunday duty. That's how I got stuck with the stiff you came to learn about."

Grace sipped her beer. "Good brew. Nice clean finish, and not sweet at all. I hate sweet beers. Makes me think I'm drinking OJ."

"Me too. This one's my favorite." He leaned back, surveyed Grace, relaxed in his element.

She was attractive, no doubt about that. Shapely, voluptuous, awesome hips and thighs. Looked like she took care of herself. Black hair trimmed close to her head, short around her ears. She wore simple gold studs. Nails short, clear polish. Light brown eyes that could darken to black if she was mad. He took another swallow, extended the case file. "I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours." He smiled again, white teeth flashing. He licked his lips, provoking another reaction from her.

"Ladies first. I get to see yours." She was getting a bit warm. A pale flush rose from her throat. What was happening here? All she wanted to do was get some info about this case. Why was this man affecting her this way?

"No problem." He slid his chair over to her side of the table, opened the case file, accidentally brushed her forearm with his strong fingers. Her skin reacted immediately, and her pulse began to speed up.

This certainly wasn't what she was expecting coming to Reno. He seemed oblivious to her reactions, until he said,

"I'm not married. I hope you're not as well."

"Nope. Not even a boyfriend."

"Same here. No boyfriend, that is." They both laughed. But he didn't say he was single. He probably has a live-in girlfriend.

Wrong again. "I date casually, but that's it. No time for a heavy relationship. Work gets in the way every time."

An opening. "Same with me," she replied. "I've gotten lots of promotions, but nobody special." She sounded wistful, a bit of longing in her voice.

"Don't worry. When the time is right, you'll find someone. In the meantime, let's go over these cases."

"Ok. You know, you're an extremely attractive man for someone who lives in Reno."

"And you're an extremely attractive woman for someone who lives in the big city and planned on telling us how to do our jobs. Let's just say your reputation preceded you, and it wasn't real flattering."

"Yeah, my reputation has a problem like that." Just another part of her Jersey persona. She would never get rid of it.

Tim began reviewing his case file. "Here's the way it looks to me. The quartet that was riding in the Mini Cooper came to the house armed. It was probably the wife and daughter, the wife's boyfriend and another man who hooked up with the daughter at some point.

"Anyway, they come into the house, surprise our stiff. He gets intimidated, draws his 38, shoots once into the picture frame above the office door. Someone returns fire, shoots him in the shoulder. He pulls his gun up again, the same someone fires at his hand. The 38 discharges into the floor."

Tim paused. "Now here's where it gets confusing. Apparently there's some sort of discussion between the shooter and our stiff. The stiff is looking up at him the whole time, bleeding from his two wounds. Then, he takes his own gun, blows his head off. That's the part that doesn't make any sense."

Grace fired up her iPad, watched it while it booted up, and logged in to the Seattle PD database.

"I'm guessing the shooter is a ...Greg Turner. He's an investment banker, really rich, based in Reno but travels all over the place. The wife is Jessica Davis; I've met her, she's a good lady, but had a real asshole for a husband. The bastard sent her to Seattle to pick up documents from my stiff, for Chrissake! Treated her like a slave. Threatened to beat her if she didn't follow through. And it wasn't her first time. This asshole had caused three other deaths. She had to go clean up the messes each time. Sort of like a serial killer by telephone. Each one was talking to him when they died—one stroke, one heart attack, and another shooting. This Rick Davis asshole was a real piece of work.

"I'm guessing that two of the four people were Jessica and Greg. They traveled to Seattle together on Greg's jet to get the documents off." She paused. "I'm sure they were having sex. You don't go 1200 miles with a man just to have a cup of coffee."

"You're right about that." He was wondering whether this Amazon would consent to sex with him. After all, she'd traveled 1200 miles.

Grace continued. "The other gal was probably the daughter, Jill Davis. It was her car, right?"

"Yep. This really helps." Tim was taking notes as she spoke, adding the additional data to the case file. "You're good. I wish I had other dicks on my squad that were as smart as you."

"Thanks. It's been my life for awhile. Anyway, this Turner character looks on the level. Did a background check on him while he was in Seattle. Was sent to prison for fraud because of Davis's testimony, but paid restitution and got back into the investment business for himself. Made himself fabulously wealthy. Don't know how, don't much care, but there's been nothing filed against him since he got out of jail. Nothing from the SEC, nothing from the IRS, no state attorney general trying to make a name for himself, nothing at FBI, DEA, Homeland Security. The guy's a Boy Scout. A really rich Boy Scout."

"Wait. Did you say that Davis put Turner in prison?" That was a detail nobody in Reno knew about.

"Yep. Star witness in the fraud trial. The main reason Turner was sent up was because of Davis's testimony."

"So do you think Turner forced him to kill himself?"

"I don't know. This Turner guy is a real rich dude, but maybe he figures the rules don't apply. He can afford the best lawyers in the world, and gets the girl too, if the guy kills himself."

Tim smacked his forehead. "That's right! I saw her picture on Davis's desk, thought she was his daughter, not his wife. Inheritance?

"$4 mil in life insurance, plus all the other stuff. Probably another couple mil in houses, art, cars. And they are at large?"

"We still need to track them down," Tim said. "You said they live here in Reno?"

"Turner does, I know. The other guy, not sure. Maybe he's from Seattle."

"We sent out a BOLO but no one's reported anything. But we did get a tip from Secret Witness. Interview is tomorrow at 3:00. Can you stay to observe?"

Grace wouldn't miss it. "You betcha. I wouldn't miss it. And I won't interfere. Promise."

"No, you won't." Tim leaned into her, peeked down her blouse, liked what he saw. "You are an observer, not to interfere in the investigation in any way."

She flashed a glance at him. "Have you been talking to my boss? That's the exact same thing he told me!"

"I refuse to answer on the grounds that I may incriminate myself."

"Bastard."

"Bitch."

"Well, we were civil for about 45 minutes. A record?"

"Close."

Both of them could feel the sexual tension beginning to build. Tim liked her no-nonsense attitude and the fact that she could hold her own physically. He also admired her intelligence, and her encyclopedic grasp of this case. Grace was responding to the sheer size of this gigantic man who towered over her in stature and in strength. When he peeked into her blouse, she felt her nipples harden under her bra. When was the last time that happened?

She looked at the table. The centerpiece was a Mason jar with a sprig of mountain bluebell in it.

They had been at the restaurant so long, it was the last jar in the room.

Their waiter brought the check. Tim picked it up. "My treat. This was much more enjoyable than a working lunch at the hot dog stand."

"But, I've got..." Grace started to protest, was going to put it on her expense account. But then she remembered that the police shrink had told her she had to start accepting things people gave her. Most of the time they didn't want to fuck her over, just be nice to her.

She bit her tongue, although it was a struggle. "Thanks, Tim. This was a good night for me too."

"So now what? Do you want to go back to your room, or do something else?"

She thought, yes, and yes.

"Sure. Whatever. Just remember that I am authorized to use deadly force." She winked at him.

"So am I. And I'm packing; you're not."

"I've still got these." She showed him her fists.

"And I've got these." He flexed, his arms ballooning to a massive size. She squeezed, found no resistance.

"Wow." That didn't happen with her. No man wowed her, ever.

She only wondered whether the rest of him lived up to those muscles.

Reno was looking better and better.

The couple left the restaurant. Like he did when they arrived, Tim opened the passenger door for Grace. "I told you I don't need that kind of treatment," she said.

Tim wasn't taking that for an answer. "Ladies need that kind of treatment, even if they are hard cops. What would you like to do tonight?"

Grace thought for a moment. "I dunno. This is the first time I've been to Reno. What is there to do here?"