No Rhyme or Reason Read online

  No Rhyme or Reason

  by Mairsile

  No Rhyme or Reason

  © 2018 by Mairsile. All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form, without written permission.

  Editor: Tracy Seybold

  Cover Design: Mairsile

  Other books by Mairsile

  www.Mairsile.com

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  Dedication

  I am blessed with many friends, and two of them, Joyce and Fox, are my lifeline. Thank you!

  And as always, may the glory go to God.

  Chapter One

  I’m Just a Cop – Trina Wiles

  I thought that when I became Police Detective Katrina Wiles, Trina for short, life would be exciting, challenging, and that I’d get laid more often. Well, only two out of three of those things happened. Wrapping up a case yesterday, also known as paperwork, I pulled the equivalent of a double shift to keep from facing an empty apartment. It worked. I was too tired to care when I got home, barely making it to my couch before passing out from exhaustion. I can chase a suspect eight blocks and not be winded but do a couple of hours of paperwork and I’m exhausted.

  When I woke up this morning, I thought I had to go to work, then realized it was Sunday and I had the day off. Rather than laying around in bed trying to satisfy my lack of orgasms, I got up and took a shower. A cold-ass shower thanks to the water heater being broken. Maintenance would only come in on the weekends for an emergency, which they said cold water was not. Setting the record for shortest time in a shower, I jumped out and toweled off vigorously. Now dry, but still shivering, I walked naked into the bedroom and hurried into a pair of briefs and a tank top.

  Today, for the first time since Aunt Eleanor’s funeral five years ago, I was going to church. My family was big on church and always asking me to go with them, but I just wasn’t into organized religion. If I wanted to pray, I prayed. I didn’t need a roof with a steeple over my head to do that. God and I were on a first name basis and my faith in him was unyielding. Still, Mom likes to point out that it was the church who taught me the Bible and set my Christian foundation. I’ll give her that, but it was also church that treated me like dirt when they found out I was a lesbian. Granted, I probably shouldn’t have been groping freckled-faced Bonnie Lynn in the rectory when I was thirteen, but that’s no reason to use me as an example of sin. I never told my parents what an asshole the vicar had been, I just stopped going to church regularly.

  My baby brother, Corey, always the skinny kid, wiry and agile, embraced the church and all it stood for. Dad wanted him to play football or basketball, but Corey was more studious than athletic. He didn’t look like the typical book nerd. In fact, he was quite handsome, his face the spitting image of our dad. Square-jawed, raven hair, kind brown eyes, and broad shoulders that teetered on a tiny waist and chicken legs.

  Dad, a high school coach, was disappointed that his only son didn’t want to play some kind of sport and blurted out one day that I had inherited all the balls in the family. I was eleven at the time, and I believe that was the exact moment I learned to be blunt and crass, while Corey, who was eight, buried himself in a book and never came out.

  Corey will be giving his first homily as a fully-fledged Episcopal priest at St. David's this morning, so in spite of my aversion, I plan to be there to cheer him on. That, and I owe him a hundred bucks for cussing. His favorite words are ‘God bless,’ mine are ‘fuck you,’ which, of course, is a prerequisite for being a cop. He dared me, at a dollar a swear word, that I couldn’t stop cussing for one week. He was right. I think it actually had the reverse effect on me.

  Now fully awake, thanks to the cold shower, I pulled my best suit from the closet, the one I wore to Aunt Eleanor’s funeral. Surprisingly, it still fit, but then, in all modesty, I’ve only gained two pounds since then. I may have just turned thirty, but I have the body of a twenty-year-old, lean and mean. At work, my partner has me chase the perps because he’s too out of shape to run. He’s all the motivation I need to work out. I was lucky enough to score Paul Rhoades as my partner. Twenty years my senior, he had a beer gut, a streak of gray in his black hair, and bushy eyebrows, this guy may be a slob, but he knew his stuff. He’s old-school and, at first, he wasn’t too keen on having a woman as a partner, but I won him over and he has been the best mentor a cop could have. He’s been a bit distracted lately. His wife has an appointment coming up to see an oncologist.

  Clipping my holster to my belt, I checked the safety my gun before holstering it, then slipped my badge in the inside pocket of my jacket. Even when I’m off duty, I carry a weapon. As a detective, I could be called to a crime scene at any time so I always want to be prepared. And truth be told, I feel naked without it. Finally, I grabbed my keys and opened the door and was immediately hit by a wave of heat. The middle of October and it was hotter than hell.

  The parish is on the periphery of Houston, in a working-class neighborhood. Houston is over six hundred square miles, but luckily, with it being Sunday, it won’t take very long to drive across town. I plan to arrive early enough to get a parking spot near the front door. I prefer to be the first one in and the first one out. Tactically, it’s a necessity in the event I got a call on a case, but truthfully, standing in line after the service to shake my little brother’s hand just isn’t going to happen. I’d rather congratulate him beforehand, in case he’s really horrible at it.

  I acknowledge that I can be blunt and merciless at times, and it’s not just because of my job, either. Some people have a problem with it, like my soft-spoken brother, so I’ve learned to work around it with my family. Well, almost. Sunday family meals tend to get tense at times.

  The parking lot was empty save for a few cars, probably belonging to the acolytes and the like, so I got the spot closest to the door that I was hoping for. I figured that in about fifteen minutes parishioners would begin arriving so I needed to find Corey before he got too busy. He would most likely be in the rectory putting on his robe. If only I had a frog or a lizard that I could put down his back.

  Unlike the church we attended as kids, St. David's was a small parish that I doubt could hold a hundred people. The church looked old from the outside and the red paint on the door had dulled to a rusty brown. Inside, the pew cushions were losing their stuffing and one of the stained-glass windows looked like it was held together with duct tape. A gray-haired parishioner placed hymnals on the pews and I nodded as I walked by. I didn’t want to take time to ask where the vicar’s vestment room was. They were usually in the back, across from the offices.

  I tapped on the door as I opened it. “Surprise!”

  Corey jumped, then stood frozen in place, his arms extended, holding the silk stole that Mom and Dad had presented to him last month. His face, as white as the vestment he wore, was exactly the look I was hoping for. My brother and I had always tried to outdo the other in scaring the crap out of each other, and I believe that I just won the prize.

  “Uh, sis… you remember Father Matthew?” Corey asked, nodding to my left.

  I saw something move in my peripheral and jumped. “Oh, shit!” Matthew was the reason I left the church. “Oh, sorry, about that, Rev. I didn’t see you standing there… half naked.” I took a perverse delight in watching his face drain of all color even as his forehead furrowed with angry creases. He was stooped with old age and arthritis, but his eyes were just as disapproving as they were when I was a
kid. Still, I did feel a modicum of remorse, watching his hands shake.

  “I will pray for your sins,” he said and turned away.

  Yeah, he remembers me. I was about to apologize again, when a hair-raising scream came from the auditorium.

  “What on earth?” Matthew asked, turning back toward the door.

  I was already out the door and running down the aisle. Several people were standing in the corner, their hands up and waving, and everyone was talking at once. Another scream and everyone took a step back.

  “Police,” I declared, showing my badge. “What’s going on?”

  They moved out of the way, and I saw who was causing the ruckus. A woman, late-twenties or early thirties, thin, petite, and hysterical, was waving a candlestick like a baseball bat. Her clothing suggested that she knew fashion, even though they were dirty and torn. Her blond hair was matted and caked, as if she had rolled in the mud. There was a bruise under her left eye, barely visible under the dark circles and smudges of dirt that covered most of her face. Her blue eyes were dark, angry, and her pupils were pinpoints. She was on drugs. That made her unpredictable and very dangerous, but I left my weapon holstered. I bent my knees a little, trying to shorten my 5’8 height so she wouldn’t find me threatening.

  “It’s okay, calm down,” I said softly. “No one is going to hurt you.”

  She tried to focus, became agitated that she couldn’t, and swung the candlestick wildly. She had sores on her arm, as most addicts would, and lots of fat red bruises. She also had dried blood on her fingertips, all of her fingertips. Someone had burned her prints off.

  “Everyone, get back,” I demanded. “Someone get a pitcher of cold water.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the police?” a woman asked.

  “I am the police,” I explained. “Can you get me a blanket, please?”

  “There’s one in the robe room,” Corey said.

  “Yes, Father,” she said and scurried off.

  The woman waved the candleholder again. She barely came up to my chin, and I had twenty pounds on her, so I knew I could easily subdue her if needed.

  “I’m calling the police,” Father Matthew stated.

  “Do you see the sores on her arms? The bruise under her eye? The woman has been tortured. You want to scare her even more with sirens and cops running in here?”

  “The woman is obviously on drugs. Church is no place for that kind of—”

  “Father,” Corey interrupted. “Proverbs 31:20 says, ‘She opens her hand to the poor and reaches out her hands to the needy.’ My sister is a police detective and she is reaching out to the needy. We should listen to her.”

  Without taking my eyes off the woman, I said over my shoulder, “Just get everyone out of here and let me talk her down.”

  Matthew grunted and shuffled off, followed by the others. Corey didn’t move.

  “Corey, stay back,” I said, moving away from him and just out of her reach. If she went after anyone, it would be the one closest to her.

  A woman brought a blanket and a glass of water, handed them to Corey, and quickly left the room.

  I held my hand up to stop Corey as he was about to offer the water to the woman. “Not yet, Corey.”

  “Don’t hurt me?” the woman pleaded.

  Is she sobering up? “No, ma’am. No one will hurt you here,” I assured her, easing closer. “You’re safe with me.”

  She looked right through me, but then her eyes dropped down to my necklace. She lowered the candleholder and reached a trembling hand out to me. I stood perfectly still, allowing her to touch me. My necklace was a simple silver cross on a silver chain, a gift from my mother when I turned thirteen. I’ve worn it ever since.

  She stepped closer and lifted the necklace in her fingers. Her eyes cleared, and a faint smile crossed her chapped lips. “Are you a good person?” she asked, rubbing her thumb over the cross.

  “At times,” Corey quipped.

  She jumped as if just realizing Corey was in the room. “No!” Shrinking back against the wall, she held the candlestick up again.

  “It’s all right. He’s not going to hurt you.” I turned to Corey and whispered, “Let me handle this.” He nodded, and I turned back to the woman. “This is my baby brother, Corey. My name is Trina. You’re safe with us, I promise.” I reached back and unhooked the necklace. Dangling it in front of her, I curled it in my hand and held it out to her. “A gift…” She looked at me suspiciously. “It’s okay. I just want to be your friend.”

  Her face softened, and she reached for it.

  “Would you like me to put it around your neck?” I asked.

  She hesitated.

  “It’s okay, you’re safe here,” I repeated as I stepped closer.

  She looked at the necklace and then at the candleholder. She handed it to me, turned around, and used both hands to gather up her hair.

  There was something on the nape of her neck. A tattoo of some sort. It was still red and purple, so it was done recently. I handed the stick over to Corey and pulled out my cell phone. I took several close-up pictures of the tattoo and several of her back and arms. There were bruises on her neck and the back of her arms.

  This woman definitely had a story to tell and my gut was telling me it was more than just drugs. The bruises were indicative of being forcibly held down. Burning off her fingertips was an old tactic of a street gang. The tattoo on her neck was a newer tactic. If it was a gang who did this to her, then they had inked her as their property. What the hell did they do to you?

  “I’m just going to slip my hand around your arm so I can put the necklace on, okay?” I pocketed my phone and, moving slow so as not to scare her, put the necklace on her. I deliberately ran my hands across her shoulders as I said, “There, you’re all set. How does it look?”

  She turned around, holding the cross in her fingers. When she looked up at me, there were tears in her eyes. “Good.”

  “So, now that we’re friends, can you tell me your name?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Her face paled, and her eyes opened wide. “I… My name is… I don’t know,” she said, and then slumped to the floor, unconscious.

  “Call an ambulance!”

  I rode in the ambulance with Jane Doe, watching the EMT take her pulse. She had not regained consciousness yet, which worried me, but the EMT said her pulse was getting stronger and her blood pressure was almost back to normal. In repose, she looked fragile, broken. But she didn’t look like a junkie. She didn’t have large veins or track marks. She had one puncture mark on each arm. Either she was a virgin user, or someone had forced it on her. I found myself hoping it had been forced on her.

  I had gone through the pockets in her slacks and found nothing. No driver’s license, credit card, keys, not even a piece of lint. Her blouse, dirty and torn, had no pockets and I don’t think she was carrying a purse when she came in, so I had asked the uniforms to look around the church and grounds.

  Leaning against the wall in the ER waiting room, I was on my cell phone apologizing to my mother for missing church. She and Dad had been prevented from entering the building by Matthew and were standing outside on the steps when I came out. I didn’t have time to talk with her, so now I was groveling. There would be hell to pay at our next Sunday family dinner, for choosing work over my brother’s first homily, if he even got to give it. But I could not bring myself to abandon Jane Doe. She’d asked for my help and I had to help her… something deep inside told me that I had to help her.

  A tech wearing scrubs and gloves came rushing in. “Is there someone named Trina here?” she asked excitedly.

  “Mom, I have to go,” I said, and ended the call. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”

  “Thank God. She’s conscious and asking for you. In fact, she threatened to hit the doctor with a bedpan if we didn’t find you.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, and we can’t sedate her until we know if she’s on drugs.”

&n
bsp; “Oh, she’s on drugs, all right,” I countered, following her. “I just don’t know if it was her idea.”

  “Let me rephrase that,” the tech said, stopping just outside the room. “Until we know which drugs she is on.”

  Chapter Two

  Who Am I? – Jane Doe

  Where am I? I couldn’t open my eyes, but I could hear several people talking at once.

  A disjointed voice said, “Height, approximately 5’3, weight around 120, eyes…”

  I was lying on my back, but it was too hard to be a bed. I felt as disjointed as the voices around me. I could feel fingers on my face and suddenly there was a bright light shining in my eye. Panicking, I recoiled.

  I heard a voice say “She’s waking up, Doctor.” All the voices I had heard earlier seemed to converge on me and the claustrophobia was quickly becoming overwhelming. Why are they attacking me?

  A sharp sting in my left arm brought me up and off the bed. I yanked out the needle and grabbed the first thing I could and swung it wildly. “Stop hurting me!”

  “It’s okay, Miss, you’re in the ER,” a woman in scrubs said. “We’re just trying to help you. We need to draw your blood and examine you. Please undress and—”

  “No!” I could feel myself losing control, but I couldn’t stop it. I swung at her and she jumped back. “Why are you trying to hurt me?” I felt something move on my neck and remembered the cross necklace. “Where’s Trina? I want Trina,” I shouted. Instinctually, I knew Trina wouldn’t hurt me. She gave me her cross and said we were friends.

  “Hey. What’s going on?” Another woman approached, dressed in street clothes. “It’s okay. It’s me, Trina.”

  “Trina?” I asked, lowering my weapons as the fog began to clear and I recognized her. Thank God. I would never forget that strong jawline, full lips, brown hair, and blue-green eyes. Especially the kind eyes.