Still Life: The Randi Lassiter Series, Book 1 Read Free

again. He opened both eyes and squinted against the lamplight of his bedroom. He held a shaky hand out to block the light and blinked. Bubble wrap and scrunched up balls of packing paper were strewn around him. He spotted his cellphone atop a stack of forensic, criminal psychology, and DNA analysis books at his feet. He reached for it and pitched sideways, closed his eyes, and let his head fall back against the wall with a soft thud.
    Bad boys, bad boys. Whatcha gonna do?
    “Fuuuuuuuck!” Jon leaned forward and blindly scooped up the cellphone. He peeked at the caller I.D. before he answered.
    “It’s my night off.” His voice had more gravel in it than a cement truck.
    “Yeah, sorry about that,” the voice said. “But technically it’s your day off.”
    Jon pulled the phone away from his ear and checked the time—2:27 a.m.
    “That can’t be good.”
    He pushed himself up and covered his mouth from a beer-laced belch. He looked around and took in the untouched bed across the room, his rumpled clothes, and a slew of empty bottles standing at attention against the wall.
    “Hold on.” He hit the mute button and stretched, groaning loudly. There was an answering whine to his left. He reached down and rubbed the giant black head of his Rottweiler. “Why the hell couldn’t you get the phone, Dammit?” Jon looked pointedly at the dog; the large animal’s docked tail began a gentle twitch in response. “What good are you if you can’t cover for me, huh?” His tone caused Dammit’s stub to move faster.
    Jon rubbed a hand over his face and managed to struggle to a standing position without falling down. He took the phone off mute. “What happened?”
    “You’re not gonna like it,” his partner said.
    “Perfect. Thrill me.”
    “We’ve got a homicide.”
    Silence.
    “You there?”
    “Yeah. I’m here.” He put the phone on speaker and moved about the house exchanging athletic shorts for a pair of clean jeans and a T-shirt he pulled from a laundry basket. He brought it to his nose and sniffed. He snagged some socks out of a drawer as he headed to the bathroom. The big dog’s head swiveled as it followed his owner’s movements, but he never moved from his pet bed.
    “Where?”
    “Bells Motel. Out on thirteen at the edge of town. Take the bypass out just past Wal-Mart; then thirteen north, you’ll see it.”
    Jon scooped water into his mouth from the faucet. Swished and spit. Ran the wet hand through his hair, and then splashed cold water onto his face.
    “You know I have access to GPS on my phone, right?”
    “Yeah, but the last time I trusted mine I ended up in Canada.”
    “On my way.” He clicked the phone off and slid it into his pocket. “Screwed again.”
    He placed his hands on the vanity counter and leaned towards his reflection. His eyes wandered across the dark stubble on his square jaw, uncombed dark hair, and the footprints of crows at the corner of his bloodshot blue eyes.
    “You’re looking old.” He arched a critical brow as he passed judgment. “What the hell did you ever do to deserve such shitty karma?” Must have kicked Buddha’s dog in a previous life. He snapped off the light.
    Detective Jon Bricksen strapped on his shoulder holster and slipped into a black zippered jacket. “I’ll be back soon.” He grabbed his keys off the side table and paused to look around the disaster that was his home. “If you get bored, you could earn your keep. Feel free to unpack something. Or just sleep. That works too.” The big dog yawned, turned his head and closed his eyes.
    Jon drove his Jeep with the window unzipped and let the crisp air slap him in the face as he made his way to the bypass. Within minutes his Wrangler bumped to a stop against the concrete curb in front of Hometown Café. He turned off the ignition and sat.
    Sipping black coffee he’d picked up on the way, he popped a couple of ibuprofen, followed by three breath mints, and waited for the caffeine and pain killer