Jailbird

Alex Masters Series, Vol. 2

By Brenda M. Boldin

In the sequel to Dead Birds Don't Sing Alex Masters is still awaiting trial for murder after spending a year in the Bay City Jail. Her new lawyer has gotten her out from behind bars, placed under house arrest instead and put into a Work Rehab program. She's doing clerical work at the police station of all places . Her "probation" officer can monitor her movements 24 hours a day on computer through the bracelet she has to wear. Meanwhile, someone is strangling the prostitutes in Bay City, and Alex is being stalked. Cole Armstrong, now a Lieutenant on the Homicide squad wants Alex to use her connections and inside information to help them catch the strangler. Alex wants Cole and his band, Ancient Rebellion, to use some of the music she wrote while in jail. Once again they form a precarious alliance to attain their means and Alex ends up face to face with a killer one more time.

ISBN 1-59431-028-9 Mystery/Romance/ Suspense Cover Art/Maggie Dix



"So, I wonder how she's doing

I hate it when the rumors fly.

They give off such a strange sense of mission,

Wing your helplessness on high.

But she would never run from strangers.

She sang alone like a bell will toll,

way above all the clang and the clatter,

out of fear of her demon soul."

___From Blue Chalk by John Gorka (c)1996 Blues Palace Music (ASCAP) used by permission

Prologue

The slam of a car door broke the peaceful quiet of the tiny ground floor apartment.

"Quick! Your father's home! Hide!" The young woman hustled the small child into the make-shift closet and pulled the sheet that functioned as a door across the opening. "Now don't make a sound. If he can't find you, he can't hurt you."

The child obediently crouched in the far corner of the dark alcove.

A door crashed open followed by the bang as it shut.

"Where are you slut?" came an inebriated voice, full of anger and hatred.

"I'm here." The woman's voice was soft and timid, the child strained to hear it.

Heavy footsteps entered the small bedroom. The man sniffed the air.

"You've had someone here, haven't you?" he demanded.

"No, James, no."

The loud sound of flesh slapping flesh filled the air, followed by a dull thud as the woman landed on the bed.

"You're nothing but a whore. I know it. You have men here when I'm gone. You think I don't bring home enough money to support you and that brat. So you sell yourself. You think I don't know what you do?"

The child in the dark winced and cowered as the sound of the man's fists striking the woman came over and over. The woman did not cry, but the child could hear her timid pleas.

"Please, no. It's not true. Don't hit me, please."

"You get what you deserve woman. Whores and sluts like you don't deserve to live."

There was a strange gurgling noise the child could not recognize. A small, unobserved peek through the curtain was more than enough. Large, thick, strong hands around a slim, delicate neck. Then nothing but the man's heavy breathing.

"You got what you deserved, whore."

Heavy footsteps left the room and there was silence.

Terrified, the child remained in the closet for two days. Demands from the stomach and bladder went unheeded as the child waited. Waited while the room filled with police. Waited while the man was cuffed and taken away. Waited while they placed the woman in a black bag that zipped closed, put her on a long table with wheels, and rolled her away. Waited in the empty silence for darkness to come again and then sun to rise once more.

Then the child darted out of the closet, ran for the door of the apartment and just kept running. Running forever.

Chapter One

"Cole! My man!"

"Well, here comes the man himself."

"Cole! Buddy. How ya doing?"

Cole Armstrong, a well-built six-foot two, dark blond, full-time cop, part-time musician, stopped two steps into the room and looked at his three friends.

Jimmy Carrington, Cole's best friend since elementary school. Five foot eight, close-cropped brown hair and eyes, with the build of a wrestler and a voice like Lindsay Buckingham. Bruce Willoughby, the drummer, reminded Cole of a character in an old television show called Room 222. Tall, blue eyes, with the fair skin of most red heads. Woody Hannaford, keyboardist extraordinaire and the strong silent type. Six foot ten inches tall, Woody could have been a professional basketball player, but he had chosen not to play ball after high school. His one love was the piano, it came before all else. Cole could sit and watch his mahogany fingers run up and down the ivory keys for hours on end.

Now, all three pairs of eyes were focused on Cole and he knew something was brewing.

"All right guys, what's up?" He put his guitar cases carefully on the floor.

The trio looked at him, expressions on their faces he'd seen elsewhere so many times he'd lost count. Usually they were accompanied with the words, "Honest, officer, I didn't do it!"

"Nothing's up." Jimmy smiled. "Why does something have to be up?"

Cole shook his head. "Uh, huh pal. I'm not buying it. I walk in here and find you three with your heads together instead of warming up. Then I'm welcomed like a long lost brother. You guys want something. Spill it."

The three looked at each other, their eyes conveying messages back and forth. No one seemed to want to be the one to confront the leader of Ancient Rebellion.

"That bad huh?" Cole sighed, picked up his gear and moved over to the rehearsal area and started to set up his instruments. "We aren't starting until someone talks." He spoke with his back to them as he plugged in his acoustic guitar with electronic pickup.

"Yeah, well we were just talking." Jimmy shuffled up to his best friend's side. "Of course we read the paper this morning."

Cole looked over his shoulder, eyes wide. "You actually read the paper? You?"

That comment got him a rough slug in the shoulder.

"Okay, look." Woody sauntered up and seated his long legged figure on the stool to Cole's left. "We want to know if you can pull strings to get Alex back in the band."

Cole became still. Alex's face appeared before him as though he'd seen her yesterday. Bleached-out hair, oval face with hazel eyes that flashed green when she was riled, which was most of the time. At length he looked up into Woody's dark brown eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"We figured," Bruce entered the fray. "That you being a cop, well you ought to be able to convince the judge, or whoever, that working with us is good rehabilitation too."

"Now, Cole, before you blow up." Jimmy put out a hand. "We know you may not be comfortable around her right now. But in time that should pass. It's been close to twelve months and we're still getting people asking us when she's coming back."

"She only sang with us that one night!"

Jimmy nodded. "Amazing isn't it? The people really liked her. We need her. She's our ticket to bigger and better things."

Cole shook his head. "I still don't get it. I didn't read the paper this morning."

That drew a chorus of "What?"

Cole held his hands up in surrender. "I've been out of town. Went down to the ocean for a couple days."

"I thought you were in charge of that serial killer case." Woody looked at him in wonder.

"I am. But the damn case is driving us all nuts. Chief practically ordered everyone to take a couple days off and get away from it. So, when it was my turn, I went surfing." He shrugged.

"Tough life," Bruce muttered.

"Anyhow. Someone bring me up to speed here. I thought Alex wasn't going to trial for several weeks yet."

"Right." Jimmy started fingering his electric bass. "This new hot shot lawyer King Marshall finally hired for her seems to be working miracles."

"What do you mean?" Cole's head jerked up and he stared at Jimmy.

"Did you know that guy you've been looking for finally showed up?"

Cole's eyes narrowed. "No."

The Bay City police had been looking for Harry Sheppard for months in connection with the Alex Masters case. No one denied Alex had shot police Lieutenant Anthony Morello, the question to be debated in court was whether it had been in self-defense.

The entire case centered around a robbery at Bay City Central Bank a year ago. At present the prosecution had nothing more than circumstantial evidence tying Alex to the robbery and the murder of Roger Beauregaurd. The state claimed Beau, as he was known, spearheaded the plan to hit the bank on the one day when it would have more than twice its normal amount of cash on hand. Alex claimed that Morello was the mastermind behind the heist and had killed three people to cover his involvement. Harry Shepherd seemed to be the only person who could prove, or disprove, Alex's allegations.

Now, Jimmy filled Cole in on the news.

"Must have been right after you left town then, 'cause it was a day or so ago. Just sort of showed up and said he wanted to talk."

"What!" Cole had been kneeling on the floor, turning dials and knobs on the sound system. This news brought him to his feet.

"Well, he really hasn't said much. Yet. But he said he could clear Alex if the District Attorney would cut him a deal."

"So you're saying they just let her go? Just like that?"

"No way," Woody chimed in. "But it was enough to get her out of jail. She's now under house arrest. The hot shot lawyer arranged for her to get into some kind of job rehabilitation program while she's out."

"Yeah." Jimmy took over once more. "So we figured if they let her out of the house to type all day, surely they should let her practice and perform with us. It's her real career, we all know that."

Cole sighed and shook his head. "You guys are nuts. One: there is no way on this earth any judge or parole officer is going to let her do it. Two: you could probably promise her immediate freedom, all charges against her dropped, and a million dollars. She still wouldn't do it."

Review at SUSPENSE MAGAZINE

The tale revolves around Alex Masters, a former girl of the streets, awaiting trial for murder and currently on house arrest, and a series of murders of prostitutes which take place in the neighborhood where > she used to work. > > Boldin has excellent command of language and dialogue. There were a few typos here and there, but these can be easily forgiven since the writer has done a great job in creating a suspenseful story bound to leave you on the edge of your seat as we try to figure out who is responsible for the killings. This is one of the better mysteries I have read recently. Filled with many twists and turns, as well as a surprise ending, the book is guaranteed to leave you wanting more from this talented author.

> John Raab, Editor

SUSPENSE MAGAZINE