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  “Don’t be such a drama queen,” Michael said tartly, still not ready to make nice with Victor. “So how much of a raise came with this promotion, Jordan?”

  She lowered her eyes. This was going to sound way worse than it really was. “Egan can’t afford to up my salary as long as he’s still paying the woman who used to write the column.”

  “What?” Victor exclaimed. “Honey, I’m not trying to tell you how to run your life, but is this what you really want to do? Work harder for less pay?”

  “Oh, leave her alone,” Lola said, coming to her defense. “This job obviously means a lot to our girl if she’s willing to do that. We need to be supportive.” She paused. “Besides, Jordan loves bologna.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll be writing two columns a week now instead of just one.”

  “Honey, that’s terrific,” Ray said. “Why the sour puss?”

  Jordan thought about denying she was worried, then decided these people knew her better than any of her co-workers who were by her side forty hours a week. “I have to post recipes and write about fancy food.”

  “So?” Ray shrugged. “How difficult can that be?”

  “Hello. Remember me—the queen of the ‘I’ll have fries with that’ club?”

  After a long pause, Michael finally verbalized what everyone else was thinking. “Yeah, that might be a problem.”

  “Does Egan know you’re clueless in the kitchen?” Victor blurted, before slapping a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, Jordan. That didn’t come out right.”

  “It came out perfect, Victor. I am clueless. I was so excited about seeing my name in the paper twice a week, I forgot what a fraud I really am.”

  “First off, you’re not a fraud. You’re one of the most genuine people I know. Besides, I think I have the perfect solution,” Rosie said as all eyes turned her way.

  “What do I love to do best besides making jewelry?” she asked. When nobody responded, she threw her arms in the air. “Cooking, you ninnies. I love to cook.”

  “How’s that going to help Jordan?” Lola asked, her face showing her confusion.

  Rosie leaned across the table toward Jordan. “What if you printed some of my recipes in your column?”

  Jordan reached over and patted the older woman’s hand. “You are such a sweetheart, Rosie, but as much as I love your food, I can’t use it. Egan specifically mentioned fancy recipes.”

  “Okay, back to square one,” Ray said. “Get your brains in gear, you guys. We’ve got to help our girl out.”

  “I got it!” Victor leaped from his chair with enough force to send it backward. Michael caught it just before it crashed to the carpet. “Budin de Papitas Fritas con Pollo.” With all eyes looking at him as if he were on drugs, he added, “Potato Chip Chicken, an old-world recipe my grandmother brought over from Spain.” He winked at Jordan. “Nobody has to know my grandmother came from a little village outside Mexico City. It’s perfect.”

  Jordan barely had time to think about it before her friends erupted with glee.

  “That’s freakin’ brilliant, Victor, putting a fancy name to Rosie’s masterpiece,” Ray said. “What do you think, kiddo?”

  Jordan rubbed her forehead, her eyes moving around the table from one friend to another. They were all smiling as if the Cowboys had just won the Super Bowl. Maybe it could work.

  “Budin de Papitas Fritas con Pollo. I like it!”

  “Problem solved,” Rosie said. “Now help me clear the table and let’s get on with the card game. I have a fistful of pennies, and I’m feeling lucky. Let’s see who’s gonna get screwed tonight.”

  By the time the party broke up and Jordan returned to her apartment, she was twenty-two cents richer but exhausted. She decided she’d stay in bed until lunchtime tomorrow, errands or not. Another piece of Chocolate Decadence Cake to eat in bed in the morning would have made it perfect. She’d have to make do with a bagel.

  On the way to the bedroom, she pulled the cell phone from her back pocket, surprised to see a voice message. No one ever called but her mother, and she’d already talked to her today. Listening to the playback, she was surprised to hear J. T.’s voice. She hadn’t expected him to move so fast. Most guys went all macho and played the make-the-girlwait game before the first few dates.

  “Jordan, it’s J. T. I’m at work now, but I have to talk to you. It’s really important. I get off at ten, and unless you call back and tell me no, I’m heading your way.” There was a pause. “Jordan, I really need to talk to you tonight.”

  How easy did he think she was? Did he seriously think an extra piece of cake entitled him to a late-night booty call? Did his mother never tell him girls liked dinner and a movie first?

  She glanced at the clock over the couch. Ten fifteen. He should be there any minute. She’d let him know, in no uncertain terms, she was not the kind of girl he expected—or hoped for. Brad Pitt eyes or not, he’d have to at least feed her first.

  She sprawled on the couch to wait and quickly fell asleep, dreaming of ducks with tubes down their throats. The machine feeding them made a rip-roaring noise as it pumped down the corn.

  “Police, open up.”

  What were the police doing in her dream? When the pounding grew louder, she sprang from the couch. This wasn’t a dream. Someone was banging on her door.

  She made her way over to peek through the peephole. It really was the police.

  “You have ID?” she asked, suddenly apprehensive. A while back, she’d seen a TV show where a rapist had used phony police identification to gain access.

  The officer pulled a badge and ID card from his chest pocket and held it up to the small opening. It looked genuine.

  Slowly, she opened the door, keeping the chain intact. “What do you want?”

  The cop was short and a little on the stocky side, not much older than her. “We need to talk to you.”

  A taller man about the same age emerged from the shadows, and Jordan jumped back in surprise, stifling a scream.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you. We just need to ask a few questions.”

  She slid the chain latch and slowly opened the door. “What’s this about? What time is it, anyway?”

  “A little after one in the morning, ma’am,” the short one said. “I’m Sergeant Calhoun and my partner here is Officer Rutherford. Do you know a gentleman named Jason Spencer?”

  She thought for a moment. “No.”

  Both men eyed her suspiciously. “You’re sure about that?”

  “Positive. Why would you think I know him?”

  “He had your name and phone number in his pocket,” Rutherford said.

  She thought harder. “I really have no idea who the man is, Officers. Maybe he was making a delivery or something.”

  Calhoun smirked. “At midnight?”

  She was positive she didn’t like what he was insinuating. “Look, I had a late night and I have a busy day tomorrow. So, if there are no further questions, I’d like to catch a few more hours sleep before my alarm goes off,” she lied.

  “Late night? Where were you?”

  Jordan’s annoyance level rose, but it didn’t require an advanced degree to know getting cranky with the local cops wasn’t smart. She’d probably get a speeding ticket every day from now until next Christmas. “I played cards with my neighbors until after ten.”

  “Then what?”

  “Okay, I’m trying to be cooperative here, but you’re going to have to tell me why you’re asking all these questions—at two in the morning.”

  “Jason Spencer was found stabbed to death under the staircase outside your door on the first floor of this building tonight. It’s a pretty big coincidence he had your name and phone number in his pocket, don’t ya think?”

  She gasped, ignoring the sarcasm. “Someone was murdered in this building?”

  “Yes, ma’am, and he had your information on his person.”

  “Look, I’m telling you I have no idea who this man is.”

  Ca
lhoun reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a Polaroid. When he handed it to Jordan, she caught her breath. She’d never seen a dead man before, and if she were lucky, she’d never see another. The camera had caught rivulets of dark blood spreading over the concrete floor next to the young man. A closer look showed his eyes fixed in the same grotesque stare of death she’d often seen on cop shows.

  “Ohmygod!” She dropped the picture and stepped back.

  It was J. T.

  CHAPTER 4

  Calhoun caught Jordan when she swayed and led her to the couch. “Sit,” he commanded.

  “That’s J. T.,” Jordan repeated, sure her face was as white as the other cop’s notepad.

  “So, you do know him?” Calhoun walked to the chair opposite Jordan and sat down. “And what was he to you? A colleague? A boyfriend?”

  Jordan’s eyes widened. “No,” she protested. “I only met him yesterday.” She paused. “Actually, two days ago,” she added, glancing toward the ornate clock hanging above the opening dividing the tiny living room from the even smaller kitchen. Victor had given it to her only last week. Said it was collecting dust and taking up valuable space at the antiques store.

  “Hopefully, this won’t take much longer, ma’am,” Calhoun said, noticing her gaze toward the clock.

  “We’ll finish up fast if you’re honest and open and don’t try to hide anything,” Rutherford interjected. “Trust me, we’ll find out if you’re lying.”

  Calhoun shot him a warning look before turning back to Jordan. “Jason,” he began, before correcting himself. “J. T. lived in McKinley and had a student ID card from Grayson County College in his wallet. You a student there?”

  Jordan shook her head. “I’m a reporter for the Globe.” She would never get tired of calling herself that.

  Officer Rutherford took a step closer, writing madly on the notepad. Glancing up, he narrowed his eyes, turning his eyebrows into a V at the top of his nose. He reminded Jordan of a banana, tall and lanky, curving slightly at the top.

  “You said you only met the deceased on Thursday. What exactly was your relationship to him?”

  “There wasn’t one.” Jordan threw up her hands. “He waited on me at Longhorn Prime Rib. I didn’t even know his name was Jason.”

  All three glanced toward the door when there was a sudden knock. Drawing his weapon, Calhoun motioned to Rutherford to move to the opposite side as he approached and slowly opened the door.

  Rosie ran into the room, oblivious to the two automatic weapons pointed in her direction. “Oh, honey, isn’t it just awful?” She eased down beside Jordan. “A mugging right here in our building.”

  Calhoun stepped closer. “What makes you think it was a mugging?”

  “What else could it be?” Rosie answered, throwing the officer a how-dumb-are-you look. “You can put away the canons now. This isn’t an episode of Law and Order.”

  Rutherford glared, holstering his weapon. “Oh, I don’t know, ma’am. Maybe Miss McAllister here had a quarrel with her lover. Maybe he broke it off, and she wasn’t real happy about it.”

  Jordan straightened up. “I already told you I just met him.” She slumped back into the sofa cushions as Rosie patted her hand.

  “So, why would a man you only met a few days ago as a restaurant customer show up at your apartment at midnight with your name and phone number in his shirt pocket?” Calhoun curled his lips in a smile meant to put Rosie in her place for the sarcastic look she’d given him.

  “Single women have been known to give their phone numbers to cute guys on occasion, Officer. Have you never asked a pretty girl for her number?” Rosie stared Calhoun down until he turned back to Jordan. The short, pudgy guy would never admit it if he hadn’t.

  “That’s true. But most single women don’t end up with a potential boyfriend under the steps of their apartment with a knife in his back.”

  At the mention of the gruesome murder, Jordan lowered her head, sniffing back the tears threatening to spill over. Who would do such a thing to a guy as sweet as J. T.? “He called earlier,” she volunteered, sure they would find out anyway. “Said he had something important to talk about and would stop by after his shift at the restaurant.”

  “He never hinted at what was so important he had to see you at midnight?” Calhoun’s smirk left no doubt he was not buying her explanation.

  “I never spoke to him. I found his message when I returned to my apartment after playing cards.”

  “Did you erase that message?”

  Shaking her head, Jordan pointed to her cell phone on the end table. Rutherford scooped it up, turned it on speaker and pressed Play. At the sound of J. T.’s voice, Jordan bit her lip to hold back the tears welling in her eyes, mad at herself for thinking the worst of him when he’d mentioned stopping by her apartment.

  “What time was that message recorded, Paul?” Calhoun asked his partner as he glanced down at his watch.

  “Nine fifty-five.”

  Calhoun turned back to Jordan. “And you never got suspicious when he didn’t show up?”

  “I fell asleep while I was waiting,” she admitted, thinking she would kill for a Ho Ho right now. The chocolate treats were like Prozac to her.

  Just then the door flew open and Ray rushed in with Lola on his heels, a leopard robe covering what Jordon knew was probably her birthday suit. It had slipped out one night during a card game that both Ray and Lola slept in the buff. All agreed that was way more information than they wanted.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” Ray turned to Calhoun, who now had his hand on his weapon. “Hey, Davey. How’s your old man?”

  Calhoun moved his hand away from his gun and stretched it toward Ray. “Good to see you, Mr. Varga. Dad’s doing great, enjoying retirement. Spends most of his free time fishing out at Texoma.”

  “One of your colleagues knocked on my door looking for you, Davey.” Ray looked away and made eye contact with Jordan. “You okay, honey?”

  She nodded as Ray moved closer. “You know anything about this?” he asked softly.

  “No.”

  Ray turned his attention back to the officers, singling out Calhoun with his eyes. “So, Davey, you about ready to wrap this up? This young lady looks exhausted.” His eyes darted around the tiny apartment while he spoke.

  “I think so.” Calhoun tried to get out of the chair and had to use both hands to lift his squatty body upright. “You will stay around and make yourself available should we have any further questions, right, Ms. McAllister?”

  Before Jordan could answer, Ray darted to the kitchen, backing up against the counter near the sink and leaning back. “Of course, she will. Have your dad call me the next time he goes fishing. It’d be good to catch up.”

  “Will do, Mr. Varga,” Calhoun said, motioning with a jerk of his head for Rutherford to head out.

  The moment the door closed, Ray blew out a breath. “Calhoun’s dad was the biggest screwup in the department, and it doesn’t look like the apple fell far from the tree.”

  He moved away from the counter and pointed to the knife rack he and Lola had gotten as a gift for sitting through a time-share presentation somewhere in Arkansas. Since the two of them had more kitchen stuff than they needed, they’d given the set to Jordan as a housewarming present.

  He cocked his eyebrow. “So, Jordan, where’s the missing knife?”

  Jordan jumped up from the couch. “What knife?”

  “The one that should be right here.” He pointed to the rack.

  Jordan walked into the kitchen, confused. “I have no idea, Ray. Check the dishwasher.”

  Ray pulled the door down and a sour smell wafted up, wrinkling Jordan’s nose. “Whoa! You need to run this now and again, princess. Even if you never use anything except glasses.”

  Ray pushed the door shut and straightened up. “Think, honey. If I spotted the missing knife two minutes after I walked in here, the cops won’t be too far behind me.” He paused. “Okay, maybe I’m giving
them too much credit. I forgot it was Calhoun’s son running the show.”

  “You all know I don’t even cook.” Jordan’s eyes pleaded with them to believe her. “I only use the dumb thing to cut my bologna down the side before I fry it.”

  “Why in the world would you cut bologna, dear?” Lola inched up beside her.

  For a split second, Jordan thought she was about to get a peek at things that would probably scar her for life as Lola’s robe pushed open a little. Thankfully, the older woman grabbed the sash and retied it before actual skin showed.

  “Because if you don’t cut it, the bologna will curl up in the frying pan, right, sugar?” Michael said as he and Victor barged into the room.

  “We just spent the last hour being grilled by a cop who looked young enough to be spending his nights preparing for the SATs instead of chasing killers,” Michael continued.

  “Yeah. All the old guys were forced to retire several years back when the city council discovered younger guys worked for less,” Ray said. “Since the highlight most days for the youngsters rarely includes anything more dangerous than getting old lady Lozano’s fat cat out of the tree in front of her house, their decision hasn’t come back to bite them in the butt … yet.” He paused. “Now they have to deal with crime scene tape. We’ll see how these young bucks handle that,” he added sarcastically.

  “Isn’t it dreadful about that young man? He isn’t one of our tenants,” Victor said. “Wonder what he was doing here so late.”

  “He’s Jordan’s waiter from the restaurant the other night,” Rosie said. “The police act like she’s a suspect.”

  “What? That’s ludicrous.”

  Rosie reached up and pushed back a stray lock of red hair that had fallen over Jordan’s eye. “I know. How silly is it to think our girl here could do anything that gruesome? Shoot, she couldn’t even kill that mouse that made her crazy last month, putting a trail of crackers out her door for a whole week before the ugly thing finally got the message and moved on.”

  “I squashed that sucker,” Ray interjected. “What?” he asked when Lola jabbed him in the side. “She should know why it never came back.”