Dead Ahead: A Jo Spence Mystery Read online

  Dead Ahead © 2011 by Jennifer Lynn Wright

  All rights reserved.

  Except for quotations and excerpts appearing in reviews, this work may not be reproduced or transmitted, in whole or in part, by any means whatsoever, without prior written permission from the publisher:

  Clover Valley Press, LLC

  6286 Homestead Rd.

  Duluth, MN 55804-9621

  USA

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between characters in this book and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover design by Sally Rauschenfels

  Cover images © iStockPhoto.com

  Author photo by Kathy Heltzer

  Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper. Sustainable Forestry Initiative® (SFI®) Certified Sourcing.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011942865

  Print ISBN: 978-0-9846570-0-1

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9846570-1-8

  Other books by Jen Wright

  in the Jo Spence Mystery Series

  Killer Storm

  Big Noise

  I dedicate this book to the baby dyke who came to one of my book signings — in your softball uniform with your mom. You plopped down in front of me, crossed your legs, and asked me if I was going to read. I hadn't planned to, but I did. For you. I was impressed and touched by your strength and confidence.

  I also dedicate this book to all of the lesbians and gay men who are coming to terms with their sexuality. I hope your family and friends accept and love you. If you are struggling, know that it does get better. Supportive communities are out there. Keep looking. May this book in some small way make you feel connected and valuable.

  Chapter 1

  IN THE DREAM, I WASN'T EVEN wearing a helmet. I could feel the wind. It felt like my partner Zoey running her fingers through my hair, only the touch was multiplied a thousand times. The early spring landscape flashed by as I cruised the north shore highway on my Honda Silverwing GL 500, heading southwest along the edge of Lake Superior.

  Riding without a helmet was so unlike me. As a female in a predominantly male profession, I could be tough, but I wasn't reckless. Though aware of my helmet's absence, I didn't let it bother me. I raced through the air without a care in the world, beginning to understand why so many cyclists risked their lives to experience the freedom of riding unencumbered by a helmet.

  It occurred to me that this freedom was something I might not want to give up. The speed and the low-throated drone of the bike spoke to me like a lover. I swung left onto the entrance ramp of the Blatnik Bridge spanning the bay between Superior, Wisconsin, and Duluth, Minnesota — my hometown.

  I've always hated this bridge because it sits so freaking high over the water. It makes me feel like I'm suspended in midair. The gleaming structure appears like a maze of metal strips to me. Some brilliant mind calculated the steel beams to make sure they could support the weight and length of each bridge section, but to me, they're just pick-up sticks like the ones I got for Christmas in my seventh year.

  Curiously, in the dream, I loved the bridge. I felt no fear as I gunned the throttle and accelerated upward into the sunlight. The bridge could take me even higher into the ride of my life. The engine screamed almost in protest as I increased my speed. I paid no attention.

  To my left, the historic lift bridge was up, and a large ship had just passed through into the bay. More big ships were docked at grain elevators, and a coast guard cutter was moored in front of the convention center. To my right, small fishing boats motored up from the bay into the St. Louis River. Ahead of me, a semi flashed its lights, possibly signaling police up ahead.

  Cursing, I looked at my speedometer and slowed down to the speed limit of fifty miles per hour. Because of my job in the Probation Office, I had to be circumspect when it came to legal matters — even speed limits — but I was irked by the delay. I wanted to careen on this edge of pleasure forever.

  My Honda cruised across the smooth asphalt bridge. As I reached the middle of the span, I noticed orange cones. I swerved around one, and then the next, instinctively slowing down even more, but it was too late. As I brought the bike down to forty miles per hour, I realized that there was no longer any bridge under me.

  I looked down for a split second to the bay waters of Lake Superior. Several yards of empty space separated me from the place where the bridge continued. Zoey's face flashed through my mind. This could be it if I didn't make it to the other side. My front tire was inching toward the pavement in slow motion, but the back of the bike was dropping. I clung to the handlebars, catching air in a bad way. As my motorcycle was about to hit the edge, I jerked awake, breathing heavily with sweat covering every inch of my body.

  I glanced over at Zoey, glad that I hadn't disturbed her. Consciously, I adjusted to the real world. Sometimes when I wake up in the night, I feel pulled back into my dreams, but I didn't want to go back to that one.

  Zoey was still sound asleep, but I was wide awake and wanting to get up even though it was only 6 a.m. on a Saturday. Reluctant to move away from her warmth, I resisted the urge to touch the dark curls framing her thin, sculpted features. Zoey's eyelashes lay closed over her intense green eyes. I pictured her long frame, lean and naked under the blanket and curved in all the right places. I snuggled in just enough to take in her light musky scent before gently slipping out of bed.

  Had I not had a busy morning planned, I would have coaxed Zoey awake and talked to her about my dream. It hadn't been that long since she'd moved in with me. I savored every second of living with her, especially waking up to see her beautiful face on the pillow beside me.

  Forcing myself to look away, I dressed and put on my hiking shoes before heading off down the trail with my two dogs: Cocoa, a black lab, and Java, a lab-springer mix. The last of the snow had melted, and the woodland path behind my home had dried enough so that I didn't have to watch my step for mud puddles or wet leaves. I enjoyed the pale green undergrowth just emerging from the earth under my feet. The air had that fresh scent that can only be found in northern pine forests.

  As I followed my bounding boys through our woods, my mind couldn't quite let go of the dream. If I told Zoey about it, she'd ask me a thousand questions, trying to make me analyze the heck out of it. As a psychologist who formerly had a private practice but now taught at the local university, Zoey would want me to try to identify the source of the foreboding in my subconscious mind. I laughed it off. Sometimes a dream is just a dream.

  Maybe I was experiencing a little pre-season anxiety. I thought about how heedless I had been about the danger of the bridge. Many dreams are like that. Fears invade them. I've dreamed about arriving late to a meeting. Even arriving naked to a meeting. Often, we do the most unbelievable and uncharacteristic things in our sleep worlds.

  Having to wait through long Minnesota winters made the advent of motorcycle season all the more exciting. I couldn't wait. And as I am always careful when cycling in real life, why worry? I shook off the bad dream and imagined the steps I would take to get my bike ready before turning the key in the ignition.

  I'll re-install the battery, which I've had recharging in the basement. I'll add fresh gas, turn on the access line, and fire her up. Last season, she started without complications. I'd already changed the oil in the fall. I'd also flushed the coolant and changed the spark plugs. I tend to obsess about my bike's mechanics, but that's why she's in tip-top condition.

  When Zoey and I began dating in late fall the year before, she had noticed the gleaming vintage bike in the garage. She couldn't believe that I owned a motorcycle built in 1981. For a thirty-year-old bike, the Honda sparkled. Its jet-black paint was in good sh
ape, and the cycle had a fairing with a built-in stereo, storage compartments, and hard saddlebags. The engine looked bright and clean, and the chrome was rust-free. When I stopped for gas, I often got offers to purchase it on the spot. I would smile and tell the would-be buyers to check CraigsList or eBay.

  Older model Silverwings are relatively easy to find, as they tend to last forever. Clubs, blogs, and entire gatherings are dedicated to the thousands still out on the highway. These motorcycles aren't relics to cherish, but road-worthy bikes meant to be used. Fairly lightweight, they are especially prized by women and new riders. I use mine for both transportation and stress relief. At the end of the workday, I hop on my bike, cruise up the scenic highway toward home and the tight-knit community we call the Valley, and leave all my worries behind. By the time I pull into the garage and greet my dogs, I can't even remember what had been bothering me during the day. I miss my rides during the winter months more than I'd care to admit.

  As head of Juvenile Probation in Duluth, I regularly deal with criminal behavior, addiction, and other influences that can do lasting damage to young lives. And recently, partly because I believe so strongly in how effective it can be, I'd taken over the Adult Drug Court program. The extra responsibility was adding to my stress level. I really needed some bike time to help me relax.

  As I neared the final curve of the trail, I picked up my pace and almost ran to finish the walk. I planned to grab a go-mug full of coffee before heading to the garage. I let the dogs into their fenced-in yard, took the steps into the house two at a time, and headed down to the basement to retrieve the battery. When I burst back up through the cellar door, I nearly ran into Zoey.

  "Whoa," Zoey said as she placed a hand between us. "What's going on?"

  I felt a little embarrassed by my enthusiasm. "Sorry, hon, I didn't think you were awake."

  "What's the rush? What are you up to?" Zoey narrowed her eyes and gave me a suspicious look.

  I sheepishly replied, "I'm firing up my bike."

  "Your bike?"

  "My motorcycle. The snow is finally gone."

  "Oh, I get it." Her knowing smile was encouraging. "Want help?"

  "Sure." I felt a surge of hope that Zoey not only would approve of my riding habit but would also be happy to ride along as a passenger. "Though I have to get a cup of coffee first."

  "Okay, I'll meet you out there once I've changed."

  The snow had melted, but the temperature in the Valley was still frigid, hovering around 40 degrees. I was pushing the motorcycle season a bit, so I moved the bike out into the sun to help warm it up while I worked. I had just sat down on the bike when Zoey emerged from the house. I waited until she moved next to me before pulling out the choke and turning the key. It took about two full seconds with the starter whining before the engine turned over. I flashed Zoey a big smile as the distinctive sound of a well-tuned Honda motor filled the air.

  Zoey ran her hand along the bike's fairing and seat, and then onto my thigh.

  "Where's your riding gear?"

  "Riding gear?" I raised my voice above the sound of the motor, wondering if the caffeine had kicked in or if her hand on my leg was causing the flutter in my heart. Or maybe it was just the vibration of the Honda under my legs.

  "You do have leather?"

  "Sorry, sweet, this is it. I just throw on a jacket and rain pants if it's cold." Confused about how Zoey would know about riding gear, I also felt a pang of worry because I know that I'm no fashion horse. Zoey had been gently pushing me to think a little about my clothing choices. When we first met, I was blissfully comfortable wearing only khaki pants, Pendleton shirts, and sweaters in cool weather. Heck, I only wore one type and color of underwear. When my work clothes became worn, I just rotated them into my around-the-house wear. I loved the simplicity of it.

  Even though I'd been trying to vary my clothing choices, I still didn't have much of a hairstyle. My semi-curly dark hair has always done whatever it wanted to do. I go to Cost Cutters when the mop gets too unruly, but it has never met a hair dryer, a curling iron, or styling gel.

  In contrast, Zoey cultivates an actual wardrobe and earrings and things. Each morning, she does her hair and matches her accessories to her outfit. I guess you would describe her as "put together."

  After Zoey moved in with me, and at her insistence, I had begun to wear some of her clothes — fashionable jeans and even some of her nicer sweaters when we went out together. I silently promised that if Zoey would ride with me, I would wear whatever gear she wanted me to wear, within reason.

  "Want to go for a ride?" I asked.

  "Totally. Can you really drive this thing?"

  "I had a bike before I had a car." I leaned into the saddle like I'd been born there. "Go get some warm clothes on. Gloves, too. I have an extra helmet."

  "Okay, but we're going to talk about getting some leathers." Zoey's eyes had a glint in them that I recognized from earlier adventures. I knew from experience that it would be worth my while to indulge my lover in whatever tickled her curiosity.

  I fully warmed up the bike and pointed it toward the road at the end of the driveway, waiting for Zoey. I've owned many cycles in my life, and nearly all of them have been Hondas. I felt comfort in the distinctive sound of the machine as it warmed to a smooth hum.

  Zoey bounded out of the front door. She had on one of my jackets, thick gloves, and a big grin. I handed her the extra helmet, and she put it on with ease. As soon as she sat down on the seat behind me, I said, "Tap me when you're ready." As I pulled out onto our road, she leaned into me and held on.

  Chapter 2

  ON MONDAY MORNING, I rode to work along the scenic north shore of Lake Superior. Following the fifteen miles of beautiful, rocky shoreline, I couldn't imagine a more impressive commute, its vistas changing dramatically from one day to the next. The freshwater lake sometimes looked like an inland sea — with dark, crashing waves—and sometimes the surface rested smooth as glass. Boaters, kayakers, shore fishers, and tourists littered the shore and water.

  I pulled into the parking lot and backed my bike into its spot. Usually I park alongside all of the Harleys and crotch rockets belonging to the men in the office, but they were absent today. We'd had a soft rain, and most of my colleagues had opted to take their cars, but not me. I just geared up to enjoy the elements. Stowing my outerwear in the trunk, I remembered riding with Zoey and found myself smiling as I entered the building for work. I was already looking forward to my return trip home.

  It's not that I don't love my job. In fact, I'd say I love 90 percent of it. I just love riding more. Some people claim that I have a compulsive personality. Maybe that's why I can relate so well to my probation clients who end up in Drug Court. I kind of get the addiction thing. I'm a coffee addict, for sure. And I like to clean when I get stressed. My need for order is legendary. But riding my Honda Silverwing on the open road takes me where none of those other obsessions can. The speed awakens all of my senses until the world drops away and I am alive in the moment.

  At 7:50 a.m., I entered the door to the Probation Office and saw that the lobby was nearly full of clients waiting to see their PO's. I said "Good morning" to the group as I entered, and one guy with a tattoo of a hand flipping the bird displayed prominently on his neck smiled back at me. I guessed that he was fresh out of prison, waiting to see his supervised release agent. I hadn't seen him in the waiting area before, and I pitied the PO who would try to help him find a job. Jeannie, working at the front desk, caught the interaction and grinned at me. I expected a quick-witted comment from her about his tattoo once we were out of earshot.

  My heightened senses from the ride made the smell of unwashed humanity in the room almost overpowering. Jeannie buzzed me through the security doors, and I squiggled my index finger at her, giving her our sign for air freshener. She nodded in agreement and went back to her typing.

  As I traversed the short hallway to my office, Cat hollered from her end of the corridor. "Hey, Jo, I
have to talk to you when you have a minute."

  "Okay, I'll just ditch my coat."

  I sat in one of her visitors' chairs. "What's up?" I looked at Cat, enjoying her morning-person energy. Even first thing on a Monday morning, she seemed alert, bordering on hyper. Her medium-length brown bob was expertly styled, and she was dressed in her usual pressed slacks and sweater.

  "I locked up one of Johnson's clients — Trevor James. I got a call from the DPD last night at home. He's on probation for felony terroristic threats and disorderly conduct, and he blew a .21 on the P.B.T. I told the officers to lodge him at the jail. I faxed them a hold this morning under your signature."

  Cat (Catherine to her mother) is the only PO I ever allow to lodge clients without actually speaking to me on the phone. She usually does call me, though, when she lodges one of Johnson's clients. He has a temper tantrum when anyone puts one of his clients in jail.

  "What did Johnson say?"

  "I couldn't reach him. Lucky me." She rolled her eyes. "Don't worry; James has a no-drink clause on his Conditions of Probation. The cop that picked him up is the one who originally arrested him. Said he is a total asshole when he's drinking. In the original offense, he threatened to kill his girlfriend, and when the cops tried to arrest him, he put up an impressive fight. He's one of those guys who doesn't react to pepper spray. He went berserk on them. Last night, he went nuts outside of the Nosy Bar after they kicked him out. It takes a lot to get kicked out of the Nosy."

  That was an understatement. "Let me know if Johnson gives you any trouble."

  "Oh, I will. I logged everything." She held up the filing report. "What's his story, anyway? Why doesn't Johnson like to lock anyone up? It's unnatural." She shook her head. "What PO doesn't like to hold their people accountable?"