Chapter Two - Bad Day

He was wearing a dress.

Jaxson hated his life. It wasn't enough that he worked long hours and hadn't had a day off in six months. It wasn't enough that he worked like a slave—most of the time, anyway. Such mundane, everyday shit, he could handle. Hell, most days he didn't even mind being so underpaid, but this… He grimaced as he caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror.

This was too much. It was official. He'd reached an all-time low. Now they had him wearing a goddamn dress. It was enough to make a man want to quit, but he couldn't, not until they caught the bastard. And of course, like a puppet on a string, his freedom was not his own. The New York City DA was his puppet master, and if Jaxson wanted to avoid hard time, he had to dance to their tune. Literally.

With this final thought he once again eyed the bright pink taffeta with disgust, slammed his feet into the pair of matching size-eleven pumps, grabbed his shell-pink, beaded clutch—God, he was carrying a purse, too—and stalked out the front door. He was brought up short an instant later when the hem of his calf-length gown snagged on an old, rusted nail. He froze, cursing as the fabric caught and pulled on the sharp end of the nail.

Carefully, he freed the delicate fabric and inspected it for tears. He didn't know jack about sewing, and he'd be damned if he'd visit a tailor like this. Ditto for hitting up the local boutiques for a replacement dress. It had been hard enough to find "evening wear" in New York to fit his five-foot-eleven frame. But here in this Florida hick town? Forget it. There wouldn't be much to find. He'd overheard some of the other dancers in the club talking about what a pain in the ass it was having to order costumes off the Internet. Which wouldn't be so bad, except he didn't have a computer here, meaning he'd have to use Crystal Cove's only public library to place the order. Hell. No.

He shuddered at the thought, eyed the gown one last time, and dropped the hem, satisfied it was still more or less in one piece.

He made it as far as the driveway before Jake stopped him. The seasoned detective slid the dark brown 1984 Buick into the space beside Jaxson's own half-silver half-rust, aging Plymouth Voyager. Both vehicles were police issued and hand picked for this particular mission.

The department hadn't chosen them because they were good, serviceable vehicles. They weren't—a fact Jaxson could personally attest to. Hell, most of the time he counted himself lucky to make it to work. Then again, he thought, glancing down at the silk pumps, maybe "lucky" wasn't the right word.

Regardless, neither car qualified as a reliable vehicle. They coughed, sputtered, and guzzled oil like it was going out of style. But they were nondescript and fit in well among the cracked sidewalks and older houses in this established, south Florida neighborhood. And it was a good thing, too, because he sure as hell didn't blend in. He didn't care what Jake said about his elaborate disguise providing the perfect camouflage. No other man in this neighborhood was wearing a goddamn dress.

Jake unfolded his length from the decrepit Buick and stood in the driveway, hands on his hips as he gave Jaxson a slow once-over, lingering on the pink taffeta flounces in the full-skirted dress. Jake's lips twitched and Jaxson glared, a look that clearly said "I dare you to say anything."

Jake hooted with laughter, and Jaxson realized the glower was lost on the salt-and-pepper-haired cop who had seen much worse. Well, that and Jaxson wasn't exactly the picture of intimidation in his pastel finery. Hell. I'm in hell.

"I give up. Who are you supposed to be? Marilyn Monroe?"

"Shut up, Jake."

"Well, whoever you're supposed to be, you look like a real class act." Jake grinned and used one hand to close the driver's side door. With a shrill creak, it snapped shut.

"Uh-uh," Jaxson said. "If you came here to mock me, then forget it. I'm late and I'm not in the mood." He didn't tell Jake that it was vintage night at the club. Which, in Jaxson's opinion, was even worse than the usual pulsing techno music, bump-and-grind atmosphere of the place. It wasn't as bad as the pink frilly hell that was ladies' night, though, and that was something. Not that he'd ever admit as much to Jake, or anyone else, for that matter.

He'd cut out his own damn tongue before he'd supply his already over-curious uncle Jake with any of the gory details of how he spent his nights. It wasn't that he didn't understand the concept of rubber-necking. He'd stare at himself, too, dressed in this ridiculous getup. But it didn't mean he had to share his misery with the people around him, which lately consisted of drag queens and Jake.

Jaxson stepped over the broken flower pot, kicking the thick coral-colored pieces into the overgrown grass beside the porch.

"As a matter of fact, I didn't come here to give you shit, boy." Jake strolled across the lawn, grinning when his nephew scowled even harder. "Melanie sent me. Your aunt's worried about you," he said, sobering a little as he wiped a hand across his forehead. "But I'll be happy to be able to report that other than this heat and that dress, you seem to be doing just fine."

"Yeah. Fine." Jaxson snorted and shoved his way past his uncle, the man who was responsible for his current predicament. No, that wasn't fair. Jake hadn't known about the gambling. His uncle hadn't known a thing about that until after Jaxson had been arrested. But he'd damn sure had a hand in arranging this twisted little setup.

Jake's hand shot out, latching onto Jaxson's satin-covered bicep and blocking him from getting to the Voyager. "You could be in prison right now, boy. That judge was looking to make an example of you. It wouldn't have been a slap on the wrist this time. You'd be sitting hard time. And it could still happen." His voice lowered so only his nephew could hear the deep timbre, not that there was anyone around to eavesdrop. "Your sentence is only suspended, and it all depends on your cooperation. So, if you've got some fool idea of skipping out…"

Jaxson threw off his uncle's grasp and snapped, "I'm not."

"You're welcome, you know, for saving your worthless ass from doing five to ten in Rikers Island," Jake said without malice.

"You actually think this is better than prison?" Jaxson hissed. His eyes darted first to one side, then the other before zeroing in on his uncle again. "Dangling like goddamn bait on a hook for some sick, twisted pervert?"

"You're performing a valuable service for your fellow citizens."

"I'm wearing a fucking dress!" Jaxson exploded.

"Yeah, that you are, boy. That you are." Jake chuckled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans and rocking back on his heels.

"I'm going to … work." He growled the last word, slammed the door, and gunned the engine. The Voyager coughed and sputtered down the block. The wig itched like a son-of-a-bitch, and Jake's laughter rang in Jaxson's ears as he headed to the club for another night in pink satin hell.

* * *

It was late when Kate returned home from her first shift at the hospital. Home. She heaved a sigh, rotating her shoulders and a neck that felt stiff and awkward from a night spent hunched over small print font in bad lighting. There hadn't been much else to do but catch up on paperwork, and clean. The latter activity proved to be a poor time filler, though, since the morgue was already in immaculate condition.

The morgue. Hell. She was working in the morgue. Kate cringed as the grim reality sank even further beneath her skin, the reminder of her creepy new job description chilling her in the balmy night air.

If she were more alert, Kate would have been damn angry. She hadn't spent the last two years in nursing school so she could spend her nights babysitting corpses in the basement of a hospital. Her situation was made bearable only by the fact that the arrangement was temporary. She was pretty sure she'd go stir crazy if she had to spend too many more nights in that chill, cavernous space, the chemical odor of astringent filling her nostrils until her stomach churned.

Well, Kate sighed, it was a job, and she was getting paid LPN wages. She gripped the edge of the Toyota's door, fingers pressing into the black rubber seal that rimmed the orange metal as she hauled herself out of the car. For one long moment she stood in the middle of the driveway and stared in silence at her house.

Her house. The words had only a slightly more natural feel than "the morgue," and Kate was hard-pressed to say which place felt more foreign and strange. Probably the house, she finally decided, bumping the car door shut, then flinching at the sound. God, she hated even the thought of walking into that dark, empty space. But who knew Lilly would run into Alexandra this afternoon? Then again, why had she told Lilly she didn't mind staying at the house by herself? She knew her sister would have come home, had she asked her to. But that would have meant explaining why she was loath to stay alone in the house, and Lilly was too young to have clear memories of that time in their lives, to remember…

"Shit." Kate closed her eyes. Why hadn't she left a lamp burning? A porch light, anything. The creepy old house—which, in full light did not look at all charming—was flat-out menacing in the dark.

Sharp-peaked turrets stretched and blurred with the black sky, and shadows danced in the windows with the reflection of a line of cars that passed down her street. A grinning teenage boy leaned halfway out the window of the middle car and shouted a greeting to Kate. Radios blared, then faded as the cars turned the corner. The street was once again quiet, deserted.

A gust of wind kicked up a pile of dead leaves on the sidewalk near the porch. The breeze propelled storm clouds in from the beach far beyond the house, bringing with it a salty air that fairly crackled with static electricity. At the end of her driveway, the street lamp flickered ominously a split second before it went dead. Thick, dark swaths of cloud scudded across the moon. The world went black, and Kate was lost in its shadows.

She gasped, finally spurred to action. The outside no longer felt any safer than the house's interior, and the fine hairs at the back of her neck became cold and shivery, lifted by the breeze that whipped around her as she hurried up the walkway. Sagging wooden steps creaked beneath her weight as she took them two at a time, stumbling onto the porch and skidding to a stop before the ornately carved and beveled front door. She took a deep breath and grasped her key in one hand, clutched the knob firmly in the other. Her heart began to thud painfully in her ears as she attempted to insert the key into the lock. The door swung inward at the slightest pressure. It was already open.