Die Buying (17 page)

“Ah.”

“I need to lose a little weight.” He patted his paunch, almost affectionately.

Men are so much more accepting of their bodies than women are, I thought, not for the first time. Where a woman would call herself “fat” and pummel her saddlebags or pinch her love handles viciously, a man says he needs to knock off a couple pounds and gives his excess flesh love pats. I sorted through several possible responses to Joel, including “Yes, you do,” and “You’ll have more energy and be healthier if you knock off twenty pounds,” and finally settled on a neutral, “Why?”

“Well, there’s this woman—”

Aha. Joel’s face went all mushy as he thought about the woman. I suppressed a smile.

“I think she likes me, but her last boyfriend was really . . .” He trailed off uncertainly.

“Fit? Ripped? A hunk?”

“Yeah, all of that. He’s a firefighter. And I’m—” He gestured to his soft body.

“Well, a diet’s good, but what you really need is a workout plan.” I leaned forward across the desk. “Cardio plus weight training will strip the weight off you in no time.”

Joel looked at me hopefully. “Could you help me?”

I rocked back in my chair, surprised. “Me?”

“Yeah, you’re always working out and you’re buff. Could you show me what to do, help me with a training plan?”

“Kyra Valentine is the one who could help you,” I said, never having seen myself as a fitness coach. “She was an Olympic track and field athlete, you know.”

“She’d laugh at me,” he said bluntly.

I knew Kyra wouldn’t laugh at him, but she did tend to be a bit brusque sometimes, so I couldn’t blame him for not wanting to ask for her help. I tapped my knee. “I wish I could help, Joel, but I really can’t run with you.”

“I hate running,” he said, shooing that idea away with a hand flap. “But you swim, right? And swimming’s great exercise. Could I swim with you?”

If he swam with me, he’d see my leg. I stared at him, not wanting him to see my reluctance or guess the reason for it. Something in my expression must have given me away, though, because he sighed again and leaned over to turn on his computer. “It’s okay,” he said, his voice muffled. “I’ll figure something out.”

“No. I’ll help you,” I heard myself saying. “We can swim.”

I headed out of the still quiet mall, trying to think of a way to keep my leg hidden from Joel at the pool. Maybe I could get a wetsuit. I scoffed at myself for even thinking like that and tried to focus on how grateful and relieved Joel had looked when I offered to help him train at the Y. Morning rush-hour traffic whooshed by on nearby I-95. An inch of snow covered my Miata, and I brushed it off with my hand, thankful it wasn’t snowing any longer. My drive took me past a run-down area with single-family homes built in the fifties and sixties, and it triggered a memory. On impulse, I pulled into the neighborhood, remembering it from having dropped Weasel off one afternoon when his truck battery died. I didn’t remember the house number, but I thought I would recognize it. South Pacific Street gave way to Bora Bora Place and I slowed. The houses looked amazingly alike: small, dingy, and unvalued, like the outgrown plastic soldiers or naked dolls at the bottom of a toy box. Tiny, winter-browned yards fronted houses clad with faded aluminum siding. Here and there, cheery curtains brightened a window or a coat of red enamel highlighted a mailbox, but the overall effect was dreary with a capital “D.”

I almost cruised past Weasel’s house but recognized the tree stump in the yard at the last moment. Pulling to the curb, I cut the engine and stared at the house. No curtains shielded the living room windows, but a sheet draped a window I figured was Weasel’s bedroom. Nothing moved and no lights glowed in the house. What was I doing here? Just because Woskowicz couldn’t get hold of Weasel didn’t mean anything was wrong. Weasel was a big boy; maybe he was playing hooky. Still, since I was here, I might as well knock on the door. I swung my legs out of the car and zipped my jacket against the damp cold. A Siamese cat sitting in the neighbor’s driveway eyed me as I walked toward Weasel’s house.

“Pretty kitty,” I said.

He turned and walked away, tail held straight in the air.

Passing Weasel’s one-car garage, I stood on tiptoe to peer into the frost-rimed windows. Weasel’s black truck sat in the garage, ragged Confederate flag sassing me through the back window, toolbox locked in the pickup bed, mud flaps with the girly silhouette hanging limply. Uneasiness prickled my skin. What was Weasel’s truck doing here if he’d gone somewhere to visit his family? He probably flew, my logical side said. It didn’t feel right, though. I continued toward the front door, more cautiously now. I had no real reason to think something was wrong, but I did. And I’d learned in my twelve years as an air force cop not to ignore my instincts. I glanced in the living room window as I passed it, but saw nothing except a saggy sofa and a big-screen TV.

Standing to the right of the door, I reached over and knocked loudly. The rickety house seemed to shudder with each blow. Nothing. I hammered with my fist, loud enough to startle the Siamese into hiding under the station wagon in his driveway. I tried the doorknob. Locked. I had three choices: (A) I could go home and mind my own business, hoping Weasel would show up at the office in a day or two, hungover from a three-day binge or depressed after his Aunt Laverne’s funeral. (B) I could call the cops and ask for a health and welfare check on Billy Wedzel at 3462 Bora Bora Place. Or, (C) I could poke around a little more and see what I turned up. I voted (A) the most logical course of action and (B) the most efficient, but I went with (C).

I traipsed around to the back, the snow crunching softly under my boots. The one window on the side of the house was set high and frosted—a bathroom, I concluded, unable to look in it. The backyard was tiny, fenced, and held a rusty charcoal grill, a cracked concrete patio just big enough for the one webbed chair that sat there, and a newish red wagon tipped on its side. The latter surprised me and I wondered if Weasel had a kid, or maybe a grandkid. I was no better than Woskowicz, I decided. I knew almost nothing about Weasel’s personal life or situation, even though I’d worked with him for a year.

The sagging mesh on the screen door shivered slightly in the freshening wind as I pulled it open to knock on the backdoor. Cupping my hands on either side of my face, I studied the kitchen. Fridge closest to the door, then stove, then sink. A card table in the middle of the linoleumed floor held a laptop computer, open, a coffee mug beside it. The sight of the computer made me gnaw my lower lip. Who left a valuable computer in plain sight when they were out of town? No one. As I pulled away from the window, a flash of color by the arched doorway on the far side of the kitchen grabbed my attention. Scrunching my nose against the glass, I tried not to fog it up with my breath. My eyes adjusted to the dimness and I saw that the splash of red I’d seen was a sock, and the sock was on a foot that lay tremendously still. The rest of the leg and body lay out of sight in the hallway.

I simultaneously tried the doorknob and dialed 911. Before the call could go through, a sharp voice behind me said, “Put your hands up and turn around slowly.”

I knew that
voice.

Well, not that specific voice, but the type. Cop. Not wanting a bullet aerating my insides—I’d had enough of that to last a lifetime—I did as he asked. Spreading my arms wide at shoulder height, I turned around slowly.

“I was just calling you,” I said with a slight nod at the cell phone in my hand.

“Yeah, right.” The cop was tall, black, brawny, and skeptical. “We got a call from the lady next door to say there was a burglary in progress at this address. And I walk up to find you breaking and entering.” His partner, a thirtyish white guy with male-pattern baldness, came around the corner.

“I wasn’t breaking and entering,” I said angrily. “I can see a foot through the window. The man in there is hurt or dead. I was going in to see if I could give aid.”

The newcomer approached, and I stepped aside so he could peer through the window. “She’s right,” he told his partner.

“Cuff her.”

“But—”

The balding cop twirled a finger, and I obediently turned, putting my hands behind me. He snapped the cuffs around my wrists, the metal warm from being against his body, and the first cop lowered his gun and approached the door. He keyed his push-to-talk radio and called for an ambulance as his partner braced himself and kicked at the door near the lock. It splintered and gave way with a second kick. Observing their rough and ready entry, I thought morosely that my knee wouldn’t take that kind of abuse anymore.

They plunged into the kitchen, and I positioned myself so I could see through the door. The sickly sweet smell drifting toward me told me all I needed to know even before the black cop called to his partner: “He’s dead. Bullet through the head. Call Homicide.”

I’ve always been more of an “ask forgiveness instead of permission” person, so I sidled through the door, careful not to touch anything, to see if the body was really Weasel. The smell was stronger in the kitchen, and I breathed shallowly through my mouth, inching my way toward the middle of the room while the cops cleared the rest of the house. Water dripped from the faucet at two second intervals,
plip . . . plip
, and cubes tumbled from the ice maker into the bin, startling me. I stared down at Weasel, positioned as if he were running from the kitchen, with one thigh perpendicular to his body and his arms outstretched. I couldn’t say that I’d liked him, but I was sorry he was dead.

“Hey! You can’t be in here!”

The black cop advanced on me, making shooing motions. He stepped carefully over Weasel’s body and nudged me toward the exit.

“Officer—?”

“Bruden,” he supplied. “Now get your ass out that door before I kick it out.”

“Officer Bruden,” I said, moving slowly toward the door, his bulk crowding me along. “I think this death could be connected to the murder at Fernglen Galleria earlier this week. You might want to call Detective Helland—it’s his case.”

“Thank you for thinking of me,” Helland’s voice said from the doorway. He didn’t sound grateful.

Eyes widening, I turned to catch the full brunt of his icy glare. No hint of smile lightened the lean face, the strong jaw, the high brow with a shock of white-gold hair falling across it. “Let me tell you—” I started.

“I’ve been called out for exactly two homicides this year, Miss Ferris,” he said, moving into the kitchen, which suddenly felt crowded, “and you’ve been front and center both times. Should that make me suspicious?”

“No, I—”

“Because it does. I have to ask if your presence is more than coincidence.” He eyed me ruminatively while digging a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and slipping them on. “I’ll talk to you when I’m done here.” He nodded at Officer Bruden, who nudged me toward the door again.

“Can you at least uncuff me?”

Bruden looked at Helland, who nodded. Bruden unlocked the cuffs, and I made a show of massaging my wrists, which neither man appreciated because they’d gone back to examining the body. I exited before Helland changed his mind about the cuffs.

The barren backyard was an unappealing place to wait, but I made myself comfortable on the webbed chair on the patio after brushing snow off it. Even so, dampness seeped through my uniform pants and I rose to pace the yard. Blythe Livingston arrived, as did a clutch of uniformed officers, crime scene techs, and someone from the coroner’s office. Neighbors peered from behind their blinds, and the woman next door, probably the one who’d called the cops on me, hovered near the fence that divided her yard from Weasel’s, cradling the Siamese in her arms. As I watched, she raised a cell phone and snapped a picture of me. Incensed, I started toward her, but she scurried inside, the screen door banging behind her.

Detective Helland emerged after forty-five minutes, gave some direction to the waiting patrol officers, and sauntered toward me.

“Now can I—”

He shook his head. “Come.” Taking me by the elbow, he led me around the house to the street side and down the driveway to a dark red Chrysler LeBaron. For one chilling moment, I thought he was going to recuff me, stuff me in the backseat, and haul me off to the station under arrest. Instead, he opened the front passenger door and said, “I need coffee. I know I can’t handle your story without more caffeine in my system.”

Keeping my mouth shut for once, I sat quietly as he drove smoothly to the nearest Starbucks. The gentle vibration of the car and the warmth blasting from the heater almost put me to sleep. I was more tired than I had realized. Not too crowded in the late morning, the Starbucks welcomed us with coffee-scented air and a cheery babble of conversation. When we ordered, Helland looked at me. “You’re the suspect—you pay.”

I was happy to pay, figuring he couldn’t be planning to toss me in jail if he was making me buy him coffee, could he? Wouldn’t that be seen as a bribe or a conflict of interest or something? And he’d paid at the food court two days ago.