The Trouble With Murder (10 page)

I watched myself issue the order
for the blonde to dial 911 and cross the lobby to Stacy. I knelt beside her
then reach out to check for a pulse. The newcomers on scene fell in around us
and pretty much blocked Stacy from view. A moment later a guy peeled off his
shirt then pushed through the crowd, dropping out of sight. I knew he was
pressing his shirt against Stacy’s abdomen at my direction. After another
minute, the EMT-kid shot out of the stairwell and barreled through the crowd,
dropping out of sight as he knelt beside Stacy. I remembered well what he was
doing.

Then the crowd shuffled, and I
emerged near the elevators. I seemed to be looking for something, thinking. I
moved around toward the counter, having spied Stacy’s purse. There, I proceeded
to rummage through it, pulling items out of her wallet and snapping photos.
After a brief search, in which I clearly looked for something I didn’t find, I
pushed my way back into the crowd and return a minute later with Stacy’s phone.
My every movement was in plain sight of the camera. There was very little
question about what I had been doing.

I wondered if this was the first
time the police were watching the footage. I guessed it was. If Ellmann had
seen any of this before, he would have been down my throat demanding to know why
I’d been snapping photos of a dying girl’s ID. I could pretty much guarantee
that was about to happen now. Although, Ellmann hadn’t spotted me yet; there
was still time to turn around and leave, delay the interrogation by another few
hours. Then a man in jeans and a shoulder holster stepped up next to me, and I
knew any chance of escape had just been squashed.

“Hey, Ellmann, looks like you’ve
got a visitor,” Shoulder Holster said, obviously amused.

Ellmann and the man in the suit
spun around, instantly assessing the situation. It was about that long before I
saw the anger and annoyance fill Ellmann’s eyes. For whatever reason, I didn’t
find him as difficult to read as Hensley, though they both did the neutral cop-mask
thing well.

Instinctively, I took a small step
back. I felt my leg bump against something hard, solid, and knew it was another
desk; they were crammed in here like freaking sardines. Quick escapes were
severely hindered by this poor arrangement.

“This looks like a bad time,” I
said lightly. “You seem busy. I’ll come back later.”

“You were supposed to call me,” he
said, standing.

I shrugged. “I was right around the
corner, literally. I thought I’d drop by, see if you were in.”

I took a step to the left, the way
I’d come, squeezing past Shoulder Holster, who was laughing out loud now.

“I’ll come back when you’re not so
busy,” I said again, taking a couple more steps. “I can see you’re busy.”

Without taking a step, Ellmann
reached out a long arm and closed his enormous hand around my entire upper arm.
His grip wasn’t tight, but I could feel the strength in it. It’d be a chore to
get free unless he released me.

“You’re here now,” he said. “I’d
hate for you to have come down here for nothing.”

“I assure you the trip wasn’t
wasted. I had other business to take care of.”

“We’ll talk now.”

He began steering me back out of
the maze and then to the right, instead of the left and toward the door. In the
far corner, I saw two rooms with
interrogation
stenciled on the glass and felt myself break out in a light sweat at the
thought this was where I was being dragged now. One interrogation room per day
was my limit. I let out the breath I’d been unknowingly holding when we sailed
past those rooms and through a door marked
break
room
.

It was essentially a kitchen.
Counters and cupboards lined two walls and there were a dozen small round
tables spread throughout the rest of the space, each with two or three chairs.
I could see standard kitchen appliances, making the kitchen fully operational.
There were three coffee pots on one end of the counter, all three of which had
dark brown liquid in them, and at least one was on; the smell of burnt coffee
filled the room. Two tables were currently occupied.

“I need the room,” Ellmann said.

Without a word of question or
protest, the others cleared their tables and left. Ellmann released me then
went to the door and threw the bolt, locking us in, or everyone else out
—
I wasn’t sure which. And I didn’t
know which I preferred. He turned back to me and stood with his hands on his
hips. I crossed my arms over my chest defiantly.

“What the hell were you doing?”

I’d done a lot of things for which
he was likely to demand an explanation and didn’t know to which he was referring
now. And, while I’m no expert in surviving police interrogation, I have a
handle on the basics. I never offer more information than asked for, lest I
give away information previously unknown.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Sadly, it’s true; you’ve done so
many
things.” He took a breath. “I don’t know how long you were standing behind me,
but you know I saw the footage; I saw what happened in that lobby. Can you
please explain to me what you were doing in her purse and with her phone? At
first glance, it appears you’re rifling through a dying girl’s belongings,
searching for something worth pocketing.”

“Maybe you should have taken my
clothes that night, then. I took nothing from her.”

Except a bit of information.

“You don’t strike me as the aimless
type, so I don’t think you weren’t snooping without reason. You were looking
for something. What?”

I shrugged. “Emergency contacts.
You know, I thought maybe I could find the numbers so EMS could just pass them along
to the ER staff.”

This was the first answer that
popped into my head. I ran with it.

“And then you took pictures? Why?
If you found the numbers, ER staff would have found them, too.”

“I noticed the battery light
flashing. I only took pictures so the information would be accessible after her
phone died. I was only trying to help. There was so much excitement, and
everything happened so fast after the ambulance got there, I just forgot about
the photos.”

I’ve become a good liar. Better
than good, actually. Sometimes I scare myself.

What surprised me, though, was that
I almost felt bad lying to Ellmann. I was actually starting to like the guy.

He walked forward toward the
nearest table, shaking his head the way a person might do after explaining
something simple to someone else who just didn’t get it. It wasn’t the first
time I’d had that effect on someone. Usually I see that expression on my boss
or supervisor’s face.

“You know you smell like a man?” He
lowered himself onto a chair and looked up at me.

I nodded. “Axe shampoo,” I said.
“Phoenix, specifically.”

He just looked at me.

“My gay roommate used all my
shampoo. I didn’t figure this out until I was already soaking wet, so I had to
use
something
. My brother uses this stuff.”

He nodded, then his thoughts moved
on to something else. Likely back to the topic we’d been discussing a moment
before. Suddenly he seemed tired compared to the last time I’d seen him. And
his dark hair was sticking up in tufts around his head from where he’d dragged
his hands through it. I wondered if he’d slept since Stacy had been attacked. I
realized I was asking the question before I could stop myself.

“Have you slept? You don’t look so
good.”

He looked at me. “Thanks. Your
compliments make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

“Right,” I said, taking the chair
across from him. “That’s obviously some sort of boundary you don’t want to
cross. I get it. Sorry.”

He sighed and leaned his elbows on
the table, running his hands over his face and back through his hair, leaving a
fresh chunk standing on end. “I’m crossing all sorts of boundaries. For
instance, I should be having this conversation in an interrogation room, on
tape and on record, after I’ve read you your rights.”

“I appreciate you not doing that,
by the way.”

“Actually, it was selfish. I
thought if I stood any chance at all of getting a straight answer out of you,
it would be in an informal conversation, which, incidentally, requires far less
paperwork. I get the impression you’d be a pain in the ass if we went the other
way.”

“I can’t imagine why you’d think
that,” I said. He had no idea how right he was. Or maybe he’d spoken to
Hensley.

“Look, I need you to consent to a
search of your home and vehicle. Actually,
you
need that. And since you
saw the security footage, we need to do it now. Even a first-year law student
could argue the problems with letting you go home now and doing a search later.”

“You want to search my house?”

“That won’t be a problem, will it?”

I sighed and slumped into a chair.
“This sucks.”

“Detective Hensley came to see me. Seems
like you’ve gotten yourself into quite a bit of trouble in the last twenty-four
hours.”

“An arguable point.” I shrugged. “I’d
been thinking recently my life had become monotonous, boring.”

“How do you feel about it now?”

“Way less boring,” I confirmed.

The station lobby was a zoo. A baby was crying, three
children were running around screaming, a man was yelling, a woman was
complaining. I stood beside Ellmann watching Troy, the nerdy-looking guy I’d
seen at Elizabeth Tower, motor the Crime Scene van out of the parking lot and
head north on Timberline. I’d given him a spare key and directions to the
mechanic’s shop.

Ellmann was dressed in a similar
uniform to the one he’d worn the day before: jeans and a t-shirt. I thought
detectives were supposed to get around in cheap suits and bad ties, like
Hensley, but I had yet to see Ellmann dressed that way. Of course, I’d only
known the man two days; it was possible this judgment was premature.

“This take long?” I asked over a
hysterical shriek. I was still staring at the place where the van had disappeared
from view.

He nodded toward the door then held
it open for me and followed me out. From the sidewalk, the chaos of the lobby
was muffled.

“Not too long, usually.”

“Don’t you need to be there?”

He shook his head. “Troy doesn’t do
his best work when we stand over him. It’s faster if we give him his space. What’s
wrong with your truck?”

“No idea. Trouble is, my mechanic
can’t seem to figure it out, either. He spends more time with the damn thing
than I do these days.”

“You need a new mechanic. Mine’s
pretty good, if you want the number.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“You eat breakfast yet?” he asked.

I hooked a thumb over my shoulder
toward the lobby. “Yeah, I hit the Continental Breakfast buffet before I
checked out.”

He chuckled. “Right. I know this great
place . . .”

He turned and began walking down
the sidewalk toward Timberline. I fell in behind him because I had nothing better
to do. And however long “not too long, usually” turned out to be, it  would go
by much more quickly over breakfast with Ellmann than standing alone on the
sidewalk in front of the police station. Plus, I was hungry. More than that, I
needed a cup of coffee.

We walked north along Timberline to
Burger King a block over.

Inside, we found only a few other
breakfast-goers, all of them obviously cops. Ellmann ordered some supersized
egg-bagel combo thing with extra everything and a bucket of coffee. He’d
obviously eaten here before.

“And for you, ma’am?” the teenager
behind the counter asked, looking at me.

I really hate being called “ma’am.”
It makes me feel old. Of course, to a seventeen-year-old girl,
everyone
over the age of eighteen
is
old. So, maybe all was right with the world.

“That sounds good,” I said,
stepping up to the counter. “I’ll have the same.”

Her finger stopped over the touch
screen of the register, and she looked up at me. I noticed Ellmann was looking
at me, too. I glanced from one to the other then shrugged.

“What?”

This wasn’t typical of the way I
ate, however, most everyone would assume it was, given the extra forty-seven
pounds I couldn’t hide underneath baggy t-shirts and sweats. Either way, it sure
wouldn’t help me with the forty-seven-pound problem.

The girl did some order-entering
while Ellmann and I did some arguing. He handed his card to the girl to pay for
the whole thing, and I wanted to pay for my part. I dug some cash out of the
bottom of my bag, but he wouldn’t accept any of it.

The girl returned carrying two
trays piled high with cholesterol, calories, and certain death. Ellmann turned
away from me and reached for one of them. I quickly stuffed the cash into his
back pocket and reached for the other. He immediately gave me a small head
shake, but seemed resigned to his defeat.

We carried our trays to a corner table
where we both moved for the same seat
—
the
seat that would afford a view of the entire restaurant and both doors. I
thought we’d have to throw down until Ellmann suggested the next table over.
There we both sat in the booth against the wall, side by side, each with a clear
view of the place.

“Do you always argue about
everything with everyone?” he asked after swallowing a bite.

I sipped at the coffee. Thank
goodness it had been the least expensive item, because it tasted like recycled
motor oil that would double as gasoline in a pinch.

“You bring it out of me.”

“I’m not sure if I believe that or
not.”

I was halfway through my bagel
thing when the door opened and two more cops walked in. They were dressed in
suits, by far the most expensive suits I’d seen so far. One was charcoal gray
and the other a dark pinstripe. They spotted Ellmann, took me in for a moment,
then started toward us. I felt Ellmann tense beside me, but nothing about his
outward presentation changed. Had I not been sitting next him, I would have had
no idea anything was off.

The men were in their late twenties
or early thirties. The guy in the charcoal suit had light brown hair; the other
blonde. And they wore enough cologne to choke a horse.

“Look at this,” the brunette said
to his companion. “Do you believe it? Our very own Ellmann, out on a date.” He
turned to his friend. “They grow up so quickly.”

The blonde snickered. “A
breakfast
date,” he clarified, bobbing his eyebrows suggestively.

“Don’t you clowns have anything
better to do?” Ellmann asked. “Maybe some police work or something?”

“Oh, that’s right,” the brunette
said. “I forgot dating is a sensitive issue with you.”

I cut in before Ellmann could
respond. “Speaking of dating, how long have you two been together?”

Both men puffed up considerably at
my suggestion.

“I’d guess a few years,” I went on.
“You know, you’re starting to look alike. That happens. My grandparents, for
example, looked so similar people thought they were siblings. And I’m ninety
percent sure they
weren’t
siblings, but who can know for sure? It was a
different time.”

The blonde flushed, either from
embarrassment or anger
—
my
bet was embarrassment. The other’s eyes had turned cold and dark. Malevolent.

“We are not a couple,” the brunette
hissed.

“Hey,” I said, raising my hands in
front of me. “I’m not judging. Look at the Romans, for instance. They were a
mighty people, and fond of same-sex sexual relationships. Actually, they were
fond of sex, period, but still. And they weren’t the only culture. Who’s to say
where we’d stand on issues like that today if it weren’t for the Catholic
Church? I guess it’s fair to say we’d see a lot of things differently if it
weren’t for the Catholic Church. Like birth control. Anyway, the point is, to
each his own. All that really matters is that you’re happy. Are you happy?”

“No,” the blonde spat. “We’re not
happy.” The statement had been intended to defend their sexual orientation and
the boundaries of their relationship, but it didn’t come across that way, and
he knew it the instant it was out of his mouth. It only flustered him more.

Ellmann was grinning from ear to ear
beside me.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“My advice? Get counseling. Those marriage counselors really know what they’re doing.
You obviously love each other, so you’re bound to work it out. Don’t give u
—
”

“Shut up!” the brunette snapped,
the features of his face pinched and red.

“Uh-oh,” I said. “Was it something
I said?”

There was a brief moment of
confused and angry mutterings before the pair finally spun around and all but
ran out of the restaurant. The brunette gave one last look in through the
window. I smiled and waved, giving him a big thumbs-up. A few seconds later,
there was the screech of tires as their car peeled out of the lot (and away
from me).

I sighed with satisfaction then
reached for my bagel.

Ellmann was smiling.

“That was great.” He took a bite.

“I only feel a little bit bad.”

“Why feel bad at all?”

“Because they actually
are
sleeping together. Who are we to judge?”

He froze. “What do you mean they’re
sleeping together?” he finally asked.

“The blonde one had the distinct
look of a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar when I first mentioned
they were a couple. There were signs of embarrassment from both of them, lots
of anger, but under all of it, fear. Fear of being discovered.” I shrugged. “I
hope they actually are happy together.”

Ellmann didn’t say another word to
me until we were at my house with Troy and the crime scene team.

_______________

My primary objective today was to get moved. If I hadn’t
needed a new place to live before, I definitely would after the police search. I
had called Margaret Fischer during breakfast and rescheduled our meeting. I
didn’t want the search to jeopardize our deal. Then I called my brother.

I couldn’t use my truck, and it
would take way too many gas-guzzling carloads to haul everything over in the Lincoln,
despite the impressive cargo space (the trunk could comfortably accommodate
eight suitcases or six dead bodies). I needed a truck. After breakfast, I
somehow managed to talk Ellmann into dropping me off at Home Depot on Harmony.
I gave him my house keys and promised to be right behind him.

I found Zach, dressed in his bright
orange apron, helping a stooped old man in the electrical department. He gave
me his keys, and I bought two more rolls of packing tape. I made it three steps
out the door when I heard a voice behind me.

“Look who it is.”

I looked back and saw Joe Pezzani.
He was dressed similarly today as he had been when I’d seen him in my office,
and he looked just as good. He settled his sunglasses in place as he walked out
into the sunlight.

“Wanna give me that line about not
stalking me again?”

He stopped beside me.

“It’s possible
you’re
stalking
me,
” he said. “I’m working.”

He did have his security company
uniform on, so maybe this was another coincidence. But how many times could I
coincidentally
run into the same guy?

“How did it go for the guard last
night?”

The wind shifted, and I caught a
whiff of something wonderful-smelling. I was pretty sure it was him. I was just
as sure I didn’t smell very good under the still-fragrant Axe. I hoped the wind
didn’t shift again until I was long gone.

“All reports were negative: nothing
out of place, nothing unusual, nothing suspicious.”

“Good. Hopefully that will help
calm everyone’s nerves a little bit.”

“This isn’t really any of your
business anymore, though, is it? I mean, that Davis guy is handling everything,
or trying to.”

“I was serious; Paige can’t fire me.
I’m still employed. Therefore, it’s still my problem.”

I didn’t see the need to mention my
vacation. Probably that would just confuse the situation for him.

He chuckled softly. I turned and
continued toward the parking lot.

“I need to be going,” I said. I had
a date with a cop and a crime scene investigator.

Pezzani fell in step beside me.

“Listen, I was thinking we should
stop meeting like this.”

“Yeah?” I said without slowing.
“Well, that’s easy. Next time you think of following me, don’t. Just stay
home.”

“Despite myself, and you, I find
you interesting. I was thinking next time we could meet on purpose.”

I chuckled. “What, like a date?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

I glanced up at him. He was being
sincere. Who the hell was this guy?

“You’re serious.”

He pulled his phone from his
pocket. “Yes. What’s your number?”

After a brief, internal debate, I
acquiesced. I reasoned that I had given Pezzani, possible stalker, my phone number
because it was the fastest way out of the conversation and the parking lot. Ellmann
was likely already at my house, and I could only hope my mother wasn’t home. I
didn’t want to entertain any other possible explanations for having given
Pezzani my number.

“Where’s your truck?” he asked as I
climbed into my brother’s Dodge Cummins.

“The shop.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

Why did everyone ask that question?
I didn’t know what was wrong with it; that’s why it was in the shop.

“No idea.”

We said our goodbyes and I roared
out of the lot.

When I got home, the crime scene
van and Ellmann’s navy blue Charger were parked at the curb. I saw no sign of
my mother. So far so good.

While Troy and his two helpers methodically
searched the place from floor to ceiling, wall to wall, starting in my bedroom,
I tried to stay out of the way. I made coffee and passed it around. For a while
I stood with Ellmann in the kitchen, both of us drinking our coffee silently.
When nothing of interest was found in either my bedroom or the bathroom, I went
downstairs to take a shower (and wash my hair).

When I emerged again, I heard
yelling upstairs. My heart instantly beat faster, and I experienced the usual
fight-or-flight response these types of situations regularly bring out in me.
Swearing under my breath, I hustled upstairs and into the kitchen, where my
mother had Ellmann and Troy cornered. Troy’s helpers were standing nearby,
staring conspicuously at the spectacle before them. She was hurling questions
at them so quickly they couldn’t respond.

“Mom, what are you doing home?”

Bridget Grey is tall, like everyone
else in the family. (I had gotten shorted on that gene, literally, standing at
least three inches shorter than all my relatives, past or present. But I look a
lot like both of my parents, so that eliminates the UPS man.) At five-eleven
barefoot, she was easily more than six feet tall in the heels she wore today. Her
hair, kept perfectly blonde by the slew of chemicals she treated it with every
few weeks, had been shoulder length and attractively layered until a couple
weeks before. This had been the beginning of her unmedicated upswing into
mania. She’d gone to an expensive salon on a whim and instructed the girl to
chop it off. Now it’s chin length, shorter in the back and slightly longer in
the front, and styled dramatically.