Fallen Angels 05 - Possession (50 page)

“Can I make you coffee on my way out?” he said.

“I think I might go back to sleep.”

“Oh, man, did I keep you up last night?”

“You don’t sound very sorry about it.”

He came around and ducked down. “That’s because I’m not.”

The kiss was a lingering one, telling her more than words could how much he had valued the night before … and however many nights might be coming for them in the future.

“This is the first time in a long time …” She hesitated.

“What?”

“I just … I haven’t really been looking forward to the future.” As it dawned on her how that could be taken, she rushed ahead. “Wait, wait, not that I’m thinking anything nutty—I swear. It’s … I don’t know. I love my jobs and my life, I really do. I just haven’t been excited about anything for a long while.”

Duke stared into her eyes for the longest time. “Me neither.”

By nine a.m., the sun was rarin’ to go, rising up over the tree line and throwing out the kind of BTUs that suggested winter was well fucked, and summer not just a hypothetical.

Having pulled into work, Duke parked his truck where he always did in the lot beside the Shed—but instead of getting out and moving along to clock in, he just stared through the chain-link fence at that great, rising fireball.

With a slow, deliberate circle, he ran his hand around the steering wheel, even though he wasn’t just in park, his engine was off: nowhere to go, but driving anyway.

After he’d left Cait’s, he’d gone home, and found Rolly out cold, but breathing on the sofa. At that point, he’d listened to a message from his supervisor, left sometime the night before, and discovered he was pulling a full shift in the morning—good news. And then Alex Hess had texted him that she was putting him back on the schedule at the Iron Mask next week—better news.

Ordinarily, he hated free time.

Although
…
with Cait on the horizon? Wasn’t so sure about that anymore. Especially because nights were when they were likely to see each other.

How much had she slept in? he wondered.

God, how long had it been since he’d thought like that? Since Nicole.

Yeah, and you know how that worked out, a part of him bitched.

“Shut it.”

When his brain didn’t cough up anything else, he smiled harshly. Nice change of pace—you argue with yourself and sometimes you could really get through to the other guy.

… it’s a huge reminder of how easily people’s destinies can get off-track …

Fuck. That one sentence had been banging around his head since he’d pulled away from the curb in front of his woman’s house. Over and over. To the point where it was driving him batshit.

Taking his phone out, he put in the password, went into his voice mails, and just looked at the list. Nicole’s newest had been the third he’d received while he’d been at Cait’s, and unlike the other two, he’d listened to what she’d left a number of times.

As he stared at his phone, he thought, See, this was why you stayed in your comfort zone. You started making a connection with someone, your ice got broken … and then you started doing stupid fucking shit.

He probably would have been okay if Cait hadn’t brought up that student of hers. For some reason, that was hammering in his head, too.

“I’m losing my mind,” he said as he looked out of his truck’s windshield again. “Losing it…”

As with his attraction to Cait, he couldn’t exactly explain why things were so different for him all of a sudden. Well, not completely different. He was still focused on payback when it came to his brother. But it seemed as if some other hand was on his steering wheel, turning him this way. That way. In a circle.

Refocusing on his phone, he watched from what felt like the distance of a mile as his thumb hit …
call back
.

Just as the ringing started, he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. It was the blond-haired man who had tailed him yesterday, stepping out from behind another parked truck. With all the nonchalance of someone who held most of the cards, he put a cigarette between his teeth and flicked a Bic, leaning into the flame.

As he exhaled, he lifted his hand in a wave.

“Hello?” came the response through the phone.

Hang up, Duke ordered himself. Hang the fuck up—you don’t want to do this…

“Hello,” he heard himself say.

“So you can understand why we’re curious about where you were.”

As the question came at G.B., he kept his cool, smiling at the detective who was sitting across the interrogation table from him.

First thing this morning, he’d gotten the call to come down to the Caldwell Police Department, and of course he’d complied. He wasn’t stupid.

And he’d watched enough episodes of
The First 48
to know how to act.

“You’re just doing your job,” G.B. said with a casual shrug. “But I don’t have anything else to tell you.”

Detective … what was his name? de la Truz? … smiled back. “Well, you could explain why you didn’t think to mention that you and Jennifer Espie had been in a relationship.”

G.B. linked his hands in his lap and was careful to hold eye contact steadily. “That’s because we weren’t.”

“If you want to mince words, fine. But you didn’t tell us you two were sleeping together.”

“It wasn’t a regular thing, Detective. Come on, I’m so busy with work, I have no personal life. She and I have some friends in common, and yeah, sure, we hooked up a couple of times, but it wasn’t anything serious. I just didn’t think it was relevant.”

“The girl was murdered in the theater you both work in, and you didn’t consider the idea that disclosing your past relations might be a good idea?”

“What can I say. I’m a singer, not a lawyer.”

The guy flipped through his little notebook. “I hear you’re an actor, too.”

“
Rent
’s my first musical.”

Brown eyes lifted. “The director says you’re a natural.”

“That’s really cool of him.”

“He says you’re able to summon emotion on a dime.”

“Well, that’s part of the gig, isn’t it?”

De la Whoever smiled again. “Yeah. It is. Which brings me to another question I have. One of the promoters for that jazz concert you sang backup in … what was that singer’s name? Millicent?”

“Millicent Jayson.”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Anyway, the promoter said before you went onstage that night, he saw you and Jennifer arguing in her office. You know, the one with all the glass?”

G.B. had expected this. “She was upset with me.”

“And why was that?”

“Like I told you, we didn’t have a regular thing going. She wanted that, though. And she got all up in my face.”

“About what?”

G.B. made a show of rubbing his jaw. “I had a woman come to see me that night, someone I was actually interested in. I asked management if I could use one of the comp tickets they’d reserved for VIPs—you know, if they had any left. They did, and Jennifer was supposed to leave it at will-call for my date. She was also supposed to get me backstage clearance. When I came to get the tags for backstage, she just went off on me.”

“Cait Douglass, right?”

Okay, it was a little surprise that they had that name. “Yeah, that’s her. The woman I invited, that is.”

“She was also supposed to meet you for lunch yesterday.”

“Yeah, she and I were going to grab a quick sandwich down in the break room. Obviously, because of what happened … we didn’t, yeah, you know.”

How in the hell did—

The detective pursued the fight angle for some time, prodding, prompting, clearly trying to trip things up. But G.B. just stayed on message and on tone—calm, cool, helpful and collected.

Eventually, the guy shut that notebook. “Well, there’s only one other thing I’ve got for you, then.”

“Fire away.”

“Why were you down in the basement the night Jennifer was killed?”

G.B. frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but security cameras were installed about a month ago. The crime in that part of town has been rising, and the owners of the theater became concerned about break-ins. The stairwells are all monitored now. We have tape of you coming up the back about ten p.m.”

Fuck … him.

Wait a minute.

G.B. smiled and shrugged again. “I went down to do vocal exercises.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m assuming you’ve been down in that hall, right?”

“Yes. I have.”

Because that was where the body had been, duh. Not that G.B. let on about that—after all, one of the easiest ways to incriminate yourself was to cop to details not provided to you.

“Well, then you know that it extends forever, like, almost from one end of the theater complex to the other. Naturally, it has the best acoustics in the building. I went down there to practice scales—the echoing is incredible; you can practically do a barbershop quartet with yourself.”

The detective’s eyes narrowed. “No one has reported hearing any singing that night.”

“But that’s the point. If you close the fire door at the base of the stairs, the sound isn’t going to carry.”

“You expect me to believe that you went down there to yodel on the same night that girl was murdered, and no one saw you or heard you singing.”

“Look, straight up? This production of
Rent
could be my big break. Yeah, Caldwell is a regional market, but I had to beat out fifty guys my age with my vocal range for this fucking part. The director is a prick—everyone knows it—but he’s also got a national reputation. If I don’t hit those notes? He’s going to throw me out and fill the part with somebody else.” He leaned. “And you actually think I
wouldn’t
be practicing late at night to get it right?”

“Well. You’ve got answers for everything, haven’t you.”

“I’m just telling the truth. Do with it what you will.” G.B. checked his watch. “Listen, I’m sorry to say this, but I have to go to a job in about a half hour.”

“Where you working at?”

“It’s a funeral. Maybe you know the girl? She was murdered a little while ago—Sissy Barten?”

The detective pushed a hand through his short-cropped hair. “Yeah. I know who she is.”

“You find out who did that yet?”

“Yup.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” G.B. looked down. “Her family asked me to sing. I guess they’d heard me at her graduation from high school the year before—a friend of a friend got in touch with me, and like I was going to say no? It was horrible what happened to her.”

“What happened to Jennifer Espie was pretty horrible, too.”

“How was she killed, by the way?”

“That’s another thing I’ve been thinking about. May I see your hands?”

“Sure.” G.B. stretched them out palms down, then palms up.

There was nothing on them. But then, he used that pair of workman’s gloves, the kind that were rated for handling chemicals. Thick gloves, very thick—and they’d run up his forearms.

They were in the Hudson River now.

“Do you want to take samples or something?” he asked.

“Interesting idea to bring up. You watch a lot of
CSI
, by any chance?”

“No,” he lied.

“Jennifer was killed in a violent way.”

Yup. He’d walked down with her and taken her all the way around to the back exit, the one that was triple-locked, had no windows anywhere near it, and was practically in the next zip code from anyplace anyone usually was. The gloves had been in his back pockets, one jammed in each side, and she hadn’t even balked at the fact that he’d had them with him. He’d turned out the light, and talked to her until she’d given in to him; then he’d pivoted her around like he was going to fuck her from behind…

And slammed her face-first into the wall.
Boom!
Splash! Blood everywhere. And then he’d done it again, and again, and again…

Messy, very messy.

But he’d had to get it all out. In situations like that, when he’d done things just like that before, he’d always found that the violence was a purging—and the further he went with it, the cleaner he felt afterward.

When she was no longer twitching on the floor, he’d caught his breath, and had to start thinking. Yeah, he’d remembered to bring the gloves, but kind of like a session of really good sex, he tended to be a little spacey for a while afterward.

Next move was to get the fuck out of there—and clean the fuck up. That was how he’d ended up in that workroom … where the brunette had come to him.

The sex had been awesome, actually. What he was hoping, though, was that she had headed out of town right afterward—and that Jennifer’s murder didn’t go further than the local press.

What he really didn’t need was her connecting any dots for the CPD. And finding him with no shirt on in a room full of bleach fumes the night that some chick was killed in the basement?

“Would you let me?”

“I’m sorry?” he said, refocusing.

“Take samples from under your nails?”

“Sure. Absolutely.”

The detective knocked on the table and stood up. “This won’t take long. We’ll get you out fast so you can be at that funeral.”