Killing Katie (An Affair With Murder) (Volume 1) (13 page)

There were other smells too. There were always other smells. I raised my chin so that my face was closer to the window. I was being careful not to be seen beneath the jungle of metal skyscrapers towering over our car. I sniffed at the air, taking in the smell of cigarettes and oil and the heavy scent of spent rubber—the kind of rubber that comes from truck tires. And the smell of fuel was strong too. Not gasoline, but truck fuel. Diesel.

“The only kind of fuel used to drive a big rig,” the man with the drinking breath had said before opening the car door.

It wouldn’t be long now.

I heard a bell, the kind that rings when a car drives over a snaking black hose strewn across concrete. I heard teasing laughter too, intimate and wet with slippery kisses. I heard them moaning then, their sex sounds becoming louder.

The red lips came into view again. Eclipsed with tiny beads of sweat, her lips were pursed and readied for a kiss, but she didn’t want a kiss. Not now. Instead, she placed her finger in front of her lips, resting it on the dimple at their center.

Shush
, she motioned while rising up and down. I understood what she was asking me to do. I’d been as quiet as a church mouse—invisible to the men who’d come to visit, always invisible. She had another one with her now and she wanted me to come out of hiding. It was time.

My eyes snapped open, fluttering. My mind raced as confusion replaced the dreamy images that had already begun to leave me. I never dream, but tonight I had seen something. And it wasn’t the randomness of the day jumbled together into a senseless story. It was something I’d seen before; it was familiar. A memory?

My skin felt wet, sweaty wet, as though Steve and I had just finished from the night before. I propped myself up onto my elbows to see over his shoulder. The alarm clock only read five fifteen. I had forty-five minutes. Steve rolled onto his back, still asleep. I closed my eyes, hoping to go back to that place where the dream might be lingering, waiting for my return. I wanted to see more, to know more.

Was I the little girl?

A snore jolted me. Another followed, and I sat up. Steve hadn’t been able to sleep on his back without snoring for years now.

“Snoring,” I muttered, sounding frustrated. I nudged his shoulder until he rolled over in the other direction. I tried to find that place one more time by closing my eyes, slipping back into the gray light of early morning.

T
HERE’D BE NO
more dreams for me that morning—only the broken torture of waking up and falling back to sleep, again and again. The torment lasted another hour before I had to start my day along with the rest of the house. Steve said nothing about the alley or what was found there. And to my surprise, the news broadcaster’s raspy voice made no mention of it either. Somehow the police had been able to keep the crime—keep what
I’d
done—out of the news. But our small town had a voracious appetite for gossip, and it wouldn’t be long before there was talk of another attack. Within a few days, I’d surely wake to the radio broadcaster reporting on it.

I parked my car just around the corner from Romeo’s and watched the alley across the street. A throb came to me, a yearning for more.

Could I be hungry already? Was that how this was going to work? Are murderers like vampires, taking a sip, gulping a drink, killing whenever the need set fire to my gut? Maybe killing the homeless man turned me last night.

I’d certainly lost my innocence, my virginity. I was becoming who I was meant to be. A monster.

I exhaled, spilling a puff of white air like a smoky drag off a joint. I smirked, an evocative sense of nostalgia hitting me. Back in my college days, I’d experimented more than most—and regretted none of it. I tried to puff out a smoke ring, forcing a short breath. Disappointingly, it just disappeared into a white mist. Oh well, I’d made my share of smoke rings. It was in college that I’d learned to smoke weed, roll a tight joint, blow a man, and make a woman come. Yes, I’d learned a thing or two in college.

Money well spent
. I shook my head, thinking back to how reckless I’d been while searching and trying to find the person I wanted to be. Steve found me before I found myself. It had only been a matter of time before I caught up, though, falling in love with him. With
us
. And now I’d jeopardized all that.

“What if he gets assigned the case?” I muttered, then realized it might be for the better. Images from his case folders flashed through my mind. “I’d have access to those. All of them.”

A knock rapped on my car window and startled me, popping my contemplative bubble. I nearly screamed. Nerd stood outside my car, his skin gray and his eyes glaring. He rapped his gloved hand on the glass again and pointed toward the library. He didn’t say a word or wait for me, choosing instead to walk ahead. The memory of the previous night’s red and blue colors flashing around the car came back to me. It was better that we had no contact outside of the library.

I gathered my things together and got out of the car, crossing the street toward the library. I kept my head down and stayed to the right. The sidewalk was crumpled and old, with large, stony blocks pushed up by the roots of huge sycamores lining the curb. I didn’t remember seeing any of that the night before. I watched my step, jumping over the thick cracks and avoiding the sprouting weeds that had already begun to brown in the colder temperatures. I paused just long enough to face the alley and scan the ground. I saw nothing resembling the buttons from my blouse. A gusty breeze caused a knot of tree branches to clack together, telling me I’d already overstayed. As far as I could tell, my buttons weren’t there.

Anxious nerves dampened my upper lip. I heaved a disappointed sigh and watched as a heavy cloud rushed out of me. “Could’ve gotten a ring from that one,” I joked to myself, swiping at the irritation beneath my nose. At once, I smelled charred fabric on my fingers. While the buttons might have been found by the police, my favorite blouse had disappeared earlier that morning in a quick spark followed by a vapid blue flame.

But what else could be found on my buttons? A fingerprint?

I plunged my hand into my purse and dug out a small bottle of sanitizer, squeezing out an extra-large glob to help mask the cindery odor.

The steps leading to the library doors seemed steeper and longer than they had the day before. They played tricks on my mind as I climbed them. My legs and arms ached, hurting as though I’d stayed too long my first day back in the gym. I was exhausted and scared and nervous all at once, and wondered if I should have stayed home, stayed away from the crime scene. I felt a cool pinch in my lungs, and clung to the round metal handrail. The older librarian suddenly appeared through the door’s small rectangular window. She saw me standing there and gave me a quick wave.

“Shit,” I muttered, trying to find the energy and the confidence to lie my way past her.

Before I knew it, I was standing in front of her, telling her how much I admired her black, squarish glasses.

“Really?” she said, adjusting them, straightening them. On some level, I appreciated that. I couldn’t stand when a person paid no mind to their glasses—leaving them to sit crooked on their nose. “Just a pair from the Sears optical department. But they’re a lifesaver, you know. And how is the job search going?”

“Oh, it’s going. Taking some time, but you know how it can be,” I answered as I watched her eyes fall to my purse as if expecting me to pull out my identification. I glanced over and saw Nerd at his computer. I made a mental note to ask him about what identification he’d been using. “By the way, any chance that the library is looking to hire anyone? Maybe something part time?” The librarian quickly stepped back and made herself busy. I watched as her expression changed. I’d somehow made her uncomfortable, almost surprised—as if I’d just asked how old she was when she lost her virginity.

“Well, I don’t know,” she began. Then she hurried a stack of books into her hands, ensuring her eyes didn’t meet mine. “You see, we just hired a new librarian. Still learning and working toward her degree. But she fills the hours needed and does a decent job . . . some nights. Good luck in your searches today. Hope you find something.” And just as quick as I’d asked, the old librarian moved on and let me move on too.

“We have to talk, Amelia,” Nerd blurted as soon as I circled around the computer table. “Or should I say Mrs. Sholes, wife of Detective Steve Sholes? Please tell me that wasn’t your husband questioning me last night.”

I gulped at the air, speechless. The truth was, my mind had been so occupied with what I’d done and the loss of my buttons, I’d completely forgotten that Steve had talked to Nerd. I said nothing as I settled my things and sat down in front of the computer. When I turned back to answer, I saw the large gray pouches he was carrying under his eyes, his half-tucked shirt, and the dread in his expression. Even his shoes were a mess—he was wearing one Nike and one Chuck Taylor.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Really? That’s what you’re going to start with? How about: I have no idea who that police detective was!” He was trying to sound comical, but his inflections remained nerdy.

“So what if he’s my husband?” I answered snidely. Immediately, I regretted my tone. Nerd went green. I mean, the boy actually turned green and slumped over to puke. “Listen, it doesn’t matter. I don’t understand what the problem is. If anything, it will help.”

Nerd bolted up, and a part of me was glad to see color come back into his cheeks. “The problem?” he exclaimed, shaking his head back and forth. “The
problem
is that your husband is a cop and I’ve already given you enough to have me put away. What if he finds my flash drive?”

“He barely uses the computer at home,” I said jokingly, stretching the truth a bit. “Listen to me. Steve isn’t interested in your flash drive or whatever you’re doing in this library.”

“So what happens when—”

“Our business begins?” I finished for him. He nodded, listening, breathing easier, the color in his face continuing to return. “Simple. We don’t get caught.”

“Yeah. Simple,” he countered. And again, he tried to sound snarky and comical, but only came off as sounding nerdy. “We weren’t exactly going to advertise our business anyway, but you’re sleeping with the enemy.”

I didn’t like to think of Steve as the enemy, but I could see how it must look from Nerd’s perspective, so I let it pass. “And isn’t it better to be close? Close enough to listen to him, to read his case notes, to keep my finger on the pulse of the investigations?”

Nerd sat back. I’d given him a lot to consider. “I suppose,” he answered, deciding I was right. “I never thought about it that way. So you’ve got all this figured out?” Nerd managed to squash my enthusiasm with a single question. I sighed, wishing that I had, but shrugged my shoulders. “Not all of it, but some. Enough for us to get started.”

“Speaking of which, before we can get started,” he said, “I need to feel like we’re making some progress.”

“First tell me what the questioning was about?”

Nerd glanced over, a brief glimpse of surprise in his expression. “You mean you don’t know? What about your finger and the pulse thing?”

I shook my head, “Doesn’t work quite like that. I’m sure I’ll find out later today anyway; I’m just curious about what he said last night.”

“Some old geezer bought it,” he began. “The cops—your husband included—passed me around, asking questions for an hour. What annoyed me, though, was how they asked the same freaking questions, over and over. Had I seen anything? What time did I arrive? Was I alone? Blah, blah, and blah.”

“Old geezer?” I asked, wanting to hear more. A touch of heat rose up from beneath my collar. I gently grazed at the side of my neck with my fingers. “Dead?”

“Best they can tell, it was a fight over booze. You know, with all the homeless around. Two of ’em fought it out, one killed the other and took off with a bottle and whatever money he had.”

“Sounds simple enough,” I said. My throat felt scratchy and dry. I opened my water bottle and chugged a mouthful to settle the itch.

“But I overheard two of the officers talking. I wasn’t supposed to hear anything, but they mentioned that the geezer was holding onto something. Had a death grip on it, one of them joked.”

“Is that so?” I said, but my voice had thinned and fell to a shuddering whimper.

“Probably nothing,” he finished. But then he turned and looked at me, and there was concern in his eyes. Panic had suddenly struck me. It stole my ability to think or speak or breathe. All I could see in front of me were buttons. Two creamy, white buttons.

W
HEN MURDER FOR
hire is summarized in a list of forum posts, perspectives change. They change a lot. I could have been reading a hot news story, breaking news about a Hollywood star, juicy drunk and hanging sloppy in the front. But instead, murder had suddenly been conveyed in a simple set of links—characters and lines of text, a deadly proposition merely a click away. Was murder really that simple?
Should
it be that simple? I brushed my hands over the keyboard, feathering the alphabet, tempting the power it gave. Death from a handgun comes with the pull of a trigger. My trigger? A keyboard and a mouse.

“That’s right,” Nerd said, motioning to one of the red links. “Go ahead.”

“Just click?” I asked, trying to contain the excitement in my voice. My finger twitched on the mouse as a hollow flutter thumped in my gut. “And then what?”

“Nothing,” he answered. I hesitated, still feeling new to the online shopping, so to speak. I glanced at the flash drive to make sure it was seated correctly and wouldn’t fall out. After that, I moved the window on the screen, making room to the right of it for whatever might pop up. I was stalling. “Go ahead, already. You’ll know you’re there when you see it.”

“All right!” I said, blowing out any hesitations. “Let’s see what this one is.” A click and the link opened up a new window listing hundreds of posted messages. The left column had a different set of icons—none of which I recognized, but the remaining columns were easy enough to figure out. Subjects, number of views, and replies. I quickly figured out which posts were the most popular and looked at them.