The Trouble With Murder (25 page)

I returned to the front end and met
up with Mike, who informed me I was white as a sheet. I assured him I was fine
and drank some apple juice I quickly purchased. An hour later, Karen returned
and pulled me aside.

“I just heard from corporate,” she
said. “No reprimand will be given to Tony.”

“Really?”

“Further, I’m afraid a formal
complaint and a warning for yesterday’s incident will go into your file.”

“Excuse me?”

She sighed. Actually, she seemed
kind of annoyed. “The customer is always right; that’s a policy King Soopers
takes very seriously.” She indicated a document she was holding. “I typed up
the warning for you to sign. I’m afraid this also means your trial period will
be extended. If you incur another warning, you’ll be terminated.”

“Let me make sure I understand,” I
said. I was aware of my tone, but I couldn’t be stopped at this point. Blame it
on the gunshot wound. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Tony was out of line and
incredibly inappropriate, blatantly overstepping his authority. Yet,
I’m
the one who will be formally reprimanded while Tony gets a bonus vacation?”

“Look, none of this is up to me.”
It was clear now her annoyance wasn’t directed at me. So that counted for
something. But not much, because she was going to carry this out anyway.

I struggled out of the vest.

“I appreciate the opportunity you
gave me, but this isn’t going to work out.” I handed the vest to her.

“I understand,” she said, accepting
the vest. She offered me her hand. “Personally, I’d do the same. I wish you the
best of luck.”

I clocked out and said goodbye to Mike,
promising to look him up the next time I was in his store. Outside, I went to
the employee lot and sank to the ground, my knees drawn up in front of me.
Ellmann had been planning to pick me up when my shifted ended at midnight, and
I knew he’d be busy until then. I dialed Sadie.

While I waited, I had my eyes
closed, periodically opening them to scan the parking lot for ski-masked,
gun-wielding murderers. Fifteen minutes later, Sadie’s red Lexus IS convertible
rolled to a stop in front of me. Powering down the window, she leaned out and
peered at me.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“It’s a long story,” I said.

Straining, I tried and failed to
get up. Sadie came over and hauled me to my feet, then watched over me while I
got into the passenger seat and buckled up. The soft black leather interior was
exceptionally comfortable. I love Sadie’s car.

“You look like shit,” she said in a
faint Southern drawl.

“And you look perfect.”

She slammed my door shut.

Mercedes Salois is tall and thin,
with long legs and naturally blonde hair and blue eyes. She’s incredibly
fashion savvy, ultra modern, and downright gorgeous. On top of all this, she’s
active, adventurous, and fun. If she liked any of the horde of men that
followed her around, she could have been married ten times over, and she’d only
just turned thirty.

Sadie slid in behind the wheel,
then leaned over and pulled the collar of my shirt open, peering at the bandage
she’d spotted there. I stole a glance myself. I could see the blood seeping
through the white gauze dressing. She sighed and let go of my shirt.

“Don’t bleed on the car,” she said.
But her voice was tight, and I knew she was worried.

I dozed on the short ride to the
motel. When we arrived, I struggled out of the car and went into the office. A
clerk I didn’t recognize was behind the counter, eyeing me suspiciously. No
doubt she was a little edgy after last night’s events, and I couldn’t blame
her. Actually, for her sake, I hoped she had a shotgun under the counter.

It was a very long ten minutes for
her to triple-check my ID, confirm I was who I said I was, and get me a key to
my new room. I was sweating by the end and knew Sadie was watching me, waiting
for me to pass out and fall down. She took the key from the clerk then wrapped
an arm around my waist and guided me out of the office.

Sadie had been mostly quiet since
she’d picked me up. A couple times she’d tried to ask me what had happened, but
I’d blown her off. I didn’t want to talk about it. And she didn’t push.

“Here,” she said, pointing.
“Forty-two.”

She let us in and steered me over
to the bed. I mostly fell onto it. She shut the door and flipped on the lamps,
knowingly leaving the blinds closed. She dumped her designer bag on the table
as I reached into mine (not designer) for Krupp’s gun.

Glancing at the gun, she dropped
her keys on the table beside her bag.

“New gun?” she asked lightly.

“Yes. Do you like it?”

My gun had been confiscated and
taken into evidence last night. The third gun from my house was also in police
custody, having been used by someone else to kill Margaret Fischer. All the
rest were in a gun safe in the back of my storage unit.

This gun, a Vietnam-era M1911, was
Leonard Krupp’s, or at least it had been. And I was glad to have procured it
when I had. I was going to need it the next time someone with a ski mask and
gun came to visit me. And I’d bet anything there would be a next time. How
fortunate I already had a box of .45 caliber bullets.

Of course, I’d prefer to avoid
having the police look at this gun. I couldn’t say for sure where Krupp had
gotten it, or what he’d done with it. I’d noticed the serial number was still
intact when I’d cleaned it, but that would only make it easier to trace.

“You never carry a gun,” she said
as she went into the bathroom, flipping on the light.

“I know. But I’m kinda mixed up in
something.”

“No shit.” She poked her head out
of the bathroom. She held a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a package of gauze.
“Take your shirt off. Let’s get that cleaned up.”

“You don’t have to help me.”

“I know. But since I don’t know
what’s going on, it’ll make me feel better. Then I’ll do whatever you want. If
you want me to stay, I’ll stay. If you want me to go, I’ll go.” She ducked back
into the bathroom, then stuck her head out again, this time pointing a finger
at me. “But I expect you to explain all this to me one day.”

Eternally grateful to her for just
being a friend, I complied. Shedding my shirt, which now also had blood on it,
I went into the bathroom and sat quietly on the toilet while she slipped into
nurse mode and made quick work of cleaning and redressing my wound. She asked
me no questions and made no comments, although I knew she’d been an ER nurse
long enough to recognize a gunshot wound when she saw one.

As much as I would have appreciated
the company, I thought it too risky for her to hang out with me right now. And
I was just too exhausted to worry about anyone else. I happened to know Sadie
had her own gun in her expensive designer bag and wouldn’t hesitate to use it,
but I didn’t want to put her in that position. As promised, she left without
protest, simply reminding me I owed her an explanation (which better be good)
and ordering me to take care of myself.

I watched around the heavy drapes
as she returned to her car and motored away. I hadn’t noticed anyone suspicious
when we’d returned to the motel, and I didn’t think we’d been followed from
King Soopers. I was learning quickly how to spot a tail and other suspicious
activity. It’s amazing how easily that happens when your life depends on it. I
swept another glance around the parking lot, confident nothing was out of
place.

I put the gun on the bedside table,
along with my phone after sending Ellmann a text about no longer needing a ride.
Then I crawled into bed and passed out.

I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing. It felt late. I
reached for the phone and winced, the pain in my shoulder hot and throbbing, my
upper body stiff. Finally, I managed to snatch the thing up and answer before
the call went to voicemail.

“Yeah, hello.”

“Zoe, sorry to wake you,” Ellmann
said. “I wanted to call you instead of just coming in.”

“Okay, sure,” I said. “I won’t
shoot you.” There was only a trace of humor in my voice. I remembered all too
well how close I’d come to pulling the trigger last time.

“Good. I’ll be there in a couple
minutes.”

I pushed myself out of bed and
shuffled into the bathroom, taking the gun with me. (I’d learned a valuable
lesson last night.) In the bathroom, I stood before the mirror. My hair was
down because I couldn’t lift my arm to put it up. Still shirtless, I inspected
the dressing Sadie had placed earlier. It was intact and, by some miracle,
still dry.

My bag was neatly arranged on the
luggage rack where Ellmann had set it. I pulled out a tank top and had it over
my stiff, aching left arm when I heard the door. I couldn’t help feeling a jolt
of panic, even though I was sure I knew who it was. Grabbing up the gun, I
stood in the bathroom doorway, weapon at the ready.

“Zoe?” I heard Ellmann call as he
pushed the door open.

“Here.”

I said hello then returned to the
bathroom. I worked my other arm into the shirt and reached for the sling when
Ellmann appeared in the doorway. He took the sling and gently helped me into
it.

“I’ll get some ice,” he said. “You
could probably use an ice pack.”

“That sounds good.”

“I filled that prescription for
pain meds the doctor sent home with you. Don’t suppose you’d want one?”

“I’ll try some Tylenol first.” I
wanted to be stone-cold sober the next time someone tried to kill me.

I dug a bottle out of my bag and
shook two capsules onto the table. I found some Ibuprofen as well. Ellmann went
to get ice, and I looked in the pharmacy bag. There were more dressing
supplies, the narcotic painkillers, and some antibiotics. I shook out a dose of
antibiotics and swallowed them down with the rest of the pills.

Delicious food smells were coming
out of a second bag. Chinese, by the scent. I confirmed this when I peeked
inside and saw the square takeout containers. My stomach growled.

Ellmann returned and filled the ice
pack the hospital had sent home with me. I tucked it under my shirt, placing it
over the bandage. He began unpacking the food.

“I picked up dinner from Saigon
Grill.”

“My favorite.”

“Good. Your choice of beef and
broccoli or sesame chicken.”

“Chicken.”

“Egg drop soup?”

“Yes, please.”

We sat at the table and sipped our
soup.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I said
softly.

“Any particular reason why?”

“I’m a suspect in the murder you’re
working. It won’t look good—for either of us—if we’re spending all this
personal time together.”

“First, you’re the
only
suspect in that murder. Second, I’m not working it anymore.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because of our personal time. I
had my captain assign another guy to take lead: Darrel Koepke. I’ve agreed to
stay out of it. Of course, that’s only on paper. Koepke will keep me in the
loop and let me tag along. For the record, he doesn’t think you did it,
either.”

“That’s good, I suppose.”

“Except you look like I just gave
you bad news.”

“Isn’t it? I mean, isn’t this bad
for your career or your reputation or something?”

“Don’t worry about that. This sort
of thing happens sometimes. Granted, it’s usually witnesses, not suspects, but
hey.”

I sighed. “So what happens now?”

He shrugged. “We keep working the
case. I think everything is connected somehow. Koepke doesn’t agree, but he’s a
good investigator; he’ll get to the bottom of it. He’ll probably want to talk
to you tomorrow.”

“That’s fine. I’m free all day.”

He looked at me. “Why’d you leave
work early?”

“I quit.”

He continued looking at me. “So you
weren’t fired this time either?”

I explained.

“What’s your plan?”

I told him about Hobby Lobby.
Apparently I’d passed whatever personality test I’d been given in lieu of an interview.
Helen had called to offer me the position. I’d called her back after leaving
King Soopers and accepted, arranging to start the following day.

“When one door closes, another door
opens, huh?” He was leaning back in his chair, chopsticks in one hand, takeout
box in the other.

“How philosophical of you,
Detective.”

“Guess I’m also superstitious, ’cause
I’m starting to believe there is such a thing as luck. And, baby, you’ve gotta
be the luckiest person I’ve ever known.”

_______________

Another night passed without any intruders, gunfights, or
other interruptions. I felt much better, though the pain and stiffness were
still there. Ellmann was awake beside me. I tried to look at the watch on my left
wrist, but that hurt. Instead, I shot a glance at the clock beside the bed. It
was after nine.

“Do you have the day off?”

He shook his head. “No, but I’m not
lead anymore, so I don’t have any reason to be there early.”

“How long have you been awake?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “A while.
How did you sleep?”

“Great. I feel a lot better. Did
you sleep?”

“Yes. Do you have any big plans for
this morning?”

“No. Why?”

“Would you like to have breakfast?”

I smiled. “Yes.”

Ellmann drove us to the Silver
Grill. On another day, I might have walked. But I didn’t want to expend all of
my energy right out of the gate; I had a whole day to get through.

We were seated at a booth for two
in the middle of the dining room. Ellmann took the seat with a view of the
windows and the door, and I didn’t protest. (Another energy-conservation move.)

We ordered then sat quietly for a
while, watching the people around us, listening to their conversations. My mind
drifted and eventually settled on the first morning I’d had breakfast with
Ellmann. I remembered the two cops who had tried to give him a hard time.

“Do you remember our
first breakfast?”

He smiled. “How could I not? I’ve
never met a girl who could eat almost as much as me.”

Great. That wasn’t the part of the
morning I had really wanted him to remember. And, for the record, “almost” was
a horrible exaggeration. I didn’t even come close to eating everything on my
tray, as he had.

“Not that part. The part with the
cops.”

He chuckled. “I’ve seen them around
the station a couple times since. They avoid me like the plague.”

“They said dating was a sensitive
subject for you. What did they mean?”

He hesitated for a moment. “I had a
bad relationship end very publicly.”

I was curious to know more, but I
could see he wasn’t willing to share any more at this point. I understood well
how he felt. I didn’t enjoy rehashing the details of my failed relationships,
either. But, I thought this was a case of show-you-mine/show-me-yours. If I put
myself out there first, he might be more inclined to do the same.

“When I was eighteen,” I began,
setting my coffee cup down, “I started dating a guy named Matt. My close friend
Brandi had introduced us. She said we were perfect for each other. Boy, was he
charming. He asked me to marry him and I agreed. I ended up dropping out of
school, quitting my job, and moving to Denver for him, for the relationship I
thought we had. I thought I was happy. I was planning a wedding, preparing for
a life together, all of that.

“Everything was fine until I got a
call from the doctor’s office telling me they had the results back on my
pregnancy test. That was interesting, considering I hadn’t been to the doctor or
taken a pregnancy test. Apparently I was nine weeks along. Then it occurred to
me. Brandi and I were always getting each other’s phone calls because our phone
numbers were the same except for one digit. I asked the lady whom she was
calling for and, sure enough, it was Brandi.

“Naturally, I was excited for my
friend. Although, I was surprised she hadn’t told me she thought she was
pregnant, and I wondered whom she was seeing since she’d broken up with her
boyfriend a few months earlier. I called her with the news and we celebrated.

“Several weeks later, I was trying
to coordinate a time with Matt to look at this great wedding venue. I dropped
by his office for lunch, and the lady called me back about an appointment when
he stepped out. His planner was open on the desk, so I looked it over, trying
to figure out a time that would work for us both.

“I saw ‘ultrasound’ scheduled for
the following Monday. The same time Brandi had her ultrasound. When he came back,
I confronted him. He tried to deny it, but I knew. I just knew.” My voice had
gotten soft, sad. “I can still remember how I felt standing in the office with
him that day. I couldn’t breathe. I had a horrible pain in my chest. I felt the
world spinning around me, out of control. It all hit me at once. All the lies,
all the things that didn’t quite add up, all of it. I’d never felt so stupid in
my entire life.”

As I spoke, tears filled my eyes.
It was all too easy to recall what I had felt that day, and to feel it all over
again now.

“Brandi tried to convince me I was
wrong, that it wasn’t what I thought, that it had just been a one-time thing. I
never spoke to either of them again after that, except once. I ran into Brandi
right before her baby was born. She told me she’d found out Matt was seeing
someone else.”

I wiped my eyes and sniffed.

The waitress delivered our
breakfast and then departed.

Ellmann was sitting very quiet,
very still. He seemed to have his cop face in place, because I couldn’t get a
read on him. After a few minutes and a few bites of breakfast, he finally
spoke.

“Her name was Kristen,” he said
softly. “We met in our last year of college, and she was so different from the
other girls. I’d played football for all four years of college and most of high
school, so I had all sorts of girls chasing me, you know? But she was smart and
pretty, focused on her schoolwork and her future career. We started dating, but
things didn’t get serious very fast. I was way into her, but I just always came
second.

“A couple weeks before graduation,
she called to tell me she’d taken a pregnancy test two weeks earlier and that
it had been positive. She wanted me to know she’d been to a clinic and had it
taken care of. That’s what she said: ‘I had it taken care of.’ Without
consulting me. It was over and done before I could say anything.”

He shook his head as if he was
reliving the phone call all over again. Whatever mask he’d had in place was
gone now, and I could see the hurt and regret and terrible sadness he felt in
his eyes. The tears in my own eyes were spilling over my lashes and running
down my cheeks. My heart broke for him as he told his story.

“Not a day goes by I don’t think
about that baby. I’ll lie awake at night and wonder if it would have been a boy
or a girl. I would have been happy with either, but I usually end up deciding
it was a girl. She would be eight now. I imagine what it would have been like
to hold her, to watch her take her first step, to teach her how to tie her
shoes or read a book. I would have taught her how to throw a baseball or swing
a bat, how to play soccer and football.

“I have tried and tried, but I
can’t keep myself from hating Kristen for what she did. All she could think
about was her stupid career, her goals, and her timeline. There was never any
place for anyone else, certainly not a baby.”

I sniffed and wiped my cheeks,
trying to get a grip on myself.

Several minutes later, I spoke.
“You said the break-up was public.”

“I managed to pull myself together
and get through finals. As graduation got closer, I thought I was fine, getting
over it. Two days before the ceremony, I realized I was nowhere near fine. I
spent the next two days pouring over every abortion statistic I could find and
compiling hundreds of pictures. I put together a very provocative PowerPoint
presentation. Kristen was valedictorian, of course. Before her speech, I
hijacked the audio/visual equipment from a nerdy sophomore who may or may not
have believed I’d beat him up if he tried to stop me. When she started her
speech, I played the presentation.

“I managed to lock myself in the
equipment room, so the whole five-minute presentation played. Half the audience
was in tears. Half of those who were crying left. A lot of people vomited, a
couple passed out. Kristen didn’t know what was happening on the screen behind
her until a minute into her speech. At the end of the presentation, I put her
name up, so everyone would know what she’d done. Those two cops, Topham and
Olvera, they were in our graduating class. They saw the presentation and know
our history.

“She still hasn’t forgiven me. I
suppose that’s fair, because I haven’t forgiven her, either. I’m not sure
either of us ever will. And, you know, some good did come out of it. Because of
what happened, I got involved in a lot of pro-life organizations. They still
show my presentation at conferences, rallies, demonstrations, stuff like that.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice a
hoarse whisper.

“Me too,” he said. “Unfortunately,
there’s nothing I can do about it now.”

“What does she do now?”

“She’s an attorney. She does a lot
of women’s rights crap, including abortion cases promoting a woman’s right to
choose. Not that women’s rights is all crap,” he added quickly. “It’s just—”