The Trouble With Murder (26 page)

“I get it.”

When I’d asked him about dating,
I’d had no idea his history was anything like this. I now had a whole new
dislike for the two cops I’d seen poking fun at Ellmann, and in a moment of
hateful vengeance, I wished their big, gay secret would get out for all to
know. I also thought my own history was far less hurtful than Ellmann’s. The
betrayal I felt from my friend and fiancé was minimal compared to what
Ellmann’s girlfriend had done to him. She was on a whole different level, and I
thought maybe I should be grateful my experience was what it was, understanding
now how much worse it could have been.

We finished breakfast, though
neither of us really had an appetite. When we returned to the motel, I invited Ellmann
back inside. He agreed and followed me in. I think it was the deep-seated hurt
in our stories, but I felt a need to reach out to him, to connect with him.

I kissed him, wrapping my
functioning arm around his neck. He pulled me to him until I winched from the
pain in my shoulder. He immediately loosened his embrace.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Please, don’t
stop.”

“Maybe we should wait.”

I lifted the sling over my head and
eased it off my arm, dropping it onto the table. “If you don’t mind a few
bandages, then I don’t want to wait. We just have to go slow.”

And that’s exactly what we did.

_______________

I reported for work ten minutes early. Probably I shouldn’t
have been driving. The truck is a manual, and I was severely limited in the use
of my left arm. Driving seemed reckless.

My new boss, Helen, was waiting for
me at the framing counter.

“Oh, my goodness, dear,” she said,
a hand fluttering against her chest. “What happened?”

“I had a little accident. I’m fine.
It looks worse than it is.” This lady was going to wonder what the hell was
wrong with me; every time I saw her, I had new and worsening injuries.

“Well, are you sure? You don’t look
good.”

“I’m sure. Kendra’s training me
today, right?”

“Yes. She’s waiting for you.”

I was outfitted with a blue vest with
an orange logo on the left breast and a plastic name tag with
zoe
handwritten in black Sharpie
marker. After the grand tour, Helen walked me through how to “clock in” and
“clock out,” which consisted of writing my name and the time in a logbook kept
near the employee lounge. Very complicated. Very high tech.

After this, Helen connected me with
Kendra, whose position I was actually taking. It was another
Groundhog
experience. I shadowed Kendra for a while. Then I shadowed people in various
other positions.

I spent the last hour of my shift
training on the cash register. “Cash register” is probably too generous. It’s a
large, expensive adding machine. Every item that came through was stickered
with a price tag. I simply punched each price into the machine and hit “plus”
between them. When the last item was entered, I hit “total,” and that was the
end of the story.

I learned the population of Hobby
Lobby shoppers is largely middle-aged and elderly women, most of them demure-looking
housewives working on one craft or another. I listened as almost every one of
them proceeded to describe their projects to me, explaining why they were
buying each item. I recognized immediately this would get old very fast.

Kendra sent me packing fifteen
minutes early, commenting that I looked “tired.” This was probably a nice way
of saying I looked like I’d recently been shot. I “clocked out” and left.

Likely just out of habit now, I
cruised past Tyler Jay’s house and then his mom’s house. I saw no sign of him,
the Honda, or his Escalade. Too tired for a stakeout, I didn’t stop, motoring
over to the motel. My phone rang as I let myself into the room.

“Zoe? This is Henry Davis. Do you
have a minute?”

“Sure, Henry.” I dumped my bag onto
the bed and sat beside it, digging in it for Krupp’s gun. “Is everything okay?”

He sighed. I didn’t know the man
well, but I sensed he was stressed.

“I can’t do this.”

“Do what? What’s the matter?”

“This job! I can’t do this job! I
thought I could, thought I
wanted
to, but I can’t . . . and I don’t.
It’s only been a week!”

“Exactly,” I said reassuringly,
closing my hand around the gun. I carried it with me to the armchair, where I
sat and crossed my ankles on the ottoman. I set the gun on the side table.
“You’ve only been doing the job a week. And it was dropped in your lap. You
have no one to show you the ropes, and you’re two people short in your office.
Of course things are a mess right now.”

Mark White had big plans for Henry
Davis, and the more focus White gave to others, the less he gave to me. I
couldn’t afford for Davis to crap out now. He needed to perform. There was no
way in hell I was taking over the Greeley office, and I was getting tired of
turning White down. I needed Davis to pull it together immediately.

“We’re about to lose a dozen
clients,” he whined. “And some woman named Patricia Newell has threatened to
pull her entire account. She refuses to work with anyone other than you. Do you
realize she has nearly forty properties with us, two of them apartment
buildings, many of them duplexes?”

Yes, I was aware. I’d been managing
Newell’s properties privately since I’d met her at a function in Denver years
before. I’d brought her with me when I’d gone to White Real Estate. I’d told
her I was on vacation, but Newell is the type of woman with an obscene amount
of money and far too much time on her hands.

“I’ll call Patricia,” I said.
“She’s not going anywhere.”

“All your clients love you,” he
went on. “They’re all calling, wondering where you are, when you’re coming
back, bitching about the people I have covering for you. They hate me. They’re
all going to leave. White’s gonna fire me. Oh, this is terrible!”

“Henry, get a grip. I’ve been doing
this longer than you have, that’s all. I’ve known some of my clients for years.
They know me personally. They trust me. You just need to prove yourself, and
you’ll be fine.”

“You’re right,” he said, sniffling.
“You’re absolutely right. I’m overreacting.”

An understatement, but I’d take it.

“It’s gonna be fine,” he went on.
“I can do this.”

“There you go. That’s the Henry
Davis I know.”

We talked for another thirty
minutes. He told me the details of the problems he was having, and I walked him
through solutions. Unlike at my other two jobs this week, here
I
was the
expert; I was the one who knew what she was doing. I didn’t have anyone lording
over me, trying to tell me what to do or how to do it. For a moment, I
sincerely missed the job I had waiting for me at White Real Estate, and my
thoughts veered to the job White had been offering me for years. For one
inexplicable moment, I considered accepting it. Suddenly horrified, I wrapped
up the call with Davis, sending him off with the best pep talk I could pull
together on the fly.

Saturday morning dawned early and full of pain. As I woke, I
realized I was sweating, tense, and breathing too fast. But it wasn’t a
nightmare. This time it was the screaming pain in my shoulder.

I eased myself out of bed, hoping
not to wake Ellmann, and tiptoed to the bathroom, carrying the gun with me.
Inside, I closed the door and flipped on the light, wincing at the brightness.

The bandage was peeling off, and
the gauze was dark red. I removed the dressing and remembered I’d been
dreaming. Not a nightmare, but disturbing all the same. It came back to me in
broken, disrupted fragments. I’d been running away. There had been masked
gunmen. I didn’t remember seeing my father this time.

As I struggled to redress my
shoulder, I seriously considered swallowing some of the prescription painkillers
with a swig or two of Jack Daniels. But fear got the better of me, and I took
more Tylenol, skipping the booze altogether. I went back to bed and tried to
sleep.

By six
a.m.,
I’d tossed and turned all I could for one night. I got
up and showered. In no hurry, I stood under the hot water for a long time.

When I emerged, Ellmann was sitting
at the table, talking on the phone. He was dressed except for his shirt, which
was draped over his knee. He smiled when he saw me.

“Yeah, got it. Text me the address,
and I’ll meet you there. Yeah, later.”

He disconnected and stood. Tossing
his shirt onto the bed with his phone, he walked over and wrapped me in a
gentle hug.

“When someone isn’t trying to kill
you and you’re not in the middle of a huge case I’m not supposed to be working
anymore, we’re gonna spend the night at my house, and I’m gonna cook you
breakfast.”

I tipped my head back and looked up
at him.

“When my house isn’t a crime scene
and I can find a new place to live, I’m gonna cook you dinner, and we can spend
the night at my place.”

“Promise?” he asked.

“Promise.”

Smiling, he kissed me, then
retrieved his shirt from the bed.

“You didn’t sleep much,” he said.

I thought he’d been asleep. If he’d
been awake, he hadn’t let on. He got points for leaving me alone.

“I got enough,” I lied.

“Maybe you should take a day off.
I’m sure the Hobby Lobby lady will understand.”

“I’ll be fine. In any case, I don’t
want to risk getting fired. Losing three jobs in two weeks is ridiculous.”

He collected his things and left,
wishing me good luck (his personal joke) and telling me to take it easy.

I arrived at Hobby Lobby in the
middle of a rush. I was sweating by the time I got to the back of the store to
clock in. I ran into Helen as I started out of the lounge, and she confirmed I
looked worse for wear.

“Oh, dear,” she said, her hand
fluttering over her chest. “You look terrible. Are you all right?” What was she
doing here on a Saturday, anyway?

“I’m fine, just a little tired.”

She couldn’t hide her doubt, though
she made no effort to try. “Well, I’m glad you’re able to work. You haven’t
earned any time off yet.”

“If I called out sick, what would
happen?”

“Unfortunately, if you do so before
you’ve earned sick time, you’ll be fired.”

“Good to know.”

So much for understanding.

“You don’t look good at all,” she
said again.

With that warm endearment ringing
in my head, I skirted around her and made for the front of the store in search
of Kendra.

All three registers were open, two
manned by women I hadn’t yet met. Kendra was on the last. She gave me the same
what-the-hell-happened-to-you look when I walked up, but kindly refrained from
comment or question. I was charged with manning a register of my own and did
well for the first hour. Then the drain of standing got to me, and I nearly
fell over. Kendra brought me a stool, and I was able to continue without further
incident.

Just as the rush died down, I heard
my name paged overhead. Helen was requesting my presence in her office. I slid
off the stool and hiked through the store. I wondered if I’d be stuck on a
register all day. So far, I felt comfortable with the check-out procedure, and
was unsure of my actual job duties.

I was slightly out of breath when I
reached Helen’s door. She was sitting behind her desk, reading glasses perched
on the tip of her hooked nose.

Before she offered, I went in and
took a seat, knowing I’d collapse if I didn’t.

“I just got a call from the drug-testing
company.”

The tone of her voice suggested I
should be concerned about the nature of this meeting. If I’d had more energy, I
might have been able to muster some up.

“They called because there’s a
problem,” she went on. Or, at least, I expected her to go on. Instead, she sat
staring at me, as if waiting.

“What problem’s that?” I asked.

“Your pre-employment drug screen
came back positive.”

“Not possible.”

I don’t do recreational drugs. And
I’d taken the drug test before my narcotic-filled stay in the hospital.

“It is possible. I’ve spoken with
the company myself. They assure me these sorts of tests are accurate.
Unfortunately, your employment with us was conditional upon passing that test.
So, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to fire you.”

I was feeling a lot of things:
confused, angry, and absolutely exhausted. I was sweating, my heart was beating
too fast, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to walk back through the store. I’ve
done a lot of dangerous, self-destructive stuff in the past, but drugs weren’t
one of them. I knew there was some sort of mix-up regarding the urine test. I
also knew this wasn’t a problem I would be able to fix right now. And I didn’t
have the energy to spend fighting, anyway. I struggled out of my vest and laid
it on the desk.

I stopped and clocked out, then
worked my way back to the front of the store. The front door swung open for me
at the same time a forty-something-year-old guy started out. He glanced at me
sideways as he came up beside me, then turned and looked at me more carefully.

“You don’t look so good,” he said.
“Are you okay?”

I looked up at him as we walked out
onto the sidewalk. He seemed fairly clean-cut, like a regular guy. He had a
plastic sack in his hand, and I could see it was full of beads and glitter.
Either he was purchasing those items for himself, in which case he was the sort
of man who liked those types of things, or they were for his wife or daughter.
In either scenario, I had a hard time believing he was any kind of threat.

“Where are you headed?” I asked.

“Uh, north: Vine and Shields.”

“Great. Mind giving me a lift?”

_______________

After returning to the motel, I fell promptly to sleep. When
I awoke, it was still daylight. The room was intact, and I hadn’t dreamt. I was
still tired, but I felt a lot better. I finished a bottle of water I found on
the table then changed into jeans.

My first phone call was to the drug-testing
company. I spent a fair amount of time on hold and being passed between people
until I finally spoke to a woman named Mary. She sounded busy, but not
distracted.

“Now, tell me exactly what the
problem is,” she said.

I did.

“Okay, tell me your name again.”

“Zoe Grey.”

“Oh, yes. Hobby Lobby, right?”

“Right.”

“Let me see.” I heard some
shuffling as she looked for something. “Ah, here it is. Okay, yes, I thought
so. Ms. Grey, I’m very sorry for the mix up. I called a woman named Helen
Auwaerter and explained. There was a small problem with the computer. Your sample
was mixed up with another. Your results were negative.”

“When did you call Helen?”

“About six o’clock yesterday. I
thought for sure I’d miss her, but she was still there.”

“Interesting.”

“This didn’t affect your
employment, did it?”

“Yes, I was terminated.”

Mary scoffed with disbelief. “Now,
why would she do that? I called her myself. I explained to her the mistake was
totally on us and that your urine was absolutely negative.”

Yes, why
would
she do that?
I had no good answer. I thought, all things considered, I had done an
outstanding job on the adding machine for my two shifts. And, given a chance, I
might even make a fine manager. I’d worn the blue vest with pride (or
obligation, whichever), and I’d served the blue-haired hobby community without
compliant, in sickness and in health.

Mary offered to call Hobby Lobby
again on my behalf, but I declined. She apologized again, I thanked her, and we
hung up. Then I dialed Helen. 

“It’s Zoe Grey.”

She didn’t say anything, but I
could tell she wasn’t happy.

“I wanted to talk to you about the
drug test.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve just spoken with Mary at the
testing company. She told me about the mix-up.”

“Mix-up?”

“Yes. My sample was confused for
someone else’s. My results were negative.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Mary told me she called you
last night, around six, and explained everything.”

“I’m not sure who she spoke to, but
I’m unaware of any mix-up. As far as we’re concerned, you did not pass the drug
test. You are not eligible for employment here.”

I sighed. “Really? This is the way
you’re going to play it?”

“Listen, Zoe, you’re an okay girl,
but the bottom line is, you’re not going to get your job back. I’m sorry. Even
if there was a legitimate mix-up at the testing company, it’s just not going to
work that way.”

Probably for the best. I didn’t
like Helen, and I didn’t particularly like Hobby Lobby.

“Can you at least put me down as a
resignation instead of a termination?”

“Yes. Like I said, I am sorry.”

“Yeah,” I sighed, “but that doesn’t
help me.”

Any optimism I had about lining up
another job before I needed to give Mark White an answer was dwindling fast. It
was time to face reality. I would need to consider accepting one of Mark
White’s promotions. Maybe I could insist on a contract, put a time limit on the
new position. A year, maybe. That sounded reasonable. And it would act as some
kind of failsafe for me—protect me from what I feared most.

Still working this over in my head,
I called for a cab and got a ride back to my truck, which was still in the
Hobby Lobby parking lot. An hour later, I was back on the road in my own
vehicle, trying to decide what to do with the rest of my day. I stopped for
coffee then figured today was as good a day as any to drop back by Tyler Jay’s
mom’s house. It was Saturday, so she wouldn’t be at work, or at least she
might
not be at work. Perhaps she would spend her day visiting her fugitive
offspring. I could only hope she hadn’t already left her house.

Armed with a book, a snack, and an
empty bladder, I parked in a new place with a moderately good view of the
house. On my cruise past, it had appeared the same as it had on every other
visit. I couldn’t tell if Mom was home or not. There were no other cars in the
driveway or parked at the curb. I settled into the passenger seat with my book
to wait.

While I waited, the book dragged
and there was a whole lot of nothing happening at Mom’s house. My mind began to
wander. I resisted the urge to let it, trying to rein it back in and focus it
on the book, but only for a while. Eventually, I just gave up and set the book
aside.

I wondered what Tyler Jay did with
his weekends. It seemed unlikely he would go to church, but it has been my
experience you can find some of society’s most dangerous people at church.
Maybe Tyler’s mom went to church. I pegged her as Catholic. I wasn’t sure why,
but it seemed to fit.

My thoughts went back to my first
visit with Tyler and to the Honda in the driveway. Ellmann said the DMV records
showed it belonged to the now-dead guy, Derrick Bilek. Derrick Bilek was six
and a half feet tall and three hundred pounds. At least. That subcompact car
was intended for girls, or five-foot-tall Japanese people. DMV records or not,
I didn’t believe that was Bilek’s car for a second. So, then, whose car was it?
Someone small. No, someone smaller than
Bilek
. Great. That left most the
population.

I thought about Tyler and if he’d
heard the news of Stacy’s death. I wondered how he felt about it. The brief
time I’d spent talking with him, I’d gotten the distinct impression his
feelings for Stacy were deep and genuine, so very much in contrast to the big,
bad murderer everyone had painted him to be. Not to say he wasn’t a murderer.
It just went to show even murderers have feelings sometimes. Was he
heartbroken? Was he feeling depressed? Did he feel responsible? Was he
responsible?

How was it he had continued to
evade the police? If Ellmann was being truthful, and I suspected he was, then
the heat had been turned up on Tyler Jay something serious. It’s one thing to
keep ahead of the police when no one’s actively looking for you; it’s something
else entirely to stay one step ahead when everyone in the county is looking for
you. Tyler Jay was no doubt an experienced fugitive, but he seemed small-time.
I couldn’t help but think if he could manage to avoid capture on his own, he
would have never spoken to me that day at his mom’s house. The risk was too
high that I could have been a cop. Did this mean Tyler Jay had help? What kind
of help did he have?

I went back through my memories of
the night in the lobby of Elizabeth Tower, the restaurant, Pezzani’s house, and
my motel room, and tried to discern some helpful information. The gun in the
restaurant had been the same as the gun used by the first intruder in Pezzani’s
house, the man I’d shot. That didn’t necessarily mean the same person had held
the gun both times. I considered my memories of the intruder. I hadn’t gotten
the impression he was tall. I thought Pezzani was tall. I thought Derrick Bilek
was huge. I thought Ellmann was beyond tall. I’m average. The intruder
definitely wasn’t tall. He had been closer to my height.