Murder Feels Awful

by Bill Alive

  I barely heard her, desperately wondering what Mark and Gwen had already said, whether they’d have already strangled each other or even still be there by the time I’d hustled across town.

  The traffic was heavy and the night was hot. Sweat was slicking my back before the end of the first block. By the time I finally reached the cold blast of the restaurant air conditioning, I was drenched.

  I checked my hair in a lobby mirror and instantly wished I hadn’t. Yet another opportunity to look like crap in front of Gwen.

  I shouldn’t have worried. It’s not like she looked at me.

  She and Mark were crammed in a corner booth, arguing in voices that they probably thought weren’t loud.

  “You can’t order people not to talk to me!” Mark was saying, obviously not for the first time that evening.

  “Mr. Falcon, I merely informed them of their rights,” Gwen said. “You’re welcome to make your case.”

  “You’re a cop! They’ll take your suggestions as a legal command!”

  “You haven’t,” she said.

  “You’re not the first cop to tell me to get lost,” he said. “Solved the case anyway.”

  By now, I was sliding into the booth next to Mark. He gave me a curt nod.

  Gwen, as mentioned, didn’t even glance at me. I don’t know how she can look amazing in a cop uniform, that should not be humanly possible. “What case?” she snapped at Mark.

  “Ask your friend Bradley Hirst,” he said, his voice souring on the name. “Or better, don’t.”

  Gwen’s eyes flicked wide. “The Condo Killer? In Alexandria?” she said. “Hirst nailed that guy, that’s how he got his big promotion.”

  “That’s one way to see it,” Mark said.

  “Whoa,” I said. “Is that why you hate condos? Was Zack there too? Is that why he gave you that look like—”

  “Forget it,” Mark snapped. “What matters is nailing this one.”

  “Then tell me all your information and all your theories,” Gwen said. “Like you told the Chief you would.”

  Mark sighed. In a low voice, he said, “I can’t.”

  Gwen bristled.

  Mark said, “If I’m right, the only way we’ll ever close this is with a straight-up confession. And I know you don’t want to hear this, Sergeant, but some people really do feel one thing and say another. Especially around cops.”

  “And you expect to extract a confession with a … what did you call it … ‘suspect party’?” Gwen said.

  “It is a dumb name,” Mark admitted. “That was Pete’s call.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Why would I allow something like this?” Gwen said. “When you even won’t tell me who you suspect and why?”

  At the word “allow”, Mark’s eyes flashed, but he forced himself to stay in Client Mode. “If you know my theory ahead of time, you’ll radiate the wrong kind of pressure,” he explained. “You’re the cop. You intimidate people. I’m just a broke web developer.”

  Gwen smirked.

  Mark’s calm facade strained a bit. “Why can’t we at least try this, Gwen? What do you have to lose?”

  “Some of us have careers in law enforcement, Mr. Falcon. You’re the dabbler with nothing to lose.”

  “I forgot, getting my brakes cut doesn’t count,” Mark snapped.

  But instead of retaliating, Gwen looked thoughtful. Distant, even. A sudden gleam sparkled in her eye.

  Cautiously, Mark said, “What is it?”

  Gwen smiled. “All right, Mr. Falcon. You can try to get your confession. I’ll even call the suspects and ‘suggest’ they come.”

  “Wow!” I said. “Really?”

  “Absolutely,” Gwen said. “If…”

  “Here it comes,” Mark muttered.

  “…if you agree that if you fail, you’ll drop your dabbling into detective work. Permanently.”

  Mark blanched.

  “Even if he gets the license?” I said.

  “He won’t need a license,” Gwen said. Her eyes were hard.

  “Gwen, come on,” Mark said. “Did you only get one shot at Police Academy?”

  “No, but I did learn it only takes one shot and I’m done,” Gwen said. “I’ve chosen a life, Mr. Falcon. You’ve chosen a hobby.”

  “You don’t know that,” Mark growled.

  “Then we’ll find out.”

  “Not if you force me to quit,” Mark said.

  “As you keep saying, Mr. Falcon, I can’t force you to do anything. If you do fail, I’ll have to assume you’ll be a man of your word. Against the evidence.”

  Mark scowled.

  Gwen’s smile grew nearly angelic, and she extended her firm hand across the table. “Deal?” she said.

  Mark didn’t raise his hand. “And if I don’t fail?”

  Gwen arched an eyebrow. “Mr. Falcon, If you get a murder confession in a room full of witnesses, then yes, it’s a truce. You can do your thing. Scout’s honor. Until you break the law, of course. Which I fully expect you will.”

  “Of course,” Mark said. He still didn’t raise his hand.

  I realized I was holding my breath. For real, it hurt. I was utterly torn on this — should I egg him on to go for it or beg him to run? What kind of promise was this? If he really did fail…

  Mark reached out and grabbed her hand.

  POW.

  An electric current surged through that bare connected skin. I’m serious. I felt it.

  Mark’s jaw clenched and his eyes went wide.

  Gwen’s lips parted a millimeter, and her eyes flickered soft with surprise. Which I did not know they could do.

  What the heck happens when two people touch, anyway?

  They released each other and fell apart. Mark looked away, but Gwen rose, already restored to full cop battle status. I had a flash of doubt; maybe their moment had been all in my head.

  “Send me your list of invitations, Mr. Falcon.”

  “Will do,” Mark said, staring down at his hands as they shredded a straw wrapper.

  I expected him to snark a parting shot, and then, with amazement, I realized Gwen did too, and was standing there waiting for it. An instant later, she realized herself what she was doing, and she snapped us a good night and marched away.

  Mark was still shredding.

  “Wow,” I said tentatively. “When you guys touched…”

  “I think what you mean to say,” Mark interrupted, with quiet anger, “is that Sergeant Gwendolyn Jensen just got exactly what she wanted.”

  I was really surprised to hear Gwen’s full name (no one ever uses it), but even more surprised at his tone. “She did not,” I said, my voice rising with a hint of panic. “Because this is going to work. It has to. Doesn’t it?”

  Mark grabbed his foam cup and crushed it into a mess. “Like she said. We’ll find out.”

  PART IV

  Chapter 38

  The next week was a blur of working actual full days at Valley Visions. I’d gotten used to taking off with Mark for interviews, and now, without those breaks, the days stretched into deserts of terrible tedium. When I would finally get home, Mark would refuse to say anything about the looming suspect party.

  If I asked him for his theories point blank, he’d call me Hastings and say that Poirot always kept his mouth shut too. Besides, the last thing he needed was me accidentally triggering a suspect to shield even harder.

  I thought that was bordering on paranoid, considering my trademark poker face. But given everything we had to lose, I grumpily let him keep his secrets for the big day.

  Also, every time I brought it up, he’d eventually get super quiet, pull up Chai Tide, and keep watching long after I trudged to bed. Not a great sign.

  The big highlight of the week: one client had some kind of accounting error and actually sent him a check.

  Thunder had been stranded where he’d fallen, but now we got him towed to a repair shop. Turned out the damage hadn’t been fatal. And the cost to patch hi
m up was way less than we’d feared.

  When it came time for the suspect party that Saturday afternoon, we roared over in Thunder like old times, good as new. Ish.

  For the party, Mark had reserved a room at the Brown County Library. As we pulled into the library parking lot, I thought of the drab multipurpose room, with its fluorescent lights and its air of an abandoned classroom that had given in to depression. I was tempted to ask Mark why he couldn’t have sprung for a spooky mansion library, or at least a private room at a fancy restaurant. But he was already looking pretty stern, and I decided he didn’t need any more stress.

  “The library was free,” Mark muttered, answering me anyway. He cut Thunder’s engine. “Plus, everyone knew where it was.”

  I really need to practice my shielding.

  He’d gotten a room with a side door to the outside, and we hurried over to this entrance through the chilly afternoon. Even though it was only the first week of October (and Virginia can rock summer-heat 70s and 80s well into November, even December), today was gray and cold.

  When we hustled inside, I was surprised to find that the crowd had already gathered.

  Gwen was standing ramrod straight at the front of the room, scanning the suspects with a fierce frown. She saw us and gave a curt nod.

  Mark nodded back, but she must have sensed his unease, because her lips twitched in a hint of a smile.

  Mark turned away and scowled.

  I sighed and surveyed the rest of the room. Rows of folding chairs had been duly set up, as if Mark were presenting on the Proper Care of African Violets instead of accusing someone of murder. The suspects sat scattered among the chairs.

  Fidelio Samson was hunched miserably in a back corner, clearly aware that everyone here despised him.

  Rich Hollister was grumbling and messing with his phone.

  Ramsey Mackenzie had brought a seat cushion, but he was still fidgeting and complaining about the terrible seat. I wasn’t sure whether it was the awful light, but his skin tone looked even worse than usual, and his eyes were sunken and bleak.

  Calvin Crowley was sitting with his son Vincent, his big arm clasped protectively around the kid’s shoulder. Crowley looked weary, but watchful, possibly wondering whether he should have brought his child to this thing. At least, I suddenly wondered that myself. And also whether the father had heard Vincent’s secret yet, either from him or Mackenzie. My guess was he hadn’t.

  Vincent looked scared.

  On Crowley’s other side, Grandma Crowley was parked in her wheelchair, clutching a large-print vampire romance but peering past it around the room with gleaming eyes.

  Everyone’s faces jerked toward the door, and I turned to see Jivanta stride in, head held high.

  Hollister boomed some inane and sympathetic greeting to his dead partner’s daughter, but she completely ignored him. She was too busy flicking Fidelio a cold non-glance. She sat primly in the opposite back corner to his, as far from Fidelio as she could.

  Mark nudged me. “Looks like she’s available,” he whispered.

  “Could you not?” I whispered.

  “Whatever.” He took a deep breath, then stepped to the cheap plywood podium and clapped once. “All right, everyone, thank you so much for coming,” he announced, in full-on Client Mode. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Sergeant Jensen made me,” Hollister grumbled. “Borderline illegal.”

  Gwen frowned. Hollister shut up.

  “I know your time is very valuable,” Mark said smoothly, “and I assure you this won’t take long.”

  The more polite he sounded, the more I worried that his anxiety must be off the charts. He had buttoned into his one and only collared shirt, which didn’t help.

  “In the last several weeks, we’ve suffered three separate murders here in our beloved small town of Back Mosby,” he went on. “And a fourth attempt.”

  ‘Beloved’? I thought. Oh Mark, is it that bad?

  “This level of violence is unprecedented,” he said. “The police are baffled.”

  Gwen cleared her throat.

  “Dude,” I whispered, “just get to the point.”

  He gave me a murderous glance — well, not murderous — but he did break back into his real voice. “Fine,” he said. “Here’s the key question, folks: what motive could possibly tie all three murders together?”

  “Drugs!” burst out Hollister. “Those damn synthetic drugs ruined my business!”

  “That’s right, your business,” Mark said, and now his voice had regained some comforting snark. “About that.” His eyes narrowed at Hollister, and the flabby executive seemed to constrict a bit. “When I read about your bankruptcy, I couldn’t help noticing that you’d gone bankrupt before. An investment firm. Handling clients like Mackenzie.”

  “That was decades ago!” Hollister snapped.

  “True. But it always struck me as strange that your interview with Hannigan-Quinn was so horrendous. Incompetency is one thing, but wow.”

  “It’s the damn media!”

  “Come on, you were feeding him catnip,” Mark said. “’Don’t you dare call it the Airport Murderer’ … please. You had to know that would sell papers like crazy and kill what was left of your business. Your own personal terrorist threat.”

  “What the hell are you implying?” Hollister demanded. “That I wanted to go bankrupt? Again?”

  “It’s a funny thing about bankruptcy,” Mark said. “It has a way of covering a multitude of sins. Siphoning off business loans, for instance.”

  From the back, Jivanta cried, “I knew it! Dad kept dropping hints!”

  “I had nothing to do with all those deaths!” Hollister yelled. But sweat was pouring down his pasty face, and it didn’t take an empath to sense some serious guilt.

  “All? No,” Mark said coolly. “But you’re a businessman, aren’t you? You saw the opportunity. You didn’t need to know who’d killed Lindsay or why — all that mattered to you was the connection to your airport. One airplane death could be an accident, but a second would send the airport into a convenient death spiral. And why not dispatch a nosy partner at the same time?”

  “You’re insane!” Hollister jabbered. “This is wild speculation! I want my lawyer!”

  He staggered to his feet. Mark nodded at Gwen, who strode to an inside door and waved in … the bearded, glaring Jonas Lynch.

  Hollister roared and crashed through the chairs to get to him, reaching with hands like claws for his throat. But Gwen lunged and nabbed him from behind.

  “Oxley!” she called, and her sidekick hustled in and cuffed him.

  “No! No cuffs!” Hollister shrieked. “I’ll settle down!”

  “Too late,” Gwen said.

  I sidled up beside Mark. “I thought Lynch skipped town.”

  “He did,” Mark said. “Because he saw something rather disturbing.”

  “He’s a liar!” Hollister howled.

  Lynch lurked close to the door, glaring and frowning through his beard, as pissed off as ever. In a flat voice, he said, “Hollister broke the fuel gauge and drained the fuel. Waterbury had just refueled it the night before. After the crash, I found where Hollister drained it.”

  “Oh my God, Hollister!” Jivanta shrieked. “You bastard!”

  “He’s lying, he tried to blackmail me!” Hollister yelled. “That’s illegal!”

  “Not as illegal as murder,” Gwen said. “You’re under arrest.”

  “Then he’s an accessory! He didn’t say anything! I want my lawyer! I’ll sue you all!”

  Gwen gave Oxley another nod, and he dragged Hollister away as the man wailed and cursed.

  Jivanta hunched forward, her hair shrouding her face. She made no sound, but her shoulders shook.

  Fidelio watched her with miserable helplessness, then shoved out of his chair and moved toward her. At the screech of his chair, she snapped up, and blasted him with such a ferocious glare that he flinched and sat back down.

  Gwen arched an ey
ebrow at Mark. “One down,” she said. Her smile twitched again, but now it held a grudging respect.

  I couldn’t believe it. We’d done it! We’d caught a fricking murderer! I wanted high fives all around.

  But Mark wiped sweat from his bald head.

  And Gwen’s smile vanished. “Two to go,” she said. “What else you got?”

  “Wait!” I said. “Doesn’t that one count?”

  “Count for what?” snapped Mackenzie. The other suspects looked confused and suspicious too, and both Gwen and Mark shot me laser glares of frustration.

  “Nothing,” I said. Great. Apparently, for Gwen, one murderer wasn’t going to be enough. Fabulous.

  Mackenzie looked eager to pry more out of me, but Crowley interrupted. “I agree with Sergeant Jensen,” he said. “I want to know who killed my wife.”

  Mackenzie snapped, “Everyone knows who killed both my daughters. That son-of-a-bitch scammer, Samson.”

  All the energy in the room arced back toward Fidelio.

  “Wait,” he said. He raised a beefy hand. “You can do what you’ve got to do. But first, I’ve got something to say.”

  Chapter 39

  Mackenzie twisted in his chair and yelled, “You going to confess, you bastard?”

  “No,” said Fidelio. “I didn’t kill anyone. These guys saw me, I was with … Dr. Kistna.”

  “You could have hired a hit man,” snapped Mackenzie. “You could have hired ten hit men. You’ve got the damn money.”

  “Not any more.”

  “What the hell?” gasped Mackenzie. “You already blew it all?”

  “No. But you can have it.”

  Now Jivanta gasped. The rest of us were stunned to silence.

  Mackenzie croaked a protest, but Fidelio said, “I’m serious. I don’t want it.”

  “You won’t get out of this so easy!” Mackenzie said.

  “I didn’t kill anyone!” Fidelio said. “I admit, I did hatch the money marriage scheme. Dr. Kistna had Lindsay for a patient, and she … Lindsay did seem like the perfect target.”

  “Target?” screeched Mackenzie. Fidelio winced, and Mackenzie creaked painfully around in his chair to fire Jivanta a skewering gaze. “You were her doctor! She trusted you!”