by Mike Slavin
“Oh, yeah. The one about telling everyday people to go kill a bad person?”
“That’s him.” Case sat back in his chair. “I just got done talking to the police all morning. I was the last guy to see him alive, if you count seeing him fall to his death as him being ‘alive.’ But I never got to meet him.”
Trish’s eyebrows shot up and she rolled her shoulders back.
Odd.
Case went on to explain what had happened. It was a great story and would be good at cocktail parties for years to come. Before Case knew it, Sam buzzed him again. It was 2:00 p.m.
He rose, and they stood. He walked around his desk, reached across Trish, and shook Bobby’s hand. “Bobby, would you excuse us a minute?” Case asked.
“Sure,” Bobby said. He stepped out of Case’s office and waited for Trish in the reception area.
Looking at Trish, Case said, “I really wanted to discuss this some more with you, but I have a full schedule today. Are you available for supper?”
“That’s fine, but how about I cook?” Trish said.
“I didn’t mean that at all.”
“Just trying to be nice,” Trish said. “No offense, but you’ve had more than your fair share of misery lately. Not to mention, you’re part of a major news story. My house will be more comfortable and private than a restaurant. Maybe you could relax a little.”
Case was seldom at a loss for words, but he hesitated.
“Someone may be trying to kill you,” Trish added. “Doubt they’ll find you at my place.”
“That sounds great. I was getting a little tired of eating out, anyway.”
Trish wrote down her home address and handed it to Case. “How does seven sound?”
“Perfect.” Case opened his office door for her to step out. He followed her down the hall to the reception area. Jazz was sitting in the corner, waiting.
“Jazz?” Case asked.
Jazz stood. “Jeff?”
“I’ll be with you in a second.”
Case walked Trish to the elevator. Bobby fell in behind them as they passed him in reception. The elevator was right outside the office suite doors. The doors to the elevator opened. Case shook hands with Trish and Bobby, then returned to his office. “Jazz, nice to meet you,” he greeted the awaiting woman.
Her handshake was firm. This was not a surprise to Case. He expected her to be a female bone crusher, but a strong grip was close. She was beautiful and probably intimidating to most guys. Her perfume smelled good, too—something musky and warm and expensive.
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Case. Thank you so much for meeting with me,” she said.
“Let’s go to my office.” Case ushered her in. He walked to his desk and turned to see her staring at his diplomas on the wall.
“West Point,” she said, staring at the framed parchment. “And a Master’s.” With her back to Case, he noticed her black heels were too high for a reporter, and she wore hose with a black line up the back of her leg. She slowly turned around, tipped her head down, and gave him a sultry look. “Aren’t you the smart one?”
“Educated, yes. Smart—that’s another issue.”
“Some people do think they’re smarter than they are,” she said.
“Was that an insult?” he asked with a laugh.
“No, just a comment.” She turned again and moved around his office looking at pictures and picking up objects. This wasn’t what he had expected.
“Could we get down to business?”
She walked over and stood so close he felt her breath, which smelled like peppermint. Her perfume drifted in again, her breasts brushing him as she leaned in, almost nose to nose. “Jeff, I have a theory,” she said in a husky whisper. “Since I met Robert Guess, something seemed wrong. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to write Kill Crime. And if he didn’t write it, who did? It seemed so real. I couldn’t think of who it could be. Then you showed up.”
“So?”
“You have a strong military background. You have a concealed handgun license. You like to play detective. Your wife and son were tragically killed recently. Then you decide to visit Robert Guess and he jumps off a building—or maybe gets thrown? You leave for Vegas the same day Guess is killed, and when you arrive home, the police take you in for questioning.”
“You seem to know everything already. What do you want from me?”
Jazz stepped back and picked up a paperweight from his desk. She twirled it playfully as she looked back at Case. “What’s going on? What do you know about Guess? How are you involved? Why did you run off to Vegas?”
“I got less of the third degree from the cops,” Case said with a smile.
“Just doing my job.” She pulled back with a sly smile of her own. Jazz took a seat in front of Case’s desk. She took out a recorder, turned it on, pulled out a pen and paper, and got more serious. “Well, Mr. Case?”
“Well ... nothing. Nothing is going on.” Case reached over, turned off her recorder, and handed it back to her. “You won’t need this.”
“I prefer to record everything for accuracy.”
“I won’t be saying anything worth recording.”
“Okay. Why the interest in Mr. Guess?”
“I saw your interview with him a month or so ago. He intrigued me, so I made an appointment to meet with him. Nothing but idle curiosity,” Case said. “Then I went to see him. I never got to talk to him, but I did see him fly past a window on his way down. I was hoping you could tell me more about him, actually.”
“If you saw my interview, then you know everything I know,” Jazz said. She added coyly, “Let me be honest with you. I think you wrote Kill Crime.”
“What? Are you crazy?” Case demanded. “You think I’m killing people just to write a book?”
She didn’t answer. He felt her studying him. Case realized she was a jet-black-haired snake. If he wasn’t careful, he’d get bit.
He shot to his feet. “I’m sorry. I have a conference call scheduled in a few minutes.”
“You can be my exclusive,” Jazz said as she walked to the door. She turned back to him. “If you are the author of Kill Crime, you can tell me ... I won’t tell anyone. You’d like working with me.” She lowered her head and winked as she smiled.
Case didn't bother answering as he showed her to the elevator. While they waited for the elevator, she stepped around in front of him and looked up into his eyes. Silence. Then the elevator arrived, its bell breaking the quiet. The elevator was empty, and Jazz didn’t take her eyes off him as she stepped inside.
What in the hell was that all about? That wasn’t like any interview he’d ever had. It seemed more like the spider interviewing the fly for supper, not hard-boiled journalism.
22
Later in the day, Buster stuck his head in Case’s office, filling the doorframe. “We’re at 6,224 feet.” He was holding a large brown envelope full of maps and well logs.
“What’s the projected TD?” Case asked.
“We should hit total depth in about six days,” Buster answered. Then he pitched Case on the new deal he had in the envelope under his arm. It could be huge, but they needed the leases. Case told Buster to get the landman working on it.
After Buster had gone over the deal, Case noticed it was a few minutes after six. He was supposed to eat supper with Trish that night. If he left immediately, he might be able to shower, dress, and be on time. It would be close.
His second shower of the day felt as amazing as the first, but he was running on empty. He shaved and combed his hair, which was easy due to its short length. Case put on a pair of seersucker pants and a light blue Burberry polo shirt. It wasn’t a date, but he wanted to be a gentleman. Case grabbed flowers and a bottle of wine. It might seem like too much, but he didn’t care. As Case pulled up to Trish’s house, he remembered Larry was supposed to be having supper with him that night. He gave Larry a quick call and apologized, rescheduling for the next day.
Happy he hadn’t accidental
ly stood up his friend, Case let out a sigh and sat in his car a moment. His body felt fatigued, but he was looking forward to supper with Trish. He didn’t know her well, but she seemed nice. Plus, there could be a couple of goons gunning for him. It would be nice to relax, at least for a while, knowing he was safe. Then he thought of his wife and son and the happiness disappeared. He decided to leave the flowers in the car.
Trish answered the door in blue jeans and a t-shirt with a picture of Mozart on it. Her apartment was well-lit, her stereo playing some 80s tune, and the air was thick with the aroma of freshly baked bread.
She motioned him inside, looking like half her attention was still in the kitchen. “I’m glad you could make it.”
“You look lovely.” Case followed her back into the kitchen.
“I look like I’m cooking,” she said. “Wait … Is that your secret to success—unashamed flattery?” She frowned at him before turning back to the pots on her stovetop. Case followed her and set the bottle of wine on the kitchen counter.
“Anything new on Krusty?” he asked.
“No, not yet,” Trish answered. “You know, I’m a little worried about this. I don’t want to get on the wrong side of the law.”
“Don’t worry. I plan to find a way to turn it all over to the police. But I need proof, and I need your discretion.”
“I keep getting the feeling you’re planning something more drastic.”
Trish hadn’t asked a direct question, so Case made no response. Instead, he changed the subject, continuing the small talk.
“Did you decorate your place? I really like it.” He liked the colors she had painted the walls. She called the shade Pumpkin Butter. They switched to a favorite no-think topic and discussed the weather. Case was as relaxed as anyone would be with a longtime friend. He even forgot how exhausted he was.
Trish finally got everything ready and they sat down. She presented him with a plate of chicken carbonara and set down a loaf of crusty French bread that smelled unbelievably good. The food and company were great. When they were done eating, Case sat back from the table.
“That was so good,” he said.
“You were just hungry,” she said.
“No, really. It was delicious. Wait right here.” Case jumped up and did a light jog to his car. Then he returned. “These are for you.” Case handed her the flowers.
“I can’t even remember the last time someone gave me flowers.”
“Yeah, I thought it might be too much, to be honest, so I left them in the car. But you deserve them as a thanks for the homemade bread, great food, and going out of your way to be nice to me.” Case returned to his place at the table. “So, about Guess. You said you haven’t read Kill Crime?”
“Not yet,” she answered.
“Guess is supposed to be the author, but I don’t think he actually is. I’m also pretty sure the book got him killed. You should read it.”
“On my to-do list,” Trish said with a slight smile.
“Remember that Asian woman you passed in my office today?”
“The one who looked like she belonged on a calendar as the ‘Kitten Vixen’?”
Case blushed at Trish’s description of Jazz, as he realized “Kitten Vixen” was the perfect description. “She’s an investigative reporter and she has a half-hour TV show every week,” he said. “She interviewed Guess about the book a few weeks before he was murdered. Then, today, she told me she thinks I wrote the book and committed the murders described in it. She even thinks I killed Guess!”
“Hmm.” Trish picked up a plate as her brow wrinkled. “Tell me about it while I clean up.”
“Sure. Let me help you,” Case said.
As they cleaned the table and kitchen, he recounted the conversation he’d had with Jazz. They moved into the living room, each grabbing a seat on the sofa and a glass of wine. Once they were settled, Case started telling Trish about Kill Crime.
“The book is all about telling people they should kill people who are guilty beyond doubt of horrible crimes. One section of the book covers, in detail, six different crimes and how the perpetrators were all released for one reason or another without ever going to jail. It goes on to describe how a citizen or citizens, utilizing the techniques in the book, killed them. Of course, the names were changed.”
“What were the crimes?” Trish asked.
“The first crime was a convenience store robbery where a woman was killed ... just like my wife, but no child. Like my wife’s murder, the manager of the store wound up getting himself killed, as well as the woman in the store. She was killed because she was a witness. The video camera didn’t work, there were no eyewitnesses, and the guns were never found. The police had nothing.
“The husband hired a private investigator. He found out ‘on the street’ who did it, two men. He wanted to kill them. He thought about killing them. Then he killed them. One was made to look like a drive-by, and the other was a drug overdose.”
“That story sounds way too similar to what happened with your wife,” Trish said, sitting up to pour more wine.
“But the book was released before my wife and son were murdered,” Case said. “And there must be thousands of convenience store robberies a year.”
“Still, I see why the reporter was interested. She thinks you killed your wife and son, and the book is evidence that you had planned out how to make it look like a robbery gone bad before you did it,” Trish said.
“What? That’s crazy. No way. Besides, I was at work.”
“You could’ve hired someone to do it.”
“Really, I can’t even respond to that. Why would I kill the woman I’ve loved since high school and my new baby boy?” Case demanded.
“I know you didn’t do it, but I see why she’s interested and what she’s thinking,” Trish said. “What were the other crimes?”
“The second guy killed a homeless veteran. He was drunk and somehow the vet made him mad. He beat him to death. The police didn’t press charges because there was a knife beside the vet with his prints on it. But the guy who killed him had a record of assault, and everyone knew he had a horrible temper and allegedly liked to rough up bums. He was also suspected of beating his wife. He got off on a technicality. Some plumber guy—also a military veteran—slit his throat,” Case said. “Justice was served.”
“Really, you don’t see how someone with a good imagination could see you doing that?” Trish asked. “And the next crime?”
“There was one about a guy killing a child molester. This guy was poisoned with something that left no trace unless you knew how to look for it.”
“And you’re on the board of a charity protecting children from child abuse.”
“And a bunch of other charities.”
“Another loose connection to you,” Trish said. “What else?”
“There were two more. One was a man involved in human trafficking but, in the book, he also accidentally killed a few women he’d kidnapped. He left them in a container too long and they all died of heatstroke. Another sold bad drugs and had a few bodies from overdosing. A man, just an ordinary citizen, found the murderers, hunted them down, and did them in.”
“Are you sure you didn’t write this book?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I think there’s a good chance the author of Kill Crime killed all five of those people.”
“You think he killed those people and then wrote about it in a book for everyone, including the police, to see?” Trish asked.
“I do. There’s another fascinating section of the book. This section profiles unidentified bad people and their crimes, but the perpetrators are still alive. It’s like a challenge to figure out the criminals’ identities and then go kill them yourself.”
“Anything of interest there?”
“One story was further out there. A politician in a Southern state was singled out for his stance on pro-life. In the book, it had pretty well been proven that his college girlfriend, with his encouragement, had an aborti
on. His ex-wife came out and admitted she had an abortion with his consent. So, the author considered him, beyond a shadow of a doubt, guilty of murder.”
“Really? That’s quite a stretch,” she said.
“I agree. There was also an oil-exploration-related crime,” Case said.
“Oil?”
“Some guy who made his money selling drugs started an oil exploration company and he killed a lease owner before he could record his lease. If his lease had been recorded, the oil company would have lost its key first well—a big part of the discovery for future wells. That may have destroyed the company.”
“All of these are unbelievable.”
“Yes, but the most interesting and disturbing crime in the book, that justice had not been served on, was a couple killed by a train at a railroad crossing,” Case said.
“Really? Why is that so interesting?” Trish asked.
“My parents died when I was three. At a railroad crossing.”
“It can’t be that common, can it?”
“They had the same first names as my parents. The same make of car. And the author made it a point to say it happened about thirty years ago.”
“Okay, that’s too much coincidence,” Trish said, “But your parents’ deaths weren’t a crime, were they?”
“My grandparents told me it was an accident,” Case said. “But the book has a different take on it. It says my mother and father—I mean, the people in the car—were killed, and the car was put on the tracks at night to get hit by a train. It was a way to cover up the murder. The book says they picked up a hitchhiker and he killed them.”
“Unbelievable.”
“In the book, the man is a serial killer, has never been caught, and is still alive as of when Guess wrote the book. As crazy as all that sounds, when I read that, I knew I had to locate the real author and find out what he really knows.”
“Now I understand why you wanted to talk to Guess. Do you think we should tell the police?” Trish asked.
“No. I need to talk to Guess’s wife. I’m sure Guess didn’t write that book,” Case said. “If we can find the real author, a lot of questions will be answered, and maybe we can save a life or two.” Case felt like they’d made progress, but he was almost falling asleep as he talked.
