I’m not asking for anything from you just yet. I’m reaching out, knowing you may very well stop monitoring this address, which has already leaked online (see link at bottom). Please do keep it open, though, until I can send you something useful. Once I do, I’m hoping we can chat.
It’s unsigned, but I know exactly who sent it. Well, maybe not who, but at whose instigation. Daniel Thompson.
Thompson has realized I’m not responding to yesterday’s e-mail. He promised he wouldn’t contact me again. So he’s trying a different tactic.
I have to give him credit—the e-mail is pitch-perfect. A total stranger e-mails me from out of the blue to say they think I’m being framed, and this whole thing is suspicious, and by the way, investigating crimes like this is their job.
How awesome is that?
Too awesome.
Thompson knows I think I’m being framed. He’s already told me I don’t have the credentials to do this myself. I’ve refused his legal help, so he has set his investigator on it, and the guy—or gal—will dig up some tidbit of information that’ll prove Thompson is the man to handle my case.
I’m tempted to say, “Screw you” and delete my account. I don’t. Nor do I reply. I’ll give Thompson a chance, through my silence. Let his investigator dig. If they actually do find something useful . . . maybe we’ll talk.
The ball is in your court, counselor.
* * *
I’m about to leave the coffee shop when I remember to research Isabella’s mystery lover. Not surprisingly, his phone number doesn’t bring up a name. The Internet tells me it’s a cell phone—shock!—and an LA area code—double-shock!
On my walk back, I try the number. It goes straight to voicemail, where a cheerful male voice says, “Hey, you’ve reached me. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you!”
I hang up. Then I sit there, frowning.
Did that voice sound familiar?
Not exactly, but something in it . . .
I’ve heard that voice before.
An actor? That would make sense. It’s the circle Isabella travels in, and I may have heard her lover in a movie or show.
I tuck the information away in hopes an answer will rise from my subconscious later.
* * *
The problem with hanging out at my hotel is that it feels like a prison cell . . . which only reminds me of where I could end up. It drives me crazy, though, sitting there, trying to read a magazine when I should be doing something, anything. I’m wanted for murder, damn it.
So I should . . . start interviewing witnesses? Break in to the morgue to further examine Isabella’s body? Call my nonexistent contacts in the police department?
I’m not a detective. Worse, as the actual prime suspect, I can’t even play amateur sleuth beyond looking for clues on the Internet.
Or I can get a lawyer. The thought makes my gorge rise, thinking of Thompson. I can tell myself he was an exception, but he’d been the only one who’d touch my case, meaning anyone else who might could be Thompson 2.0.
Still, I should do some defense-attorney research. See whether there’s anyone who looks like a possibility. I head out again to pick up the nearest source of free Wi-Fi and log on to find another message from TPI—my mental name for Thompson’s private investigator.
TPI’s e-mail comes with attachments. The first is a screenshot of Colt’s Instagram post from yesterday morning. It’s him on a veranda overlooking the ocean with the caption:
Early bird catches the worm! Or so I hear. Decided to try it once. God, it’s early. And I don’t even get a sunrise on this coast.
The time stamp is 8:03 a.m. Eastern, meaning 5:03 a.m. in California. By 7:10 a.m. yesterday, Isabella’s body had been discovered. Is that why TPI sent it? Suggesting this was Colt’s reaction to the “your wife is dead” phone call? It’s unlikely Colt knew by 8:03. He’d been relaxing on his deck with his first coffee, taking a selfie for . . .
No, it’s not a selfie, which means someone else snapped it. Still, I’m not sure I get the point of Thompson’s PI sending it to me. Does this imply Colt had a lover spend the night?
You know how you could answer these questions, Lucy? Read the damn e-mail.
Lucy,
I hope you’re someplace safe. If you need any advice on finding a spot, please let me know. I would like to speak soon. Speak online, I mean. I realize it will take much more than the contents of this e-mail to convince you that I can be trusted for an in-person conversation.
The attached photo was posted to Colt Gordon’s Instagram account yesterday morning. I suspect he was informed of the murder and immediately posted this photograph to be clear he was on the West Coast at the time.
Twenty minutes later, this appeared on his Twitter:
This is Karla Ellis, Colt’s business manager. He has received some terrible news this morning, and he will be withdrawing from all social media. Please respect the family’s privacy at this time. Thank you.
I sent the photograph because it wasn’t taken at 5:03 a.m. yesterday. It was pitch black in California at that time. I estimate it was taken closer to 7 a.m., on a different day, obviously.
I believe Colt received the news and scrambled to post a photograph “proving” he was at home when he was not. Does that mean he was at a lover’s house that night? Or that he wasn’t in California at all?
I’m still digging. I just wanted to send you this as an indication of what I can do.
Your first question will be why I’m doing this at all. Money. I’ll make no bones about that. Fighting for a noble cause is laudable, but it doesn’t pay my bills. However, I am not asking you for money.
As I said, I’ve worked for lawyers. In civil suits, they aren’t paid unless they win their case. I believe this situation is similar. There is money to be had here for whoever tells your story. I will admit, I fancy myself something of a writer. My payment then is that I have your permission to tell this story once it is finished.
I will be blunt. If you are taken into custody and found guilty, your story has minimal value. If you avoid arrest and are ultimately vindicated, though? That is—pardon my language—one hell of a tale. I want to be the one to tell it.
So here is my offer. Talk to me. Allow me to continue working your case. At some point, I will ask for permission in the form of a binding contract. That contract, though, will stipulate that it is null and void in the event that you are convicted of this crime.
I could point out that I’m taking a chance on you, believing in your innocence. Sadly, I’ve never been much of a salesman. Instead, I’ll point out that, considering the stakes for me, I’m fully motivated to prove your innocence.
Beneath that, he—from his use of “salesman,” I presume he’s male—gives me instructions on how I can talk to him via a messaging app. He’s set up a new account for himself and provided his username. He’s asked only that whatever username I choose, it starts with an L, so he’ll know it’s me when I ping him.
He has a good story here. It’s bogus, of course. But TPI—or his boss, Thompson—has at least come up with a more plausible explanation than “I’m offering to help you because it’s the right thing to do.”
Okay, Mr. Thompson. Let’s see what you’ve got.
There’s a sandwich shop a few blocks over, and I noticed it offered free Wi-Fi. I’ll grab lunch there and contact TPI.
As I walk, I think about what TPI found, and I wish, for the hundredth time, that I’d read Colt’s text thread before it disappeared. I’m so lost in my thoughts that I pass the sandwich shop and have to clear my head and backtrack. I arrive to find a tiny place ringed with counter seating, packed too tightly for privacy. There’s also a lineup out the door.
I consider finding another spot to eat, but well, I only had coffee this morning, and I’m starving. I’ll download the messaging app while I’m waiting, and if a seat clears, the sheer crush of people might mean no one will pay any attention to me.
I download the app
and create a fake account using a new e-mail address. I choose Llamagirl as my username. Hey, he said to start it with an L. His own username is PCTracy. Is his name Tracy? Surname? PC makes me think Police Constable. That’s British, though.
As I step into the shop, I pause to figure out what I want to eat. Italy might love its meats and cheeses, but sandwiches aren’t its thing, and the second I see pastrami and rye on the menu, my mouth waters.
Back to the app. It pings him with an automated “Llamagirl says hi!” complete with my emoji—a blond cheerleader waving and grinning. Totally looks like me. A moment later, an emoji appears waving back . . . and it’s a blond guy who looks like a high-school jock, the male equivalent of my choice. I have to laugh at that. Then I remember Thompson . . . who almost certainly was a blond jock in high school. Huh.
Llamagirl: Waiting in line for a sandwich. Chat in a minute?
PCTracy: Not going anywhere. So, llamas, huh?
Llamagirl: My secret passion. They’re adorable.
PCTracy: They spit and bite, and they’re bad-tempered.
Llamagirl: We have a lot in common.
PCTracy: LOL
Llamagirl: So Tracy, huh? Please tell me PC isn’t Police Constable.
PCTracy: Nah. Plainclothes Tracy. Old comic.
Llamagirl: Any relation to Dick Tracy?
PCTracy: It WAS Tracy . . . before he became a dick.
I give a sputtered snort that has the guy in front of me glancing over his shoulder. I also have to laugh because I’d been thinking of him as Thompson’s dick, the archaic name for private investigators, which is where the Dick in Dick Tracy comes from. It’s like us independently choosing high school blond emojis—it feels like a connection when I am desperate for one.
I remember Thompson’s first e-mail, very professional and formal, like PCTracy’s. Then came the more casual ones . . . exactly like the casual tone PCTracy has switched to here. More proof that I’m actually talking to the lawyer himself?
I step up and place my order. As the young woman starts to take it, a guy my age shoulders her aside with a murmured, “I’ve got this. Filipe needs help in the back.”
The new guy—the manager—asks for my order again. I give it, and he takes forever finding it on the touch screen.
“Cheddar cheese?” he asks.
I correct him. His gaze scans the screen, frowning as if he can’t find Swiss. Maybe because it’s the default for pastrami and rye?
“There it is,” he says. “Now, mustard. We have . . .”
He begins rhyming off options. I stop him with “Dijon is fine.”
Again, he takes forever to find it. Behind me, people start grumbling. The second counter person frowns at his supervisor. Typical management—jumps in when things get busy and actually slows the process.
“Pickles . . . ,” the manager says, gaze on his screen. “Is that spears or whole?”
“Either is fine.”
“Okay so . . . let’s see.” He reads back my order so slowly that I wonder whether I’ve developed an Italian accent and English seems like my second language. “Anything to drink with that?”
I’d love a Coke . . . but the people in my line may lynch me if I don’t wrap this up fast. I whip out a twenty instead.
The manager lifts the bill and squints at it. Then he looks at me with exaggerated sorrow.
“I’m afraid this is counterfeit, ma’am.”
“What? I got it from a bank machine. It can’t—” I bite off the protest. “Never mind. Take this one, and I’ll sort it with the bank.”
I extend a second twenty.
He shakes his head. “I can’t do that. Company policy. Let me take this into the office and scan it to be sure. Please wait here.”
I stare at his retreating back, feeling as if I’ve stumbled into a comedy skit. Are there hidden cameras? I can see the headline now. Fugitive Accidentally Caught During . . .
I stop. This manager is stalling me. Actively and clumsily stalling me with what seems like a bad comedy routine, so over-the-top that it can’t possibly be real.
It isn’t real.
I’ve been recognized.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The manager has recognized me. That’s why he came up front and took over. That’s why he’s stalling and dragging this out. He recognized me and called the police, and they’re on their way.
Are you serious, Lucy? Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?
Yep, but it’s more believable than his screw-up-manager act. I open my mouth to call after him and tell him to forget it. Then I realize, if I’m right, that’s a dead giveaway.
I exhale a dramatic sigh and look at my phone. The chat app is still open with PCTracy waiting.
LlamaGirl: I’m at the deli counter. I think I’ve been made.
There’s a long pause.
LlamaGirl: The manager took over my order. He kept stalling. Now he took my money to “check” it in the back, saying it’s counterfeit.
PCTracy: Get out.
LlamaGirl: It’s packed, and they all just heard him say my bill was fake.
A pause. I start to lower the phone, ready to solve this on my own. Then he responds.
PCTracy: Put money on the counter. Fives, a ten, something small that’ll cover it. No one counterfeits those.
PCTracy: Then move to the side. Tell the person behind you that you’re getting out of the way so they can be served.
PCTracy: If it’s enough of a crowd, slide toward any rear hall or exit.
I put down a ten and mutter, “Maybe he’ll take this.” Then I turn to the woman behind me and do as PCTracy said. She nods, obviously relieved to finally reach the counter.
As I slip to the side, someone says, “Hey, wait, didn’t she just pass a fake bill?”
“No, asshole,” a guy says. “That guy’s screwing her around. Her money’s right here. She’s letting us get our damn lunches.”
I join the crowd where the sandwiches arrive. I stand in one spot, and then I pretend to realize I’m in someone’s way and move closer to the back wall. I keep that up. No one here is paying attention—these people are too far from the front cash to have overheard the counterfeit issue.
There’s a back hall. When I peek into its shadowy depths, a woman says, “Yep, that’s the restroom. Not sure I’d use it, though.” She winks at me.
I make a face. “Desperate times . . .”
She chuckles as I slip into the rear hall. At the restroom door, I glance back. No one’s watching. Two more steps, and I push open the exit and step out, exhaling as the door shuts behind me.
A delivery truck turns into the service lane, taking up the whole width of it. The driver motions, as if to say, “Wherever you came from, lady, go back inside.”
I head the other way. Behind me, the driver taps his horn impatiently. I wave and pick up speed. A door slams, and over the patter of my sneakers, I hear the driver call me some choice names.
I duck into a passage between buildings. At the slap of boots behind me, I glance back, thinking the driver is coming after me, but he’s heading for a delivery door, still grumbling. I wait there in the shadows as the door creaks open and then smacks shut.
I turn and—
Someone walking down the alley stops short, seeing me. I catch only a glimpse of a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a hat and dark clothing.
The police.
I wheel and take two running steps, only to see the delivery truck blocking the lane. Blocking me in.
It’s over. I am caught. Well and truly caught, and even as my stomach plummets, a frisson of relief darts through me.
Time to turn myself in.
My gut spasms. Not at the fear of a lifetime in prison. I don’t honestly see that happening. No, the wild panic bubbling inside me comes from photographs that flash before my eyes.
Me in the hot tub with Colt.
Me in that motel room doorway.
And now me, being arrested for Isabella’s
murder. Photos of me, disheveled and exhausted. My mug shot plastered across the Internet.
It doesn’t matter whether the case is dismissed tomorrow. I will already have been found guilty in the court of public opinion.
I want to say it doesn’t matter. I survived before, and I’ll survive again. Yet even as I think that, my body betrays me, shaking convulsively, screaming to run, just run.
No.
I am caught, but I will handle this. I will survive it.
Brave words, yet even as my body pivots toward the officer, hands rising, I’m half-blinded by sheer, gibbering terror, that voice screaming that I cannot do this again, cannot, cannot, cannot.
Will.
I will.
I’m turning to face him, my hands raised in surrender and—
A fist slams into my jaw. I stagger, so shocked that my brain only processes what just happened as pain explodes in my jaw. Hands grab me, and I scramble, clawing uselessly, my mind fighting for traction.
What’s happening?
What the hell is happening?
Memory flashes, and in a blink, the alley is night-dark, and I’m walking from my job waitressing outside Syracuse. Someone grabs me and throws me against a wall.
The alley brightens again, shadowed light and the stink of summer trash. Hands pin me to the wall, and I struggle for that mental footing as the world threatens to dive back into that memory.
“I-I’m not resisting,” I say finally. “I’m not carrying a weapon. Go ahead and pat me down. My ID is in my wallet. I’m Gen—Lucy Callahan.”
There’s a pause. Then a low, masculine laugh as lips bend to my ear. “You think I’m a cop, Lucy?”
I freeze.
Of course he’s not a cop. He just hit you.
Which doesn’t mean he absolutely isn’t a police officer.
Every Step She Takes Page 17
