Deadly Interest

by Julie Hyzy

  Everything Maya and I had gone over the night before added up. It added up with a precision that told me there’d be no surprises when we checked those accounts this afternoon. I knew they’d be delinquent and I knew we had Owen in our grasp. All that remained was bringing Lulinski up to date, and having him move in for the kill.

  A couple of small details nagged at me. Why would Mrs. Vicks have asked Owen to draw up a new will? It made no sense, particularly if she suspected him of such enormous fraud. Maybe there was no other will. That left two possibilities. Either David was mistaken—when he told me about it he said he’d gotten the scoop from Owen, after all—or he and Owen were in collusion, somehow. I shook my head.

  David had given me carte blanche at the bank; it’d been Owen and his faithful little helper Nina, who’d shortened my leash where investigating records was concerned. David had been nothing but generous with his time, and he’d even offered a reward for information leading to an arrest in Mrs. Vicks’ murder. And, most importantly, I knew to follow the money. As a shareholder of Banner Bank, as well as its president, David involved in embezzling made little sense.

  I hadn’t kept a copy of the will Barton and I had found the day before, and now I wished I had. I’d love to know who Mrs. Vicks’ lawyer was back then, and I felt like an idiot for not grabbing that information when I had the chance.

  My watch told me it was just about nine-thirty. Plenty of time to swing by Barton and grab a quick look at that original will.

  I was just about ready to go, giving myself a last-minute check in the bathroom mirror when my cell phone buzzed in my back pocket. Expecting Lulinski, I wiped my just-washed hands on my jeans and pulled the phone out to answer. The number on the display took me aback.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Hi Alex, it’s William,” he said in an upbeat, lively tone. “Told you I’d call.”

  An enthusiastic flush worked its way upward from my chest, till I could feel it warm my cheeks. “Yeah,” I said. “You did.”

  “How’s everything going?” he asked.

  “Actually, pretty great, “ I began. Suddenly energized by the thought of being able to share the news with him, I was about to launch into a quick explanation of everything I’d found out over the past week, when he interrupted.

  “Good.” He gave a dramatic sigh. “It’s been really busy out here. They have us running constantly. I would have called sooner, but there just wasn’t any time.”

  “I understand,” I said, even though I really didn’t. “Learning a lot?”

  “It’s too much. I can’t wait to get back.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “It’ll be nice to be home.”

  Despite my best efforts to keep my eagerness down, I felt immensely cheered by that sentiment. “That will be nice,” I said, meaning it.

  “Well, hey,” he said. “I need to get moving here to make the plane on time.”

  “What time’s your flight?”

  “Uh . . . three-ten.”

  I glanced at my watch. “Isn’t it only about seven-thirty out by you?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a half-laugh I didn’t understand. “But I have a bunch of stuff to get done, you know. Return the rental car and all. And get to the airport.”

  “Sure,” I said, still thinking he was giving himself way more time than he needed. From what I knew of the station out there and the airport, it was about a twenty minute trip—tops.

  “See you tomorrow,” he said.

  “Looking forward to it,” I said.

  We both hung up and I stared at the phone for a long moment. I’d waited all those days for that? Not much of a chat. As I felt my high color drift down to normal, I wondered again at what it was that made me light up when he was around.

  Just as I tucked the phone back into my pocket, it buzzed again. This time it had to be Lulinski.

  Nope. William again.

  Suppressing a smile, I hit the button to answer, my mind making the hopeful leap that perhaps he’d realized he’d forgotten to ask about the investigation and he wanted me to bring him up to date. Or maybe ask me out to dinner next Saturday. It was amazing how fast my mind could cover all possibilities.

  Hey, I thought, a girl could dream.

  “Hello?” I said.

  This time William’s voice was low, warm with pleasure.

  “Tricia,” he said.

  I felt my heart stutter; the happy flush that had graced my cheeks a moment ago, dropped straight through to the floor, leaving my feet prickling as though they’d both instantly fallen asleep. I opened my mouth, trying to jump-start my brain. “No,” I finally managed, stringing the word into two syllables, “This is Alex again.” Then I added, “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Oh,” he said. He coughed out a nervous laugh.

  “Guess you dialed wrong,” I said, without inflection.

  “No, I just . . .” I could practically hear his brain working as he stammered. He gave another embarrassed laugh. “Alex. Yeah.”

  After several very long, very silent, seconds, I said. “Well, I bet you have to get going.”

  “A bunch of us are getting together,” he said. “For a meeting this morning.”

  I wanted to tell him I didn’t really give a hoot. All I cared about right now was getting off the phone as fast as I could. But some perverted masochistic curiosity made me ask, “So, who’s Tricia?”

  “Oh, uh, just our driver,” he said, talking faster now. “I’m supposed to call her to let her know what time to pick me up here. She’s just the driver. The station hired her.”

  The moment he said that, we were cut off. My phone buzzed yet again, almost immediately. This time when I saw William’s number, I hit the ignore button and waited a couple of minutes for the icon to pop up indicating that he’d left a message. He did.

  “Hi, Alex,” he said. “This is William again.” Same cheery voice as the first time he’d called—when he’d actually meant to reach me—but I heard that chagrined, almost-laugh one more time. “Sorry I missed you, but I guess you’re busy. I’ll talk to you when I get back.”

  Deleting the message, I debated calling him back. Given the circumstances, I didn’t want to, but if his plane went down in a fiery crash, I’d probably regret this being our last conversation. I rubbed my eye sockets with my free hand, and leaned my butt against the wall.

  Just about a quarter to ten, Chicago time. Quarter to eight in San Francisco. I thought about the long hours before William’s three-ten flight and the fact that he mentioned returning a rental car. And yet he’d told me that “Tricia” was a hired driver.

  I made a face; it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure this one out.

  There had been other notable moments in my life where what I believed soundly clashed with what was actually true. The fact that he’d lied to me told me all that I needed to know. As I stared at the floor, I wondered why these moments of realization never got easier to handle.

  I pushed away from the wall and assured myself that airplane travel was very safe nowadays. Pocketing the phone for the last time, I decided the hell with it. I’d take my chances.

  * * * * *

  The Tuck Inn motel could have been worse, I supposed. Though I’d passed our infamous neighborhood dive hundreds of times over the years, I’d never gotten up close before. Hidden behind a six-foot wall, no doubt designed to keep passers-by from recognizing cars in the lot, the two-story brown brick structure was bookended by black metal staircases. The surrounding wall sported two wide openings, one entrance, one exit. I pulled in, and had my choice of plum parking spots.

  Barton’s rusty white Buick sat in front of his room, number one-thirteen, the vehicle’s frame leaning low and to the left. Pulling up next to it, I got out of my own little white car, hoping no one at the front desk could see me right now. All of a sudden that big brick wall was my friend. The last thing I needed was to be spotted at the Tuck Inn by sharp-eyed neighbors
heading out for a nice breakfast after church.

  When Barton didn’t answer the door after I’d knocked twice, I moved to the left and tried to see inside the adjacent window, ignoring the grunge of its dirt-encrusted corners. There were wide oval streaks—whoever washed the windows here must have swiped a wet rag around in the middle. From my angle, with the morning sun hitting it from the east, it looked like a giant had left three enormous thumbprints on the glass.

  Cupping my eyes, I peered in.

  Nothing but the back end of vinyl-lined drapes and my own eyeballs’ reflection. I rapped on the window, hard, then leaned back, looking side-to-side, to see if anyone might have heard me. I listened for movement, but heard nothing,

  Despite the brightness of the clear-sky morning, the air was crisp and chilled. I pulled my jacket close and listened harder, trying at the same time to decide what to do next. Nearby, a cardinal chirped his distinctive call, and traffic zoomed by on the busy street outside the walled fortress. Otherwise all remained quiet.

  Back at the white wooden door with its fake brass one-thirteen screwed on, I leaned forward and tried to see through the peephole, knowing it would be a futile attempt.

  Disappointed, my hand reached for the scuffed knob and tried it, fully expecting resistance.

  It turned.

  My hand retracted, as if burnt. But now the door stood hairline-crack-open, though not enough for me to see anything in the dark room.

  I took a step back, and another glance around, feeling for all intents and purposes like a thief ready to move in when the time was right. A gurgle startled me. It seemed to come from inside the room and I canted my head, waiting for it to repeat, but it didn’t. Barton snoring, I decided. If I were any judge of character, and I liked to think I was, I had no doubt that he was sprawled out on his back, slack-mouthed, sleeping off a drunk.

  I should turn around and come back later, when he was awake, I reasoned. But when? I had the day planned with Lucy, then another trip back to the Loop with Maya this evening. And although I knew that the information I needed could probably wait, I was here—now—and impatient.

  Two fir trees served to obscure my view of the front desk and I hoped that meant it obscured their view of me.

  When I heard another snore-like sound, I made my decision. Barton wouldn’t even have to know I’d been here.

  I pushed the door open and stepped quickly inside, hoping that no one noticed my furtive movements.

  Just as I’d predicted, Bart was on his back, open-mouthed and huge. His fully clothed body lay diagonally across the still-made bed, his head tilted backward over the side so I couldn’t see his face. I shook my head, feeling smug. So predictable. He’d left on a single lamp, far in the corner, its stained shade listing sideways, and though it helped me to navigate the small area, it did little to cast out the room’s dreariness.

  Determined to get in and out quickly, I eased forward. Circa 1970 shag carpet, its deep brown pile matted and worn in paths around the bed, looked to be the newest addition to the rummage-sale-reject décor. Avoiding Bart, I tried to decide where he might have stored the will. The smell of old cigarettes and booze, along with the odor of the big man’s stale sweat, kept close company as I started for the suitcase in the back, just outside the bathroom. Another smell, something metallic, swirled by with an unpleasant tang, to join the collection of scents that surrounded me. I kept my mouth closed, wishing I could avoid breathing in the filthiness of the room. I couldn’t wait to get out of the place.

  Crouching, I brought my eyes to the level of the old-fashioned hardback suitcase, wondering why in the world a motel with the reputation of the Tuck Inn’s would have invested in valet caddies. Most people staying here didn’t bring luggage.

  I released the lock, first on one side, and then the other, holding my thumb over the flip-up mechanisms to keep them quiet. Lifting the lid, and standing, as I did so, I moved slightly to my right to allow the meager light to help me in my quest.

  It didn’t look promising. Before me sat a jumble of dingy underwear, socks, and a couple of shirts. Barton’s very personal belongings.

  I’d been about to reach into the mess, when all of a sudden it felt wrong. Like I’d crossed a line, somehow. I’d been able to rationalize every step along the path so far, and here I was, ready to plunge my hands into Barton’s privacy. It didn’t feel right. I didn’t like what I was doing. And I knew how I would feel if the situation were reversed.

  With regret, I closed the suitcase, pressed shut the locks, and decided to come back another time.

  With ginger steps, I made for the door. Barton hadn’t moved. Giving his sleeping figure a final glance, I shuddered at my presence here, and wished I’d never come. Fortunately, he was totally unconscious, but as I slid past the bed on my way out, I noticed the abstract pattern on the coverlet.

  I stepped closer. The shapeless expanse of deep red beneath Barton’s supine body caught the light. It glistened.

  Blood.

  A lot of blood.

  I heard my own gasp, instinctively moving in to get a closer look. My God, what had happened here? I felt like I was in a dream where I needed to run, but couldn’t. I moved toward him in slow-motion, holding my left fist up to my nose; the unpleasant smells I’d detected at first were much more intense close up. He reeked of urine and fecal matter. Combined with the close dankness of the room, I felt my stomach clench, and threaten to shove upward. But I had to check if he was alive.

  I came around the side of the bed that allowed me to get close to his face, every nerve in my body sending warning signals to an over-stimulated brain, trying to process all this at once. Whoever had done this to him could still be nearby, but I didn’t think so. I couldn’t think so. I had to check him. That was the only thing I allowed myself to focus on. I forced my mind to blank out thoughts of anything else.

  His eyes were open, wide, and terrified.

  As I reached my right hand out to search for a pulse in his neck, I saw the bullet wounds. Two, that I could tell. One near his heart, one in his stomach. Both bubbling out tiny fountains of blood.

  Just as my fingers touched his extended neck, he let out a deep gurgle, and I jumped back, stifling a scream. My God, he was alive.

  I automatically reached for the hotel phone, stopping myself just short of touching it, remembering that this was a crime scene. A crime scene I’d contaminated already. I dug my cell phone out of my back pocket and dialed Lulinski’s number from memory.

  “It’s Bart,” I said, thanking heaven when he answered. “He’s been shot.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At his hotel room. How quick can you get here?”

  “Not long. Did you call 911?”

  “No.”

  “Do it. Do it now.”

  The blood fountains had slowed, and I didn’t know if that was good news or bad as I watched Bart’s life ease out from the two wounds, looking like small mouths drooling red. Standing close to him as I spoke to the dispatcher, I maintained a close eye on Barton’s chest, willing his respirations to continue, holding my own breath each time they hesitated. I knew I could do CPR if I needed to, but I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. “Please hurry,” I said.

  I remained near him, not knowing what to do or to say. “Help is coming soon,” I offered, feeling lame. “You hang in there.”

  Just as I heard sirens blazing into the parking lot, Barton’s chest shuddered. His lips worked, but no sound came out. Two fingers of his left hand jerked, and then were still.

  * * * * *

  “Call it,” the lead paramedic said, stepping away from Bart’s body. The burly, white-haired fellow had his back to me, but I read disappointment from the slump in his blue-uniform-shirted shoulders.

  His younger colleague nodded, looked at his watch and said, “Ten-forty-one AM.” When he stood, and began to scribble notes on a clipboard, I looked at him more closely.

  A cop appeared at my left. “Over here, please,”
he said, gesturing me outside the hotel room door.

  When he stopped and settled in to start talking, we were in front of the window of the next motel room. “Let me have your name,” he said.

  At that moment, I realized how violently I trembled. Deep breaths did nothing to slow my heart rate and my legs shook. “Can I sit down?” I asked.

  He shot me a dark-eyed glare from a weathered face so reddened and lined, its texture resembled beef jerky. “Why?”

  “I’m kind of shaky.” I attempted to tuck some errant hair behind my right ear, but my fingers quivered and I couldn’t get it to stay.

  Fixing me with a grimace, he heaved a protracted sigh. “We can sit in the squad. Will that do?”

  Finding it difficult to form words, I simply nodded.

  He held open the back door and I slid in, unsurprised this time by the plastic-molded seat. Despite that, I must have looked shell-shocked because he asked, “First time in the back seat of a police car?”

  I shook my head. How to explain everything that had gone on since Mrs. Vicks’ murder?

  “Name,” he said, without preamble.

  Answering him, I stared out the side window, searching the crowd of medics, officers, and assorted onlookers for Lulinski. One of the trench-coated officials, striding about with an air of authority looked familiar, and I sat up straighter, fingertips of my right hand pressing against the window with hope.

  “You his wife? Girlfriend?”

  My hand dropped to my lap in defeat, when I realized the man I’d seen wasn’t Lulinski after all.

  “Whose?”

  “The victim, Barton Vicks.”

  I believe the brain moves into auto-pilot during traumatic situations. Right now, even as my knees beat a frantic rhythm against one another and my eyes flit back and forth between the confines of the car and the busyness outside, I knew I wore the look of guilt. My calm omniscient mind tried in vain to convince the rest of me that my trembling was unnecessary, that I had nothing to fear, that I should face this situation as I’d faced many others, with a cool sense of composure.