I stared at the screen.
This couldn’t be right.
The balance was a hair over sixty thousand dollars. I’d never seen so much money, even on a screen. Math had never been my strongest subject, but with my rough calculations, Bethany would have had to be working at least forty shifts a week at Untapped Books & Café for the past decade or three, and sold roughly a bazillion bars of soap a month to live in Brooklyn and still manage to accumulate a balance like this. The screen flashed, and the balance now displayed as twelve dollars and thirty-two cents.
I had a friend in high school that could max out a credit card in record time, but even she would have been hard-pressed to blow through sixty thousand in the blink of an eye. The fact that Bethany was already dead made the feat even more impressive. But where had the money gone?
I scrolled through her text messages until I found her money transfer alerts. The sixty-thousand-dollar transaction didn’t show up, but the last successful alert caught my eye. Three thousand, five hundred dollars had been transferred from Bethany to one Cherise Deveaux. Unless Bethany knew more than one woman named Cherise, I assumed it was her roommate.
Thirty-five hundred dollars was steep—to say the very least—for a sliver of a five-hundred-square-foot apartment that didn’t even have a kitchen, split between four roommates. It was astronomical. It wasn’t realistic. If Bethany’s portion of the rent was more than a thousand a month, she was being ripped off, and Bethany was more savvy than that. Besides, it wasn’t only the amount of the transaction that was bothering me, it was the date stamp.
The transaction had been completed at midnight tonight, three and a half days after Bethany died.
Something was fishy in Bed-Stuy.
Bethany trusted Cherise enough to designate her as her emergency contact, but then Cherise turned around and pulled a healthy chunk of cash out of Bethany’s bank account after her death. It was, at the very least, sus.
I stood and peered at the buzzer, trying to make out the numbers in the dark. I no longer cared what time it was. Cherise had some questions to answer. Right before I pushed the buzzer for Unit C, Bethany’s phone went dark again.
Drat. I’d let the phone go to sleep and now it was locked. Again. I stepped off the narrow front stoop, maneuvered around the garbage can, and threaded the phone through the bars of the kitchen window. Just as the screen sprang to life, I heard a loud blip of a siren, followed by a bright strobe of blue and red lights.
“Put your hands up and step away from the window,” came the instructions from a megaphone, and my hand clenched around Bethany’s phone. I’d never in my whole life been as terrified as I was when I turned around, my hands held high, and faced the police cruiser.
“Drop the weapon,” the megaphone barked.
“It’s not a weapon! It’s a cell phone!” I was staring directly into bright headlights, and couldn’t see anything beyond them.
“I said drop it!”
I didn’t want to get shot for not following orders, but I didn’t want to drop Bethany’s phone onto the concrete and watch my evidence shatter into a hundred worthless pieces, either. Holding my hands out, I slowly crouched and laid the phone down. I shoved it away from me with my foot.
“Hands behind your head. Turn around, and walk backward toward me!”
Shaking, I complied. I felt cold metal close around my wrists, and my hands were forced down. The officer then turned me around and had me sit cross-legged on the pavement. He shined his flashlight into my eyes. “ID?”
“In my bag,” I said, voice quivering uncontrollably.
He lifted the shoulder of my bag, but the way I wore it cross-body, my hands were cuffed around it. The officer tucked his flashlight into his armpit and squatted in front of me so he could rummage through my bag for my wallet. When he found it, he let the bag drop heavily to the ground. He rose and shined the flashlight onto my driver’s license.
I blinked as a hot tear escaped from one eye.
“Odessa Dean. Twenty-three. Piney Island, Louisiana. You’re a ways away from home, aren’t you?”
I’d never felt so far away in my life. Unable to answer immediately, I nodded my head and swallowed hard. “I’m staying at my aunt’s in Williamsburg for the summer.”
He made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. “Uh-huh. And you’re here in Bed-Stuy at nearly three in the morning because . . . ?”
“’Cause my friend Bethany was murdered and no one believes me and then I found her phone but I couldn’t unlock it but when it gets near enough to the kitchen it unlocks and that’s when I found out somebody, and my money’s on Cherise, has been draining her accounts and I think maybe that’s why she was killed.” It all came out in a rush, like the past three and a half days were compressed into one breath.
“Uh-huh,” the officer repeated. “I didn’t catch a word of that.”
I dropped my head to my chest. My accent wasn’t my only problem tonight. The first tear turned out to be one of many, and once the floodgates were open, there was no stopping them. I was crying so hard now, I could barely catch my breath between hiccups. Between the frustration of a futile investigation, Bethany’s death, and the terror of being detained by the cops, I couldn’t control myself. I couldn’t calm down enough to enunciate clearly. “Call Detective Vincent Castillo,” I begged the officer. “Please. He’ll explain everything.”
21
Chef Parker @2_Bee_Or_Not_2_Bee ∙ June 28
Q: When do bees get married?
A: When they finally meet their forever honey. #dadjokes
I’VE ALWAYS HAD certain talents. I can sew, and I’ve come up with designs that would put half of the outfits at New York Fashion Week to shame. At least all my designs have functional pockets. Despite what Kim and Todd thought, I was a good waitress. I could remember faces and orders and preferences of regular customers better than most. I liked to think I was responsible.
And I could sleep anywhere, under any circumstance. I’d once fallen asleep standing up. Taking a cat nap in the precinct was child’s play next to that.
My head was resting on my arms as I hunched over the cold metal desk of an interrogation room in the local precinct. It was a similar design to the one where Izzy and I had first met with Detective Castillo, but this one was smaller. There were other differences too. Last time, I hadn’t had one hand chained to the metal ring set into the table.
A noise startled me awake and my head jerked up. The cold handcuff bit into my arm when I moved too fast, and I rubbed at my wrist as the door opened and Castillo stepped inside. “Ms. Dean, I assume you have a good reason for dragging me out to Bed-Stuy in the middle of the night?”
I rubbed at my eyes with my free hand. I tried to speak but my voice was hoarse from crying myself to sleep.
“Hold on. Be right back.” Castillo returned a minute later with a bottle of water, which he set in front of me. Then he leaned across the table and unlocked the handcuff from my wrist before settling into his chair. “What happened?”
“Cherise was stealing from Bethany,” I told him.
“One step at a time here. Cherise?”
“Bethany’s roommate.” I closed my eyes and tried to recall what it had said on the screen. “Cherise Deveaux. She pulled thirty-five hundred dollars out of Bethany’s account at midnight tonight. Wait, no, that’s not right. Midnight yesterday. And then sometime around three a.m., someone pulled sixty thousand and change out.”
“And you know this, how?”
“It’s on her phone.” I felt my panic rise again. “They did collect her phone, right? I had it at the brownstone. The officer wanted me to drop it. I don’t remember if he picked it up before he shoved me into the backseat.”
“Officer Bradshoe collected two cell phones at the scene. I’m assuming one of them is yours. He also has your bag and wallet,” he confi
rmed. “How did you end up with Miss Kostolus’s cell phone?”
“I found it shoved into a cabinet at work. I was gonna bring it to you if I saw anything incriminating on it to prove that you had to reopen the case.”
Detective Castillo reached across the table again, but this time, it was to place his hands over mine. “Ms. Dean,” he started.
“Odessa’s fine,” I corrected him. If he was dating my roomie, he could at least call me by my first name. Besides, gendered labels were so 2018.
“Let me guess, you read a lot of mystery novels.”
I shook my head. “No, but I do listen to true crime podcasts.”
“Listening to podcasts doesn’t make you a detective.”
“Why not?” I argued. “I taught myself how to sew a Renaissance Faire costume, complete with corset, by watching YouTube videos. I could get a whole master’s degree online if I wanted to.”
Castillo pursed his lips. “I understand how you feel. I’ve lost my fair share of friends, and it never gets any easier, especially when it’s a senseless death. But that’s all this is. Your friend Bethany Kostolus had an unfortunate accident. You need to accept that and move on with your life. She wouldn’t want you to get into any trouble because of her.”
“But it wasn’t an accident,” I insisted. “Just take a look at her bank records . . .”
“If you dig deep enough into anyone, you’ll find something suspicious. That doesn’t mean that she was murdered. Promise me you’ll drop this, and I’ll get all trespassing charges waived and drive you home.”
Talk about a rock and a hard place. I didn’t want to go to jail, but I couldn’t let Bethany’s death go unresolved, either. So instead of answering, I nodded.
“I need a yes or no. Can you let this go?”
“Heaven willin’ and the river don’t rise.” It was the best I could do. Sometimes circumstances are out of my control. I wouldn’t make a promise that I couldn’t keep. What if the killer spontaneously confessed his—or her—guilt to me? Would Castillo expect me to pretend it never happened?
“Is that a yes?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at me. I did not envy the people he interrogated. He did not leave them much wiggle room.
“That’s a yes,” I agreed. It wasn’t my fault that he didn’t notice my legs were crossed.
“I don’t believe you,” the detective said. “I’m keeping the phone. And if you go getting into any more trouble, don’t drag me into it because I won’t bail you out next time.”
“Bail?” I asked, blinking rapidly at him.
“Figure of speech. This time. Next time, it might not be.”
“Can I ask you something?” He blinked at me, and I took that as consent. “Have you come across anyone named Stefanie in connection with Bethany’s death?”
“No,” Castillo said. “See here, Odessa, there is no investigation. No case. Come on.” He escorted me to the front desk, where I picked up my messenger bag.
I verified my phone, wallet, and keys were inside. Bethany’s phone was not. Castillo drove me home, graciously letting me sit in the front seat, which was a vast improvement on my last ride in an official police vehicle. The sun was peeking out over the horizon when he double-parked in front of my building. “Thanks for the lift,” I said.
He nodded. “You’re welcome. And, Odessa, next time you decide to lurk around a house at three o’clock in the morning, try to wear something a little more inconspicuous.”
“Noted,” I said, glancing down at my neon green polo shirt. I dragged myself upstairs. It felt like the lower half of my body was encased in wet concrete. The uncomfortable nap I’d managed to grab at the station wasn’t nearly enough, and I needed to be at work in a few hours.
Izzy was up and awake when I unlocked the door. She was sitting at the island in the kitchen sipping a cup of coffee. The balcony curtains were drawn back and the first rays of the sunrise flooded the apartment. The balcony itself was blissfully seagull-free.
“Where have you been all night? And where did all those boxes come from?” Izzy asked as I dropped my bag on the floor by the door. Rufus jumped down off of her lap and came over to greet me. I barely had the energy to bend down and run my hand over his back.
“Long story,” I replied.
“Want one?” she asked, gesturing with her coffee cup.
“I’d love a whole pot,” I admitted, “but I need to catch at least an hour of sleep before my shift starts.”
“Why don’t you take the bed?” she offered. “That way I won’t bother you.”
“Thanks. I’ll take you up on that.” I looked over at the papers spread out in front of her, covering half of the island. “What’s this?”
“I want to say a few words at the wake tonight,” she replied. “I just don’t know how to say them.”
“I’m sure they’ll come to you,” I assured her.
“I hope so. By the way, I called around, and I found someone willing to come to the wake and give anyone who wants one a copy of Bethany’s tattoo. Isn’t that great?”
“At the wake?” I asked.
“Sure. Why not? Apparently, she and Bethany go way back. She did her tatt in the first place, so it’s kinda fitting, don’t ya think?”
I nodded. “That’s poetic, actually.” I yawned. “Hey, before I forget, you know anyone named Stefanie?”
Izzy shrugged. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”
“Drats.” Yeah, I know I promised Detective Castillo that I was done investigating, but old habits die hard. “Well, I’m beat.” I dragged myself into the bedroom and the next thing I knew, my phone alarm was blaring in my ear. I looked at the display and realized I could snooze for another fifteen minutes and still make it to work on time. So I did. When I finally dragged myself out of bed, I didn’t have time for a proper shower. Instead, I twisted my hair up into a messy bun and slapped a couple of bobby pins in it to keep it in place.
Izzy was nowhere to be found, but she’d left a Post-It note on the door. “Fed Rufus already. Wake starts at seven.”
With everything else that was going on, the wake was the least of my concerns, but true to her word, Izzy was handling all the details. And she seemed to need this. For all I knew, I needed it, too. Detective Castillo was a professional. He thought Bethany’s death was an accident. The ME thought her death was an accident, too. Maybe they were right. Maybe I needed to find another way to grieve her death.
Feeling like a ton of bricks had been taken off my shoulders, I got dressed and headed to work. I dodged between cars that had no respect for crosswalks, swerved around a bicyclist who was inexplicably riding on the sidewalk even though bikes had their own lane, and resisted temptation when I passed Lucky Stan’s Stuffed Croissant food truck—the same one that had almost run me over just a few short days ago. That reminded me that life could be short and brutal, and one should never pass up a stuffed croissant. I backtracked and bought half a dozen to share with my coworkers.
For the first time all week, Todd didn’t yell at me as soon as I walked in the door. He was behind the cash register, actually smiling as he set up the till for the day. “Mornin’,” I said, waiting for the other shoe to drop. When it didn’t, I offered, “Want a stuffed croissant?”
He picked one and asked, “Hey, Odessa, how much does a hipster weigh?”
I shook my head. For a man who ran a business that practically catered to hipsters, he was clueless. First and foremost, the only thing hipsters hated more than corporate conformity was being called “hipsters.” “How would I know? Everyone’s different.”
“About an Instagram,” Todd said, laughing at his own flat joke.
“Oof.” I gave him a disappointed look and headed back to the café. I offered croissants to Parker and Kim, who I was happy to see working with me on the morning shift. Todd needed to find a permanent replacement for Bethany so
on, though. We couldn’t keep swapping shifts and pulling doubles to cover for the hole in the schedule. The three of us stood around in the crowded kitchen, blissfully munching on our stuffed croissants. I’d gotten lucky and selected a chocolate-filled one.
As much as I wanted to heed Detective Castillo’s advice and let the whole mystery of Bethany’s death drop, lots of things still nagged at me. What had happened to her medical alert bracelet? And where had all the money in her bank account gone? For that matter, where had it all come from in the first place?
“Can I ask y’all a question?” I still hadn’t gotten the hang of “you guys.” Besides, “y’all” was gender neutral.
“Yes, I’ll marry you,” Parker quipped. “As long as you keep me in the stuffed croissants lifestyle to which I have become accustomed.”
“Good to know. What would you do if you had sixty grand?” I asked.
“I’d get my little sister into cosmetology school,” Kim said without hesitation.
“I’d drop ten dollars into every Patreon and GoFundMe account in my Twitter feed,” Parker said. “Then I’d check my neighbor into rehab and relocate the roaches in my apartment to someplace nicer.”
“If I had any money left over, I’d adopt all the dogs in the shelter and rent a big van and drive them up to Vermont and find them new homes,” Kim added.
“What are you guys talking about?” Todd asked, sticking his head in the pass-thru window.
“What would you do with sixty thousand dollars?” I asked, as he nabbed the second-to-last croissant.
He bit into it and red jelly squirted down his chin. “I’d go to some little Caribbean island and sit on the beach drinking beer all day. You?”
“I’d go to all the second-hand stores and buy up as many books as I could find, and I’d put one of those Little Free Library boxes on every corner in Williamsburg,” I declared.
Killer Content Page 20
