The Dead Girl: Greg Owen Mystery #1

by Evan Ronan

  My heart misses a beat.

  “Hey, Greg!”

  I turn and spy the stands and spot my ex waving politely at me. We have a pretty good relationship, so long as we keep it focused on our daughter and not each other or the past.

  Of course I recognize just about everybody else in the stands as I lumber my way up the metal, trying to ignore the fact I’m slightly winded from jogging about five hundred yards from car to track. I say hi to no less than two dozen people as I make my way to toward my ex, Lorelei.

  “How are you?” I bend at the waist to kiss her cheek.

  Lorelei is suited up, like always, her hair perfect. She could have been a model, but instead she went the route of the pharma rep and just crushes it.

  “I’m good.” She gives me a look. “Are you alright?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You’re flushed. Have you been to the doctor recently?”

  And here we go. “I’m fine.”

  “I know you work really hard, Greg, but you need to find—”

  I give her The Look. This is one of the reasons our marriage didn’t work out: she couldn’t go five minutes without telling me what to do.

  “Sorry.” She laughs unselfconsciously. “Old habits die hard.”

  I laugh too, because, shit, I’ve got my share of quirks also.

  I point at the field. “Look at our little girl.”

  “Little?”

  “Right.”

  “That’s a training bra—”

  I put my fingers in my ears. “La, la, la, not hearing this.”

  “Very mature.”

  I take my fingers out. “I try.”

  Our daughter is running the 100 meter and the 400 meter today. She’s fast. All she needs to work on is that burst out of the gate and—

  Slow down, buddy. She’s only twelve yet and you’re already thinking about the Olympics.

  “What?” Lorelei asks.

  “Old habits die hard,” I say cryptically.

  Tammy’s event is next. She lines up and gets herself set. When she lowers herself into the starting crouch, Lorelei smiles over at me and pats my shoulder.

  I don’t know why, but I take that as an invitation to put my arm around her, and she snuggles in and this is both stimulating and confusing. Like I said, we have a good relationship. Other divorcees I know, though, have told me about hooking up again after the split for casual sex. I always thought that was a crazy idea, but sitting here now with my arm around my ex—

  The gun pops and our daughter is off like a rocket. Noticeably slower than the other sprinters at first, but she quickly makes up for the start and comes in at least half a second ahead of the runner-up.

  We’re both standing and cheering and shouting, and Tammy gives us a little wave from the football field before regrouping with her friends.

  Tears in my eyes. And Lorelei’s.

  “Our little girl,” she says.

  “We’re very fortunate, aren’t we?”

  She gets a little more choked up and then surprises me with a hug.

  We watch the rest of the meet. Tammy does pretty well in the 400m too.

  “She’s so fast,” Lorelei says. “Where does she get that from?”

  “Not me. I was good with distances but I was never a sprinter.”

  “Me either.”

  Lorelei gets a call. “Have to take this. Oh, and Greg, I have to talk to you about something before you go. Okay?”

  “Sure.” I don’t know what that’s about.

  The meet over, the kids huddle on the field to listen to some parting words from Coach Rivera. When he’s done giving them the talk, he nods in my direction.

  “Greg, I’m looking for an assistant coach.”

  I laugh, then realize he’s serious. “Don’t know a thing about track.”

  “Basketball,” Rivera says. “There was a reason I made you a captain twenty years ago. You’re a natural leader. I could use your help.”

  “Sorry, Coach,” I say, remembering all the times he made us run extra suicides. “But I’ve got a lot of things going on right now.”

  He waves me off. “Next year then.”

  Tammy says goodbye to her friends, then scoops up her gym bag and backpack and runs over to give me a big hug. I wonder how much longer she’ll show me this much affection in front of friends. Soon she’ll be a teen, at which point I will no longer be cool and will turn into a Grownup Leper.

  “Hey, gorgeous.” I give her a squeeze and take her gym bag. “You were great today!”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  Her hair is turning the same shade of dirty blonde that her mother has. Every day she looks more and more like Lorelei, I think. Tammy has the same blue eyes and long neck. Poor girl got her feet from me, though. They’re big.

  “Dad, could you teach me how to shoot pool?” she asks.

  This might be the coolest thing she’s ever asked. “Sure! Pops taught me, and I’d love to show you how.”

  “Cool. Maybe some night this week?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll work it out with your mother.”

  She gives me another hug and I cleave to her, willing her to remain a child just a little bit longer. But time marches on, as they say …

  “Mom has to talk to you about something,” she says.

  There it is again. “She mentioned that.”

  Tammy looks up at me as we walk back to the stands. Lorelei is in the same position, one arm hooked under the other, cell phone to her ear. Probably closing a deal with another doctor’s office.

  “It’s … she asked me not to say anything till she got a chance to talk to you.”

  “Okay, honey.” I’m starting to get worried. This might have explained the strange, touchy-feely behavior exhibited in the stands while we watched our daughter race. “I’ll talk to her first.”

  “Okay.” She seems anxious, unusual for her, and a bit sad, even more unusual for her.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “School work?”

  “Dad.” She smirks. “I’m a straight A student.”

  “As your father, I am not only permitted, but required, by law to ask these questions.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Me?” When has my daughter ever asked me this? Probably never. Not because she’s selfish or self-absorbed, but because she’s a kid. She’s not supposed to worry about her parents.

  “I’m doing great, sweetheart.”

  “Oh, that’s good,” she says, as if she’d been expecting a different answer.

  “Why do you ask? Did Mommy say something?”

  “Mom? No. I just worry about you.”

  “You. Worry. About. Me?”

  She laughs. “Sure. Like, I know how hard you work and you don’t seem to catch a break.”

  Is this what she thinks? “Honey, I’m doing great. My businesses are doing well.”

  That’s true enough. I own or have a piece in so many things, all I need is for one or a couple to explode and I’ll be set.

  Just one home run. That’s all I’m asking for.

  “Oh.” She frowns, thinks about how to phrase whatever’s on her mind. “It’s just sometimes it seems like … I don’t know … like you do all this work and …”

  She looks up at me, embarrassed.

  “Honey, you can say anything to—”

  “And you never get anywhere.”

  “I take it back, you cannot say anything to me.”

  She laughs as I pinch her sides and then we both sort of realize she’s too old these days to be tickled. An awkward moment passes.

  “Sorry, hon, I still think of you as a little girl, but you’re really not.”

  “That’s okay. I still think of you as an old man.”

  Belly laugh. “You think you’re so witty, don’t you?”

  “Yep, pretty much.”

  Lorelei finishes her call and comes down the stands to meet us. “Tammy, you were A. Maz. Ing.
”

  “Thanks.” They hug and it’s nice to see that the divorce has not done any serious damage to our daughter. She does well in school, has a lot of friends, plays sports, and still, ostensibly, loves us both.

  “I’ll meet you at the car,” Lorelei says, handing Tammy the keys.

  “Okay.” Tammy grabs the keys and has her phone out immediately, texting and walking simultaneously to the car.

  Lorelei lets her get ahead of us. Then she turns to me with a smile.

  “So what’s up?” I have no idea where this is going.

  “Greg, I’ve been offered a great job. It’s really a wonderful opportunity for me and what I’ve been working for.”

  “That’s great,” I say. I’m happy for her. Lorelei has always been an excellent salesperson. Her territory and responsibilities have expanded a lot over the years.

  “Regional Vice President,” she says.

  “Lor, that’s great!” I give her a spontaneous hug.

  “Thanks …” She’s blushing, which is very unlike her. Lorelei is not bashful and is very used to compliments.

  “So what’s the problem?” I ask.

  She stops walking. For a moment, her eyes linger on Tammy’s back as our daughter makes her way into the parking lot, still texting and walking.

  Finally my ex-wife meets my eye.

  “The job is with a competitor and based in Maryland.”

  Maryland.

  Fuck.

  I stall, “Maryland?”

  She nods. “It’s a great opportunity for me. I’d almost double my current salary. There are really good schools down there, and the job would pay for Tammy’s college. Think about it, Greg, with all that money she wouldn’t have to take out any loans.”

  “Yeah, sounds like it.” But it’s in fucking Maryland.

  Lorelei makes a face. “It’s a really good job. It would give us a lot more security.”

  I take this as a potshot at me. “I’ve got a lot of things going right now. One of these days they’re going to pop.”

  “I know.” She looks down as she says this, giving the lie to her words. “But the job in Maryland is a bird in the hand.”

  There’s no way around a fight. “I’ll never see her.”

  “We’d only be a couple hours away.”

  “At least three hours away. More like four.” I shake my head. “I wouldn’t be able to come to her track meets or swing by in the middle of the week or … goddamnit, Lorelei, I don’t want her moving away. We share custody, and it’s important for us to both be present in her life.”

  “I know that, Greg. I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  “Oh you haven’t?” I say, putting way too much sarcasm in the question. “Don’t I get a say in where our daughter lives?”

  “Of course.” She holds up a palm and composes herself. “But this would be really good for her. For her, Greg.”

  Eight

  My mind is wheeling as I head back to the police station. I can’t imagine a life where Tammy isn’t more than a twenty minute drive from me. I’m her father. I love her. She loves me. We have a wonderful relationship and I want to be part of her life on a consistent basis. Skyping or talking over the phone isn’t the same thing. I need to be there. I need to be present.

  Lorelei was very civil during the discussion, but in truth she could go to court and file a petition to change the terms of our custody arrangement. She’s not litigious or vindictive, but she could do it if push came to shove. And she just might, considering how good the job sounds. It wouldn’t be hard for her to convince a judge that Tammy would be better off if her mother nearly doubled her already impressive salary.

  A salary that puts my current financial situation to shame. I’ve got equity out the ass, but nothing is seriously earning. The plates continue to spin, but at the end of the day, what do I have? A big fat portfolio of maybes.

  Goddamnit I can’t think about it right now.

  Nothing like a murder investigation to take your mind off a tricky domestic situation.

  My cell buzzes again. I ignore the call from Denise.

  I should get back to the pool hall because Bernie of all people is minding the store, but instead I find myself driving back to the police station. Hopefully I’ll get there before the shift changes.

  I am lucky—but I write that off to the law of averages finally doing me a solid. I was due, after all. Shawn is still manning, I mean peopling, the front desk when I get there.

  “Twice in one day. To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks.

  “I’d like to see the case file,” I say.

  “The case file?”

  “Yeah.”

  He regards me a moment. “Your license active?”

  “Yes.”

  Shawn harumphs. “Are you really looking to get into this?”

  “Look, pal, I just want to be able to look Denise in the eye and tell her I did the job. She’s got it in her head that he’s innocent but right now she knows the thing inside-out whereas I don’t.”

  “Whereas?”

  I laugh. “Bottom line, I don’t think the kid’s innocent but I need the facts to explain it to her.”

  His eyes grow suspicious. “You said earlier you were going to talk to him and that would be it.”

  I’m beginning to sense a little police hostility here.

  I smile. “You know me. I’m a masochist.”

  Shawn shrugs. No skin off his back. “Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  He takes me into the back, turns on the light for an empty conference room, says, “Wait here.”

  I do.

  He’s gone twenty minutes. When he comes back, he’s not holding anything.

  “Don’t tell me the file is missing.”

  He reaches into his breast pocket and produces a thumb drive. “Everything’s on here.”

  “Thanks,” I say, wishing I’d brought my laptop.

  “I need you to sign it out. It’s a copy but I still need your signature.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  There’s paperwork and I put my signature and sometimes my initials next to the X marks, and then the copy of the case file is mine.

  “Thanks, Shawn.”

  “You in for poker tomorrow night?”

  “I’ll see.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re taking the case.”

  “No,” I say, too quickly, “something came up with my daughter.”

  Which isn’t a lie really.

  “Alright,” he says skeptically. “Just ping me when you know.”

  I brandish the thumb drive. “Thanks again, Shawn.”

  I head back to the pool hall. Denise calls me. I ignore it again. This time she leaves a voicemail. I don’t listen to it. I want to review the case, see what the cops saw, before our next conversation.

  To Bernie’s credit, the pool hall hasn’t burnt down. He’s got six tables running, most of the customers teeny-boppers.

  Bernie, I see, has taken the luxury of firing up some soft pretzels for himself.

  “That comes out of your pay,” I say.

  Bernie holds up a hand. “Of course, Greg. Of course. But as you can see, I’m managing the place really well.”

  “Everybody is paying?”

  “Of course. No freeloaders in here.”

  “Except you.”

  “Now, Greg, that really hurts when you say things like that.”

  I can’t help but laugh.

  He goes back to his pretzel, remembers something. “Some kid stopped by to see you.”

  “Did he have a name?”

  “I’m sure he did.” He stuffs the best part of his pretzel—the knot—into his gullet and chews for an inordinately long time. He looks a bit like a python downing a mouse, he’s got so much dough in there.

  “What did he want?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  “Thanks, Bernie, that’s helpful.”

  “Oh, and some asshole named Shaw called here
.”

  My eyes pop. “When?”

  “I have no idea, Greg. You really need to get some clocks in here. Place is like a casino for Christ’s sake.”

  I wish it was as profitable as one.

  I go into the back and call Shaw.

  “Jason Shaw.”

  “Jason, it’s Greg Owen returning your call.”

  “Hey, Greg.” All of a sudden he’s friendly. What gives? “I wanted to invite you out tomorrow morning to see some of the units. If you’re really interested, I’d like to move quickly. How much financing do you have available?”

  Why the sudden change of heart? I’m on high alert here. “More than enough, I think.”

  “Who’s your lender?”

  “PennSafe Mortgage.”

  “I’ve worked with them before! This is starting to sound better and better. But, Greg, you’re a smart guy. Why don’t we cut to the chase? What’s your offer?”

  I am not expecting this and wary of his significant attitude change.

  “After I see the units, I’ll tell you.”

  Now I’m wondering the whole time if three point five million is enough.

  “Greg, don’t waste your time here. Or mine.”

  “I need to see the place first, Jason.”

  “But you’ve already seen it. I talked to a couple of my tenants. They told me about your visit.”

  Shit.

  “I only saw a couple units,” I quibble, then add, “I didn’t get the full tour. Come on, I’m no dummy, you know what I need to see.”

  Shaw cuts me off, “I’m getting another call I have to take. Let’s regroup tomorrow.”

  And hangs up.

  There’s definitely blood in the water here. His change in attitude and pressing me for a number before I’d officially seen the place are dead giveaways.

  Idly I play the what-if game for ten more minutes, then decide I’ve wasted enough time.

  Back to the case, I plug in the thumb drive.

  The police case file is divided into several sub-folders, some named, some dated, so it’s not exactly organized for the layperson. It’s going to take me some time to get through this material, and—shit—I’ve got a date tonight.

  You know it’s a crazy day when I almost forget about a date.