They expected a fair fight.
Jillie was in a business where it never favored her to participate in a fair fight.
Two hidden cops rushed down from the brush farther up the hill. Guns raised and shouting. Jillie lay still and struggled to get her chest to raise and fall with any predictable pattern.
Detective Don Crutchfield bent over her.
“You okay, Dolan?” He pulled her into a sitting position. The vest she argued about wearing because it was tight and hot under her clothes had fucking saved her life.
She nodded through another set of labored breaths. “Maybe you could have come out before he pulled the trigger?”
He snorted. The other officer was cuffing the pair. “Didn’t think the man had it in him, really.”
“They killed their husband. Why wouldn’t they kill me?”
“You’re not leaving them any money.” He held out his hand. Jillie fished the wire and recorder out from under the bulletproof vest and gave it to him.
“You owe me a drink, Crutchfield.”
Back to TOC
Obsessions
Bonnie Olsen
Back when I was hired, the boss—I’ll call him DM—struck me as an unusually gloomy man. Fine with me, so long as gloomy didn’t equal inertia. Research is funded by grants which are won on the basis of proposals, and those proposals are written by the boss—assuming he’s not inert.
Our project was supported by a small grant, just enough to keep the lab going for a year while I dealt with a stream of incoming samples from clinics around the world: N’Djamena, Izmir, Tétouan, places I’d never heard of.
I was to streak each sample onto a special kind of agar that selects for the bacteria we study, grow it up, pick one isolated colony, grow it up, and freeze the results, then repeat the process again, and again, day after day. It’s meticulous, repetitive labor—utterly unbearable for most people—but for me, my preferred element. I am a research technician, a very good one, in fact.
I may have had my doubts about DM, but the workplace itself was entirely to my liking: a small one-person lab—me—meaning I never had to deal with co-workers bent on expressing their oh-so distinctive personalities.
Better yet, this lab had an adjoining office—with door—for the boss. Once, I worked at a place where the boss’s office was nothing but an alcove set off from the rest of the lab, and though I didn’t have to endure co-workers, I did have to bear the boss’s notions of conviviality. Two or three times a week, she’d call out through her non-door, did I want to go out to lunch, her treat? Would I like some Girl Scout cookies? Did I plan to attend so-and-so’s birthday party down the hall? I left that lab mid-project—in fact, left the entire institution—and went to work at a lab with better architecture.
One day I was preparing samples for freeze-down, when somebody behind me said, “Hi.”
I didn’t reply. You don’t, when microscopic droplets of saliva could contaminate your work. I am known for my impeccable sterile technique.
“Uh…hi?”
I closed my vial and plunged it into its dry ice-and-ethanol bath. The bath boiled up the way a cup of rum punch boils around a hot poker—but didn’t boil over. I always get my proportions right. Satisfied, I turned.
The voice belonged to a scruffy fellow, longish greasy hair, ill-fitting boots, raggedy windbreaker: nothing I wanted anywhere near my lab bench. He affected an overly friendly grin. “DM in?”
A pointless question. DM was visiting his dentist, as the sign on his office door clearly stated. That was something I appreciated about DM, the way he posted a sign whenever he left, always specifying hour, date, and reason so I wouldn’t have to deal with interruptions. I can’t be gabbing with visitors when there’s work be done.
“Um, can I wait?”
No point answering that. His grubby butt was already in my desk chair; his hands with grimy fingernails—I could spot them from across the room—already touching my desk, my pen, my notepad. I made a mental note to swab that desk and everything on or near it with seventy-percent ethanol as soon as possible.
But I had work to do.
Our long-term freezer is housed, unfortunately, in a facility shared by two other labs. Sure enough, Sheryl, a tech from down the hall, was there before me. An ambush? She closed the freezer door and leaned against it. “That wasn’t Stan I saw down your way, was it?”
I was carrying a full complement of samples, dry ice, and ethanol; not my preferred condition, despite being properly gloved.
She said, “Scruffy guy? Kind of shabby? Bet he’s waiting for DM—hope he is—that’s sure to be exciting. Want to know why?”
She waited for me to ask why—which I didn’t—and I waited for her to move her gossipy self away from the freezer door.
She said, “Well, the thing is, Stan used to work here. Had DM’s tech job before you, and got fired! You should have seen—”
I reached around her, grabbed the freezer door’s handle, and yanked.
She got the idea and I gained access. I have no time for gossip.
I could see why Sheryl was expecting excitement, though. I’ve often seen bosses fire somebody then pretend to be the friendliest people on earth. But I’ve never seen a fired worker return to visit his former boss. Unless it’s for revenge.
When I got back to the lab, Stan the Fired Tech was asleep, head down, drool pooling on my desk.
But I had work to do. Colonies to pick, plates to streak; more colonies to pick, more plates to streak.
Suddenly cheers erupted behind me, and I almost dropped a whole stack of agar plates. It was Stan and DM falling into each other’s arms like long lost bosom buddies. Difficult to fathom, but good to see DM so, well, alive. I almost smiled.
Nov. 13, 11:30 AM
LUNCH WITH STAN, BACK BY 1 PM
That’s what the sign on DM’s office door read, and I was glad. Stan’s presence was a tonic for DM—and therefore a tonic for me. If that was Stan the Fired Technician’s idea of revenge, it didn’t seem to be working. In fact, I was expecting word of a grant proposal in the works any day.
JAN. 5, 11:30 AM
OUT WITH STAN
At first, the two of them just went out to lunch. Then they turned to playing some sort of car racing game on the computer in DM’s office. It filled both office and lab with the roar of engines and masculine comradery.
I tried not to mind, because whenever Stan the Fired Technician stayed away for three or four days, DM would become gloomy again, and I’d have to worry about that grant proposal. But then Stan would show, DM would return to vibrancy, and I’d relax. Of course, I couldn’t know exactly what DM did when he was alone in his office, but logically, grant writing would be on the agenda.
MARCH 10, 10:30 AM
OUT ALL DAY WITH S.
DM was more animated than ever, especially when he and Stan were talking G-force. G-force seemed to play a big part in whatever it was they were up to on those days they spent away from the lab.
Yet, though DM was animated, he didn’t seem to be working on that grant proposal. In fact, he was hardly ever at his desk. I’d e-mail him my weekly report of samples received and processed, and all he’d write back would be, “Thanx.”
But I’d catalogued well over a hundred samples thus far, surely enough for some kind of pilot study. I even included a line suggesting just that in my next weekly e-mailed progress report.
DM wrote back, “Thanx.”
MAY 2, 10:00 AM
OUT ALL DAY WITH S.
Another in a growing string of Out All Day signs. At least the lab was quiet now, making this the best lab position I’d ever held. Unfortunately, it didn’t look like I’d be holding this position long—not unless some other grant kicked in after our present one ended.
I never have trouble finding new positions because I am a good worker. But could the same could be said for DM? His professional reputation had to be suffering. A good technician would give her boss a nudge.
DM’s e-mailed response: “Thanx.”
JUNE 18, 9:30 AM
ICBID CONFERENCE
ICBID stands for International Congress on Bacteriology and Infectious Diseases. This year’s meeting was to be held at a certain conference center in Idaho. I’ve been there. It’s a faux-rustic retreat that mixes luxury and informality to create a perfect environment for the exchange of ideas and promotion of collaboration. Better yet, it would be the perfect chance for DM to get his name added to some other researcher’s proposal. I had my hopes.
The three-day conference ended but DM didn’t come home. A full week passed after that, and still, I had no word from DM, not even an e-mailed “Thanx” for my regular progress report. At least, Stan the Fired Technician wasn’t coming by to intrude upon my solitude.
Who did come by was the chair of our department. She hadn’t heard from DM either, not a note, not a peep. Together, we rifled through his desk searching for clues about whatever travel plans he’d made, because he hadn’t made them through regular channels; the chair already knew that.
We finally found a Post-it note reading “Sky Adventures” and a telephone number. I phoned, and together we listened on speaker as Miss Sky Adventures told us that yes, DM had reserved flight time on June 18, but not for any trip to Idaho. Sky Adventures is about parachute jumping.
Eventually, DM’s body was found attached to a parachute snagged high in a tree. Stan the Fired Technician has not been found, so they’re calling him a missing person.
As for me, when I showed the department’s chair my accurate, detailed, up-to-date catalogue of frozen-down samples, she agreed to write a glowing reference—another in my collection of glowing references. I am, as I said, a very good worker.
Sheryl waylaid me at the freezer again. “Wasn’t that just horrible? Well, I knew some kind of revenge was in the works, didn’t you? I mean, after what Stan was fired for and everything.”
Another ambush. I had no time for this.
“But didn’t you know? Stan the Man! Stan the Dealer Man, get it? Fired for selling laboratory ethanol to undergrads—and that was just the beginning. Reagent-grade caffeine, God knows what lab he was getting that from, but med students were wild for the stuff. Barbital—I think he was lifting that from some histology lab—you can get a real good night’s sleep with barbital, but it’s terribly addictive.”
Yet again, she was blocking access to the freezer.
“See, with Stan,” she said, “whatever addiction you’ve got, he’s the man to feed it.” She paused as if in thought, and when I made a move to go around her, added, “So doesn’t that make you wonder what DM’s addiction was?”
It didn’t, but she went on anyway. “The way I figure it, DM’s addiction was to liveliness. You know, basic human interaction.”
I pushed around her.
“Don’t you want to know what your obsession is?”
I faked a sneeze and spilled freezing ethanol all down her leg. I had no time for this. I am not obsessed with anything. I’m just very, very good at my work.
Back to TOC
Set Them Free, If Need Be
Courtney Carter
Obsession.
Rachael thought that was a perfect name for a perfume.
She reached for the egg-shaped bottle of amber liquid, popped off the top, and spritzed a generous amount onto her wrists, neck, and cleavage.
It wasn’t her favorite scent. It was a little too spicy and a little too 1980s Dallas for her tastes, but she was seeing Mr. Klein tonight and that was the scent he liked the most. From something he’d said, she was certain his mother had worn it. Freud would have loved to sink his teeth into that one. Asking your date to wear the same perfume your mother preferred?
Oh, Mr. Klein, she thought.
She put the bottle back in its place among the dozen other perfumes lining her vanity, and smirked at her long-running personal joke. Imagine if she was seeing the Mr. Klein, rather than a regular client she secretly referred to by the designer’s name. It was easier if she didn’t think of them by their real names, their office-working, child-rearing, buying their wives presents identical to the ones they gave her so they wouldn’t get confused-names. It allowed her to compartmentalize them and keep track without getting too attached. That’s what they say, isn’t it? You should never name a pet you aren’t going to keep for very long. That way it’s less of a struggle when you have to let it go.
Run! Be free, Fluffy! Or, whatever your real name is!
Rachael put the finishing touches to her ensemble: the diamond earrings Mr. Klein gave her for Valentine’s Day that year—identical to, if also a slightly smaller carat size than the ones Mrs. Klein received—and a pair of low-heeled Jimmy Choos that matched her coral dress perfectly. Mr. Klein was stuck on the precipice of neither being a particularly tall nor a particularly short man, but she knew he liked it when she made an effort to keep her height under his.
The black Lincoln arrived precisely at eight p.m. to pick her up. She slid into the back seat, feeling the worn-in, buttery leather against the backs of her thighs. Rachael loved Town Cars, had never even considered navigating the city of Chicago any other way. Let the elite show-offs have their smooth Jaguars, their flashy BMW convertibles just made for being spotted in as they whizzed by. Give her a good old Lincoln any day, with a quiet chauffeur and plenty of Evian stocked in the back seat.
Rachael observed the entire world from the back of a Lincoln Town Car. She was a watcher by nature, a skill that often came in handy in her line of work.
When the car pulled up to the Peninsula Chicago Hotel, she waited for the driver to open her door, to help her avoid a small puddle as she stepped onto the curb. He was one of her regular drivers, Eddie.
“Have a good evening, Miss Barrow.” Eddie tipped his cap and climbed back into the driver’s seat.
She walked through the brightly lit lobby and into the hotel bar. Mr. Klein sat alone. He’d already loosened his yellow silk tie and unbuttoned the jacket of his navy Armani suit. Must have been a rough day. She pasted a sympathetic look on her face and tapped him on the elbow to get his attention.
“Hello there. Bad day, hon?”
Mr. Klein’s face lit up. He stood to kiss her cheek, his nose sliding down to linger at her throat, breathing in a deep whiff of Obsession.
“You look lovely.” He rumbled into her ear, then pulled out a bar stool for her and ordered her a drink.
The bartender brought a gin and tonic—heavy on the tonic, light on the gin—with an extra lime wedge in a little dish on the side. All the bartenders at the Peninsula knew to make her drinks on the weak side.
Rachael sipped her mostly-tonic and listened while Mr. Klein filled her in on the hardships of his day.
“First a junior partner at the firm spotted a hole in our biggest client’s investment plan, then the damn house renovations got pushed back another three weeks, and don’t get me started on Helen.” He slugged back the last of his second martini. “She’s been busting my balls since before the house work even started.”
Rachael made the appropriate oohs and aahs of sympathy, even tittered at his rare display of crude language, but she never commented on his wife. The wives were off limits. In fact, she’d removed all synonyms of the word “wife” from her vocabulary.
Spouse. Significant Other. The Old Ball and Chain.
But she let Mr. Klein vent his frustration. It was part of the job, after all.
Eventually, he lost verbal steam and had enough Grey Goose in his system to turn them toward more pleasurable topics. His hand drifted to her thigh while they waited for the bar tab to be cashed out.
Rachael was rath
er fond of Mr. Klein. He’d been her client for three years now. His hair had thinned and he’d put on about fifteen pounds but he was a good client. He wasn’t jealous or spiteful, if anything his only fault was that he just wasn’t “good at monogamy.”
His words, not hers.
They slipped out of the bar and stood close together in the otherwise empty elevator. They held hands down the hallway and before the door to their suite closed he reached for the zipper on her dress, and pulled her in close for another hint of perfume.
When Mrs. Klein showed up at her door three days later, Rachael was genuinely surprised. Few wives had bothered to track her down over the years, and this was the first one to show up at her apartment.
Mrs. Klein was blessed with a youthful appearance for her age, whether by nature or cosmetic assistance, Rachael wasn’t sure. She stood in the doorway, her tan slacks and mint green blouse pressed and neat, the straps of a five-thousand-dollar Hermes bag clutched in one hand.
“Are you Rachael Barrow?”
“Yes.” Rachael straightened the red maxi dress she’d thrown on to answer the door.
Mrs. Klein’s lips pursed together. “You’re older than I thought you’d be.”
“Oh?”
“And you’re a brunette.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s not what I was expecting.”
Rachael sighed. “Let me guess, you were hoping a twenty-one-year-old, blonde bimbo would answer the door?”
Mrs. Klein inhaled sharply, drawing her petite frame up, and said, “Do you know who I am?”
Carolina Crimes Page 9
