Too Lucky to Live

by Annie Hogsett

  I did see one thing clearly as I stood at that window. Me. My reflection. I could see right through myself. I’d been living day-to-day, loving my new independence but hungry for something else, something better. Then Tom stepped into my crosswalk with 550 million dollars in his grocery bag.

  I’d assumed that soon he would start appreciating his jackpot as a jackpot, not a curse. So how had that worked out? Break-ins. Kidnapping. Six people dead since last Tuesday. When he’d said, “I don’t care about the money,” it wasn’t ignorance of what that much money could buy. It wasn’t even a virtue. It was the God’s honest truth about Tom. He plain didn’t care very much about money.

  I gazed at him, reflected behind me in my window, sitting lost in thought in the warmth of lamplight he’d be able to feel but never see.

  In that moment, my Mondo blindness fell the rest of the way off me and I wished, like a silly girl in a fairy tale, that 7-9-16-34-57-8 had been anybody else’s number. I wished Tom and I had met in front of Joe’s and found life together without riches and bloodshed and the specter of avarice looming.

  I could see us. Me guiding him out of the crosswalk. The two of us eating chili and laughing in the kitchen. Tom kissing me for the first time, at the brink of wild water. That kiss. What if that kiss had never ended? If Ralph had switched off his loud old TV that night and gone to bed and left us alone in the moonlight, not rich, not dangerous. Just…kissing. Our story unfolding as it might have without 550 million dollars’s worth of land mines in the way. That was a story I could have loved forever.

  I wished. I wished.

  And then my eyes came back into focus and I saw what was happening down on the street. A crowd gathered around someone sprawled on the concrete, an EMS ambulance easing up, lights blinking, no siren.

  A dark intuition.

  A sinking sensation.

  A knock at the door.

  Chapter Forty-two

  An ice-blue eye glared at me through the peephole.

  I was learning. I didn’t just fling open the door. I pressed my own little brown eye up to the hole and our eyes met. No kidding. It was like the retina scanner thing that identifies the looker. It was D.B. all right. And he knew it was me, too. This was not going to go away.

  I still didn’t fling open the door. I glanced back at Tom. Comfy chair. Lamplight. He was all attention now.

  “Allie. Don’t. It might be—”

  I didn’t think so, but I didn’t say it. Not yet.

  I put up the safety latch and cracked the door, even as Tom warned again, “Allie, don’t—”

  “It’s okay, Tom. It’s only D.B. He’s alone. What do you want D.B.?”

  “Allie. Let me in. We have to talk. Something’s happened. Something bad.”

  I considered how much I would rather have D.B. installed somewhere far, far away. North Pole. South Pole. A mere door didn’t get the job done for me.

  “I like you better out in the hall. Go ahead and say what you have to say.”

  “It’s Diana. Diana Wiles. She—I think she maybe jumped—she’s dead. Let me in.”

  I glanced back at Tom who’d murmured, “Diana?” and half risen from his chair.

  No help for it. I opened the door.

  Once again, I’d forgotten how entirely D.B. filled up a room. He burst through the door, said, “Hey, Dr. Bennington. It’s D.B. Harper—as if Tom were deaf as well as blind—and then pounced on me. “She’s—she was a—nutcase. I need to get myself as far away from this as possible.”

  I went to stand by Tom. Moral support. As much distance as possible from my ex.

  “What makes you think she jumped?”

  “Because she was talking about killing herself before she left. I thought it was just talk. Drama.”

  From our long acquaintance, I understood that any time a woman got upset it was “drama” to D.B. but, based on what I’d heard about Diana this evening, I discounted D.B.’s assessment by a meager ten percent.

  “She left? You’re sure you weren’t with her when she ‘jumped’?” I made finger quotes to punctuate my point. I didn’t figure D.B. for a murderer. He’s too smart and way too self-serving. But it was satisfying to imply it. He took it hard.

  “God. No! I was in the bar. Ask anybody. She took a call. She got upset. She left. And the next thing I knew there was a ruckus out front. I went out to see.”

  You went out to see if there was an ambulance worth chasing.

  I kept the comment inside my head, but he heard it anyway and scowled at me.

  “I don’t know where she jumped from. It must have been high. She was—she looked—not good. Sorry, Tom, I know you and she were friends.”

  “Not friends anymore. Fellow human beings, at least.”

  Zingo!

  That one flew right by D.B., but I approved of it. I gave Tom’s shoulder a squeeze and got back a sad smile of solidarity.

  Tom focused his attention on D.B. in way that made me think if Tom had a gun and D.B. beeped, it would be “Sayonara, D.B.”

  “What was your business with Diana?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t say, Tom. Attorney-client priv—”

  I dismissed the motion. “She’s dead, D.B. I expect the court might pry you open if it came down to it.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Anyway, she didn’t have much of a case. Diana felt she was entitled to some of the lottery winnings, Allie, and I thought she deserved a respectful discussion. But her claim was thin. I was counseling her to walk away and that’s when she started talking about suicide. As I said, I thought it was all hot air. But I guess—”

  I was about to let fly with a withering rejoinder when there was yet another knock at the door. I peeked again and this time I saw a guy in a suit and tie. The suit guy had one of those free-range, hand-held badges. I opened the door.

  The guy aimed the badge at D.B. “Mr. Harper? Mr. D.B. Harper? Detective Miller. Cleveland P.D.”

  I saw D.B. consider denying that he was him and then dismiss the idea as unworkable. “Yes. I’m D.B. Harper. Please come in, Detective.”

  “You were in the bar downstairs with a Ms. Wiles this evening. Before she—”

  “I was.”

  “Could you tell us the nature of that meeting?”

  “It was business. I’m her attorney. So….”

  The detective moved on, consulting a little notebook. “You’d been there maybe twenty minutes. She’d had two martinis. At about 10:45 she got a call and left the bar. According to witnesses, you waited. Perhaps five, ten minutes later she fell, jumped, or was pushed off the roof. How she got up there—”

  “Pushed?”

  I couldn’t contain my doofus mouth. Now Detective Miller had noticed I was alive.

  “And you are?”

  “Alice Harper.”

  “Harper?” He glanced at D.B.

  “Yes. Mr. Harper and I were married, but we’re not anymore.”

  I was could see that Detective Miller knew exactly who D.B. Harper was in Cleveland and his estimation of me had gone up slightly on the basis of our severed association alone. That was real irony for me.

  “Did you know the deceased?”

  “I knew of her. We’d met on one occasion.”

  The detective was interested in this. He turned to Tom. “And you? Oh, sorry. Sir, you are?”

  “Tom Bennington. Ms. Wiles was a longtime friend of mine. We didn’t speak this evening, though. Ms. Harper and I were leaving the bar as she and Mr. Harper arrived.”

  I could see, whatever the detective’s agenda was tonight, he couldn’t figure Tom to have pushed Ms. Wiles off a roof. However, I could also see Miller had this very second put “Blind” and “Mondo Winner” together. His jaw dropped ever so slightly, but he raised it back into place, almost without missing a beat. He gave his attent
ion to his notebook and wrote for a minute. When he finished, he tucked it into his jacket pocket.

  “Thank you for your time, folks. That will be all for now, but I’d appreciate it if you’d make yourself available if we need to get in touch again.”

  D.B. extended his hand. “Thank you, Detective. This has been hard for all of us. I’ll follow you out. Good night, Allie. Tom.” His eyes as they met mine said, I’ll be back.

  Mine answered him: Not tonight, you sorry son of a bitch.

  I double-locked the door.

  “Tom?”

  He’d collapsed back into the chair again. Collar loosened, glasses off, eyes closed. Destroyed. He spoke to me then in a voice I’d never heard from him before. Dull. Hopeless.

  “The detective. Did you hear the way he talked about her? The way he said, ‘Fell, jumped, or pushed.’ He doesn’t believe Diana fell or jumped, Allie. He thinks she was pushed. It’s murder all over again.”

  “But why Diana? As far as I know, the only person who had any motive for killing her was me. Where does she fit? She’s not like the others. I don’t have a clue. Or a plan. Where do we start? And what about how she got to D.B.? And how did they find us? It’s such a mess….”

  “God, Allie. I just wish I never…” He let the sentence drift away. We both knew where it was heading. Mere minutes ago I’d been wishing the same damn thing.

  I went to him and knelt down so I could take his hands in mine. They were cold.

  “Tom. Don’t go there again. You’re blaming yourself for things other people were responsible for. Even Renata. Even Ulysses. Even—maybe especially—Diana.”

  After about my fifth or sixth word, he’d started shaking his head and now it was a steady rhythm back and forth. I was trying to ignore it, trying to break through. “Tom.”

  “No, Allie. I’m sorry about Diana but I’m not blaming myself this time. Whether I was ignorant, well-meaning, or whatever, I’m letting that go. It doesn’t help and I might as well be regretting I ever met Rune. Or moved to Cleveland. Or was born. I’m not to blame for this...evil. I know that. Even if I don’t always feel it.

  “But Allie…” He took his hands away from mine and put them on my face. “Where will I be if the next person to die is you?”

  Chapter Forty-three

  Friday, August 28

  Friday morning early, I called the Fifth District and asked to leave a message for Officer Bob Clark. The person who took my information said Officer Clark wasn’t there but he’d be in around ten-thirty this evening.

  “Would you ask him to call me? Any time? It’s important.” I gave her my cell number. She said yes, okay.

  I had a fond memory of his “You know how to reach me. Dial 9-1-1.”

  The current situation felt like an emergency to me. I wanted a man with a gun. And a Taser. And a nightstick. And a walkie-talkie so he could call a bunch of other guys for backup. We’d trusted Valerio with the Sammy inquiry and all he’d done was make Sammy mad at me. Now it was Bob’s turn.

  Call me back, Officer 9-1-1, as fast as you can.

  I went into our luxury bathroom to watch Tom shave. He used a regular razor with a blade. I found this worrisome, but his hand danced over his face with unfaltering assurance. “Did you find him?”

  “No, I had to leave a message. His shift ended already. He’s gone home. They said he’ll be back tonight. I don’t even know if I should have called him at all. But we have to trust somebody. I admit I like Valerio, but I wouldn’t dare rattle his cage again, after how mad he made Sammy. Bob’s at least as trustworthy as Valerio. Don’t we agree?”

  He felt around his face to determine the perfection of the shave. It was flawless. I would like to have helped with that, but the timing was bad.

  “Lord, Allie, I’m not a hundred percent positive we know anything. I’m so tired. And confused.” He picked up a towel and wiped away the extra shaving cream. “I’m sad about Diana. She was in my life—very unpleasantly, I’ll grant you—for a long, long time. She was so unstable, so lost. But I know her folks. They’ll be devastated. And when we were kids? When we were twenty-one? Those are good memories. She was a different person. I was, too.”

  A green tide of jealousy washed me away. I was ashamed of myself. The lady was dead. I was alive. I had the man in my possession. But the idea of Tom and Diana, twenty-one and gorgeous, the both of them. Him not blind yet. Her not lost in some dream world. I plain envied her. I did. I’d willingly be dead for at least three and a half minutes, to have had a moment or two of Tom like that. So our eyes could meet, just one time. I walked out of the bathroom.

  But not before he’d read my mind again.

  “Allie, come back here. Please.”

  At least he was saying “please.” I went. He drew me in, warm arms, bare chest, nice minty smell.

  “Allie, I can see you. I know you don’t feel it, but it’s true. I’ve memorized your face, every square inch of you. You’re so incredible, so beautiful….”

  I made a pitiful sound of disbelief.

  “Listen to me. Eyesight is a miraculous gift. I know that better than most, but it’s not the only way to see somebody. Lots of people are out there using their perfectly functional eyes to systematically not see a damn thing all day long. They don’t need a cane to keep from falling down a manhole, but nothing registers. It’s a blur. A busy, thoughtless, wasteful blur.”

  He held me tighter, “Alice Jane, you’re not a blur to me. I know you. My mind, my whole body, is filled up with you. I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to have found you. To have you find me. That’s why if something happened—”

  Oh, no. Tom. Don’t go back down that road. I hate that road.

  Before I could interrupt him with an encouraging word about me not dying anytime soon, I was rescued by The Who. Officer Bob to save the day.

  I picked up. “Bob.”

  “Miss Harper, it’s Anthony Valerio.”

  “Officer Valerio. Hi. How are you…um…today?”

  “I’m okay. I was by the desk and saw you’d left a message for Officer Clark. He’s not here now. Is there something I can help you with?” Nice as pie.

  I could hear background noises: talking, laughter, footsteps. I could picture Officer Anthony Valerio standing in the Fifth District headquarters, surrounded by our men and women in blue. He’d have to be gutsy to make a criminal move from the heart of a place like that. Or possibly a psychopath. Okay, all right.

  “I called Officer Clark because I wanted to ask—last night, a woman named Diana Wiles, jumped or fell off the Wyndham Hotel. She was a friend of Tom’s from Atlanta who worked at CWRU. She had been in the Wyndham bar with my former husband, D.B. Harper.

  “And you want to know if you’re a suspect.”

  “What? No! Why?”

  He paused. “Look, Miss Harper.” The ambient noise faded as I heard him seeking somewhere quieter for a more private conversation. A door closed. Was that suspicious? Maybe. But now I absolutely had to hear what he was going to say. “Is it okay if I call you Allie?”

  “Sure. I guess. Can I call you Tony?”

  That made him smile. I heard it. “Yes, Allie, you can call me Tony. Just not—oh, never mind. You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

  “I’ve heard it before, yes.”

  “Okay, this is so far off the record and so out of line, it doesn’t exist, understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “This case belongs to Homicide, obviously, but since it’s high profile and D.B. Harper is involved—not as a suspect—”

  “Please continue, Tony.”

  “Everybody’s talking about what happened.”

  “What do they say happened?”

  “Off the record?”

  “It doesn’t exist.”

  “They say she struggled with somebod
y after she got a call and left the bar but before she hit the sidewalk. There were specific bruises that were not associated with injuries from the fall. They also found trace. You’re a CSI fan, right?”

  Don’t mock me, Tony.

  “I was.”

  “So you understand when I tell you they found trace evidence under her fingernails?”

  Those perfect nails.

  “It means she was murdered. It means she fought with somebody, clawed them? They’d be marked. How long will it take for the DNA?”

  “Sometime next week. Maybe. They put a rush on it.”

  Next week? A rush? Well, Toto, we’re not on CSI, that’s for sure.

  “And I’m a suspect? I’m not marked.”

  Other than my Lying Idiot bruises, of course. And a fading stain of purple across my shoulder. No extra charge.

  “That’s a very good thing. I know Detective Miller reported you didn’t look like you’d been in a fight.” The smile was back. “Except for your hair. Somebody might want to take a look at you at some point. You should let them. But if they want to question you?”

  “Yes?”

  “Lawyer up. It’s stupid not to. Of the three people at the Wyndham last night who knew Diana Wiles, you’re the one who’s not blind and didn’t stay in the bar.”

  “And it’s almost always someone you know.”

  “You got it.”

  “I didn’t push Diana Wiles, Tony. I was with Tom and he’d tell you that. He doesn’t lie. He and Diana were engaged to be married once. He wouldn’t protect me if I’d pushed her off the Wyndham. Because…because if I had, I wouldn’t be me.”

  “If I wasn’t sure of that, I wouldn’t be talking to you. But Allie, consider this. You and Tom leave the bar and find your way up to the roof. He calls Diana. You wait, she arrives. He steps back. You step up. She’s a little drunk from two martinis in ten minutes or whatever. Off she goes.”

  Wow. As a theory, it worked for me. And I was the off-she-goes-er in this scenario. I could hear iron doors slamming behind me.