Four Days of Fall

by Beck Jones

  That’s why Selena preferred female targets. Women were easily distracted so they might walk into traffic; they got depressed and might jump off a roof. Men actually committed suicide more often than women, but nobody was surprised when a woman offed herself. And nobody was really surprised when a man killed a woman, because everybody knew what a woman could drive a man to do. Psychos loved to kill women, but so did ordinary guys. Which was why if Selena’s husband had thrown a punch that killed her he would have gone down for manslaughter but his own checkout was murder one.

  Even if it didn’t matter, he wished Selena would get back in touch if only so he’d know he was back on the good side of her ledger.

  By the time he parked around the corner from the Raven, the sun was already setting and a pale orange moon was rising. He sat in the car as the dark fell and the orange deepened in the sky. He was deliberately late; he didn’t want to sit alone at the Raven in case she was late or a no-show.

  But she was neither. He spotted her immediately, sitting with a white wine at a corner table. She was wearing a camel jacket over the t-shirt.

  He couldn’t fault Russell Stockton. A guy’s cock would have to be in cold storage not to want her working under him, so to speak.

  Scarlett, he thought to himself, stretching out the name, thinking how it should roll off his tongue. He needed charm and probably alcohol. Plan B, he’d simply pay a call to the Pepto pink Victorian later tonight.

  He had done another line, figured it would help him stay up and on his game; he felt a nice hum. He scanned the joint. Half dead and not really dingy, but getting there, with dark lighting that did it no favors. He tilted his head down as he made his way toward the corner. White male. Average height. Wearing a ball cap. Sparse off-season crowd or not, someone was bound to remember Scarlett Sharpe. She was a 10 and then some. But that was all to the good, since that’s what people would remember: the hot brunette leaving with some guy.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he told her, trying to sound sincere, ready to offer an excuse.

  But she just smiled.

  And oh, the smile.

  Jesus, the smile.

  The smile changed things. No doubt she had slain many a dumb shit doofus with that smile. But he knew all about killer smiles, and he knew it wasn’t an invitation. It was her opening move.

  She waved over a server after he sat down. Keeping his face turned down at the menu, he mumbled an order for an American beer, but once the server had gone, he folded his hands on the table in front of him and looked straight into her eyes. Her gaze didn’t waver, but neither did he.

  He gave her a humble smile, a version roughly seventy percent less lethal than his standard. “Thank you for agreeing to see me. I know you’re not on board with this.”

  She snorted. “Oh, come on. Take off the cap, for God’s sake, so I can get a proper look at you. I don’t even know your name.”

  “Sorry, you’re right,” he said. “It’s rude.” And probably not necessary. There was a security camera over the register at the bar, but that was it. What attention there was to be had in this place, Scarlett Sharpe was soaking it up.

  He swept off his cap and pressed it against his chest. “Colin Showalter at your service, ma’am.”

  “How do I know that’s really your name?”

  He pulled out the driver’s license—fake but sterling—and handed it to her. She made a show of studying it.

  “So you live in Jersey?”

  He nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the striped apron of the server coming back to the table. He turned and pretended to study the picture on the wall. A crap painting of the local river. Where the future remains of what was once Scarlett Sharpe might find a home.

  Scarlett waved her hands. “Hey, Colin, I know it’s fine art, but really.”

  He gave his head a half turn, but Scarlett reached over and pulled his chin toward her.

  “He’s cute for a guy from Jersey, don’t you think?” she said, pointing his face up to the striped apron and the young male face of the server wearing it.

  Fuck. He yanked his head away, ducked a little and put on the cap again, tried to play embarrassed. The Apron set down his beer.

  “Don’t be shy,” Scarlett said, laughing.

  The laugh got under his skin.

  He should probably leave right now, jump her later. Except now it would look suspicious if he left too quickly. So he gently waved away the Apron before he looked back at Scarlett.

  “What’s the deal?” she asked, still smiling. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be avoiding company.” She raised an eyebrow. “Are you wanted in five states or something?”

  “Six states actually.”

  “I knew it!” She clapped her hands. “I knew you weren’t a reporter. You’re a hit man, aren’t you? You’re here to take me out.”

  He clutched his chest as if he was shot. “You got me. A big organization, the Women of the Five Boroughs, WFB, they hired me. You’re too much competition for all the other females of New York. Too gorgeous.”

  She gazed at him mildly. “Seriously. I want to make a deal with you. But I need to know that I can trust you. And I know you’re not a reporter, are you?”

  “No, you’re right. I’m a private investigator.” Damn good thing he had a Plan B for this, too.

  “So who hired you?”

  “I don’t know.” He paused, drew his brows together, tried to look thoughtful. “A lawyer hired me. From a big firm, but we met at a coffee shop. So it’s probably off the books. I figure I’m either working for the network or for the network’s insurance company. You know, networks have insurance for all kinds of things. They may want to know about their exposure, but they want to keep it private, real private, for now.”

  He impressed himself saying it, but he couldn’t tell from her expression whether or not she bought it.

  “So who else have you talked to?” she asked.

  “I can’t tell you that. It’s confidential. We have ethics, too, you know. And like I said, I think it’s all off the books, so you don’t need to worry about your information being broadcast anywhere.”

  She cocked her head. “Right. Off the books. So I tell you Russell Stockton put some moves on me, and maybe the network hires a hit man to limit the network’s exposure. All off the books.”

  He hadn’t actually thought about the network suits ordering this.

  Surely she was wrong. First of all, that wasn’t high side of the pie shell—that was completely out of Selena’s league. Hell, they could afford CIA contractors.

  Unless they wanted lots of layers. Layer on top of a layer, all of them expendable until you got to the top.

  He tried to smile at her in a way that would look reassuring. “That’s a little extreme, don’t you think?”

  And he told himself: Hell, yes, that’s extreme. For a network anyway.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Well, see, here’s the thing. I want to know about Phoebe Shapiro.”

  He made himself take a swallow of beer before he replied. “What about her?” No point in acting like he didn’t know who she was.

  “Did you talk to Phoebe? Investigate her?”

  “Why?”

  “Because she was killed two days ago in a hit and run. So my question is, was Phoebe Shapiro ahead of me on your list?”

  Shit. Charm, yes, but he hadn’t figured on needing the acting chops of De Niro. “What—she was hit by a car, and you think it was deliberate?”

  “Why run if the hit was an accident?”

  He tried to sound sad but matter of fact. “From my line of work I can tell you that people run from accidents for all kinds of reasons.”

  “You haven’t answered my other question.”

  “I’ve never met Phoebe Shapiro. But I will tell you she is on my list. I didn’t know anything had happened to her. I’m sorry. I can see why you’re upset and why you’re feeling paranoid. I’d be paranoid, too.”

  She clasped her e
lbows and leaned across the table. Her blue eyes didn’t seem so hard now. “Yeah,” she said. “Well. Here’s the thing. I’m fighting a deadline, and I’m betting you are, too. You need my help, and I can use yours.”

  Hah! The universe galloping to his rescue. “My help? What do you need me to do?” Hey, baby, I’ll promise you anything.

  “I’ll tell you on the way,” she said, already rising. She produced a handful of cash, out of thin air it seemed, plunked it on the table, and then he was moving after her, head down, toward the door. It seemed too quick to leave, but then whoever noticed would remember only that some guy got lucky.

  Outside she pointed to the sedan parked on the street in front of them. “This is me. Hop in.”

  “Oh, I can drive,” he said, and motioned toward the side street. “I’m just around the corner.”

  His face was still turned and exposed to the front of the bar when the Apron burst through the doors, shouting, “Wait! Stop!”

  Fuck. Twice now the Apron had a gawk at him.

  The Apron pulled up a woman’s purse in front of him. Double fuck. He walked out right behind her. Why hadn’t he noticed she didn’t have a purse?

  “You forgot this,” the Apron said, stepping toward Scarlett.

  She gave the Apron a smile that made his week, probably his month. “Thanks!” she said, still stunning him with her mouth beam. “Listen, to get to the state park, do you take the interstate?”

  Ah. He had to keep himself from smiling. Unbelievable. Yet totally believable for those who believed in the universe’s need to unblock energy.

  “Yeah, that’s the quickest way,” the Apron said. “There’s an exit that’s marked. But the gate’s closed after dark.”

  “Oh, right,” she said, still throwing off cheerful vibes like rays of sunshine. “Thanks again. See you around.”

  The Apron backed into the restaurant with wave like they were already old friends.

  “Are you coming?” Scarlett said. She opened her car door. If he was careful the car was cleanable. All systems were go. He climbed inside.

  “So where are we going?” he asked as she pulled out into the street.

  “The state park, of course. Surely in your line of work you don’t always pay attention to posted signs.”

  He relaxed against the headrest. He had to clean the car anyway. There was the Apron, but the Apron didn’t give a shit about some guy with Scarlett Sharpe. So much woods ahead. Dark, dark woods. Maybe a rock that he could carry out of the park with him.

  He didn’t even have to clean the car. Just wipe down the outside, burn the inside, and there it was: Crazed killer picks up beautiful woman at a bar, takes her out to a remote location and murders her. Run-of-the-mill crime against a female. Everyday deal, really.

  He almost wished he could tell her how much he appreciated her thoughtfulness, even though he knew it wasn’t her thoughtfulness. It was the universe. It was fate. Maybe he was still on Selena’s shit list, but now the universe was going to help him get off that list.

  “What’s with this state park?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer. She was fiddling with the GPS.

  “How come you asked that guy in the restaurant about the park?” he asked.

  “Because locals always know better than these things. I would think as a private dick you would know that. Or is this your first time out of Jersey?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “So how did you get into your line of work?”

  “Hey, I thought the deal was that you would tell me things. Like what you think I can do for you. Find out something? You said you would explain on the way. So, we’re on the way.”

  “Why didn’t you say something to me when you were on the roof this morning?”

  “I wasn’t on any roof.”

  “You said you were.”

  “No, I didn’t. You thought I was a reporter, and I decided to go with that.”

  She glanced his way with a frown. “Wouldn’t I be less likely to talk to you?”

  “I thought you might see a reporter just getting background for a story as a little less—I don’t know—official, maybe. Better chance of staying anonymous.” He had to move carefully here. Just keep her going in the right direction.

  “So who else have you talked to?” she asked.

  “Look. I told you about Phoebe Shapiro. That’s enough. I do have some responsibilities here.”

  “Even for an off-the-books job?”

  “Even for what might be an off-the-books job.”

  It didn’t matter who hired Selena. Relax. Let the universe do its job, so you can do yours.

  He stretched his legs casually. “Now we’re back to where we started, Ms. Sharpe. Can I call you Scarlett?”

  She shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Okay, Scarlett. How about you explain how this deal between you and me is going to work.”

  “Ah, there it is,” she said. The exit sign for the park. Had he known it would be this easy, he would have made a firmer plan. But he was ready enough. Shoes a half size too big with no distinctive tread. Casually he took off the fake glasses and put them in his jacket pocket. They might get in the way. Now they just needed to get into the woods.

  Get into the woods.

  “It’s a hunter’s moon tonight,” she said, glancing up.

  “What do you know about a hunter’s moon?” Just keep her talking. And driving.

  “I grew up in the sticks. Gun racks on trucks. The whole Southern redneck bit. Closer to here than to Manhattan actually.”

  “You don’t sound Southern.”

  “Seriously, with a name like Scarlett? You know, Scarlett O’Hara? Gone with the Wind? Oh, Rhe-e-uh-ett,” she added, drawing out the word. “I lost the accent when I came north for college. Lost a lot of things. And not my virginity to Russell Stockton, before you ask. What about you? From Jersey originally?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know much about hunting. Or hunter’s moons.”

  “You tracked me all the way down here.”

  “Didn’t use a hunter’s moon.” He wasn’t sure that was a good answer, but she didn’t say anything, and he let the silence hang.

  She accelerated, pushing into the long winding curves of the access road, overhung with trees. Thick trees. So many good signs here, including the one at the gate. Closed.

  She clicked off the ignition. “Let’s just leave the car here. Not like we’re blocking the way for anybody.”

  It would have been nice to stow the car out of sight somewhere, but there was no way to ask for that.

  She reached for her purse and put her head through the straps so it hung against her chest. Then she plucked out a flashlight. “We’ll need this.” She smiled at him. “What if I had forgotten my purse? It’s got all our supplies in it.”

  That smile.

  How could she have forgotten the purse?

  But then he had forgotten the purse, too.

  He started to help her climb over the gate, but she was light on her feet and over it in roughly one second. They started up the road that led past the ranger hut, and then past the darkened visitor’s center, and then she sent the beam of the flashlight bouncing on to a trail that veered into wooded darkness.

  “This way.”

  He stopped and let her move ahead of him. He shouldn’t seem so eager. He needed to protest. “Please tell me what we’re doing out here in the middle of nowhere,” he called after her.

  “It’s not the middle of nowhere,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s a state park. And I want to see the bluff. There’s a bluff overlooking the river. I found it on a map.”

  End of protest. He jogged to get even with her. She could walk surprisingly fast. “How good is your sense of direction?” he asked. It could be the universe wanted him to do some of the work here, like read a map. “Shall I try to pull up the map on my phone?”

  “No, I got it. I told you. I grew up in the sticks.” She strafed the flashlight through the trees
ahead of them. He could see the path swerved a little, but not much else was visible except silhouettes of trees and the wiry tangle of underbrush.

  Anybody nearby could see the light, though. Couldn’t be too many campers this time of year. Still, no need to be careless. “Campgrounds around here?” he asked.

  “Not the direction we’re going.”

  He heard a rustling off the path, to their right, and before he could stop her Scarlett bounced the flashlight beam toward the sound, which got louder as the three deer—he counted them, one, two, three—passed across the small circle of light and crashed through the trees.

  Bambi. Shit.

  “You never saw deer in New Jersey?” she said. She bounced the flashlight upward so they were both bathed in the soft half light.

  “Say, are you okay?” she asked, frowning. Or maybe she was smirking.

  He tapped the flashlight and bounced the light onto the path again. “I’m fine. Keep going.”

  The path began an upward slope, at first gradual, and then steeper, and the air got warmer with every step. He started to sweat. He couldn’t take off his jacket. Not with the piece holstered at six o’clock. Yeah, he was a private investigator. But still.

  Finally Scarlett stopped. “Whooo. I’ve got to take a break.” She set down the flashlight beam up. Again the light came down gently.

  Fuck it was hot here for winter.

  She pulled a flask out of her purse and offered it to him. “Whisky?”

  What the hell. No worries about DNA. He’d take the flask with him.

  He chugged from the flask without even thinking. Chugged too much before he actually tasted it and realized what a stupid thing he’d done. Especially since the whisky had a root beer flavor.

  He threw the flask on the ground. “What the fuck?” he said, not worrying about how he sounded or how loud he said it.

  “Relax. Just a little extra in the cocktail.” She grinned. “I thought we might have a better time.” She looked at him so sweetly she might have just offered milk and cookies.