Cause of Death

by Laura Dembowski

  “So Lana did have friends,” I reply before downing the rest of my coffee and heading to the breakroom to refill my mug. I already can tell it’s going to be a long day.

  “This guy,” she says, looking down at her notebook, “Zack Williams is his name—he says he was her friend, and he just found out she died. He doesn’t think she would have killed herself. She was going to move out of her parents’ place, had some big job offer. He says they were kind of dating. Has pictures too.”

  Proof! Real proof!

  I drop my mug. It’s fine—it’s shatterproof, and I no longer need coffee. In fact, I feel like someone has shot adrenaline directly into my bloodstream.

  “Where is he?” I ask, not even bothering to pick up the mug.

  “Interrogation.”

  I follow Kate there and we stand in the observation room first so I can scope him out. Zack looks legitimately upset, maybe a little scared; police stations do that to people. He’s a nice-looking guy and he’s wearing a suit and tie, complete with the jacket, which is more than most people can say on this sunny, blazing hot summer day, me included, the air-conditioning hanging on by a thread.

  Kate and I chat for a minute about tactics, but we don’t really need them. This guy’s not the enemy. He’s our friend, our best friend. We go in together.

  “Lana didn’t kill herself,” Zack says the moment we walk in.

  I get that he’s in disbelief that Lana’s gone, but his eagerness to share this information with us is slightly suspicious. I still need this guy on my side, but I’m keeping my eye on him. Maybe Margaret’s not guilty. Or maybe she had help. Or maybe I’m just being paranoid.

  “For the record, I’m Detective Kirkpatrick, and you’ve already met Detective Hutchinson.”

  “Yes, I did. This doesn’t make any sense. I talked to Lana every day; she never said anything about killing herself, not even that she was depressed.”

  “Did she mention anyone threatening her?” Kate asks.

  He sits for a moment, racking his brain; trying to remember conversations they’d had over the past few months? Then again, maybe he was just stalling, thinking about what he’s going to have for lunch.

  “She didn’t tell me about any threats, and I certainly hope she would have.”

  “What about her parents?” I ask. “Did she have a good relationship with them?”

  “Her mom was a pain in her ass. All over her every time she left the house. Her mom’s the reason she moved back to town in the first place.”

  “Where were you on the night of June twenty-third, from ten p.m. until eight the next morning, June twenty-fourth?” Kate asks.

  Zack gives us a look. He’s confused. He’s probably regretting walking into the station right about now.

  It amazes me how many criminals come in to talk to us, acting like witnesses or friends. They think that by coming to us, they will cross themselves off the list of suspects, but we’ve all been through too many cases to fall into that trap. Saying you’re innocent doesn’t mean you are. So many people maintain their innocence even when all the evidence is stacked against them.

  Not that we have an ounce of evidence against Zack at this moment.

  “I was at home,” he says.

  “Alone?” Kate asks.

  “Yeah. My roommate moved out a couple weeks ago.” At least he’s not involving his roommate in his potential lies. “I got Lana a job.”

  “Where was this job?” I ask.

  “Where I work. She’s”—he looks down—“she was smart and good at what she did. My boss said she was the best candidate he’d seen in a long time.”

  “What’s the name of the place?”

  “McKellan Advertising. She was excited to start, and trying to decide on a place to live. Then, when she didn’t show, I texted and called her, and it turns out she was dead.”

  “Did you think about moving in together?” Kate asks.

  “She was going to stay with me the night before she died.”

  Well, that’s interesting. Maybe Margaret changed Lana’s mind for her.

  “But she didn’t?” Kate asks.

  “No. She called me and said her mom apologized for threatening to kill her, and she was going to stay one more night.”

  Our jaws drop at the same time.

  “Margaret threatened to kill her?” I gasp.

  “Yeah, but it’s not how it sounds,” Zack says, as though he’s the guilty one here. How is it not how it sounds? Margaret threatened to kill her and then she turned up dead.

  “Her mom threatened to kill her all the time.”

  “And she just put up with it?” I ask.

  “Her mom threatened to kill herself, too, but neither of us thought she had that in her.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  We wrap up with Zack.

  “Am I a suspect?” he asks.

  “Not at this time,” I say, knowing we pretty much have only one suspect.

  Chapter 10

  Ryan

  I spot Tracy the moment I walk into the restaurant. I’m not late, having made sure I left the station in plenty of time. Left Kate with a big mess of paperwork to file so we can get a warrant for McKellan Advertising’s records, but she said it was fine. Maybe it was fine, maybe it wasn’t, but I had to go with it.

  Tracy’s all dressed up. She’s got her brown hair in a twist and the candlelight is making it gleam like silk, that black dress with one shoulder she likes, clinging to her body in all the right spots. It looks nice with the gold stick earrings that graze her shoulders, especially when she’s slumped over, like she is right now, sitting at the table, waiting for me to arrive, looking rather sad and a bit pathetic. It’s the tale of two Tracys right there in front of me.

  Even though I’m not late, I can tell she’s growing impatient, wishing I had been there half an hour early, leaning against the bar, waiting for her. I breeze in, wearing my work clothes, rumpled from having been worn all day. Tracy works in retail for a fancy department store. She likes it and it pays fine, so it’s all good with me. Plus, she always has stories to tell, kind of like me; it’s just a different side of society. We each very often see the worst in people, though.

  As soon as she sees me, she smiles, a genuine smile, and I reciprocate instinctively. Seeing her happy makes me happy. I guess that’s the kind of thing we all look for in a mate.

  “Hey,” she says. The word floats through the air like a wisp. It hangs there beautifully. I savor the moment.

  “Hi.” I lean down and kiss her gently, just enough to show her I love her, but not so much that later we’ll argue about our public display of affection. “Did you have a good day?”

  “I did. Did you?”

  “This one case is crazy. I’m glad to be here with you.”

  “Me, too,” she says.

  We continue talking without missing a beat. After being together for so long, we are truly best friends, and it’s moments like this when I think Tracy is right, and I should go into debt on a ring and a house and spend the rest of my life with her—and Beth on the side.

  Amid all the talking, we look over the menus and order. We skip an appetizer in favor of Caesar salads, prepared tableside. For entrees, Tracy orders surf and turf and I order chicken, partly because I like chicken, but mostly because it’s the only entrée on the menu below fifty dollars.

  Dessert comes. I am still hungry; the portions at her fancy steakhouse aren’t exactly steakhouse-worthy. They’re more like bird food, if you ask me. I grab my fork and dive into the richest chocolate cake I’ve seen in my entire life. The taste is as good as I imagine, if not better.

  Then I notice Tracy’s just staring at her plate. She’s smiling, beaming even, her eyes darting between the plate and me, the plate and me. I take my eyes off of her and look at her plate. A ring is on it.
She sees that I’ve seen it. She sees the shock on my face and flashes an evil smile. Only then does she go, “Oh my God, yes, yes. Of course I’ll marry you.”

  I have no idea what to say. I just sit there, baffled, frozen, not nearly as happy as she is to apparently be engaged. I know Tracy’s a bit needy, a bit of a drama queen, but no one is perfect, least of all me, so I take her as she is and love her and she does the same for me. But this . . . it’s diabolical; it’s sneaky and underhanded, and it’s just about the last thing I expected to happen at this dinner. I don’t know what to do, so I do nothing.

  Doing nothing is driving Tracy up the wall, I realize, as I see her smile waver, but I remain unmoved. She grabs my hands and then gets up and walks over to my chair and kisses me passionately.

  After a moment, I kiss back. It’s not like I’m going to stand up in the middle of this restaurant and walk away from her. Mostly because I know she’d just run after me, partly because I don’t want to be the bad guy. Suddenly I’m not sure what I’ve gotten myself into.

  She sits back down after a kiss that lasted far too long for public consumption and puts the ring on her finger.

  “It’s beautiful,” she says, admiring the rock she must have found at work and paid for God knows how. The couple next to us offers to take a photo after saying congratulations, along with just about the entire restaurant. She hands over her phone and poses eagerly for the pic. I’m sure I look dumbfounded; I’ll check it out later. I’m sure it will be all over social media so she can receive more public congratulations.

  It is a rather nice ring, I must admit. It’s big enough to be noticeable but not gaudy, a square stone, set in platinum. I can’t figure out what she loves more—me, or just the ring and the idea of marriage.

  Since we drove separately to the restaurant, we leave separately, her beaming, me looking like I just watched my dog die. I know she’s coming to my house without a single doubt in my mind. Sure enough, we arrive at just about the same time. I pull the car into the garage and she pulls in right next to me. I wave so she’ll get out of the car first, which she does. Then she stands there, in the shadows, waiting to pounce on me, a lioness hungry for some prey.

  “Can’t we at least get in the house first?” I ask.

  “You didn’t mind being frisky in the garage that one summer, you know, after that concert. We were hot and sweaty and a little drunk and had danced all night. Remember? That was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

  Actually, I do remember; clearly she doesn’t. It was messy, sloppy, fast sex before I had to carry her into the house so she could sleep it off on the sofa because she was so drunk. I was sober.

  “It was nice,” I say, hoping to avoid conflict, “but I’ve had a long day, and I’d really like to go in the house.”

  “Okay,” she pouts.

  I open the door and we walk inside. She’s all over me. She’s tugging off my jacket and rubbing her hands all over my chest.

  “Trace, we need to talk.”

  “We can talk later,” she says in a quiet, sexy kitten voice.

  “No, we need to talk now,” I say, gently pushing her away and walking to the other side of the room so she can’t immediately jump back on top of me.

  “What?” she asks innocently, blinking her eyes at me, trying to be sexy but failing. I’m trying to avoid laughing, as I don’t see that helping this situation in the least.

  “What the fuck was that?”

  “What?” she repeats, totally playing dumb, even though I know she’s not dumb. She’s smart. Too smart for her own good.

  “You . . . you faked a proposal. I don’t even know how or why you’d do that,” I say, my voice raised to a tone I don’t like. I sound mad; I am mad.

  “It’s what we both want; I just took matters into my own hands. No harm, no foul.” She is still cool, calm, and collected.

  “You don’t get to propose to yourself—buy your own ring!”

  “I’m gonna need your credit card information to purchase it. It’s just on loan for the night, but it’s perfect, isn’t it?” she asks, batting her eyes at me.

  “Not really,” I say, unfazed by her girly charm. “It looks expensive.”

  “It’s my engagement. I can imagine wearing it forever, or at least ’til our tenth anniversary, when we’ll buy a new ring for me, of course.” Duh, of course, this ring will only be good for ten years, just like a mattress.

  She’s too caught up in herself, I swear it’s like she hasn’t heard a word I’ve said.

  “You don’t get to make all the decisions in our relationship,” I say, knowing it doesn’t matter what I say, Tracy’s not going to let me make any decisions, at least not for the foreseeable future. I am going to marry a monster. Have I been blind to her behavior, or has she morphed into this . . . this thing, overnight?

  “Of course not, sweetie,” she says, coming over to me and running her hand down my cheek. “We have an equal partnership.”

  I swear I hear her chuckle, and then she walks into the bedroom.

  I’ll go in there eventually. I really hope she’ll have fallen asleep by then, but it won’t surprise me if she’s still sitting there, naked, just waiting for me, perched on the end of the bed, legs crossed.

  I bet she’s feeling the pressure. All of her friends are married and have kids and live in neighborhoods similar to the Moores’. She got jealous. She got needy. She decided the only right answer was hers. And so here we are. She’s trying to turn me into the man of not only her dreams, but every woman’s, and I’m struggling to figure out what the hell to do, or at least, what to tell Kate in the morning when she asks how dinner was.

  Answers aren’t going to come tonight, so I turn on the TV and flop down on the couch. Before long, I fall asleep.

  “Ahhhh,” I yelp, jumping off the couch as a glass of ice water is poured over my head.

  Sweet Tracy has been replaced by Angry Tracy. Suddenly I wonder if she’s pregnant or has a brain tumor. This is not the Tracy I’ve loved for the past five years—not even remotely.

  “I didn’t want you to be late for work,” she says with a flair. She’s dressed for work. She looks hot, all the better to sell merchandise to hot guys with similarly angry wives and girlfriends.

  I follow her into the kitchen, where she’s pouring herself a cup of coffee. Ice cubes and water fall off me as I walk.

  “Want some?” she asks, holding the pot.

  “Only if it goes in a mug and not on me.”

  “Don’t be silly. That could cause permanent damage.”

  “Okay, Tracy,” I say, as she hands me a mug of coffee that I cautiously take from her. “What’s going on? Are you okay? Are you dying? What?”

  “Oh, me? I’m awesome. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  “Why are you worried about me?” I ask.

  She smiles a devilish and knowing smirk. “You thought I wouldn’t find out, didn’t you?”

  “Find out about what?”

  “Your fling. Your girlfriend. You know, the one that lives uptown?”

  I say nothing. Her sudden change in behavior has been partially explained. She knows about Beth. Presumably she doesn’t know Beth is the sister of someone I think may have killed her daughter. The next logical step for Tracy to take at this very moment is to kill me. She’s even the one listed as the beneficiary for my pension.

  I shake myself out of my reverie and focus back on Tracy, who is possibly choosing the best weapon for my murder at this very moment.

  “What? I’m not.”

  I’m not what? I’m not making sense.

  “I mean, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Save it, Ryan. I had you followed. Your girlfriend doesn’t like to shut the blinds. An exhibitionist—I like that.”

  I don’t even remember whether the blinds were open or closed. I guess
I was too focused on whether or not her husband was going to come home.

  “Who is she? A murder suspect or something?” she asks with sarcasm. I try to stay quiet, but I nearly choke on a sip of coffee.

  “Oh my God,” Tracy continues, about to flip out, “is she a murder suspect, Ryan? What the fuck? That’s so sick.”

  “No. Not really,” I say, digging a deeper and deeper hole, yet somehow, I can’t stop myself from talking. “No, Tracy. She’s not a murder suspect.”

  “So what is she?” she asks, her eyes boring into my soul to suss out the truth.

  “She’s . . . it’s complicated. But she’s not a suspect in any murders. I promise.”

  She laughs again. “Like I’m going to believe your promises.”

  I look at my watch. I really need to get to work, but I can’t leave until this is dealt with. Not that it can really be fully handled now—or ever, most likely—but I can’t walk out at this moment.

  “You’re not going to tell my boss, are you?”

  “I don’t want to do that.”

  “So what do you want?” I ask, confused. “Why didn’t you just break up with me, instead of that ridiculous stunt at the restaurant.”

  “Because now I can have everything I’ve ever wanted.”

  “You’ve always wanted a husband who cheats on you?” I ask, regretting the words the moment they come out of my mouth.

  “I don’t really give a fuck if you cheat on me, as long as you don’t give me any STDs.”

  “So what is it that you want, then?”

  “To get married. To have the wedding of my dreams, the house of my dreams, a few kids. You. I want you.”

  “And if I break up with you?”

  I phrase it like a question, even though it’s really not one, since I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.

  “I’ll turn you in. You’ll be fired. And then probably indicted with obstruction, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say, hanging my head. “That sounds about right.”

  She downs the rest of her cup of coffee, grabs her bag, and heads for the door.