by Mary Maxwell
I held the phone away from my ear and mumbled a few unfortunate words to relieve some of the pressure in my brain. Then I went back to the call as Trent was saying something about the coffee stain on his pants.
“I didn’t call to discuss your laundry problems,” I said.
“Wow! It’s been a while since we spent much time together, but I sure know that tone.”
CHAPTER 31
The television droned in the background later that night as I sat on the sofa in my apartment, spooning slices of fresh mango and kiwi into my mouth. I’d worked in the Sky High office until eight, doing my best to plow through the paperwork and leave the desk clean and tidy. But when my eyelids started to droop and the numbers on the page began to blur, I’d decided it was time to crawl up the stairs to my apartment.
After a long shower, I’d slipped into my beloved Chicago Blackhawks jersey, a pair of my ex-boyfriend’s old sweatpants and the neon pink Hello Kitty pom pom faux fur slipper booties my mother gave me the previous winter. “They’re not my style,” I’d said. “But they’re nice and warm.” She’d scoffed on the phone. “Since when do you worry about style, Katie?” she’d asked. “You’re too busy playing Agatha Crispy to know the difference.” I’d tried to correct the famous sleuth’s name, but my mother had already moved on to asking me again if I’d decided to come home to Crescent Creek. “And here’s something else about those furry booties,” she’d said toward the end of the call. “They’ll keep your feet nice and toasty in Colorado!”
Gazing down at the faux fur trim and pom poms, I thanked my mother silently for the slippers. In the end, as usual, my mother had been right; they kept my feet warm and they also made me smile every time I wore them around the house.
When the last spoonful of frozen yogurt was safely down the hatch, I walked the bowl to the kitchen and put it in the sink. Then I shuffled back to the living room, fully intending to prop myself up on a pile of pillows and watch a sitcom for a few minutes before crawling into bed. After ten years with Rodney’s private investigation agency, I was used to working long hours. But Sky High Pies was an entirely different proposition; all the bending and lifting and walking and smiling and hospitality left me drained at the end of the day.
Stifling a yawn, I flipped through the channels until I found a Golden Girls episode. I stared at the screen while Blanche, Dorothy and Rose care for a sick baby that’s staying with them for the weekend. The lighthearted storyline draws me in; its simple and silly humor makes me temporarily forget the pressures of running Sky High Pies, the baffling break-in and the discovery of a bloody knife on the back stairs.
Until the phone rang and I glanced at the name on the screen: TRENT WALSH. I debated whether or not I wanted to talk to another human being for a second before muting the television and answering the call.
“Hey there,” I said.
“Hope I’m not calling too late, Katie.”
I checked the clock; it was nearly ten. “You’re fine. What’s up?”
“I wanted to let you know that the lab finished with the knife that you found,” he said in a crisp, businesslike tone.
“That’s good news.”
Trent cleared his throat. “Well, it’s a good news-bad news deal actually,” he said. “We think the knife is connected to the body found at the Moonlight Motel.”
“Is that the good news?” I asked. “Or the bad news?”
He sighed into the phone. “This isn’t a joke, Katie. We’re dealing with a very serious matter.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Again.” I paused, wondering if he was at the office or calling from home. “I guess that I have a tendency to make silly jokes when I’m nervous.”
“You always did,” he said. “So it makes sense that you’re still doing it.”
I decided he was calling from home, sitting on the edge of a recliner as he flipped through his notes about the case.
“Anyway, what did you want to tell me about the knife?”
When he didn’t answer right away, I waited briefly before saying his name a couple of times.
“Oh, yeah,” he mumbled finally. “Somebody just stuck their head in my office door. Sorry about that, Katie.”
I instantly changed the picture in my mind. Instead of sitting in a chair at home, Trent was leaning over his desk as he examined crime scene photos taken by the Crescent Creek PD’s CSI tech.
“That’s okay,” I said. “But you called to tell me something about the knife?”
He hesitated before telling me that it would probably be better if he came by in the morning.
“I can be there before you open,” he suggested. “I don’t want to interrupt your workday too much.”
I smiled. “But interrupting my non-work time is okay?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Right now,” I said. “You called me when I’m trying to relax after another insanely busy day. And you know I have a vivid imagination; chances are that I’ll be awake half the night now wondering what else you were going to tell me.”
“I know. And that’s my bad.”
“There’s that word again,” I said. “Bad news. Good news. And I’m left somewhere in the middle.”
Waiting for Trent to respond, I heard a voice in the background. The muffled sound that followed told me that Trent had covered the phone while he talked to someone in his office.
“Jeez, sorry about that,” he said coming back on the line. “Things are pretty nuts around here.”
“Ditto,” I said. “Even more so now that you’ve called to deliver a cryptic partial message.”
He sighed again, loudly and decisively. “Tell you what,” he said. “I can be there in ten minutes. Fifteen if I stop at Crescent Creamery to buy one of those chocolate-marshmallow shakes you used to love so much. They stay open until eleven.”
I thought about the bowl of frozen yogurt that I’d just finished. Then I flashed on a fractured image from our junior year in high school: Trent and I sipping a single milkshake through two straws in the moonlight as we sat on the front bumper of his Jeep.
“A shake sounds kind of good,” I said. “But make it a small one, okay?”
CHAPTER 32
When I opened the front door to my apartment twenty minutes later, Trent was holding two kiddie cups from the popular Crescent Creek ice cream parlor.
“I come in peace,” he said, offering me one of the milkshakes. “And this was the smallest size I could get.” He winked and smiled. “I asked the guy that was working if they could give me a chocolate-marshmallow in a thimble. But by the time I explained what a thimble is, the joke had kind of lost its appeal.”
I took the petite frosty cup and motioned for him to come inside. After we were situated at opposite ends of the sofa, he asked me how things were going with Sky High Pies.
“Don’t even think about it,” I said.
He made a face. “Think about what?”
“Making small talk,” I told him. “I want to get right to it. Tell me the news you were talking about earlier.”
He pulled on the straw in his milkshake. “Well, it’s…” He swallowed and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “Damn, those are good! I haven’t had anything from Crescent Creamery in forever.”
“C’mon, mister,” I urged. “What’s up?”
He took a deep breath and put his shake on the coffee table. “It’s about the knife,” he said somberly. “We found your fingerprints all over the handle and the blade. There was one unidentified partial, but all the rest were yours.”
I stared at him without blinking. “And that’s a huge surprise?”
He kept his gaze fixed on my face. I took a few shallow breaths to try and quell the massive surge of adrenalin that was making my heart pound.
“I mean, don’t be ridiculous, Trent! The knife’s from the kitchen at Sky High Pies. And I’m in the kitchen, cutting and dicing things all day long.” I paused for emphasis. “Isn’t that right?”
�
�Yeah, of course,” Trent answered. “But we’ve also tied the knife to six stab wounds in the back of the body found at the motel,” Trent added.
I put my cup on the table and shifted to face Trent. “Stab wounds?”
He nodded.
“In somebody’s back?”
“That’s right, Kate. And the victim was the man who came to see you yesterday.”
I rifled through my memory. It had been a busy two days, but it didn’t take more than a second to realize that Trent was referring to Ben Carlson, the FBI agent who stopped by to ask me questions about Rodney’s murder in Chicago. The blood rushed to my head and my heart shuddered into a fast gallop in my chest.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “The knife was used to kill Ben Carlson?”
Trent nodded. “It looks that way,” he said. “And it also looks like—”
“What are you talking about?” I said as calmly as possible. “I didn’t kill an FBI agent!”
Trent held both hands up, using the international sign for Calm down. And stop shrieking uncontrollably.
“Katie,” he said. “Please calm down. There’s no need to shout.”
“But you just said my knife was used to stab Ben Carson in the back!” I shouted. “And I’m telling you that I didn’t kill an FBI agent!”
Trent nodded. “That’s true. Because Ben Carson wasn’t really with the Bureau.”
The unexpected news skittered through my brain. I opened my mouth to ask a question, but nothing more than withered sigh escaped.
“It’s okay,” Trent said, taking my elbow. “Why don’t we sit down and talk? You look a little pale and I’d hate for you to tip over and—”
I yanked my arm out of his grip. “What’s going on then?” I demanded. “Ben Carson said he was with the FBI.”
“He lied.”
“But he knew things about Rodney’s murder.”
“At this point, lots of people do,” Trent said. “It’s in the Chicago PD database. Someone could’ve hacked the system or leaked a few of the sensitive details.”
“Who would do something like that?”
Trent raised one eyebrow. “Maybe Ben Carson?”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. That’s your area of expertise, isn’t it?”
I glared at him, feeling the fury slowly twist inside.
“Remember the time you went to the open mic night at that comedy club in Fort Collins?” Trent’s smile was half-baked; he was obviously trying to diffuse the situation with a quick dash down Memory Lane into the dusty cobwebs of our shared past. “You did all those Jerry Seinfeld jokes, and the audience went nuts?”
I clenched my teeth. “I’m gonna go nuts in about ten seconds if you don’t tell me what’s going on?”
He took a sip from his kiddie cup, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand.
“This is kind of romantic,” he said.
I smirked. “Not in the least.”
“But we haven’t been face-to-face like this since the time we went to IHOP for the all-you-can-eat pancake—”
“Trent!” My voice was trembling and my hands were knotted in my lap. “Please tell me that you don’t seriously think I killed Ben Carson.”
CHAPTER 33
Trent took a long, slow breath, leaning forward and staring at me with a flat expression.
“No, I don’t think you killed anyone,” he said. “But we’ve got to follow the evidence, Katie.”
My stomach shuddered. “Okay, sure. But that isn’t the same as you saying that you don’t think I murdered someone.”
“I’m just doing my job,” he said quietly.
The tremor in my stomach bubbled toward a full-blown flood of adrenaline scorching through my body. My pulse raced. My cheeks flushed crimson. And my lungs seemed incapable of filling with air.
“Are you okay?” asked Trent, reaching for my arm.
I pulled it away instinctively, glaring at him with feral rage.
“Can you please listen to me?” I said slowly. “I. Did. Not. Kill. Anyone.”
The room was so quiet I heard a car accelerate outside on the street.
“Let’s calm down,” Trent said.
It wasn’t what I wanted to hear.
“Can we do that?” he asked.
Once again—not an advisable question for someone who’s just been accused of murder.
“Why should I calm down?” I pressed one hand to my chest, feeling the thudding beat of my anxious heart. “You think I killed that guy. And I’d never do anything like that, Trent. Don’t you know that?” I gulped in a breath. “Don’t you know me?”
The muscles in his jaw flexed. “I do know you, Katie. But I have to follow the evidence. And your fingerprints were found all over a murder weapon.”
I dropped back against the sofa, covering my eyes with both hands. “What do I do now?” I said. “Am I supposed to get a lawyer?”
When he didn’t answer right away, I popped open one eye and spread my fingers enough to see him.
“Just sit tight,” he said. “I know you didn’t do this. But we have to follow protocol.”
“What does that mean?”
He shifted on the cushion so he was facing me. “You know the drill,” he said. “We gather evidence. Interview witnesses. Identify suspects.”
“Well, apparently I’m at the top of that list at the moment,” I said.
Trent shook his head. “Actually, besides your prints, there’s a partial from someone else on the blade. We’re running that through all of the databases right now. Hopefully, we’ll get a hit.”
I felt the adrenaline surge begin to soften. While Trent kept talking about what they were doing, I reached for my milkshake and took a tiny sip. It was icy and refreshing and way too sweet all at once. I put the cup back on the table as he asked me if I knew someone.
“Sorry, can you repeat that?” I said. “I didn’t catch the name.
“Do you know someone called Tanner Elwood?”
I shook my head. “I’ve never heard it before in my life.”
He reached into a tan folder marked CCPD/CLASSIFIED INVESTIGATION FILE. Then he held up a photo of the FBI agent that had come to Sky High Pies asking about Rodney’s last case.
“Do you recognize this guy?”
“That’s the FBI agent,” I said, feeling lightheaded and queasy. “Ben Carson.”
Trent shook his head. “That might be what he told you, but his name is actually Tanner Elwood. Well, it was. Before his back was punctured and his carotid artery was opened with the carving knife from your kitchen.”
“Tanner Elwood?” I said the name as if it would somehow help me more readily grasp what Trent was saying. “Why did he tell me it was Ben Carson?”
“He’s originally from Detroit, kind of a low level enforcer for a group that extorts money from small businesses like restaurants, bodegas, beauty salons and bars.”
“Wait a sec,” I said. “A guy from Detroit came to Crescent Creek pretending to be with the FBI so he could ask me about Rodney’s work in Chicago?”
Trent nodded. “That about sums it up,” he said. “Although Elwood was actually working most recently in Chicago for a guy named Slim Schultz.”
“The guy with three fingers missing from his right hand?”
“And the scar down the left side of his neck,” Trent said. “Badges of dishonor that he earned during a rather unfriendly discussion in the Cook County Jail.”
I took a moment to process the news. Rodney had never mentioned Ben Carson or Tanner Elwood. And I remember him talking about Slim Schultz one time a few years earlier. But it was about the type of car the guy drove, not his active involvement in criminal matters.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Trent said. “What’s going on in that beautiful brain of yours?”
I looked up. “Thinking about Rodney,” I replied. “And why anybody connected with Slim Schultz would be interested in our work at the
agency.”
“Maybe that’s just it.”
I frowned. “What’s just what?”
“It’s not about the work you and Rodney were doing together,” Trent explained. “Maybe this has something to do with a case that you didn’t know about.”
“Anything’s possible,” I said. “But Rodney seemed really happy during the last few days of his life. We had a healthy amount of business, mostly easy domestic cases: cheating spouses, a couple of husband’s with gambling problems, a college kid who was using his tuition money to buy stolen merchandise from some punks on the South Side.”
“Those don’t sound like they’d interest someone of Slim’s stature,” Trent said. “From what Chet Kozlowski shared, Schultz has been branching out into corporate scams and a few overseas clients.”
“So then why do you think I’d kill Ben Carson?” I asked. “Doesn’t that sound more like something Slim Schultz would do?”
Trent nodded.
“Especially if he’s in bed with foreign lowlifes?” I felt a flood of fatigue mixed with exasperation wash through me. “I mean, c’mon. Do you really think I could be a murderer?”
He shook his head. “I don’t seriously think you killed Ben Carson,” he said. “But forensics linked the kitchen knife from Sky High Pies to the stab wounds in his back.” He winced, lightly touching his chin as his left eye twitched; I recognized the move as the sign that he was about to deliver some upsetting news. “And your prints were all over the handle and blade, Kate. So I need you to come in tomorrow so we can get your statement and alibi to keep things on the up-and-up.”
“My prints?”
“Fingerprints,” said Trent in a somber tone.
I flashed a frown at him. “I know what prints are, thank you very much. I just don’t…” I hesitated for a moment, trying to decide what to say first. There were so many random thoughts flying through my mind that I couldn’t settle on the best place to begin. “None of this makes sense,” I said finally, going with a sensible statement rather than a muddled denial. “You know me, Trent. You know that I’d never do anything so…” What—criminal? Bloody? Mean?
