“Let’s start with you,” Ellmann said to Pezzani. “I need to ask you a bunch of questions, but I’m guessing you don’t know much, so we’ll be able to get you on your way pretty quickly.”
I thought this was a poke at Pezzani’s intelligence, not a comment regarding his usefulness as a witness, but Pezzani didn’t seem to take it that way. Maybe I was reading too far into it.
As I watched them walk away, I found it interesting to see them side-by-side. I didn’t know either particularly well, but they seemed pretty different, and yet strikingly similar in many ways. It was also interesting to see Ellmann’s reaction to Pezzani and finding us together after a dinner date. I supposed it had something to do with the hero/rescue thing he’d been trying earlier, but it seemed more like caveman-possessive stuff. Where was it coming from?
I sat on the porch writing out an objective report of the facts in relation to discovering a dead man on my floor. As people continued to arrive, Ellmann continued issuing orders, setting people to work on specific tasks. The crime scene people—two men I’d never seen before—were the last to arrive. Troy can’t work all the time, I guess. After ten minutes of questioning, Ellmann let Pezzani go. I spoke to him briefly in the front yard before convincing him to go home. He offered me a place to stay twice before he left, and both times I assured him I’d be fine.
“Now it’s your turn,” Ellmann said, flipping to a blank page in his notebook.
I lifted myself up onto the hood of the Charger, my heels on the tire. He gave me an annoyed look but chose not to say anything.
“Who is he?” he asked.
“‘He’ who?”
“The dead guy.”
“No idea.”
He dropped his arms and looked at me. “Zoe, there is a dead man in the living room of the house you moved into yesterday, shot and killed by a .45 revolver. Believe me, this is not the time to play games.”
“I didn’t shoot him.”
“I don’t think you did, but that doesn’t change the fact that this could be very bad for you. Tell me straight what’s going on.”
“Because you can help me?”
He looked at me for a long moment. Probably trying to decide if I’d done something horrible that would be difficult or dangerous to cover up or explain. Finally, he nodded.
“Yes, I can help you. But only if I know exactly what’s going on. You’re already mixed up in some other very bad business. If you get into too much trouble, there won’t be anything I can do.”
“Other business?”
“Stacy Karnes, Tina Shuemaker, and Tyler Jay.”
I groaned. “You know, I just want to say, for the record, it was horribly inconsiderate for whoever attacked Stacy to do so while she was in the lobby of my building waiting to meet me, okay? It’s been nothing but trouble for me.”
“Is that because it aggravated some insatiable need you have to stick your nose into everything, regardless of societal norms, political correctness, and the interest of your safety?”
“Now, is that really necessary?”
“Am I wrong?”
“It just sounds awful when you put it like that.”
“Even so, maybe you can explain what’s going on.”
I sighed. As I thought about things now, it didn’t seem as if I had a lot of choices.
“The man in the living room is Derrick; all I got was a first name. He was with Tyler at Tyler’s mom’s house when I stopped by. I talked to—“
“Wait, you talked to these guys?”
I wasn’t sure why I was in trouble. He already knew I went to the house. Why couldn’t I talk to them? “Maybe.”
“Zoe, driving by his house is one thing, but you can’t go knocking on the door of a man like that.”
“Did you think I’d spotted Tyler Jay sitting on the front porch sipping iced tea?”
“You could have been hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
He swung an arm in the direction of the house. “What if those bullets had been meant for you? What if they came here tonight looking to kill you?”
I shivered at the thought then quickly pushed it aside. “That makes no sense,” I objected. It was a baseless objection, and we both knew it. “Anyway,” I said, “that Derrick guy seemed to be running interference for Tyler, like a bodyguard or something. You know those bad guys; they all have entourages. All I know about him is that he has no taste in fashion, poor choice in deodorant, thinks I’m too old to be in college, and gets extremely uncomfortable if a woman starts crying.”
“Funny,” he said humorlessly, not looking up from his notes. “Tina described you the same way.”
“What way?”
I thought I knew.
“Too old to be in college.”
And, I’d been right.
I shook my head. “You know, these kids today, I’m telling you. What’s the world coming to . . .”
“It’s maybe just a little bit harder for you to lie, I guess.”
“It was a rhetorical question,” I snapped. “And I’m a damn good liar.”
His eyes flicked up at me.
“I mean—”
“Don’t,” he cautioned softly with a shake of his head.
I didn’t.
_______________
My friend Mercedes, who goes by Sadie, is one of the most social people on the planet. There is always a party or celebration or get-together for her to go to. When there isn’t, she throws one herself. Partying includes drinking, and Sadie is very careful about drinking and driving. She always makes arrangements for transportation home or to stay the night at someone else’s place. Tonight when I called her about crashing on her sofa, she told me she was sleeping at a friend’s house; she didn’t need to tell me she’d been drinking. She went on to say she would be at her friend’s house for the next two days, because her apartment building was being fumigated and several large-scale repairs and renovations were taking place. I wasn’t totally heartbroken when I found out I couldn’t stay there. The one-bedroom apartment is tiny.
I knew Amy was out of town for a short getaway with Brandon after a weekend of fiancé-family stuff. But I didn’t think she’d mind if I crashed on her sofa. When I called her, I obviously woke her up. I briefly explained why I was in need of a place to crash and asked if it was okay to use my key.
“Oh, Zoe,” she began, “of all the nights to find a dead body in your house. Brandon’s parents are staying at the house for a few days while we’re gone. They won’t mind if you stay there, but I think they’d drive you crazy. How desperate are you?”
“Not that desperate.”
I’d met her fiancé’s parents once, and I knew they would drive me crazy. They are two of the strangest people I’ve ever spent time with. I often wonder how Brandon had turned out so sweet and normal-like. The best I can figure is that he’s direct evidence miracles do happen. Either that or he belongs to the milkman.
The police activity around and inside the house was finally winding down. It had been hours since I’d returned home and found the body. The neighbors had all been woken up and asked probing questions about suspicious activity or persons. Notes had been taken, witness statements filled out, official reports started and some finished. The crime scene guys had made a hundred trips to and from the van, carrying things in and out, documenting every possible detail, collecting every micro-scrap of potential evidence.
The last patrolman, Pratt, who had also been at the scene of Stacy Karnes’s attack, emerged from the house after speaking with Ellmann. He nodded to me then climbed into his patrol car and motored away. Of course, not before taking another head-to-toe look. Shortly afterward, the forensic guys started carrying things out to the van. I got the distinct impression the party would be over soon and I’d be officially homeless.
There was no way I was going back to my mother’s house, if only because I didn’t want to listen to her go on and on about what a troublemaker I was. That, and her manic activities
would make any decent sleep difficult. I wasn’t sleeping well these days anyway. I was still considering Amy’s offer to bunk with the future in-laws, but decided to try one last play. I dialed the phone and waited.
Three rings, four rings, five . . . . Prepared to hang up, the ringing suddenly stopped. The voice on the other end was groggy. Joe Pezzani had been asleep.
“Sorry to wake you up.”
“No, actually, I can’t believe I fell asleep. I was going to call you . . . geez, hours ago, and see how it was going. How is it going?”
I shrugged. “It’s going. Actually, I think it’s about over. The coroner took the body a few hours ago, most the cops are gone, and the crime scene guys are packing it in. I think most the neighbors have moved away from their front windows at this point, too.”
“Did anyone see anything? Is there anything new yet?”
“No. Or if there is, Ellmann isn’t saying.”
“Where are you? Are you still at the house?”
“Yes. Actually, that’s why I’m calling. I wanted to talk about your offer of a place to stay.”
I could tell he was grinning. “I thought you had that covered.”
“Yeah, well, turns out this is a really bad time for people to get murdered in my living room. So how about it? Can I sleep on your sofa?”
“Sure. Or you can sleep in the guest bedroom. Your choice.”
He gave me directions and we hung up.
Ellmann followed the last three men out of the house. He flipped off the light, locked and pulled the front door closed, then carefully applied a warning sticker to the door and doorframe, intended to prevent entry into the house—or to alert officials that entry had been made. Everyone else piled into their vehicles and drove away as Ellmann walked down the driveway toward me.
“Did you make arrangements?” he asked.
I nodded. I thought maybe it was better not to elaborate. “I did. I’m all set.”
“All right. Well, I’m tired; I’m going to get some sleep. Please don’t call me with any other emergencies for at least twelve hours. The truth is, you’re wearing me out.”
“Wearing you out? I called you once.”
“You’re connected to the messiest, most complicated case I’ve had in a long time, and it just keeps getting better.” He tipped his head at the dark house. “So, like I said, no emergencies or problems of any kind for twelve hours. Can you manage to keep out of trouble for twelve hours?”
“Doesn’t sound that hard.”
12
Pezzani lived in a condo off Elizabeth and Overland Trail. The front door opened to a three-by-three foyer and a staircase. I followed him up the stairs and to the left, into the open living room and kitchen area. A small hallway on the right led to a loft and several open doors. The rooms beyond—probably bedrooms and bathrooms—were dark. The furniture was distinctly masculine and modern, with lots of black colors, linear designs, and cold metal and glass. A black leather sofa was arranged opposite a large glass entertainment center, which held a big screen plasma TV. The TV was on, the sound muted, and only one lamp was turned on. Despite the cold and dark materials, the place had a rather homey feel to it.
“Feel free to make yourself at home,” Pezzani was saying. He walked over to the coffee table, picked up the remote, and switched off the TV. “This is the couch.” He waved at the sofa. “Or the guestroom is over here.”
I followed him down the hall to the first door on the left. He went in, switching on the light as he passed. In the far corner, he poked his head through another doorway and turned on a second light.
“There is a Jack and Jill bathroom between these two rooms,” he explained, “but I use the other room for a home gym and storage, so it’s all yours. Clean towels in the closet there.”
I walked over and peeked in at the biggest bathroom I’d ever seen. The bedroom was just as huge. The vaulted ceilings and huge windows, even covered by dark drapes, all contributed to the spaciousness of the place. There was a queen-sized bed with a bulky, black bed frame and black linen, a stark contrast to the white walls and floors. A black dresser, bedside table, and armchair with ottoman completed the décor.
“This is a nice place,” I said.
“I think I’m finally getting settled in.”
“Did you just move in?”
“No, I’ve been here a couple years.”
I chuckled.
He started for the door. “Like I said, make yourself at home. Help yourself to whatever you can find. I haven’t been grocery shopping this week, so it might take some scrounging.”
“No worries, I’ll be fine. I appreciate it.”
“I have to work at nine tomorrow, but I should be back around noon. I’ll leave a key on the counter. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
“I should be able to figure something out. The police shouldn’t have my house for too long.”
“Still, the offer is there.”
I thanked him again and we said our goodnights. I dropped my bag to the floor and kicked off my shoes, then climbed onto the bed, fully dressed.
_______________
The masked figure was back. It was dark. I was in a house I hadn’t seen in years. The figure was coming toward me, slowly, one stalking step after another. The shiny silver blade of the long, ugly knife gleamed in the figure’s right hand. The dark eyes visible through the black slits twinkled with joy and excitement. Terror gripped me. I couldn’t move. My feet rooted to the floor, I stood helpless, watching, as the figure loomed closer and closer. The knife seemed to get longer with each step.
I could tell the figure was smirking, enjoying the pursuit. Fear, icy and sharp, vibrated through me in waves as the figure reached up and pulled off the mask. My father laughed maniacally as he threw the mask aside and lunged forward, thrusting the knife toward my abdomen.
Shuddering, I shot up in bed, gasping as I threw myself backward in an effort to escape the attacker who no longer existed. I winced as my skull knocked against the heavy headboard, and I desperately tried to stave off panic as I worked to recall where I was. After a beat, it all came back to me.
Still shaken, I reached out and flipped on the bedside light, quickly taking in the room, confirming I was indeed alone. I felt my phone vibrate in the pocket of my jeans and too easily recalled the feeling of fear vibrating through me in my dream. Funny how the mind works.
Fully awake now, I realized I was still dressed, still on top of the covers. I’d intended to just close my eyes for a minute, but I’d obviously passed out. I shot a glance at the clock on the table. 6:02.
“This vacation sucks.”
I’d been woken up in the middle of the night for the third consecutive day of it. Not that I was sleeping well.
I worked the phone out of my pocket.
“Yeah?”
“Are you all right?” The voice was familiar. And there was no mistaking the worry in it.
I moved to the edge of the bed, letting my feet dangle, and tried to shake the lingering effects of the nightmare.
“Just tired of being woken up,” I said, trying for indignation. “Is this an emergency? If it isn’t, call back in a double-digit hour.”
“It’s Ellmann. This issue might not wait until ten o’clock.”
I sighed. “Shit. This better not count against my twelve hours; I didn’t call you.”
“This isn’t about you or me. It’s about your mother.”
The worry had mostly gone, but now I noticed there was a grim tone to his voice.
“She’s not dead, is she?”
“No. Why would you ask that?”
“That’s the phone call I always expect when it comes to her.”
He was silent for a beat. “I’m sorry to hear that.” And he was sincere. “No, she’s not dead. She was arrested. She’s being arraigned this morning.”
I pulled at my shirt. It was soaked through with sweat and sticking to my skin. “Did you arrest her?”
&nb
sp; “No.”
“Then, so what? It isn’t the first time; it won’t be the last. Why call me?”
I could almost see him shrug on the other end of the line. “She asked us to call your brother. Somehow I thought it was better to call you.”
“Please don’t call him,” I said, sliding off the side of the bed. “I’ll come get her.”
“Arraignment’s at eight. Need directions?”
“No.” Unfortunately, I did not.
“Didn’t think so.”
“Where’s her car?”
“Impound.”
“Fantastic.”
I hustled into the bathroom, grabbing the duffle bag on the way. Last night, Ellmann had permitted me back into the house once more after the body had been rolled away by the coroner. He’d stood watch while I packed a few days’ worth of clothes and needed toiletries, then he’d escorted me back outside.
I hurried through a quick shower then threw on jeans and a short-sleeved top. I skipped all makeup aside from several swipes of mascara (which I just can’t bring myself to skip, ever), and left my hair down to dry, stuffing a hair tie and a couple pins into my pocket for later, when it started driving me crazy.
Best I could figure, I’d slept a couple hours, which was basically a nap. I wanted to crawl back in bed, put off my problems for a while, and sleep until mid-afternoon, but, as tempting as that was, I knew it wouldn’t solve anything. Not to mention, I doubted I’d get much sleep given the slant of my dreams these days. And I had no doubt that if I didn’t go fetch my mother, someone would call my brother. I try really hard to keep him away from all this.
I set the duffle bag on the floor at the top of the stairs and went to the desk in the loft. It was neat, with not much lying on it. The laptop was closed. The landline phone was quiet. The lamp and the printer turned off. Only a couple loose pieces of paper and a small stack of unopened mail cluttered it. The office space also held two large black bookcases, which featured an impressively diverse collection of books: everything from contemporary fiction to classics to biographies. A small loveseat was pressed against the wall opposite the desk, a book and a blanket left on one side.
The Trouble With Murder Page 15
