“That little grin you had there,” he said. “You looked like a kid at Disney Land. What were you thinking about?”
“Nothing.” I grabbed my bag and opened the door. “Thanks for the ride,” I said as I got out. “Again.”
“Stay out of trouble, huh? The twelve-hour rule is still in effect.”
I shrugged. “No problem.”
I got into the Lincoln and my phone rang. Ellmann made a U-turn and disappeared around the corner as I answered it.
“Zoe Grey? My name is Karen Lerman. I’m calling from King Soopers about the application you submitted. I’d like you to come in for an interview.”
Excellent. My second such call today. A woman from Hobby Lobby had also called me that morning, while I’d been waiting for my mother at the courthouse. We’d scheduled an interview for tomorrow. Maybe all this meant my day was looking up.
“I have quite a bit of flexibility in my schedule this week,” I said. “What day works best?”
“Actually, I was hoping you had time today. Maybe this morning? How’s eleven?”
Incidentally, eleven worked for me. I had a pretty open schedule.
I agreed to the time and we disconnected.
I noticed a text from Pezzani. He’d obviously gotten my note.
“Hope the family is okay. Anything I can do? I’m off at eleven today. Wanna have lunch?”
I sent him a quick reply accepting his lunch offer. Then I dialed my mechanic. I knew the shop was open, but no one answered the phone. I left a terse message then started the Lincoln and coasted home. I got to the first stoplight before I realized I didn’t have a home to go to.
I called Donald. I knew he didn’t mind that I was driving the Lincoln, but I did. It was past time to return it. But I fully realized the dangers of going to my mother’s house right now. She’s never in a great mood, as far as I’m concerned. Just getting out of jail was likely to put her in a very bad mood. By a stroke of luck, Donald reported she was not at the house, and she had not been home. I started that way, giving him clear instructions to call me immediately if she turned up.
By the time I arrived at the house, I’d received no such call. Donald met me on the porch. I tossed him the keys as I hustled into the garage, slinging the duffle bag across my chest then pushing the Cushman out into the driveway. I called my thanks to Donald, jumped onto the Cushman, and buzzed away.
I had some time to kill before my interview, so I decided to hit the gym. I put in another painful half hour on the elliptical and immediately felt a terrible burning sensation in almost every part of my lower body. I was holding back tears when the counter finally hit thirty minutes. I winced with every step to the locker room then stood in the shower for a long time.
Dressed in my interview best, clothes that had suffered slightly from being hastily packed into the duffle bag, I buzzed over to King Soopers. I wasn’t too worried about the fact that I’d pinned my hair up wet, or that my clothes weren’t crisply ironed. I understand the principle of always putting the best foot forward, but this was King Soopers, not the Capital Building, or even a bank. I felt sure a few small wrinkles would be overlooked, if they were noticed at all. I followed the instructions Karen had given me. I arrived early, but she seemed in a hurry to interview me anyway.
She led me up the stairs at the back of the building. The second floor was old and undecorated. There was a large open area filled with two tables, a microwave, fridge, and coffee pot that served as the break room. There was also a bathroom and a wall of small lockers. The rest of the space was given over to offices. Some of the offices were labeled with names on the doors while others weren’t. The office Karen led me into was labeled bob durran.
The interview was relatively short. She asked a series of questions, and I answered them to the best of my ability. Then I asked a few of my own. I learned management in this particular store was undergoing reorganization. There had been terminations, layoffs, promotions, demotions, and a host of other changes. Bob Durran no longer worked for King Soopers. Karen usually worked out of an office in Denver but had come up to help get things back on track. This, at least, explained the hurry to get through interviews.
Interview concluded, I carried the duffle bag back out of the store and climbed onto the Cushman. It was too early to meet Pezzani, so I decided to drop in on Stacy again. She was occupying a decent portion of my thoughts, anyway, so I thought it was reasonable to visit.
I bypassed the line waiting for the volunteer—today a man with bottle cap glasses—and got on the elevator. I reached for the button marked 4 and noticed all the buttons were lit. I looked at the only other people on the elevator: a woman and her young son. The kid grinned at me.
Before the elevator delivered me to the fourth floor, it had stopped at three, returned to one, gone to the basement, and stopped again at one. I shot a dark look at the young boy as his mother finally led him out of the elevator. I was pretty certain I could have gotten there faster if I’d taken the stairs. Which also would have been better for me. Go figure.
As I rounded the corner onto ICU, I nearly ran into Tina Shuemaker. She was dressed in jeans, heeled boots, and a ruffled top. Her hair was down—a layered, deliberate mess—hanging past her shoulders. Her makeup was flawless and her jewelry trendy. She carried a large designer bag on her shoulder.
“Oh, hello,” I said, stepping out of the way just before we collided.
She looked up, but it took a moment for her to place my face. When she did, her smile was cold and didn’t reach her eyes.
“What are you doing here?” She made it sound more like an accusation than a question.
“Visiting Stacy, of course. And yourself?”
“The same. What else would I be doing?”
I didn’t know. “Is she doing any better?”
Tina shrugged and tried for a sad look, but like the smile, it seemed insincere. “The doctors aren’t hopeful. I have to get to class; I’m late.”
Then she was gone.
As I made my way down the hall, a series of alarms sounded somewhere. An instant later, people dressed in scrubs and white jackets were jumping up and hurrying out of the nurses’ station and down the hall. Vicki Karnes, Stacy’s mother, shot out of Stacy’s room, panic-stricken. She was forced backward as the wave of people flowed past her.
“Help!” she cried desperately. “Please, help her!”
By the time I made it to the room, all sorts of equipment and people had been convened around the bed. The alarms were still sounding, and the staff was talking over them, calling out information and orders. Thomas stood huddled with his wife in the back of the room, just inside the door. Both of them were crying as they watched, and waited.
Stunned and horrified by the implication of the sounds and hurried activity, I was unable to move, unable to look away. The same way a person is compelled to watch a train wreck. I chalked it up to human nature.
The horrible feeling in my chest and the hot tears burning silently down my cheeks were something else.
_______________
East Moon Asian Bistro and Hibachi is one of the new restaurants on Harmony Road just west of the newly constructed Front Range Village. The main entrance is on the west end and opens onto a wide sidewalk leading to the patio and a large fire pit, which was currently unlit.
Inside, Pezzani was waiting on a bench. A smiling blonde girl manned the hostess station. To the right, the restaurant is arranged in typical fashion with booths and tables, many of which were occupied with the lunch crowd. To the left, the restaurant is sectioned off with floor-to-ceiling sheets of glass. On the other side of the glass are large Hibachi tables designed to seat eight diners. Two of them were occupied with large groups, Asian men dressed in black uniforms and red chef hats stood behind each. The occasional burst of flame and skillful tossing of utensils completed the show.
A large bar separates the two sections of the restaurant. The left side of the counter is high, with barstools pushed up to it. The right
is much lower, with chairs and fancy plates at each seat. Another Asian man in a black uniform and red hat was behind the counter preparing food. This was the Sushi bar.
Pezzani stood when he saw me, taking me in. He was dressed in what I’d come to recognize as his work attire: black polo with company logo, perfectly fitted blue jeans, and black boots.
“You look nice,” he said. But I thought there was a hint of amusement in his voice. I didn’t know what to make of that.
I’d stopped crying halfway to the restaurant, but I imagined my eyes were still red. He didn’t seem to notice. For which I was grateful. I didn’t want to talk about it. I couldn’t help but think Ellmann would have noticed, though.
“This is my interview costume,” I said, hoping to end the discussion.
We followed the hostess to a booth along the back wall, declining an offer to sit at the bar and passing on the Hibachi experience of it all. Our waitress appeared, introducing herself and reciting the specials. We ordered drinks and she left to get them. We consulted the piece of paper on the end of the table, discussing Sushi.
Before I heard it, I felt it. The atmosphere in the restaurant changed. An instant before, it had been filled with typical dining sounds: the low murmur of conversation and the clinking of silverware on plates. The soft overhead music had created a soothing ambiance. But, as if a switched had been flipped, the entire room fell silent. The only sound remaining was the music, which, in that brief moment, was deafening.
The silence lasted for a millisecond, just long enough to grab my attention. As I looked up, I realized it had been the calm before the storm. There were several gasps accompanied by a chorus of screams. As quickly as the last, another switch was flipped. Suddenly, it was pandemonium. People screamed and clamored, dishes broke, chairs scraped the floor and fell over. At the same time, I saw a familiar figure step around the end of the bar into the dining room.
A figure dressed head-to-toe in black, wearing a ski mask. And the figure had a new accessory: a big, shiny gun.
The figure spotted me and began firing. Self-preservation kicked in, as automatic to me as breathing. Before the first bullet left the gun, I was out of the booth and scurrying across the floor toward the bar. I wanted to put something very large between the shooter and myself.
The shooter charged through the restaurant. Bullets peppered the walls. The report from the gun battered my unprotected eardrums almost palpably. One, two, three . . . . The wall art burst and crashed to the wooden floor.
Pezzani was right behind me. We hit the deck and across the floor for a moment. Then we scrambled, desperate for my shoes to gain purchase on the polished hardwood floor. The shots continued, trailing our forward movement. Eight, nine, ten . . .
In dogged pursuit, the shooter swung the gun after us. Bullets sailed over our heads. They struck the glass panels. The glass shattered and rained to the floor.
Behind the bar, I shot to my feet and sprinted forward, keeping my head down. Pezzani was on my heels. We were between the bar and the glass. The panels shattered in sync with the report of the gun. Each one exploded as we passed. The glass flew everywhere, spraying over my right side.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Finally, the gunshots stopped. I heard the harmless click, click, click of the trigger pulling on an empty gun.
I looked behind me to see if the figure was reloading. Still clutching the gun in his or her right hand, the figure sprinted forward but made no effort to reload. I stopped, turning to face the figure. I could see nothing in the gloved hands apart from the empty gun. However, I kept my eyes peeled for a knife.
The black-clad figure charged forward, black eyes burning into me. I dropped into a familiar defensive stance. Suddenly, the figure’s eyes cut to my left, toward the door. Without slowing, the figure tore by, barreling through the exit. I hurried after him or her. I hit the sidewalk in time to see the figure jump into the passenger side of a small, white compact car. The car tore out of the lot with a screech of the tires.
My chest heaved and my already taxed muscles burned. I bent forward and put my hands on my knees, sucking in air. Yesterday, when I’d returned to the house and found the dead guy, I hadn’t really considered that I’d been the target. I couldn’t say for sure the attack in the restaurant had been directed at me, either, but it seemed plausible. At least, I was now willing to consider it. What I didn’t know was why someone was trying to kill me. Neither did I know who that someone might be.
Standing upright, I went back inside. Pezzani was at the hostess station talking on the phone, the hostess hysterical beside him. I noticed he had red gashes on his arm and face from the glass. Looking at my arm for the first time, I saw I was in the same condition. Some of the wounds were rather deep. Pezzani hung up then noticed me.
“Police are on the way.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting on the bumper of the ambulance beside Pezzani, an EMT tending to the worst of my lacerations. The parking lot was crammed full of emergency response vehicles and rubberneckers. The police were speaking to witnesses, taking statements, and writing reports. Those few who had needed medical care were being tended to in the parking lot, no one requiring serious attention or transport to the ER.
The EMT secured a bandage around my upper arm as a navy blue Charger stopped at the curb behind two patrol cars. I wasn’t surprised to see it here. But I was a bit surprised by the mix of emotions I felt as a result.
Ellmann had on aviator-style sunglasses and a pissed-off look. He crossed the sidewalk to the nearest uniformed officer and spoke to him briefly. The officer used his hands to point in several directions as he responded. In following the officer’s finger, Ellmann had looked toward the parking lot and spotted me sitting on the ambulance. He concluded the conversation and started over. He stopped in front of me and planted both hands on his hips. Even through the shades, I could see the unfriendly look in his eyes.
“Oh, Alex,” Pezzani said, standing and offering his hand. “Or, Detective Ellmann, I should say. Good to see you again.”
Ellmann shook the other man’s hand unenthusiastically, so busy glaring at me he barely glanced at Pezzani.
“What happened?” he asked.
Pezzani launched into an account of the event, though I was pretty sure Ellmann had been asking me. I was content to merely listen, letting Pezzani explain while the EMT continued to bandage my wounds. After reaching the end, Pezzani sighed and shrugged.
“That’s when the police showed up,” he finished.
Ellmann was nodding his head, listening and absorbing the details, never looking away from me. He wasn’t taking notes as he typically did, though. I wondered if that meant this wouldn’t be his case. I thought it should be, since it seemed connected to the others, but what did I know?
The EMT taped the last dressing and stood. “Several of those need sutures. We can take you to the ER, or you can go on your own.”
“I’ll go on my own,” I said. “I probably shouldn’t leave just now anyway.” Even if I wanted to avoid the conversation I knew was coming.
“Sounds good.” He reached for a clipboard and made several checkmark. Then he held it and the pen out to me. “Just sign this.”
I signed the document, relieving the ambulance service of any guilt and legal responsibility regarding my injuries, and handed it back. The EMT signed as a witness then tore off a carbon copy and handed it to me. He shook my hand and wished me well, then turned his attention to other things. Pezzani and I stood, both bandaged on our right sides, and moved away from the ambulance.
“Have you given your statements?” Ellmann asked.
“No, not yet,” Pezzani said. “We were sent to the EMTs first.”
Ellmann turned and looked around. He waved to an officer concluding an interview, calling him over. The man ambled toward us carrying a clipboard.
“This man needs to make a statement,” Ellmann said, pointing to Pezzani. “He’s finished with the medics. Will you take him and
get him started?”
“No problem. If you’ll just come with me, sir.”
Pezzani moved off after the officer.
Ellmann reached out and wrapped his hand around my uninjured left arm, guiding me toward the far side of the parking lot, where a six-foot privacy fence had been erected between the shopping center and the trailer park. Only when we reached the curb did he release me.
“What happened?” he asked again, pulling off his sunglasses. He studied the cuts on my face and seemed particularly upset by the laceration on my cheekbone.
I shrugged. “Joe gave a pretty good account.”
He just stared at me.
“What?” I asked.
He sighed and tugged a hand back through his hair. “I asked for twelve hours,” he said. “Twelve hours. How hard could that be? Do you know how long it’s been? Nine.”
“Hey, you said not to call you for twelve hours. Once again, I didn’t call you.”
“I said no emergencies or problems. This is both.”
“Well, don’t be mad at me. I didn’t call you. And I didn’t ask that gunman to come shoot the place up.”
“You’re like a walking magnet for trouble. It follows you wherever you go. With you, it’s one disaster after another. What will be next? We’ve already got assault, murder, and now a gunman in a restaurant. I hate to think about what will happen next. I mean, you’ve got to be running out of lives by now.”
My gut lurched, and I winced. Tears sprang instantly to my eyes. Hadn’t the hospital called him?
“Actually, it’s two murders.”
“What?” He hadn’t missed my reaction, and now he realized it had nothing to do with his lecture. “What do you mean?”
“I just came from the hospital. Stacy . . . didn’t make it.” My voice was tight, and with the last few words, my restraint was zapped. I began to sob, tears streaking down my cheeks again.
“I thought you’d been crying,” he sighed. “I’m sorry.”
Ellmann took a step forward then stopped himself. Instead, he reached a hand out and put it on my shoulder. It was strong, warm, and comforting. I appreciated his small gesture.
The Trouble With Murder Page 17
