When Ellmann’s name was called, we followed the hostess through the crowded dining room to a table for two in the back. We placed our order and waited until the waitress had departed before speaking. Ellmann leaned across the table.
“I don’t suppose you saw Margaret Fischer this morning,” he said.
“I don’t suppose she’s the dead body you found in my house this morning,” I said.
Surprise blinked briefly in his eyes before he could hide it. “Why am I surprised?” he asked, shaking his head as he dragged a hand back through his hair. “I shouldn’t be. It’s impossible to keep information from you. It’s like the universe aligns itself exactly so you can learn what you shouldn’t know. It’s like you have some kind of gift, or maybe just incredible luck.”
“It’s a gift and a curse.”
“Not the best time for jokes,” he said. “You’re in serious trouble.”
“That sounds about right,” I sighed. “I didn’t have anything to do with anything, but why would that matter?”
“Fischer’s secretary said she had planned to stop by your house on her way home yesterday. She wanted to have a look around so she would know what needed to be done when the crime scene was released.”
“She go in the house?”
“Yes, we found her in the living room, not far from the existing bloodstain. The sticker on the front door had been cut. We don’t know if Fischer cut it or if she found it cut when she got there.”
“If she found it open, she could have walked in on someone doing something they didn’t want anyone to see. Maybe that’s why she was killed.”
“It’s a theory I’m working. Personally, I think it fits better than most the others. But I’ve learned murder is never as simple as we’d like it to be and never as complicated as it seems to be.”
The waitress arrived and delivered our food. Again we waited for her to leave before resuming the conversation.
“When was she killed?”
“Last night sometime. Coroner is saying between six and eight.”
I sighed. “Great.”
“What?”
“My alibi is me doing something I shouldn’t have been doing, alone.”
“What were you doing?”
“I was sitting outside Tyler Jay’s Mom’s house. It was around eight o’clock when she drove over to the Palomino.”
“America’s Best Inn.”
“Whatever. I must have called the tip hotline around eight-thirty.”
“Eight forty-three. I checked.”
“Still, not very solid. I suppose I’m in the suspect pool.”
“You are the suspect pool.”
My turn to be surprised. “Come again?”
“The gun used to kill Fischer was a 9mm we found beside her body. It’s registered to you.”
_______________
Dinner didn’t get much better. I also thought my budding relationship with Ellmann was about to change. I was wanted for questioning in the murders of both Margaret Fischer and Derrick Bilek, even though I had an airtight alibi for Bilek’s murder. It seemed like a no-brainer bad career move for a cop to be hanging out with a murder suspect. I had to admit, that made me sad. I really liked Ellmann.
After dinner, I returned to Tyler’s mom’s house. It had long since gotten dark, but I didn’t pull out a flashlight to read. Instead, I was left with my wandering thoughts and relentless questions. By eleven, I’d seen no sign of Mom, no indication she was even home, and I’d been left alone with my thoughts for as long as I could stand. And it was probably just as well. Ellmann was supposed to be my phone call if (when) I found Tyler again. That didn’t seem like a good idea just now.
I packed it in and went home. Or, to the motel.
Housekeeping had been in the room, as I’d requested, and everything was fresh and clean. I washed my face then carefully tended to my wounds, applying fresh Neosporin and dressings. I read a little in the new book I’d picked up. Half an hour later, my eyelids were heavy. I set the book aside and switched off the lamp. I was asleep almost immediately.
I awoke sometime later because I had to pee. I barely opened my eyes as I fell out of bed and shuffled through the dark to the bathroom. I didn’t turn on the bathroom light, either. With only one eye open, I twisted the water on then off again. That was when I heard it.
I wasn’t sure what it was, but all the little hairs on my body were standing up. My muscles were tense. Suddenly, I was completely awake. I strained to listen through the deafening silence. I could hear nothing over the roaring thump of my pulse in my ears. Too late I realized there was movement outside my door. I heard the lock beep and then retract.
Another, more potent, dose of adrenaline rushed into my bloodstream, and I was in fight-or-flight mode. With nowhere to fly to, I had to fight. Something told me this wasn’t Ellmann. And I very much doubted it was housekeeping.
As the door opened, I sprinted for the bedside table and my gun. A figure dressed in black and a ski mask came in and raised a gun. A part of my brain recognized it. The same gun Figure Two had used at Pezzani’s.
The intruder fired off several shots as I ran. There was a sting in my left shoulder, followed by a horrible white-hot burning. I heard a cry of pain, but didn’t understand it was my own. The rest of my brain was focused on reaching my gun.
I flung myself forward, landed on the bed, and slid, my right hand outstretched. I seemed to watch in slow motion as my hand inched closer to the weapon. Finally, I reached it.
The shooting persisted. Snatching the gun up, I rolled onto my right side. I was already squeezing the trigger.
I continued to fire. I attempted to aim, but more important was pushing the shooter out of the room. I was a sitting duck. It was a miracle I’d only been hit once.
At my return fire, the figure stopped, lowered the gun, and sprinted out the door. He or she may have been trying to kill me, but I’d never been one for shooting a person in the back. I lowered the muzzle and squeezed off a few more shots.
When the figure was out of the room, I scrambled up and hurried to the open door. I heard a car door and the screech of tires, but was unable to see the vehicle from this side of the building. I was disinclined to go after him or her, given how close they had come to accomplishing their task tonight. Too close.
I heard sirens already. I went back into the room and flipped on the light. I ejected the clip from the gun and set both pieces on the table. In the bathroom mirror, I looked at my shoulder. There was an ugly red hole in the front, just below my collarbone. Nothing on the back. The bullet was still in my shoulder.
Soon, the expected blue and red lights were dancing on the walls. I snagged a front-zip sweatshirt and pulled it on carefully, clenching my teeth at the pain. I had just gotten it on when Frye appeared in the open door, his weapon held in front of him by both hands.
I stopped and let him see my hands.
“We have to stop meeting like this, Frye.”
He looked around the room.
“That would be nice.”
“I’m alone. My gun is there.” I pointed to the table.
He lowered his weapon but continued to hold it in front of him.
“Okay,” he said. “Why don’t you just take a step to the side? I’ll have a quick look in the bathroom.”
I did as instructed. Only after he’d confirmed the room was empty did he holster his weapon. He retrieved latex gloves from his belt and pulled them on, then took possession of the weapon as he had before. He herded me out of the room as two more patrol cars pulled into the lot. One of them was Pratt. My eyes rolled involuntarily.
Frye took charge, issuing directions. The others obeyed. I walked over to my truck, parked near the office, lowered the tailgate, and sat down.
A few minutes later, I gave my verbal account to Frye. This time, I had no helpful information, like car make or model or even color, no license plates, nothing. The crime scene van pulled into the parking lot and Troy got out.
A short time after that, the coroner arrived, parking outside the office. I reached out and tapped Frye on the shoulder.
“Shit, Zoe, you don’t look so good. You look . . . white. You okay?”
“Why is the coroner here?”
He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of my gaze, considering the best choice of words. Finally he said, “The night clerk was shot and killed. We think that’s how they got the key to your room.”
Someone was dead because of me. Someone else, more accurately. I felt dizzy, and there were black spots in front of my eyes. I leaned forward and put my head between my knees.
There are people who can go their whole lives, live eighty, ninety, even a hundred years, and not kill another person. Some of them make it without even hurting anyone else. Like Buddhist monks. Who don’t even hurt spiders. At twenty-five, I had at least five bodies to my name, and this situation wasn’t over yet. How many more would there be by the time it was all said and done? How did those people live so long without hurting anyone?
_______________
The navy blue Charger tore into the lot about fifteen minutes behind everyone else. Ellmann barely got the car turned off before he jumped out. People started talking to him immediately, but he wasn’t listening. He was looking around for something, or, more accurately, for someone. He spotted me sitting on the tailgate of the truck, and I could see the relief wash over him. He hurried forward, winding his way through people and vehicles. When he reached me, I saw him resist the urge to grab me up.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice tight.
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
I hit the highlights.
He turned to Frye. “Can I have a couple minutes?”
Frye nodded and walked away.
Ellmann turned back to me. “I was on my way over here,” he said. He sounded guilty, like he felt responsible. “I stopped at my house to get a couple things. Then I was coming here. I should have been here.”
“That wouldn’t have changed anything.”
This was a reversal of the conversation we’d had in my mother’s basement a few days ago. I’d felt guilty for not being there when Stacy Karnes had needed help the most. Ellmann had pointed out then that something similar or worse might have happened to me had I been in the lobby when Stacy was attacked. Now I was telling him the same thing, and it was true. If Ellmann had been in that room when the shooter had come in, he could have been shot, or worse, much worse. For that reason, I was glad he hadn’t been. I really did like Ellmann, a lot. I didn’t want anything to happen to him. Still, I knew from personal experience this argument wasn’t likely to lessen the guilt he was feeling.
He went to see about things, and I finished my statement. Like anything else a person does over and over again, I was getting pretty good at these things. I figured if this continued, I’d be able to write an entire report in five minutes flat.
The body was removed, and the coroner van departed. Troy and one of the other crime scene guys finished up in the office and went to my room. Ellmann was moving around the parking lot, talking to the other cops, interviewing witnesses, directing the activity. I was beginning to wonder how long I should stay. The fire in my shoulder had caused it to go numb, but that feeling was equally painful. The entire left side of my upper body was stiff, and I could feel the blood running down my arm and shoulder. Had the sweatshirt been a lighter color, it would have been obviously saturated.
Ellmann started over toward me again, and I decided to ask him about leaving. There was nothing else I could do here, anyway. He was a few feet away when Troy emerged from the room and called his name. He stopped and waited while Troy hurried up to him. The tech held several little plastic baggies in his gloved hands, each containing small bullet fragments. He held them up for Ellmann to see while he talked.
I realized I was swaying slightly. I felt lightheaded, and the little black spots were back. I gripped the edge of the tailgate to steady myself.
I listened as Troy explained the problem. Basically, the bullets they’d pulled out of the wall were too damaged to be useful. Something to do with the way the structure had been changed during the remodel. Something had been added to the walls to help eliminate the noise from other rooms. The point of the story was, it would be impossible to determine if the bullets they’d found in my room were fired from the same gun as the bullets recovered from Pezzani’s place or the restaurant.
“Actually,” I said, drawing their attention. “There is one more bullet.”
They both looked worried when they turned to me, and Ellmann hurried forward.
“What bullet?” he asked. “Zoe, you don’t look well.”
I pushed the sweatshirt off my shoulder as a particularly strong wave of dizziness swirled around me.
“This bullet,” I said.
Then I was falling. I remember the terrified look on Ellmann’s face and nothing else. Just blackness.
19
I was in the lobby of Elizabeth Tower. Stacy was standing beside me. We were facing a figure dressed in black, wearing a ski mask. The figure’s eyes were as black as the mask. I didn’t know the shooter. I was scared. Stacy was screaming.
I reached over and grabbed Stacy’s arm. I wanted to push her out of the way. But the gun barked. Her body jerked as bullets struck her: one, two, three. Suddenly her body was falling, her weight pulling me with it to the floor. Blood poured out of her in dark red rivers. It covered her body and the floor around us.
I sobbed, horrified. I clung to Stacy’s body, unable to move, to run, to defend myself. I looked up, and the shooter was standing over me. The gun was pointed directly at my forehead. I heard another scream. Then someone was squeezing my hand. I looked down. Stacy was gone. Ellmann was beside me.
Gasping, I came fully awake and tried to throw myself backward, away from the threat that didn’t, at that moment, exist outside my dreams. My chest heaved as I sucked in air and sweat ran down my face.
“It was just a dream,” Ellmann said, squeezing my hand. He reached his other hand out to touch me then hesitated. I could only imagine the look on my face.
It was daylight. I could feel a horrible pain just out of reach under the numbness brought on by narcotics. Normally, such medications clouded my thinking, causing me to feel the constant, inviting tug of unconsciousness. But the adrenaline that had been dumped into my bloodstream by fear temporarily countered that side effect.
I could feel the worry radiating from Ellmann. I tried to slow my breathing. To satisfy myself I was safe, I had a look around. I saw enough to tell me I was in a hospital. I tried to sit up, but the movement only caused the pain to reach right through the buffer layer of numbness and bite me. I winced and lay flat.
“Don’t try to move. Here.” Ellmann reached out and pressed a finger to a button I couldn’t see. The head of the bed began to rise. “There’s no one else here.”
He was right; the room was empty. My breathing was returning to normal. The fear was receding. Ellmann sat with me, patiently holding my hand.
After a few minutes, the pharmaceutical barrier was back in place, and the pain had subsided. As the adrenaline burned off, the foggy effect of the narcotics moved in. I rolled my head to the right and saw Ellmann. Even in my drugged state, I could see he didn’t look good. His eyes were bloodshot and ringed by the dark circles of fatigue. His hair was a mess, he hadn’t shaved, and he was wearing the same clothes as he had the day before. I saw dark red stains on his t-shirt and knew what they were.
I squeezed his hand, then pulled mine away and lifted it to my left shoulder. Under the blanket, I saw a clean white gauze dressing. I picked at the tape, ignoring Ellmann’s protests, and peeled up one side of the bandage. I saw the orange stain Betadine leaves behind and lots of black stitches.
“What time is it?” I asked. My throat was hoarse. No doubt from being intubated.
“A little after eleven.”
I’d had surgery. Ell
mann, no doubt, had been up and by my side every minute since I’d collapsed in the parking lot.
“When was my last dose of narcotics?” I asked.
“I think you got a dose this morning, a couple hours ago. Why? Do you need more?” He reached out toward the call button.
“No,” I said quickly. “I can’t have anymore. I may have to work today.”
“Work?”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you. I got a job at King Soopers. If I didn’t actually get fired last night, I need to work.”
He rubbed a hand over his face then back through his hair.
“Zoe, you’ve been shot. You just got out of surgery. Forget about work.”
“I don’t want to get fired for real. Getting fired from two jobs in a week is excessive.”
“You didn’t actually get fired the first time, and I think your boss will understand in this case.”
I reached up for the IV and thumbed the line closed. I twisted the line free from the buff cap in the back of my hand. Then I punched the call button for the nurse.
It helped to be awake and moving. The numbness was lessening, and I felt the drug beginning to lose its affect again. I threw the blanket back, against Ellmann’s wishes, and struggled to sit on the side of the bed.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I have to pee.”
“You have a catheter.”
“Oh.”
A motherly-looking woman with graying brown hair came into the room. She looked surprised and worried to find me sitting up, half out of bed, the IV disconnected. The syringe pump on the IV pole had begun to alarm, no doubt alerting staff to a malfunction caused by the interrupted flow. She hustled around the bed and fussed with the pump until it was quiet.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she scolded. I noticed there was still caring and love in her tone. She was probably a wonderful mother. I’ve never been scolded out of love or affection, and I think people who have are very lucky.
“I was going to go pee.”
The Trouble With Murder Page 24
