An understatement, but I’d take it.
“It’s gonna be fine,” he went on. “I can do this.”
“There you go. That’s the Henry Davis I know.”
We talked for another thirty minutes. He told me the details of the problems he was having, and I walked him through solutions. Unlike at my other two jobs this week, here I was the expert; I was the one who knew what she was doing. I didn’t have anyone lording over me, trying to tell me what to do or how to do it. For a moment, I sincerely missed the job I had waiting for me at White Real Estate, and my thoughts veered to the job White had been offering me for years. For one inexplicable moment, I considered accepting it. Suddenly horrified, I wrapped up the call with Davis, sending him off with the best pep talk I could pull together on the fly.
21
Saturday morning dawned early and full of pain. As I woke, I realized I was sweating, tense, and breathing too fast. But it wasn’t a nightmare. This time it was the screaming pain in my shoulder.
I eased myself out of bed, hoping not to wake Ellmann, and tiptoed to the bathroom, carrying the gun with me. Inside, I closed the door and flipped on the light, wincing at the brightness.
The bandage was peeling off, and the gauze was dark red. I removed the dressing and remembered I’d been dreaming. Not a nightmare, but disturbing all the same. It came back to me in broken, disrupted fragments. I’d been running away. There had been masked gunmen. I didn’t remember seeing my father this time.
As I struggled to redress my shoulder, I seriously considered swallowing some of the prescription painkillers with a swig or two of Jack Daniels. But fear got the better of me, and I took more Tylenol, skipping the booze altogether. I went back to bed and tried to sleep.
By six a.m., I’d tossed and turned all I could for one night. I got up and showered. In no hurry, I stood under the hot water for a long time.
When I emerged, Ellmann was sitting at the table, talking on the phone. He was dressed except for his shirt, which was draped over his knee. He smiled when he saw me.
“Yeah, got it. Text me the address, and I’ll meet you there. Yeah, later.”
He disconnected and stood. Tossing his shirt onto the bed with his phone, he walked over and wrapped me in a gentle hug.
“When someone isn’t trying to kill you and you’re not in the middle of a huge case I’m not supposed to be working anymore, we’re gonna spend the night at my house, and I’m gonna cook you breakfast.”
I tipped my head back and looked up at him.
“When my house isn’t a crime scene and I can find a new place to live, I’m gonna cook you dinner, and we can spend the night at my place.”
“Promise?” he asked.
“Promise.”
Smiling, he kissed me, then retrieved his shirt from the bed.
“You didn’t sleep much,” he said.
I thought he’d been asleep. If he’d been awake, he hadn’t let on. He got points for leaving me alone.
“I got enough,” I lied.
“Maybe you should take a day off. I’m sure the Hobby Lobby lady will understand.”
“I’ll be fine. In any case, I don’t want to risk getting fired. Losing three jobs in two weeks is ridiculous.”
He collected his things and left, wishing me good luck (his personal joke) and telling me to take it easy.
I arrived at Hobby Lobby in the middle of a rush. I was sweating by the time I got to the back of the store to clock in. I ran into Helen as I started out of the lounge, and she confirmed I looked worse for wear.
“Oh, dear,” she said, her hand fluttering over her chest. “You look terrible. Are you all right?” What was she doing here on a Saturday, anyway?
“I’m fine, just a little tired.”
She couldn’t hide her doubt, though she made no effort to try. “Well, I’m glad you’re able to work. You haven’t earned any time off yet.”
“If I called out sick, what would happen?”
“Unfortunately, if you do so before you’ve earned sick time, you’ll be fired.”
“Good to know.”
So much for understanding.
“You don’t look good at all,” she said again.
With that warm endearment ringing in my head, I skirted around her and made for the front of the store in search of Kendra.
All three registers were open, two manned by women I hadn’t yet met. Kendra was on the last. She gave me the same what-the-hell-happened-to-you look when I walked up, but kindly refrained from comment or question. I was charged with manning a register of my own and did well for the first hour. Then the drain of standing got to me, and I nearly fell over. Kendra brought me a stool, and I was able to continue without further incident.
Just as the rush died down, I heard my name paged overhead. Helen was requesting my presence in her office. I slid off the stool and hiked through the store. I wondered if I’d be stuck on a register all day. So far, I felt comfortable with the check-out procedure, and was unsure of my actual job duties.
I was slightly out of breath when I reached Helen’s door. She was sitting behind her desk, reading glasses perched on the tip of her hooked nose.
Before she offered, I went in and took a seat, knowing I’d collapse if I didn’t.
“I just got a call from the drug-testing company.”
The tone of her voice suggested I should be concerned about the nature of this meeting. If I’d had more energy, I might have been able to muster some up.
“They called because there’s a problem,” she went on. Or, at least, I expected her to go on. Instead, she sat staring at me, as if waiting.
“What problem’s that?” I asked.
“Your pre-employment drug screen came back positive.”
“Not possible.”
I don’t do recreational drugs. And I’d taken the drug test before my narcotic-filled stay in the hospital.
“It is possible. I’ve spoken with the company myself. They assure me these sorts of tests are accurate. Unfortunately, your employment with us was conditional upon passing that test. So, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to fire you.”
I was feeling a lot of things: confused, angry, and absolutely exhausted. I was sweating, my heart was beating too fast, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to walk back through the store. I’ve done a lot of dangerous, self-destructive stuff in the past, but drugs weren’t one of them. I knew there was some sort of mix-up regarding the urine test. I also knew this wasn’t a problem I would be able to fix right now. And I didn’t have the energy to spend fighting, anyway. I struggled out of my vest and laid it on the desk.
I stopped and clocked out, then worked my way back to the front of the store. The front door swung open for me at the same time a forty-something-year-old guy started out. He glanced at me sideways as he came up beside me, then turned and looked at me more carefully.
“You don’t look so good,” he said. “Are you okay?”
I looked up at him as we walked out onto the sidewalk. He seemed fairly clean-cut, like a regular guy. He had a plastic sack in his hand, and I could see it was full of beads and glitter. Either he was purchasing those items for himself, in which case he was the sort of man who liked those types of things, or they were for his wife or daughter. In either scenario, I had a hard time believing he was any kind of threat.
“Where are you headed?” I asked.
“Uh, north: Vine and Shields.”
“Great. Mind giving me a lift?”
_______________
After returning to the motel, I fell promptly to sleep. When I awoke, it was still daylight. The room was intact, and I hadn’t dreamt. I was still tired, but I felt a lot better. I finished a bottle of water I found on the table then changed into jeans.
My first phone call was to the drug-testing company. I spent a fair amount of time on hold and being passed between people until I finally spoke to a woman named Mary. She sounded busy, but not distracted.
“Now, tell
me exactly what the problem is,” she said.
I did.
“Okay, tell me your name again.”
“Zoe Grey.”
“Oh, yes. Hobby Lobby, right?”
“Right.”
“Let me see.” I heard some shuffling as she looked for something. “Ah, here it is. Okay, yes, I thought so. Ms. Grey, I’m very sorry for the mix up. I called a woman named Helen Auwaerter and explained. There was a small problem with the computer. Your sample was mixed up with another. Your results were negative.”
“When did you call Helen?”
“About six o’clock yesterday. I thought for sure I’d miss her, but she was still there.”
“Interesting.”
“This didn’t affect your employment, did it?”
“Yes, I was terminated.”
Mary scoffed with disbelief. “Now, why would she do that? I called her myself. I explained to her the mistake was totally on us and that your urine was absolutely negative.”
Yes, why would she do that? I had no good answer. I thought, all things considered, I had done an outstanding job on the adding machine for my two shifts. And, given a chance, I might even make a fine manager. I’d worn the blue vest with pride (or obligation, whichever), and I’d served the blue-haired hobby community without compliant, in sickness and in health.
Mary offered to call Hobby Lobby again on my behalf, but I declined. She apologized again, I thanked her, and we hung up. Then I dialed Helen.
“It’s Zoe Grey.”
She didn’t say anything, but I could tell she wasn’t happy.
“I wanted to talk to you about the drug test.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve just spoken with Mary at the testing company. She told me about the mix-up.”
“Mix-up?”
“Yes. My sample was confused for someone else’s. My results were negative.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Mary told me she called you last night, around six, and explained everything.”
“I’m not sure who she spoke to, but I’m unaware of any mix-up. As far as we’re concerned, you did not pass the drug test. You are not eligible for employment here.”
I sighed. “Really? This is the way you’re going to play it?”
“Listen, Zoe, you’re an okay girl, but the bottom line is, you’re not going to get your job back. I’m sorry. Even if there was a legitimate mix-up at the testing company, it’s just not going to work that way.”
Probably for the best. I didn’t like Helen, and I didn’t particularly like Hobby Lobby.
“Can you at least put me down as a resignation instead of a termination?”
“Yes. Like I said, I am sorry.”
“Yeah,” I sighed, “but that doesn’t help me.”
Any optimism I had about lining up another job before I needed to give Mark White an answer was dwindling fast. It was time to face reality. I would need to consider accepting one of Mark White’s promotions. Maybe I could insist on a contract, put a time limit on the new position. A year, maybe. That sounded reasonable. And it would act as some kind of failsafe for me—protect me from what I feared most.
Still working this over in my head, I called for a cab and got a ride back to my truck, which was still in the Hobby Lobby parking lot. An hour later, I was back on the road in my own vehicle, trying to decide what to do with the rest of my day. I stopped for coffee then figured today was as good a day as any to drop back by Tyler Jay’s mom’s house. It was Saturday, so she wouldn’t be at work, or at least she might not be at work. Perhaps she would spend her day visiting her fugitive offspring. I could only hope she hadn’t already left her house.
Armed with a book, a snack, and an empty bladder, I parked in a new place with a moderately good view of the house. On my cruise past, it had appeared the same as it had on every other visit. I couldn’t tell if Mom was home or not. There were no other cars in the driveway or parked at the curb. I settled into the passenger seat with my book to wait.
While I waited, the book dragged and there was a whole lot of nothing happening at Mom’s house. My mind began to wander. I resisted the urge to let it, trying to rein it back in and focus it on the book, but only for a while. Eventually, I just gave up and set the book aside.
I wondered what Tyler Jay did with his weekends. It seemed unlikely he would go to church, but it has been my experience you can find some of society’s most dangerous people at church. Maybe Tyler’s mom went to church. I pegged her as Catholic. I wasn’t sure why, but it seemed to fit.
My thoughts went back to my first visit with Tyler and to the Honda in the driveway. Ellmann said the DMV records showed it belonged to the now-dead guy, Derrick Bilek. Derrick Bilek was six and a half feet tall and three hundred pounds. At least. That subcompact car was intended for girls, or five-foot-tall Japanese people. DMV records or not, I didn’t believe that was Bilek’s car for a second. So, then, whose car was it? Someone small. No, someone smaller than Bilek. Great. That left most the population.
I thought about Tyler and if he’d heard the news of Stacy’s death. I wondered how he felt about it. The brief time I’d spent talking with him, I’d gotten the distinct impression his feelings for Stacy were deep and genuine, so very much in contrast to the big, bad murderer everyone had painted him to be. Not to say he wasn’t a murderer. It just went to show even murderers have feelings sometimes. Was he heartbroken? Was he feeling depressed? Did he feel responsible? Was he responsible?
How was it he had continued to evade the police? If Ellmann was being truthful, and I suspected he was, then the heat had been turned up on Tyler Jay something serious. It’s one thing to keep ahead of the police when no one’s actively looking for you; it’s something else entirely to stay one step ahead when everyone in the county is looking for you. Tyler Jay was no doubt an experienced fugitive, but he seemed small-time. I couldn’t help but think if he could manage to avoid capture on his own, he would have never spoken to me that day at his mom’s house. The risk was too high that I could have been a cop. Did this mean Tyler Jay had help? What kind of help did he have?
I went back through my memories of the night in the lobby of Elizabeth Tower, the restaurant, Pezzani’s house, and my motel room, and tried to discern some helpful information. The gun in the restaurant had been the same as the gun used by the first intruder in Pezzani’s house, the man I’d shot. That didn’t necessarily mean the same person had held the gun both times. I considered my memories of the intruder. I hadn’t gotten the impression he was tall. I thought Pezzani was tall. I thought Derrick Bilek was huge. I thought Ellmann was beyond tall. I’m average. The intruder definitely wasn’t tall. He had been closer to my height.
Hmm. Now that I was thinking about it more clearly, the gun-wielding figure in the restaurant had been tall. And, the figure from Elizabeth Tower had been short. Thinking back now, I thought it was possible I was taller than that person. I hadn’t gotten a clear look at the second intruder at Pezzani’s because they’d never come up out of the stairwell. I couldn’t say how tall that person was.
I felt something tickling the edge of my brain, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I thought there was a connection among all this information, but I couldn’t see it. I fumbled in my bag for a piece of paper and a pen and began making notes. I went with the same method as before, randomly jotting down names, facts, ideas, and questions then drawing lines between them. I’d found this to occasionally help illustrate an elusive connection, but so far that wasn’t happening now.
My phone rang, and I was glad for the distraction.
“Koepke’s looking for you,” Ellmann said after greetings.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s bad. It’ll just be a formal interview, an interrogation, if you will.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Zoe, you don’t have much of a choice. You can come to him, or he’ll come to you. The second way is much worse
.”
“Okay, I get it. Is he going to call me?”
“Does he need to?”
“Yes.”’
There was a beat of silence. “You’re stubborn beyond reason,” he said. “You know that, right? You know how unhealthy that can be?”
My left shoulder ached and two-dozen lacerations over the right side of my face and arm burned in attestation to the fact that I did know how unhealthy it could be. Still, habits and all that.
“Hey, what was the name of the dead guy at Pezzani’s?” I asked.
“Steven Pengue. Why?”
“Pengue? That doesn’t sound very Hispanic.”
“Ellmann isn’t Italian or Russian, and I’m both. Sometimes names are just names.”
“Hmm. How tall was he?”
“What?”
“How tall was he? I’m sure the coroner made note of that. Could you find out?”
“Why? What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe nothing. Something’s bothering me, that’s all. Also, do you know what sort of car he drove? Do you usually look into that when you find a dead person?”
“First, we didn’t find him dead. Second, we work cases like his a little differently. We’re not interested in who killed him or why; we’re interested in why he was breaking into Pezzani’s place in the middle of the night with the same gun used in an earlier crime.”
“You did, didn’t you? You looked it up. Tell me, what’s he drive?”
“Do you ever get the feeling you’re dancing on the edge of trouble?” he asked. “Do you ever realize that? If you do, is it ever in time to back away before you wind up falling into it?”
“I’m not in trouble.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
We hung up, and I looked at the name Steven Pengue I’d written on my notes. I wondered if he wasn’t the right height for a teeny, tiny, souped-up Honda. Was he connected to Bilek or Tyler?
An hour wore by, and my head was still buzzing. No matter how many ideas or questions I wrote down, I couldn’t get them all out. Fortunately, my phone rang—a welcomed distraction. Welcomed, that was, until I answered.
The Trouble With Murder Page 27
