Now would be a good time to call the Vernonville Police Department. However, after this evening’s “cry wolf” fiasco with Aileen Lang-Quincy, I was reluctant to make the call and look like an idiot again if no one was there. I’d check it out first. I hugged the wall with the Segway, passing the men’s room and then the ladies’ room without incident. The large trash can was right where it always was. I peered into it. Empty. No trash or bodies. The exterior door when I reached it was ajar, open a scant half inch. Using my elbow, I nudged it wider and peered into the darkness. The cold bit at me, making me blink, but I saw nothing unusual or suspicious—no vehicles or hooded skulkers. I pulled it closed behind me, but it didn’t latch properly and sighed open the same half inch. Hm. Had someone damaged the mechanism forcing the door just now, or had it happened earlier, perhaps in the course of a delivery? I cursed the mall’s penny-pinching ways and the lack of a proper alarm system.
A faint sound behind me, not a footstep or anything identifiable, but out of place in the deserted hallway, made me spin around. Two figures loomed in front of me. Hillary Clinton stood ten feet away on my left, and Sarah Palin hovered close beside her on my right. Hillary had a gun pointed at my midsection. Damn politicians.
Twenty-two
The vinyl Halloween masks made their heads look out of proportion to their bodies, which were clad in genderobscuring navy sweatpants and black hoodies. Despite the disguises, I had a pretty good idea who I was dealing with. The sight of the gun had sent my brain into warp drive, and I knew the twosome could only be Velma Maldonado and her mother, or Elena Porter and her best friend, Catherine Lang. Velma and Monica, however, had no way of knowing I was working the midshift tonight.
“You know, I thought you two killed Jackson Porter together,” I said, “because Wilfred Lang also died under odd circumstances and that made me wonder. But then I talked with Aileen and she told me you”—I looked at the gun-wielding Catherine—“were with her at the spa when your husband died. She was your alibi.”
“More like I was hers,” Catherine said in her low voice, apparently unperturbed that I had recognized them. Not good.
“You mean Aileen killed her father?” I was momentarily distracted from the present danger.
“My guess is she paid to have it done,” Catherine said. “She’d never been interested in spending time with me before, and then she calls to suggest we ‘get to know each other better’ with a spa weekend and Wilfred ends up dead? You do the math. I wasn’t about to rock the boat, though, because I was just as glad to be rid of him as she was. That man was . . . He deserved to die.” She shuddered and the gun trembled in her hand. “Anyway, it gave me the idea when Elena told me about Jackson’s latest affair, the way he was humiliating her with that Velma girl.”
“You can’t believe how much he was spending on her,” Elena said from behind her Sarah Palin mask. “He was backing an off-Broadway show to give her her shot at fame. We don’t have that kind of money—he was ruining us, mortgaging our future for that bimbo. I could have been famous if I hadn’t given up performing when we had Robbie. Did he ever offer to back my career? Did he ever even want to listen to me play? No.” She sounded sad and weary, but then her voice strengthened. “I had tolerated his infidelities before, but this was the last straw.”
“So who shot him?” I looked from Catherine to Elena and back again.
“We’re done talking,” Catherine said. “As long as we stick to our story, no one can prove anything.” She turned to face Elena as she spoke, and I imagined her glaring her partner to silence, although I couldn’t see her eyes properly with the Hillary mask in the way.
“You could probably get rid of the masks,” I suggested, hoping that pulling it off might cause Catherine’s aim to slip so I could try something.
“Oh, no,” Catherine said. “We’re burglars. We’ve broken in to rob the jewelry store, and we’re wearing masks so we can’t be identified on camera. You’re about to play hero and try to stop us. Unfortunately, you get shot and die. Elena and I will make a big fuss about the inadequate security at the mall and donate a huge wreath to your funeral. I learned that from Aileen, too: put on an outraged face and call for an investigation and no one will suspect you. She called me, you know, after your talk at the Four Seasons, and mentioned you were working tonight.” Her eyes, shadowed by the mask, mocked me.
I evaluated my options. I didn’t like any of them. The door behind me was still cracked open, but I’d have to lean my weight against it to open it and that would give Catherine ample time to put a bullet in my back.
As if she were reading my thoughts, Catherine motioned me forward with her left hand, the one not holding the gun. “Get away from the door.”
I inched forward on the Segway, glad for its bulk between me and the gun, even though I knew it probably wouldn’t stop a bullet. Every minute I could extend the conversation was another minute to come up with a plan, so I said, “And Weasel? How did he find out?”
“The other guard? Was that his name?” Catherine asked. “How appropriate.” It was weird not being able to read her expression; Hillary’s fixed smile was disconcerting. “He saw the car that night and called Elena the next day, hinting at what he knew. He wanted ten thousand dollars for his silence. He got silence, all right. Permanent silence.”
“What we in the military would call collateral damage,” I said, looking for a way to drive a wedge between the two women. Divide and conquer. “And is that what Robbie was? Collateral damage? Pretty cold.”
Elena gasped. “He died of an accidental overdose!”
I sensed an opening. “Oh, I don’t think so. Your buddy Catherine here killed him because he was going to tell me what he knew. Did he overhear you plotting? Find blood in the back of the SUV? Discover—”
“Ignore her, Elena,” Catherine said, her voice tenser than before. “Move around behind her so if she tries something—”
I leaned forward on the Segway, sending it straight toward Elena as she started to move. She reflexively jumped out of the way, bumping Catherine, and I shot past the pair of them, hunching my shoulders to make myself the smallest possible target. Leaning right, I turned into the Dillard’s corridor as a bullet whizzed by, the sound of the shot deafening in the confined hallway. My ears ringing, I shifted my weight from side to side, directing the Segway on a serpentine path through the corridor. Footsteps sounded behind me, and I risked a look back to see both women emerging from the service hallway, masks still in place, Catherine leveling the gun. I leaned left hard and another bullet missed me.
My heart was pounding fast enough to rip its way out of my chest, and my breath came in shallow gasps. I forced myself to take a deep breath and think. Top speed on the Segway was only twelve and a half miles an hour, and I knew Catherine, at least, could catch me if she sprinted. My only hope was to hide long enough to call for help. Making it to another mall exit wouldn’t do the trick; I’d be even more exposed and easier to run down in the empty parking lots.
I had emerged into the main atrium where the corridors crossed and the fountain lay straight ahead of me, with the food court on its far side. Deciding the Segway was a liability now—it hampered my mobility and made me too visible—I zoomed around the fountain and leaped off, taking care to land on my left leg. The Segway continued a few feet toward the food court as I dove into the greenery in the nearest planter, hoping the ferns and spaths and hostas would hide me.
“She’s got to be right here somewhere,” Catherine’s voice said from only a few feet away. For once, I was grateful for the mall’s cheapskate habit of only lighting the place dimly at night. Breathing as quietly as possible, I detected the scent of damp earth and what might have been lemonade—shoppers all too frequently emptied their drinks into the planters—and I quickly began to feel light-headed from lack of oxygen.
“Maybe she’s in the food court,” Elena whispered. “Behind one of the counters or under a table.”
The squeak of rubber-
soled boots on tile told me they were headed toward the food court. I took a peek and saw their shadowy backs passing the Segway, which had drifted to a stop near Legendary Lola Cookies. Reaching into my pocket, I withdrew my cell phone and hit redial because it was faster than punching in 911.
Grandpa answered, sounding completely alert, even though it was near midnight.
“Grandpa, send the police to the mall. I’m—”
Something heavy smacked down on my wrist, sending the cell phone clinking to the floor and skidding across the tiles until a booted foot crunched down on it. Wrist aching, I raised my eyes to see the Hillary Clinton mask looming over me, gun raised. Apparently, Catherine had smashed the gun into my wrist. “Get out of there,” she commanded. Elena stood several feet to her right, Sarah Palin mask shifted upward slightly so her mouth was exposed. Easier to breathe that way, I guessed.
I swung my legs over the side of the planter, momentarily disgusted by the sight of chewing gum stuck to my uniform slacks. Without thinking much about the move, I brought my legs into my abdomen and exploded them outward, pushing off the planter with my arms at the same time so I launched myself at Catherine. My feet thudded into her chest, and she staggered backwards, overbalancing and collapsing into the fountain with a spray of cold water. I landed jarringly on my back, knocking the breath out of myself. A glint of light on metal sailing through the air told me Catherine’s fall had loosened her grip on the gun. I heard it land and twisted to reach for it as Catherine yelled, “Elena, get the gun!”
I struggled to my feet as Catherine surged out of the fountain, Hillary face smashed on one side and hanging askew past her chin. She ripped it off with a snarl and tossed it behind her. It gave me some small comfort to know police would be able to identify her now from her image on the cameras, if we were within range of one that was actually working. I readied myself for her charge as Elena said, “I’ve got the gun.”
Catherine and I looked at her, and a satisfied smile leaked across Catherine’s face. It vanished as Elena turned the gun on her and fired. The bullet went wide. Catherine’s eyes widened with fear and she held both her hands out. “Elena, what—?”
“You killed my son,” Elena said, her voice level and cold with none of her earlier hesitation. She stood braced with the backs of her thighs against the planter, arms extended at shoulder height, gun pointed at Catherine Lang. I stepped backwards surreptitiously, removing myself from the line of fire.
“I didn’t!” Catherine said. “It was an overdose. I wouldn’t—”
“I could forgive you sleeping with Jackson, but—”
“Wha—?” Catherine tried to look astonished, but even I could see she was lying. Her dark hair lay plastered to her cheeks, and her eyes darted from side to side. “I don’t know what—”
Another bullet splintered into the fountain three feet to Catherine’s left, sending up a geyser of tile shards. I instinctively covered my head with my hands, and the ceramic bits plinked harmlessly to the ground.
“Of course you did,” Elena said. “Why else would you go to work for him after Wilfred died? It’s not like you needed the money. I’ve known for months that you two were going at it like bunnies in his office when the rest of the staff went home. I put up with it because I couldn’t stand the thought of losing both of you. How pathetic is that? The only good thing about his taking up with that dancer was that she put your nose out of joint. How’s it feel to be cheated on, huh? If I’d had doubts about whether or not you were screwing him, you erased them with how eager you were to humiliate him by stripping him naked and sticking him in the window. And then you took those photos and posted them online, making sure even more people would see him like that.”
“He was a louse,” Catherine said, trying to keep her tone reasonable, but I heard the edge of panic in it. “You deserve better than him, Elena.”
“I deserve better than both of you.” She aimed again, squinting one eye closed. “This is for Robbie.” She fired. The recoil knocked her back, rustling the plants behind her.
Catherine let out a howl of pain, clutched at her abdomen, and toppled into the fountain again. This time she lay still, floating faceup.
Elena swung the gun toward me, resolve hardening the lines of her pudgy face.
“Uh, don’t look now,” I said, “but there’s a snake behind you.”
“Right.” Elena laughed, just as Agatha’s cold, reptilian snout nosed her arm. Elena whirled and sighted the python. Only three or four feet of the snake’s length protruded from the bushes, but it was enough to give a sense of her size and power. Her tongue flickered out. “Oh God, oh God.” Elena scrambled away from the planter and fired at the snake, shots spraying everywhere. I lost count of the bullets, but within twenty seconds the gun clicked empty. Elena flung it at Agatha, who eyed her without blinking, unmoved by the hail of bullets.
Seizing the opportunity, I lunged at Elena and got my arms around her, hooking my foot across her ankle and pulling it back, sending her to the floor. Unfortunately, my knee gave out, and I sprawled atop her cushy body just as someone shouted, “Freeze! Police!”
I looked up to see Jay Callahan approaching, businesslike, a Sig Sauer held in front of him. “I knew you were a police officer,” I said with satisfaction.
“I just said that to get her attention,” he said with a small smile, slipping the gun into a holster at the small of his back.
“Right,” I said skeptically. He offered me a hand and pulled me up. His hand was strong and warm, and he maintained his clasp even after I was on my feet. “Got any handcuffs on you?”
“Sorry.” He shrugged. I tugged at my hand and he let go slowly.
Trusting that Elena wasn’t going anywhere—she had curled up in a ball and was making little whimpery noises—I took two steps to the fountain to check on Catherine. A faint pulse thrummed in her wrist when I grasped it. “Call an ambulance,” I told Jay, pulling her toward the edge of the fountain. Water sloshed over the edge. In the dim light, I couldn’t see how much blood she’d lost, but she was chilled and unconscious.
Jay made the call quickly and helped me lift Catherine’s wet, limp body out of the fountain and settle it gently on the tiled floor. He took off his jacket and laid it over her as I put pressure on the sluggishly bleeding wound in her abdomen.
“Holy crap!”
Jay was staring past me, over my shoulder, and I turned my head quickly. Agatha had slithered out of the planter and was making her way toward the fountain with smooth undulations of her heavy body, completely uninterested in us or the night’s excitement.
“That is one big snake,” Jay said, awe in his voice.
“Her name is Agatha,” I said. “Kiefer will be glad she’s turned up. Speaking of turning up”—I gave him a sharp look—“what brought you here in such a timely fashion?”
“I happened to be in the garage and I heard shots,” he said. “So—”
“You spend more time in garages than most cars.”
Jay ignored my interruption. “—so, of course I came to see what was going on.”
“Of course,” I mocked. “You know that most people—civilians—run away from bullets, not toward them?”
Before he could answer, what seemed like a horde of people descended on us: EMTs, uniformed police, Detective Helland, and Grandpa Atherton. The EMTs pushed Jay and me out of the way as they gathered around Catherine, the cops swooped down on Elena, another officer led Jay away, and Detective Helland approached me, immaculately suited even at this hour, with the look of a man about to wreak bodily harm on a completely undeserving mall security officer. Before Helland could reach me, Grandpa Atherton hurried forward and put a fleece jacket around my shoulders. I hadn’t even realized until that moment that I was chilled by the fountain water that had soaked me when we moved Catherine. “You okay, Emma-Joy?” he asked.
I nodded, putting my hand over his bony fingers where they rested on my shoulder. “You were right about it being a woman,”
I told him. “Two of them.”
His blue eyes twinkled. “That Shakespeare fellow got it right when he said, ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ ”
“It was William Congreve, actually,” Detective Helland said in a steely voice, his blue eyes boring into mine. I felt a tingle that wasn’t completely fear or cold zip down my spine. “And a woman scorned has nothing on a detective left out of the loop by a meddling, justice-obstructing, go-it-alone mall cop.”
Twenty-three
Kyra’s voice followed me out to the kitchen almost a week later as we waited for Dancing with the Stars to start. “I can’t believe the DA is going to let Elena Porter off with such a light sentence.”
I opened the fridge to get two more beers. “She’s testifying against Catherine Lang. She says it was all Lang’s plan and that Lang’s the one who shot Jackson Porter and Weasel. The police found the Christian graffiti under a layer of new paint on Lang’s MDX. The gun she used at the mall—the same one that shot Porter and Weasel—was registered to Wilfred Lang.”
“Is she admitting to it?”
“Heck, no. As soon as she recovered enough to start talking, she started blaming Elena. She says Elena came to her with the plan and asked for her help. She says she loaned Elena the gun and helped her with Porter’s body after the fact. A jury will have to sort it out.”
“What about Robbie?”
I returned to the living room in time to see Fubar swipe a paw at the last piece of sushi takeout we’d brought home for dinner. “I saw that,” I told him.
He licked his paw and pretended he didn’t know what I was talking about and wouldn’t eat sushi if we begged him to.
I handed Kyra a beer. “I guess we’ll never know for sure. Lang’s maintaining she had nothing to do with it, although Elena thinks she made Robbie shoot up at gunpoint.”
Die Buying Page 24
