by Carly Winter
“Would you like a coffee?” he asked when our plates had been cleared.
“Yes, thank you.” Probably not the best idea since I'd be up late with the caffeine, but I didn't want the evening to end, and it was time to get down to my second agenda item. “So, please tell me, Special Agent Bill Hart... why do you have such an interest in my dead neighbor?”
“I'm with the FBI. I investigate things. Federal Bureau of Investigations,” he said with a chuckle.
I grinned, but he wasn't going to dismiss my question so easily. “Murders happen every day in every city,” I replied. “Yet, an FBI agent has flown in from Texas to probe into the killing of my neighbor. Forgive me, but it doesn't make any sense. Why aren't the police handling it?”
He stared at me a long moment, his smile slowly fading. As he glanced around the dining room and shifted in his seat, I realized I'd made him uncomfortable. Perhaps he wasn't used to people questioning him? After all, his role in life was asking questions, not answering them.
I almost apologized. Almost. Instead I bit my tongue and waited for an answer I felt I deserved. If he wanted my assistance in his case as he had claimed earlier in the day, then an explanation was warranted.
As he clasped his hands together on the tabletop and leaned forward, he studied my face for a long moment, and I wondered if I had a speck of bread stuck to my chin or lettuce in my teeth. “I suppose it won't hurt to tell you the truth, but Patty, this needs to be between you and me, okay?”
I mirrored his actions and nodded. To an onlooker, it most likely appeared we were in a deep, meaningful conversation. My heart pattered and the room became very warm. I was about to be let in on a government secret, but I attempted to set my features to neutral so as not to give away my excitement. “Of course. What is it?”
“I'm looking into Charles' death because I'm hunting a serial killer.”
Chapter 10
“A serial killer!” I said, much too loudly. The table next to us glanced over as Bill hushed me. So much for me keeping my cool and harboring secrets well.
Bringing my hand to my mouth, I tried to recover from the shock. A serial killer? That option had never occurred to me.
“Please keep your voice down,” Bill murmured as he smiled at the couple staring at us.
“I'm sorry,” I whispered. “I just... I can't believe Charles was murdered by a serial killer.”
The questions flew through my mind. How many others? Who did he think it was?
“He wasn't,” Bill said, gripping my hand.
Confusion set in and I furrowed my brow. If he wasn't murdered by a serial killer then why the investigation? “I don't understand. Please explain all this to me.”
“Of course. But this isn't the place to do it,” Bill said. “Can we go to my hotel or back to your place?”
Narrowing my gaze on him, I wondered if he was trying to get me into his bed?
“I promise I'll remain a gentleman,” he said, as if he could read my thoughts. “This topic is sensitive and I shouldn't have brought it up in public.”
And I should have kept my mouth shut instead of announcing our conversation to the restaurant. “We can head back to my apartment.”
Bill asked the waiter to hail us a cab, then paid the check. When the hostess announced our ride had come, we made our way to the front door.
We remained quiet throughout the short drive, the rain once again pinging the roof. Pursing my lips, I wished I hadn't been taken by surprise and remained calm. Would he still confide in me, or was this the end of the road for my association with the charming special agent?
Once we were inside my apartment, I kicked off my shoes, shucked my coat, and fell onto the couch. The crutches made my armpits, ribs and arms hurt, and frankly, I wanted to be done with them.
“Let's get that leg up,” Bill said, grabbing a pillow and setting it on the coffee table. Sitting down, he rubbed his hands together to warm them, and I was grateful he hadn't left.
“I'm sorry about my outburst in the restaurant,” I said. “You caught me by surprise.”
“I could see that,” he replied, chuckling as he pushed his glasses up his nose. “It's not a big deal. I just think discussions about my work are better in private, and I should have remembered that before answering your question. Which is a good one, by the way.”
“Tell me about this serial killer who didn't murder Charles,” I said. “And how do you know he didn't?”
Bill leaned back against the cushions. “There wasn't any note left. The animal I'm hunting always leaves a note. The M.O. is the same—a knife to the stomach—but other things aren't right.”
“What do the notes say?”
“Anti-war slogans, usually.”
“How... how did you even end up in San Francisco? I don't understand.”
“Police stations across the nation have been notified to contact the FBI if they have a murder that fits within our parameters. I just happen to have a buddy on the San Francisco force who gave me a ring. I head up the task force that is searching for the serial killer, so I came out to look at the scene myself and to see my friend, Detective Peterson. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and furrowed my brow. “Well, if it's not your killer, then why are you still here?”
“Detective Peterson asked me to stay around for a few days and see what I could find out,” he replied with a shrug. “I had allocated three days to the investigation, so I told him I would.”
“How many people has the man killed?” I asked.
“Four so far,” Bill replied. “The last one was three weeks ago. Charles' murder would fit into the timeline of how long he waits between killings.”
A chill of fear crawled up my spine. Bill's work terrified me on some level, but I also found it quite fascinating.
“But anyway, I'd like you to set up a meeting with Wayne tomorrow,” he continued. “And have you accompany me there. I think he'll feel less threatened if I'm with someone he knows.”
I shook my head. “He didn't kill Charles. It’s a waste of time. And besides, we aren't friendly. I've seen him a few times in the hallway but I never knew his name. Charles never introduced us.”
“Why is that?”
“I don't know. Wayne is a rough looking fellow. Perhaps Charles was... I don't know… somehow protecting Donna and me from him?”
“Do you consider Wayne dangerous? Why do you think us visiting him is a waste of time?”
“To answer your first question: maybe? If he was provoked? He is a vet and told me he'd done things in the war he wasn't proud of, which I took to mean violence. As for your second question, when I finally formally met him, he had no idea Charles was dead. He cried like a baby when I told him, which didn’t seem like something a killer would do.”
“Oh, you'd be surprised. Many come back to the scene of the crime to relive the rush, or if it was a crime of passion, be that anger or love, they return out of guilt. He could have been sorry he killed his friend, or he could have been faking the sadness. I think it's important to have a few words with him.”
Recalling Wayne's tears, I didn't think he'd been pretending. They had seemed sincere to me.
If I ever killed anyone, I'd make a run for it to another country, preferably somewhere with a beach. Perhaps the Virgin Islands or Southern Mexico. I certainly wouldn't return to the crime scene.
But then, I didn't have the stomach to kill anyone, so perhaps my brain operated differently than a murderer's. At least I hoped so.
As I studied the man sitting in my apartment, I wondered if his mind worked the same as a killer's. In order to catch one, did he have to think like one?
“Could you call him and arrange something for tomorrow?” Bill asked. “Don’t mention that you’ll have an FBI agent tagging along, though. Just a meeting between you and him.”
I hesitated for a brief moment, but then decided I still wanted to help Bill in the investigation. Reachi
ng for the phone, I nodded. Wayne answered on the second ring.
“Hi Wayne. This is Patty Byrne, Charles' neighbor.”
“Oh, yeah. Hey. What's up?”
Nerves tickled my belly as I twisted the phone cord around my finger. “Listen, I was wondering if I could stop by tomorrow.”
“Are you looking for product?”
“Yes,” I said, grimacing. I hated lying and I didn't smoke pot.
“I can bring it by if you want.”
Oh, heck. How in the world would I counter that?
“I'm actually going to be out running errands most of the day,” I replied. “It would be far easier if we could set up a general time for me to meet you at your place, and then I’d come by.”
Silence stretched on the other end, and I wondered if I'd pushed too hard. Or not hard enough. I had no idea what I was doing and was completely out of my element. I glanced over at Bill who nodded encouragingly.
“How about noon?” Wayne finally said.
“That's perfect,” I replied with a grin. “I'll be by then. What's the address?”
As I grabbed a pen and jotted it down on the cover of a magazine, I noted my shaky hand. “Thank you, Wayne, and have a great night.”
“Peace.”
I hung up and sighed. “Tomorrow at noon.”
“Excellent,” Bill said, standing. “I'm going to case the place tomorrow for about an hour before you arrive just to make sure it's safe. I'll meet you there.”
“Do you want me to write down the address for you?”
He picked up the magazine and stared at it for a moment. “Nope. I've got it. I'll see you then. Goodnight, Patty. Lock the door behind me.”
I did just that and hobbled into the bedroom to get ready for bed. As I washed my face, I wondered if by offering to help find the killer, I’d put a target on my own back.
And was Bill really interested in me, or was he just taking me up on my offer to introduce him to all the suspects? How did I tell the difference?
The next day, while I dressed and applied a little bit of makeup, I tested walking around without my crutches. My ankle felt pretty good. To be safe, I slipped on my run-abouts—no heels for me—with a pair of pink capris and a white blouse with a matching sweater. The rain had begun to fall once again and the drafty apartment definitely held a bit of a chill.
I had slept well, but the question still played in the back of my mind: was Bill interested in me, or was I only a means to an end—catching a killer?
And no matter what the answer, did it matter? Yes, I found him attractive, charming, and very exciting, but he also lived in another state. Besides, I wasn't interested in a relationship. My goal was to see the world. I needed to do my time in the back of the plane and move up the ladder.
I took a cab to the address Wayne had provided. When the driver pulled up in front of an old warehouse, I couldn't help but wonder if I'd either written it down incorrectly, or he gave me the wrong one. People moved in and out of the building, so at least it wasn't abandoned. Perhaps it had been renovated into apartments.
As I exited the vehicle, I glanced around for Bill. I found him on the other side of the street standing under the awning of a Chinese Food restaurant. His stare narrowed as I limped toward him.
“How's the foot?” he asked, his gaze sliding over to the building.
“It's getting better. I can't wait to get rid of these crutches, but I didn't think now was the time.”
He checked his watch. “Let's head inside. It's noon.”
My assumption that the building had been renovated into apartments had been correct. We found Wayne's on the first floor, last door on the left.
Bill nodded and stood to the side with his back against the wall so that when Wayne opened the door, he wouldn't see the agent. Raising my hand, I tapped on the wooden panel that reminded me of a barn door.
My heart thundered as I waited for Wayne to answer.
Footsteps sounded inside, and the panel slid to the side. I smiled when Wayne came into view, his hair still a greasy curtain.
“Hey,” he said. “Come on in.”
As he stepped to the left, I entered. I heard the door beginning to close behind me, but then Wayne yelled.
I turned to see Bill holding up his badge in one hand while shoving Wayne with the other. “Let's take a seat, partner,” the agent growled as he pushed him toward the sofa.
I remained cemented to my spot, thoroughly stunned and unable to move. Bill handled the man so roughly, it surprised me. I supposed I should have expected to see that side of him sooner or later.
Wayne sat down on the old, tattered brown couch and raised his hands to his shoulders. “What's the deal, man? I don't have any drugs on me.”
“I'm not interested in your drugs,” Bill said, standing in front of him. “I'm interested in the death of Charles Bernard and I want you to tell me exactly where you were the day he died.”
I'd always been a big believer that a person could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, and Bill seemed to be going pretty hard at Wayne.
“Get out of my apartment, pig.”
“Not until you answer my question,” Bill said, his tone low and deadly.
The two stared at each other for a long moment. Wayne became more agitated by the second, his hands shaking and his lips moving as though he had a conversation no one else could hear. He then shot up from the couch and pushed Bill, who lost his balance and fell backward on the coffee table.
Wayne ran for the door as I screamed.
I didn't know what to do. Let him go? Step out of the way? Try to stop him? If I truly had been Bill's partner, what would be expected of me?
I did the only thing I could think of: I stretched out my arm and tripped him with my crutch.
Chapter 11
Wayne landed face-first on the wooden floor. Bill struggled to standing, then ran over and stood over him.
“Nice work,” Bill murmured as he leaned over and grabbed the other man's arm, hauling him to his feet.
Wayne glared at me and I smiled apologetically. “We need to get to the bottom of the murder,” I said. “Please help us.”
Once Wayne was back in position, Bill asked, “Why are you running?”
“Because you're a cop!” the guy yelled, blood trickling from his mouth.
“It makes you look guilty,” Bill growled. “I may be a cop, but I just wanted to have a chat. Are you going to sit there and answer my questions like a good little soldier, or do I need to haul you down to the police station for an interrogation?”
I narrowed my gaze on Mr. Special Agent Bill Hart who was becoming less and less special with each passing moment. The conversation he'd claimed to want to have had quickly dissolved into something quite ugly, in my opinion.
“Fine,” Wayne said with a sigh, his voice resigned. “Ask me what you want. I don't know anything about Charles' murder.”
“Where were you that day?”
“I stopped by Charles' place in the morning to deliver his weed. He told me he didn't have the money, but he’d get it. We'd been friends for years. I knew him during the war, so he was good for it. He'd never scammed me before. I told him I'd be back the next day to collect.”
Bill glanced over at me as if I could verify the account. “I was on a plane the day Charles was murdered,” I said with a shrug. “I saw Wayne the next day.”
“Yeah, man. That's when I came back to collect. Charles said he'd have the money then.”
“What were you wearing?”
Wayne's gaze faltered for a moment and he glanced around the room as if searching for an answer. “I don't know,” he finally said. “Probably the same clothes I'm wearing now or something similar.”
His too-big jeans were cinched at the hips with a belt and his tattered orange and red sweater had seen better days.
Did the fact he couldn't remember what he wore make him guilty?
Since the chase had been thwarted, I glanced around th
e drafty room that had once been a corner of a warehouse. The sofa where the two men talked sat against a blank brick wall. Directly in front of me was a kitchen area, and to my left lay the bed, a sink, and a toilet. The windows faced the alleyway. The space struck me as depressing at best, and in need of a deep cleaning. Charles' apartment looked pristine compared to Wayne's.
“Did you two ever argue?” Bill asked.
“Sure we did,” Wayne said. “But we were army buddies. I always knew he had my back and I had his. It ain't easy being a war vet and it's easier to keep to ourselves. No one knows what we've been through. When Charles was killed, I lost one of my best friends.”
With a sigh, I shook my head. How could Bill not see his innocence? It was so apparent to me.
“Why did he smoke marijuana?” Bill asked.
“The war,” Wayne said, shaking his head. “It really messed with him. Gave him nightmares. It helped him sleep.”
Bill crossed his arms over his chest and stared at him, but said nothing.
“Look... I didn't kill him, okay?” the man said, his arms at his sides. “I didn't kill my friend.”
I believed him. His sincerity touched me deeply. In my eyes, he wasn't a suspect, but a man who lost a very close friend, possibly even close enough to be considered a brother. The bond they'd developed on the battlefield had been strong.
“Don't you be heading out of town anytime soon,” Bill growled.
“I'm not going anywhere.” Wayne leaned his head back against the cushions. “I've got nowhere to go.”
Bill strode over to me and grinned, a direct contradiction to the man I'd just witnessed interrogating his suspect. “Ready to go?”
I furrowed my brow and nodded. How strange. A true Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
“Sorry things got a little rough in there,” he said as we stepped onto the street. “Nice work with the crutch, though. You saved me from a foot chase.”
