What Doesn't Kill You

by Aimee Hix

  9

  My phone beeped, startling me. I checked the display and saw it was a text from Dad.

  Is your brother keeping you on the straight and narrow?

  Ever the comedian.

  I tapped out a brief recap of the last few days and asked him to call when they got into the next port. That I needed a few minutes of his time for a consultation. I also snarked at him that he needed a better hiding place for his contraband password list. I deliberately left out the part where I had found the body and Violet was on the run from the cops. Or that her grandparents knew exactly where she was and were keeping it to themselves. Or that Seth was possibly a murderer and had kind of assaulted me. I bit my lip waiting for his response, my stomach tying in knots. I really didn’t need the added stress of my dad freaking out and trying to cut their vacation short. I had to hope I’d been casual enough. And vague enough about the details I knew would cause him to call immediately and use his loud voice.

  Do I read you correctly that VH is a suspect in a murder?

  I typed back the three letters for person of interest. Then thought better and added, only.

  Will call tomorrow. Time unknown. Be available.

  And he bought none of my vagueness. He was going to call tomorrow and I would have to give him enough so that I would get the advice I desperately needed but not so much that he caught the first transatlantic flight home. Or I had to convince him that it was totally under control. Convincing myself first was key, of course.

  I got back to the computer and started searches for the names on Joe Reagan’s criminal court proceedings. Even the cops. Especially the cops. I knew some of the arresting officers and I was sure I could get them talking about the cases for a beer or two. Letting drop that I’d found Reagan’s body would be all it took. And I wanted to know more about any confidential informants listed, information I could only get from the officer on record, if he’d give that information up. Cops were notoriously close-mouthed about their CIs, even with coworkers. For good reason, sure, but that didn’t help me, so in a burst of optimism I marked it down as part of my plan.

  I really needed two plans—one for Dad and a real one. I was cooking the books on my own father. I hated lying to him. Actually, I didn’t. I wish I did. Truth be told, I was pretty okay with lying. Not the most noble of personal values, but people who said they were always honest were lying to themselves more than anyone. Lying made things easier; that’s why we all did it. I don’t mean the big ones—No, honey, of course I’m not banging your sister, or I have no idea where those school kids got that crack, Officer. I’m not a sociopath. I mean the lies that we use to hide the things that hurt the people who love us. Like telling Dad that everything was under control and I could handle a murder case that I wasn’t supposed to be investigating anyway.

  Plan of action for Dad: Simple background searches and an alternate theory to present to the cops via the Horowitzes’ duly hired attorney. Nothing that could get me in trouble—or rather him, since I wasn’t a licensed private investigator, merely his apprentice.

  Plan of action for real: Bust a murderer by any means necessary short of getting anyone else, least of all me, killed. Even if that murderer was Seth. Yeah, that was a plan I definitely needed to be keeping to myself. Mostly because it was light on actual plan and more of a mission statement. I just needed to be methodical and think things through.

  I picked my phone back up from the desk and called David. When he didn’t pick up I left a message detailing that I didn’t want the information I’d asked for earlier—no need to incriminate anyone in case the cops got a warrant for the phones and voicemail too—but that I did need different information. Like about Joe’s recent employment. I needed to nail down that boot print. Seth’s boots could have made the print, but those boots were everywhere. I didn’t think about how much nerve it took to ask him for anything after I blackmailed and threatened him. This case was going to end up with a bunch of burned bridges and me holding an empty box of matches. Justice would be served, but I might end up with a lot fewer friends. I had so few to begin with.

  My phone was still in my hand when it rang. The display showed Government Center. I tapped the screen to accept the call.

  “Pennington.”

  “Willa, it’s Detective Boyd.”

  I heard the clacking of keys. The department really needed to replace those crappy old keyboards.

  “I wanted to thank you for the call I got this morning. I assume you’re the reason David Horowitz called me.”

  “I just reminded him that making sure the police had all the information would make it all run much more smoothly for his granddaughter. He’s a good man and just needed a little reminder to do the right thing.”

  “Uh huh. Not so good that he would tell me where she was,” she said.

  “If it makes you feel any better, if he does know where Violet is, he didn’t share it with me, either.”

  “I’m actually calling because I wanted to review your statement with you. As the only witness we have, it’s critical that I make sure everything you know and remember is in the file.”

  I tried not to infer that I had deliberately left anything out or forgotten a critical detail. Like the boot print. Whoops.

  If I got back on scene I could try to spot any subtle evidence of Seth being there now that I knew to look for him. Could I get Boyd to let me in by telling her I had a vague memory of something tickling in the back of my mind? Would she buy that? I had nothing better to do at this point but find out.

  “Now that you mentioned it there’s something just … bothering me. Something hovering. You know what I mean?”

  She paused for what seemed like too long. Bite the hook already, dammit. I need back on that scene and you need a murderer. We work together, even if you don’t know about it, and we can get this case closed.

  “I do indeed know what you mean, Willa.”

  She was still calling me by my first name. That had to be a good sign. Time to go in for the kill.

  “Maybe if I could go back to the scene to look around a bit. I got a good view of the yard, but my view of the body was limited because of the positioning of the steps.”

  I let out my breath slowly. It wasn’t unheard of to let a witness back on scene to clear up a statement. It wasn’t common, either. Mostly because people didn’t want to go back to the scene. But I wasn’t an average witness. I was a trained observer and even if I didn’t wear a badge anymore, Boyd had to know that this was her best shot to get more information out of me. And as she said, I was her only witness.

  “How about this afternoon? Three fifteen. I’ve got an hour.”

  I tried not to hyperventilate as she ended the call. She was giving me an hour on the scene. A full hour. That was amazing. I might actually be able to help her catch this killer (hopefully, not Seth) and have something to tell Dad tomorrow when he called me. The day was starting to turn around.

  As I paced on the gravel drive leading to Joe Reagan’s house, I ran over and over my conversations with Seth. I knew I wasn’t in the best frame of mind for meeting with Detective Boyd, but I had to pull it together.

  I’d made sure to park as far up the drive as possible to avoid any issues with the crime scene designation. I didn’t see any tape except the seal on the front door, but I refused to take any chances pissing off Boyd. I checked the time on my phone and wondered how far I could push for information. I reasoned that the more I pushed the less she’d believe I knew Violet’s whereabouts.

  Had I been so blind to my assumption that Violet wasn’t the killer that I hadn’t properly considered her guilt? Was yesterday even when Reagan had died? A time of death late yesterday morning didn’t rule her out, but if it was as far back as the night before last, there was no way the cops would consider her anything other than a suspect. I pictured the scene. No, my first assumption had been correct. T
he blood on the body was dark but not dried. Joe Reagan had to have been shot sometime yesterday morning, probably no more than an hour before I arrived. Relief washed over me and I kicked myself for the last-

  second doubts. I knew in my gut that someone other than Violet had shot and killed Joe Reagan. I didn’t have the luxury of doubts. I had to focus on the facts and my instincts.

  The crunch of tires on gravel alerted me to Detective Boyd’s arrival and I made sure I got the hell out of her way. She pulled way down on the drive, directly in front of the house. I hurried to meet her.

  “Why the hell did you park so far back, Pennington?”

  “I wasn’t sure how far the crime scene extended, Detective, and the last thing I want to do is unintentionally damage your investigation.”

  She smiled at me. It seemed genuine, but what did I know? I was overtired from a couple months of not sleeping and I’d just come off an encounter that would have screwed me up even if I just left a hypnotherapy session eating a chocolate ice cream cone and wearing new shoes. Damn Seth.

  “Willa, can I be honest with you?”

  I nodded. I didn’t know that I believed she would actually be honest with me, but I could pretend. In the spirit of honesty.

  “We’ve got nothing on this case. And no one thinks the girl or her grandparents are responsible. Not even Harrison, who we can both admit pretty much hates women. I want to close this and I could use all the help I can get.”

  So it was quid pro quo. She’d give as long I gave. And since I wasn’t in this for the cash or the collar, striking a deal didn’t cause me any heartburn.

  “What about the footprint? Did you guys get anything from that?”

  Her expression went back to cop face in an instant. And from that I gathered that the footprint was news to her.

  “What footprint?”

  “I didn’t mention it yesterday?” I knew damn well I hadn’t. I had forgotten all about it by the time she’d arrived. That didn’t make me feel great about my detective skills but, in my defense, I wasn’t on the job. I was the civilian.

  “No, I don’t believe you did.” Her voice was controlled, but I knew she was angry. My not mentioning it wasn’t great, but it wasn’t as big of a problem as no one on her team noticing and logging it. Someone was going to get their ass handed to them. Senior uniform on scene, most likely. Harrison might be on crossing guard duty by tomorrow.

  “I am sorry, Detective Boyd. I really did forget about it. I’ve never found a dead body before.” That was true. I’d seen them but I’d known to expect them. Finding one out of the blue was a jarring experience.

  She nodded, the motion clipped. “This is why we like to review statements.”

  I pointed to the backyard area. “It was next to the back step. It looked fresh.”

  She shot her eyes over to the side yard. “Show me.”

  I walked her around to the back of the house and squatted next to the area where I’d found the footprint. Since she was already mad, and mostly not at me, I figured confessing to getting a shot of it would probably get me another point in her favor.

  “I got a photo of it too.”

  She nodded again and looked away from me quickly, turning a tight circle on the walk, taking in the whole property. I doubted she was looking for any other missed evidence and guessed she was

  instead trying to figure out how a simple homicide had gotten so far out of hand.

  I stood up and gestured to the back door.

  “You don’t think Violet did it because the only way the shooting makes sense is if the perp was on this back walk shooting up into the house. And there’s no reason for her to have done that. The only way Violet being the shooter makes sense is in self-defense, and shooting someone from outside the house doesn’t line up. Plus the killer had to have been a pretty good shot; Violet has no experience with guns.”

  Boyd looked at me, this time with appraisal in her eyes. She shook her head and pressed her hands her to eyes. She looked more tired and older than I remembered from even when she arrived.

  “The best cop on the scene yesterday didn’t even have a badge, forgotten-but-photographed boot print aside. Why in the hell did you … Never mind. When did you figure it out?”

  I shrugged. “The shooter being on the walk is the only thing that the lack of evidence supports. Is a look around inside the house out of the question, Detective?”

  She turned on her heel and with her measured, sure steps walked to the front of the house. “Call me Jan,” she said, over her shoulder.

  I followed behind her, feeling a bit like a kid who’d just gotten a wink and a nod from her favorite teacher. I may not have a badge anymore but to Boyd, it seemed, I was still on the side of right. That felt good. Better than anything felt in a long time.

  Boyd opened the front door. Down the hallway to the back I saw the dried blood that had pooled where Reagan had fallen. The house was laid out oddly, at least for any house I’d ever been in, shallow and wide. The staircase to the second floor ran against the right wall of the house, leaving all the living areas situated to the left. The floor plan gave me a sense of being off kilter, like the house was weighted wrong and could tip over at any moment. It took me a moment to recognize that the layout of the house mimicked the position of the house on the property.

  Boyd stayed at the front door. She was really going to let me tour this scene. And she was going to let me do it on my own. I took the dozen steps I needed to be standing over the spot where Reagan had died. I let my head space just sink into cataloging the house. I thought back to the view from the window yesterday morning, looking down at Joe Reagan’s body on the floor.

  I could see the blood was smeared a bit where I thought his legs had been. I turned back to Boyd to find her watching me carefully. The hair on the back of my neck prickled belatedly.

  “The blood is smeared here. He didn’t die instantly, I assume?”

  “Medical examiner says not immediately but probably only a few moments.”

  Her words were clipped. That prickle on the back of my neck returned. I hated that sensation because, lately, it was always too late to stop me from doing something stupid. I fought back the impulse to blurt out again that I hadn’t killed the guy. I knew she was just waiting to see my assessment, but her stare was unnerving.

  “Could it have happened when the ME’s team removed the body?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then the killer touched the body after. Maybe looking for something in Reagan’s pockets?”

  She just looked at me. I was beyond unnerved now. “Can you please stop looking at me like I’m about to confess or take a run at you?”

  She laughed. “Sorry, force of habit. I swear. Yes, I think the killer searched the body. Probably his pockets.”

  I took a deep breath and pulled the fear back in to let it regain its strength for another day. Maybe a nightmare. Those were always chock full of heart-pounding terror. “Looking for what? Cash? Drugs?”

  I’d said it quietly but aloud. It wasn’t a question for Boyd and she didn’t take it for one. She kept her eyes off of me and let me think.

  “A note? His phone?” I mused.

  Aha. A cell phone could be both useful to the killer and something to get him caught.

  “Reagan have a cell phone on him when his effects were catalogued?”

  Boyd smiled and shook her head.

  Detective Boyd gave me the full hour to roam the house, looking in closets, under the bed, through books. It was a bust finding anything that wasn’t already listed on the evidence log, which Boyd had considerately handed me a copy of before reminding me that while letting me into the crime scene wasn’t strictly prohibited, giving me the evidence list definitely was—so keep my damn mouth shut.

  Sitting back at Dad’s desk armed with a highlighter, I marked the items I
found interesting. Like fourteen thousand dollars in a lockbox. Along with an unregistered gun. I bet Joe wished he’d had that when whoever killed him drew on him.

  The money poked at me. Why would Reagan have that much cash sitting around? If it was pay from a job, even an under-the-table job, he’d be using it for expenses. It wouldn’t have been banded in hundreds in a lockbox. Was it cash for a buy of some kind? Was it even his? If he was hiding cash and that was the reason for the murder, wouldn’t the killer have gone looking for it? Why would he take Reagan’s phone but not the cash? Someone cold enough to shoot a person twice wouldn’t have balked at stepping over the body to go find his money.

  As much as people liked to believe that life was precious, fourteen grand was more than enough to kill someone over. For a certain type of person, anyway. I had a feeling this one may even have enjoyed it. That worried me and made me glad Violet was gone and safe. If the killer had any idea she’d seen his truck, even if she couldn’t identify it beyond the color, she would be in his sights.

  Chapter

  10

  My cell phone beeped, the display showing my dad’s face. I answered in speaker mode. “Hey, Daddy.”

  “Will, what the hell is going on there? You only call me daddy when you’re in over your head.”

  “It’s nothing, Dadd … ” I trailed off, elongating the d and not fooling either one of us.

  Shoot! Was my brain-to-mouth filter going to kick in anytime soon?

  “Nothing. Sure. David and Susan’s granddaughter is involved in a murder case. Happens every day.”

  I looked down at the phone, trying to get my equilibrium back a little bit. Talking to Dad about cases always made me feel like a little girl. Badge or not, he still had decades of experience on me.

  “Will? Are you okay?”

  “Uh, yeah. I’m here. I, uh, I don’t want you to worry. It’s under control. I’ve only given them some advice about an attorney and being honest with the cops.” For the most part.