Theresa Monsour

by Cold Blood

  “I’m not saying anything to that prick Winter until I’ve got more. That’s for damn sure.” She ran her fingers through her hair again. “God. Somebody from high school. How weird would that be if he is the killer?”

  He wiped one hand on his pants. “A guy I went to high school with is in prison.”

  “Murder?”

  “Nah. Big-time embezzlement. Credit union.”

  She tossed the apple core in the wastebasket, picked up a pear. Polished it on her sweater sleeve. “When do you suppose we stop keeping tabs on the kids we went to high school with?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You might not stay in touch, but you’re always keeping score in your head. I hope I’m doing better than he is. I’ll bet I look better for my age than she does. It’s only four years out of your life. What’s the big deal about high school?” She took a bite and chewed. The pear was hard and green.

  “Here’s my theory on that: High school’s important because the person you become then is the person you stay for the rest of your life.”

  Murphy: “Bullshit. People change. Grow.”

  “Not all that much. Some traits and habits amplify or lessen when you become an adult. But the whole package is still the same.”

  “That guy you went to school with. Was he a thief in high school?”

  “Bet your ass he was. Stole my calculator. Was this Justice character a creep in high school?” She didn’t answer. “I’ll take that as a yes. See what I mean?”

  She shook her head. “I still don’t know if I buy it.”

  He threw up his hands. “Hey. That’s my theory. Take it or leave it.”

  She sat back in the couch with the pear in her hand. “I’m wiped out.”

  “Me too,” he said. He leaned back and shut his eyes.

  Both sat still on the couch for a moment. Murphy wondered when she’d last had a conversation this long with Jack, especially about work. She’d even forgotten about the stupid bangs covering her forehead. She touched them. They were all screwed up, but Erik hadn’t once looked at her scar. She had to keep reminding herself that he’d followed her up there and that it pissed her off.

  Murphy nudged him in the side with her elbow. “Wake up. We better get our butts moving.” She stood, tossed the pear in the wastebasket. Picked up her sweatshirt and purse off the couch. Eric opened his eyes and yawned. “Talk to me while I pack,” she said, and he got up and followed her down the hall. She was excited. Someone interested in her job. In her ideas. She slid the key card into the lock and pushed open the door. Threw her purse and sweatshirt on the bed.

  “Nice room,” he said, and sat on the edge of the four-poster while she stuffed her clothes into the duffel bag on the end of the bed.

  “Tell me more about the case,” she said, bending over to pick up her socks and jeans off the floor.

  “First tell me about last night,” he said. She stood up with the clothes in her arms. Erik was holding a champagne glass in each hand. “Jack?” he asked, searching her face for a response. She dropped the clothes and nodded. “Jack,” he said again. Not a question this time. A statement. Then angrily: “Jack!” He hurled one of the glasses against the fireplace. It shattered against the brick. He dropped the other glass on the floor. Bolted from the bed. Grabbed her hard by the arms. “You didn’t want my company last night but you were happy to summon Jack. Run to me when you need a shoulder to cry on. A pal. Then go fuck Jack. Is that how it works?” His voice was low and deep. He was struggling to contain it. “Stop doing this to me. Stop doing it to Jack. Make up your mind.”

  She’d never seen him this furious. She struggled to push his hands off her, but he only gripped her harder. “You’re hurting me,” she said.

  “No,” he said. “You’re hurting me.” He pulled her to him and kissed her roughly on the mouth. He cradled the back of her head with his left hand. With his right, he pressed the small of her back; he wanted her to feel his hardness. He eased her backward onto the bed and fell on top of her. His mouth covered hers again and then moved to the curve of her neck. His left hand stayed tangled in her hair. His right moved up under her sweater. Cupped her left breast over her bra. Slid under her bra. He pushed her knees apart with his and moaned as he rubbed his crotch against hers.

  She could still smell Jack’s cologne on the sheets. “Erik,” she said. “Please.”

  His hand moved from her breast to her stomach. Slid under her jeans and panties. “Please keep going?” He sounded groggy. Lost in the passion.

  She raised her voice. “Stop. Get off me. We can’t do this.”

  “Sure we can.” He pulled on her left ear with his teeth.

  Even louder: “No!”

  “Damn,” he muttered. He withdrew his hand from her panties. “No forever? Or no right now?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Let me help you make up your mind,” he said into her ear. His right hand moved back to her breast; he squeezed it as hard as he could over her sweater. “Break it off with Jack or I’ll do it for you.” The lion coming in for the kill. “I’ll tell him we slept together. So help me God I will.”

  “Bastard!” she said. She tried to push him off with both hands but he grabbed her wrists and pinned them against the bed. He kissed her on the mouth while she cursed him. “Bastard!” He released her wrists. She rolled him off of her and stood up. Her legs felt weak and wobbly; she grabbed the bedpost for support. He sat up on the bed, smiling. She drew her right hand back and slapped him. The smile was still there. So was the lion. She drew her hand back again and he grabbed it and pulled her onto his lap and kissed her on the mouth. He wrapped his arms around her and she buried her face in the crook of his neck.

  “You son of a bitch,” she murmured. “I hate you.”

  He rested his head between her breasts. “Paris. I have to know if we have anything together. Life’s too short. I want to enjoy you in public. I want to look ahead with you. Make plans. I’ll tell him if you don’t. I mean it.”

  “Tell him what? That we slept together once?”

  “There’s more to it. More to us. I know there is.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. There was more, but she couldn’t put a name to it. Maybe it was simple lust. Whatever it was, it made her guilty and miserable. Behind his back, she held up her left hand. She half expected the gold circle to crack and fall off her finger right before her eyes. She untangled her arms from his neck and got up off his lap. Turned her back to him while she talked. She couldn’t look into his hazel eyes. Not while the lion was awake. “I can’t write off eight years of marriage so easily.”

  He got up off the bed and walked over to her. Stood behind her. Twined his arms around her waist. “Give it up, Paris. If it’s this much work, it ain’t there. Move on.”

  She tried to push his arms off her but he wouldn’t budge. She gave up and rested her arms over his. “I have to try.”

  “Try what? Try hoping for a miracle? Let me ask you. Is he trying as hard as you are?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Is he?”

  In a voice that was barely audible, she answered, “No.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He dropped his arms from her waist and walked to the door. She turned to watch him go. “I’m heading back to St. Paul. Ranger Bob pulled the plug on my little holiday. If they find the bridesmaid, she’s on my plate, too. I’ll be a busy man this week.” He put his hand on the door handle. “Make a decision.” He opened the door and left.

  She went to the bed and finished packing her duffel bag. She picked up the surviving champagne glass off the floor, tossed it in the wastebasket. She’d have to get a whole new set. What good was one champagne flute? She’d never find a match for it. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and buried her face in her hands. The glass was from their wedding day.

  EIGHTEEN

  WHILE HE SAT in the truck watching all the news vans pull away, he took the pill bottle out of his
suitcase. Trip hadn’t learned anything from the reporters. They were all cold to him. Too busy to talk to him. They’d used him up; on to the next big thing. Fuck them all. Every last one of them. See if he’d ever give them another story. With shaking hands, he fished a couple of downers out of the bottle and swallowed them. He needed to come down after seeing her outside the park. She had a scar on her forehead; he hadn’t noticed it last night in the bar. That mark pleased him. Something had caused her pain and damaged her and he was glad. She was still stunning, though, and that disappointed him. All these years he’d imagined she’d turned into a dried-up hag with gray hair and yellow teeth. Worse than seeing that beautiful face in the light of day was seeing that detective’s badge printed on her shirt. She was lying about being on vacation. If she was working on the Moose Lake cases, there had to be a Twin Cities angle since she was a St. Paul detective. The bridesmaid’s ex was from St. Paul. Maybe that was it. That didn’t explain why she was at the park after the ranger’s body was discovered. Did the police see a St. Paul angle in that case as well? Or had the cops somehow connected the two cases? How? If they had, it wouldn’t be good for him. It could mean he’d left something else behind. He’d picked up the shoe the ranger found. What about the other shoe? No. He’d shined the flashlight around before he pulled out of the campsite. Had he dropped it in the park while carrying the body? No. He would have noticed. The shoes were big, bright objects. Not like the dark, compact stiletto. He was sure the other shoe was buried with her in the tarp. He’d left nothing else behind besides the stiletto, and maybe they wouldn’t even find that. Even if they did, it wouldn’t immediately lead to him nor would it tell the cops the two cases were related. If they found her body, then they’d figure out why the ranger had been killed. That still wouldn’t lead them to him. He decided he was safe.

  He started the truck and pulled back onto the road. He was afraid it would take too long for the downers to kick in. While he drove, he opened the glove compartment with his right hand and pulled out his one-hitter kit. The wooden container was the size and shape of a pack of unfiltered Camels. He flipped open the hinged top with his thumb. Inside, a stash of Colombian weed on one side of the divided box and a brass smoking pipe on the other. He shifted the box to his driving hand and with his free hand pulled out a pipe the size of a cigarette. He dipped the pipe into the weed, ground it in, pulled it out, put it between his lips. He pushed in the truck cigarette lighter. When it popped out, he grabbed it with his right hand and lit up. He inhaled deeply. The end of the pipe glowed. He held the smoke in his lungs as long as he could. He coughed and the truck swerved a bit. The buzz was starting. “You don’t cough, you don’t get off,” he muttered to himself. He put the pipe back in the box, closed the kit, returned it to the glove compartment. He felt much better.

  He checked the gas gauge. Might as well top off the tank before hitting the highway, he thought. He drove to the station off the interstate. He looked up and down the road as he held the gas pump. No police blockades or anything. He was relieved. Maybe the cops figured whoever did it was long gone. He went inside and paid for the gas. Went next door to the sub shop and bought a couple of sandwiches and a pop. He slid into a booth and ate so fast he didn’t taste anything. Still hungry. He bought a bag of chips and a third sandwich and shoveled the food in. His cell phone rang while he was wiping his mouth. He pulled it out of his jacket.

  “Yeah.”

  His pa: “You sound tired, Sweet.”

  “I’m ready to c… come home.”

  “How’d you do? Sold a bunch of shirts?”

  He lied: “G… g… got all sorts of orders.”

  Pa: “I knew that job would be worthwhile. So when you heading back?”

  Trip figured his old man wanted to schedule one last blow job from the fat blond nurse. “I should be home before d… dinner.”

  “Dinner tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  A pause. “Good. Okay then.” He hung up.

  His pa sounded let down. Tough. Trip wanted to get home. Get his head together. Find out about this reunion thing. Perfect opportunity for Sweet Justice. He started sucking down the last of his pop and turned his head to glance out the window. A state van had pulled into the parking lot. He tried to read the writing on the side. Minnesota Department of Corrections. The van was empty. How long had it been there? Where was the driver? He heard a voice at the counter and tried to check it out without being obvious. Two men in navy blue uniforms with DOC patches on their shoulders and a bunch of hardware hanging from their belts. Prison guards getting sandwiches. Big sons of bitches, Trip thought. Almost as tall as he and a lot more muscular. Military haircuts and hard-set mouths. The biggest of the pair eyed Trip while he was waiting for his sub. Trip wondered if he was close enough to smell the pot. He dropped his eyes and picked at some stray lettuce on his tray. He pictured himself behind bars. Imagined that all the in-between stuff could be skipped—arrest, charges, trial, conviction, sentencing—and that the two guards could grab him and take him back with them. The guards paid for their lunches and went back outside. The big one glanced at Trip’s truck, got back in the driver’s seat of the van. The other one got in, slammed the passenger’s door. They pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the prison. For a second, Trip thought he was going to vomit. He sat in the booth staring straight ahead, empty pop cup in his hand. Time to get the hell out of town, he thought. He’d pushed his luck long enough. He slid out of the booth and went to his truck.

  Trip leaned back in the driver’s seat as he got on I-35 heading south. Traffic was light. He steered with one hand. Wished the other had the stiletto in it. He slipped a disc into the CD player. Master of Puppets by Metallica. The screaming guitars provided balance to the downers and the one-hit. The sensation was similar to sitting on a seesaw with someone who weighed the same. He and Snow White did that in a park. Sat on an old wooden seesaw. Each took an end. Sat perfectly still. Held their knees up so their feet were inches off the ground. He didn’t know how long they were there; could have been a minute or half an hour. They looked straight ahead at each other; she was the only female he could ever stare at for any length of time. She broke the spell. “No sudden moves, Sweet,” she’d said. She quick hopped off and his end slapped down on the ground. Landed hard on his ass. She laughed and laughed. So did he.

  “No sudden moves,” he said, and pounded the steering wheel to the beat of the drums. He’d make a sudden move on Paris Murphy. Knock her hard on her ass at the reunion. So hard she’d never get up again. How would he do it? He had to be careful. Taking down a cop would be dangerous. He’d already taken down one uniform. How different was a ranger from a cop? The ranger didn’t have a gun, but a cop always carries one. He didn’t see one on her. Probably under her sweatshirt or in her purse or even strapped to her ankle. He’d seen that in the movies. No. He couldn’t take her up close the way he’d taken the ranger. Fooling with her Jeep Grand Cherokee was a possibility. Still, that was complicated. Took planning. He’d have to find out where she lived. Could he simply do it his usual way? He’d just nailed Bunny Pederson; flattening someone else so soon was risky. He liked spacing them out more. His face had been all over the news. If he showed his face at the reunion and someone at the party died the same way as the bridesmaid…

  No. He’d have to do something different with Detective Paris Murphy. He eyed the pill bottle sitting on the passenger’s seat. He hoped the fat nurse was still hanging around when he got home. The plan he’d almost executed in the bar wasn’t such a bad idea. Next time she’d drink her drink; he’d make sure of it.

  NINETEEN

  HER CELL PHONE rang while she was loading her bag into the Jeep. She pulled it out of her purse. “Murphy.”

  Duncan: “Jesus Christ. Every time you pick up the phone you sound worse than the last time.”

  She silently cursed his perceptive ear. “Need to crash in my own bed.”

  “You sure that’s all?”

/>   “Let’s not go there right now.”

  “That dick Winter give you a hard time? Something else going on?”

  She appreciated Duncan’s concern, but wasn’t ready to spill her guts about anything personal. They didn’t know each other well enough. “Winter was a jerk. I gave him what I had and hit the road. Throwing my stuff in the Jeep right now.” She slammed the back gate and walked around to the driver’s door. Opened it, got in, shut the door. “Please tell me I can head back to the cop shop. I already checked out of the hotel.”

  “Go straight home. Catch up on your Z’s. Drag your butt into the station house tomorrow. You put in your eight and then some.”

  She leaned her head back in the car seat. “Thanks.”

  “For the record, Potato Head, Winter said you put together a real nice package for him. Stuff from the neighbors. Stuff from his work. Confirmation there were no cop calls to his place. The whole bit. Backs up his duck hunting story and shows he’s no homicidal maniac.”

  She wondered if she could run her theory by him. “Speaking of homicidal maniac, I’ve got a wild idea about who the killer could be.”

  “Love wild ideas. Hit me with it.”

  “Tell you what. Let me present it in person. I’ll get cleaned up at home and then come in with it. How late you gonna be there tonight?”

  “Late as you want. Is your suspect for real? Should we run it by Winter? Maybe they should pick him up.”

  She regretted saying something to him this early. “Slow down, Duncan. I don’t have enough yet. Got some legwork to do. Besides, my suspect isn’t going anywhere. In fact, I expect to see him Saturday night.”

  “It’s somebody you know? I can hardly wait to hear this. Only thing is, if it ain’t a burning emergency, maybe you should save it for the morning.”