by Nathan Field
Lucy said that in the tragic event of her husband’s death, she was entitled to half the net assets while Sterling’s four children would receive equal shares in the remainder. In other words, Lucy’s payout would be the same as if she waited another three years for the sunset provision to kick in. Probably more since she wouldn’t have to fight Sterling’s bruised ego in court.
Armed with this knowledge, Lucy’s first, “hypothetical” idea was battered woman’s syndrome. She’d read about cases where women subjected to prolonged domestic violence had killed their husbands and escaped conviction. But while she fitted the profile perfectly, she’d dismissed a legal defense as too risky. Firstly, I was the only person outside the marriage who was aware of the beatings (and calling her extra-marital lover as a witness probably wouldn’t warm her to a jury). And secondly, even if Lucy were acquitted, the children would have sufficient grounds to contest the will and marriage contract.
Barring an unexpected accident or heart attack, the only way to capitalize on the second clause was murder by a third party. Preferably an unknown third party.
“Like me,” I said, cutting to the chase.
“Possibly,” Lucy admitted. “Or someone like you. It doesn’t really matter, so long as they can’t be traced back to me. It has to look like a random act of violence.”
I frowned, struggling to see her idea in a favorable light. “I’m sorry Lucy, it sounds like you want me to play the fall guy.”
“God no, Johnny. I couldn’t bear it if you were caught. But if you’re not connected to me in any way, how would they find you?”
“Is that a trick question? We’re having an affair.”
Her eyes brightened. “Nobody’s seen us together long enough to take note. We alternate our motels, we never sign in together, and even meetings like this you can count on one hand. Apart from Sterling, nobody knows about us.”
Except Izzy, I was about to say. But before I opened my mouth, I asked himself– what did he really know? He knew my heart was in tatters, but he’d never learned Lucy’s name - she was just the troublesome gold-digger I’d met at a chili cook-off. And while he might’ve caught a glimpse of a smoking hot blonde on my computer screen, that was four months ago now. He hadn’t even twigged when he saw Lucy leaving the bar a few minutes ago.
After concluding that Izzy wouldn’t be an issue, I scrambled for another excuse. “Phone records. I’ve called your house at least half a dozen times. It’s not proof of a crime, but it’s enough to put me on the suspect list.”
“Do you know how many people call our house every day? Sterling hates using a cell, so the phone rings non-stop. Even if the police drilled down on your work number, you could say you were chasing Sterling for an interview. Maybe you were writing a piece on local business people, or the changing face of Granite Bay. It’s a perfect cover.”
I was momentarily lost for words. Lucy’s thoroughness was both impressive and disturbing. She wasn’t just talking – she’d already progressed to the planning stage. But even though alarm bells were clanging in all directions, I gave myself a moment to consider the end game.
This was a way for us to be together. Permanently. Just the thought of it made me giddy with excitement. We’d have the money to do whatever we wanted. We could fuck all day in the Caribbean, or trip around Europe in a convertible….
I shook my head abruptly, cutting the fantasy short. Who was I kidding? This was the real world, and I was no murderer. I reached for Lucy’s hand. “I’m sorry, this isn’t going to happen. I know Sterling’s a monster, but he’s still the father of four children.”
“Oh please,” she groaned, pulling her hand away. “If you knew those little creeps, you wouldn’t be saying that. I swear Johnny, they’re the devil’s spawn. They’re growing up just like him.”
“Even so–”
“–To hell with even so. This is about us, Johnny, not his fucking kids. Don’t use them as an excuse.”
“Well, the answer’s still no. Maybe I’d be happy if Sterling got run over by a semi-trailer, but I’m not going to be the one behind the wheel.”
“Why? Because you’re scared?”
“Yeah, to be honest. We’re talking about murder. That’s a big step up from my previous criminal experience – speeding and smoking pot.”
“But it would look like a robbery,” she persisted. “I could let you into the house…”
“–Jesus, enough already. I don’t want to hear it. Why the sudden urgency, anyway? A few days ago you were hell bent on toughing it out with Sterling. Like you said, in another three years, you’ll be entitled to half.”
Her eyes grew distant. “I’ll be dead before then.”
“C’mon,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “Thirty-four’s not that old.”
Lucy shot me a contemptuous look. “I was wrong about you,” she said, reinstalling her sunglasses.
I leaned forward and grabbed her forearm. “Hey, don’t go. I’m sorry for being a smart-ass, but this is pretty heavy stuff. I deserve a little slack”
She glared down at my clasped hand, breathing sharply through her nose.
“Lucy please, I want to help. I might not agree with your ideas, but I’m still listening, aren’t I? We’ll figure something out.”
“Don’t you get it?” she said in a low voice. “He’s threatened to kill me. And Sterling doesn’t make idle threats. That’s why I’ve had a change of heart, not because I want his money any more today than last week. It’s because I’m scared. If I don’t do something, it’ll be me who winds up in a coffin.”
The fear in her voice turned my blood cold. She’d been holding back until now, putting on a brave front. “Tell me again about your plan,” I blurted, suddenly ashamed of my behavior and desperate to win back her favor. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to play along with Lucy’s crazy scheme for a while longer, just until I worked out another way to prove my love to her.
Because short of killing a man, I was willing to do anything.
13. “It reeks of blackmail”
I camped out in my office through the night and into the early morning, waiting for the killer to walk through the door. The hours limped by. I was too preoccupied to work, leaving me with nothing to do but worry. I went through so many hypothetical threads and loops that my brain began to feel like a ball of string. And the more I thought, the bigger and messier that ball became.
By 6am, I realized the killer wasn’t going to show. From the very start, he’d only emerged during the day, when I was guaranteed to be at home. There was little doubt he knew my routine well. But I wondered – how well did he know me?
I wasn’t allergic to the daytime. The sun was my enemy, sure, but I wouldn’t break into hives or start foaming at the mouth if I stayed awake past midday. On overcast days, armed with my sunglasses, I could even venture outside. It wasn’t my preference, and I’d be in big trouble if the clouds suddenly cleared, but if the situation called for it, I could certainly manage.
But the killer didn’t know that. Given my strange hours, he probably assumed I was like a vampire, trapped in my dark apartment from dawn till dusk. Therefore, if I stayed in the office during regular business hours, I might catch him on the hop.
However, I realized it wouldn’t be enough to simply break my nocturnal routine. The killer was too smart to fall for that. I had to trick him into thinking I was at home, in bed. And that required a partner.
I picked up my cell and dialed CC, hoping she was working late.
She answered on the fourth ring. Her voice was cranky and hoarse; the end of a long night. “What is it, Sam? I’m heading down to the station.”
“Good timing then. I need a quick favor.”
“Sorry, not tonight.”
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Not tonight, Sam,” she said firmly.
“Why the hell not?”
She sighed. “Because Aunt Flo arrived yesterday, that’s why. I don’t work when she’s
in town.”
It took me a few seconds to understand what she was talking about. “Jesus, look I don’t care about that.”
“Well good for you, but I do. Dancing’s fine, but everything else is off the menu.”
“No, I mean I’m not after that kind of visit. I need you to come to the office and drive my car home. It’ll take fifteen minutes.”
She breathed heavily into the phone. “Why?”
“I’m being watched, and I want to trick this asshole into thinking I’ve gone home for the day.”
“Oh, right. You mean the psycho who shares your office. The one who played around with your script.”
“Yeah, among other things. So, can you do it? I’ll give you a hundred bucks for your time.”
She paused. “I dunno, Sam. I’m dead on my feet.”
“Damn it, CC. Does everything have to be a negotiation with you? One-fifty then.”
“Jesus, Sam, chill the fuck out. You’re asking me the favor, remember? I guess I can do it for one-fifty – that’s fair compensation for the inconvenience. Now, where’s your office again?”
I gave out the address, and CC promised she’d be there in twenty minutes.
An hour later, she arrived.
“I had to eat,” she said in response to my glare.
“Don’t worry about it,” I grumbled, pulling out my wallet.
CC hopped up on the vacant desk, her trench coat parting as she crossed her legs, exposing her bare thighs where a miniskirt barely began. I ripped my eyes away, holding out her fee.
“What’s the rush?” she said, blue eyes twinkling. “I feel better now. Maybe I could give you a blow job. Or use my feet…”
“–It’s now seven o’clock,” I cut in. “I’m usually out of here by six-thirty. If you leave it any later, he’ll get suspicious.
She shrugged, taking the money and stuffing it in her shoulder bag. “And you’re going to stay here all day? What are you going to eat?”
“I’ll grab a sandwich.”
Her eyes opened wide. “Outside? I thought you were allergic to sunlight.”
“No,” I said tightly. “My eyes can’t handle bright lights, but I’m not allergic. It’s just easier for me to get around at night.”
“That’s weird.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“Is it your face you’re worried about? You’re worried about people gawking at your scars?”
“No. And besides, my scars show up better under fluorescent lights than they do in the San Francisco fog. It’s just my eyes.”
“But you’ve got sunglasses.”
I ignored her, opening the office door and jangling my keys impatiently. “Straight to my apartment, okay? You remember how to get in. And no pit stops. If you step out of the car, the game’s over.”
“Won’t he notice it’s a woman driving?”
“Tinted windows. He won’t know the difference so long as you stay in the car.”
CC took the keys and moved slowly towards the door. I could tell she was bubbling over with questions, yet she only had time for one. “Is he dangerous?”
“Not really,” I lied, reserving my seat in Hell. “Just stay in the goddamn car and you’ll be fine.”
“Alright, I’ve got the message.” CC stepped into the corridor, peering back into the office like she was forgetting something. “You sure you won’t get hungry? I could bring up some noodles if you want.”
“Just call me when you get there,” I said, closing the door in her face as politely as possible.
CC called twenty minutes later to let me know she’d arrived safely. I thanked her and told her to help herself to whatever was in the refrigerator. Knowing CC, she’d already started in on the chardonnay and Chunky Monkey.
As dawn broke, the morning sun poked through the slivers in the vertical blinds, throwing a grid of pale light onto the rusty brown carpet. I put on my shades, ignoring my first impulse to close the blinds. I wanted to test myself. Provided I didn’t look directly into the sun, and I was protected by polarized lenses, I could keep the thunderclap headaches at bay.
I turned to my computer, trying to approach the day as I would the night. But I couldn’t concentrate, freaking out about the lengthening rays of sunlight creeping across the office. It wasn’t long before I spun the cord to seal the blinds. The dimming effect was immediately relaxing, like the room itself let out a sigh of relief. It seemed my tolerance for daylight was lower than I cared to admit.
My eyes grew heavy in the darkened office. I hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours, and exhaustion was catching up with me. To keep myself engaged, I scoured the web for updates on Ralph’s murder. There was nothing revelatory on any of the news sites, and coverage was noticeably thinner than twenty-four hours ago. The story was already turning cold. Tomorrow, there would likely be no story at all.
My hopes of a breakthrough faded as the morning dragged on. I worried that the killer was too smart to fall for the trap I’d laid. So far, he’d anticipated my every move. The longer I waited, the more convinced I became that he was playing me. He had me pinned in my office, hiding from the sun, tearing my hair out over my best friend. If he hated me as much as I imagined, he was having the time of his life.
At the stroke of noon, my office line started ringing. I resisted picking up, thinking it could be him, checking to see if the office was empty. I let the call connect to voice-mail, perking up a little when the message alert remained silent.
Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. Same result – diverted to voice-mail, no message. I told myself not to get too excited – they could’ve been random sales calls, or wrong numbers. Even so, I was sitting upright in my chair, watching the phone like a hawk.
The next ring bounced me out of my chair. There had only been a five minute gap between the second and third calls, and this time the caller didn’t wait for voice-mail to kick in. Like he was satisfied the office was empty, and I was safely tucked up in bed.
It was him.
My heart started pounding. How long would it take before he walked in the door? Putting myself in the killer’s shoes, I imagined he made the first call from whatever cave or dungeon he lived in, the second while he was driving towards the Tenderloin, and the third when he was idling outside the building – a final check that the coast was clear. Meaning he was only a few minutes away.
I quickly shut down my computer in case its faint whine could be heard from the corridor. Then I positioned myself next to the closed door, back against the wall. A minute later I heard footsteps approaching. Slow, deliberate strides – almost certainly a man. I carefully removed the gun from under my belt, curling my finger around the trigger. I held my breath as the footsteps stopped right outside the door. Then came a loud knock.
I swallowed hard, my eyes fixed on the door handle. My muscles twitched, preparing to confront the intruder. But instead, another set of footsteps thundered down the corridor, more urgent than the first. Like someone late for a meeting.
The man outside harrumphed. “Don’t worry, he’s not here.”
“I told you to wait,” the second man complained.
“Fuck it Andy, if I held up the investigation every time you took a piss, we’d still be taking prints at the crime scene. What’s wrong with you anyway? You should really see a doctor.”
“I have seen a doctor. I’ve got a weak bladder.”
“Seriously? Christ, I know this job can age you, but not thirty fucking years.”
My thoughts scrambled as a new kind of panic took hold. The cops were outside. Worse, I hadn’t locked the door after CC left. It was too late to lock it now – they’d hear the key scraping and the bolt sliding back. How the fuck would I explain not answering my phone? Or the door? I was only seconds away from announcing myself as a prime suspect.
First things first. I tip-toed across the room and eased open a side cupboard of the empty desk, sliding the gun into the back corner. I removed my shades, thinking it would be
one less thing to have to explain. Then I went to my desk and opened the top drawer. It was still there, my decommissioned iPod touch. I inserted the sponge earpieces and sat down just as the cops pushed open the door.
“Holy shit!” I cried, spinning around in my chair.
The two plainclothes cops looked even more surprised than I was pretending to be. They hesitated in the doorway. “Whoa, sorry,” the first cop said, holding up a hand to halt the towering partner behind him.
I recognized the first cop from the TV coverage of Ralph’s murder: early fifties, slicked-back hair, expensive overcoat, piercing grey eyes. He had a patient, intelligent air about him, like he was in full command of his resources. His partner, I sensed, was less competent. Young and imposingly tall, his stature was undermined by floppy reddish-brown hair that made him look like an overgrown child.
“What the hell are you doing?” I said, maintaining my startled expression. “Get out of my office!”
“Mr Carney, I’m Detective Amorosi,” the first cop said in a steady voice, flashing his badge. “This is Detective Cullen. We’ve been calling. And knocking.”
Both men moved into the office, and Cullen shut the door behind them. Sunlight was seeping through the blinds, but Cullen still reached for the light switch.
“Do you mind?” I said, wincing. “I had a few too many last night.”
Cullen’s narrow gaze slid over my face. Before he could respond, Amorosi offered a quick smile. “Sure, Mr Carney. We’ve all been there.”
Cullen folded his arms, staring pointedly at my scars. Good cop, bad cop.
“Thank you,” I exhaled. “Jesus, you guys almost gave me a heart attack. I had my music turned up so I couldn’t hear a thing.”
Amorosi nodded down at my silent iPod. “You don’t see those any more. What’s on your playlist?”
“A mixed bag. You walked in on Elvis Costello.”
“Ah, good choice.” He turned to his younger partner. “You’ve probably never heard of him.”
“Nope,” Cullen said, keeping his eyes locked on me.
“Typical,” Amorosi said, peering closely at the iPod’s blank screen. “Looks like it ran out of juice.”
