by B. E. Scully
Always have a backup plan; always stay one step ahead. And now that Tylerman had The Plan, he was way, way ahead.
But first he had to get that loser Ross Delvin out of the way. Losers like Ross Delvin were everything that was wrong with the world right now. Everything standing in the way of guys like Tyler.
When Brooke joined an MS support group, Tyler saw his chance. He invented Sarah Lawrence, C.J. Porter, and Anna Williams, who quickly became Brooke’s new best friends and closest confidants. After all, someone in Brooke’s position needed all of the advice she could get.
Tyler’s phone beeped. He answered with his customary “Yeah?” even though he already knew who it was. He had to be careful to always keep Brooke guessing, always stay one step ahead.
“Hey, Tyler, it’s me. I just unfriended Ross on Facebook and I feel like a complete and utter asshole. A heartless, worthless asshole.”
“Whoa. That’s going to break him up, Brooke, I can’t lie.”
“I know it. Don’t you think I know it? That’s why I feel like such an asshole.” Tyler waited, letting her anger feed itself. Sure enough, within seconds Brooke was playing her own devil’s advocate. “But why should I always be the one feeling bad about Ross when he’s the one who should be feeling bad about me? Why am I always the bad guy for just wanting to live my life free of bullshit for a change?”
“You’re not the bad guy, Brooke. But you know how…unstable Ross can be.”
“But that’s the whole point, Tyler. I’m sick to death of Ross and his instability. It’s got to be about me for a change.”
“I agree.”
“I can’t help Ross because he doesn’t want help. He doesn’t even think anything’s wrong with him.”
“You can’t help some people, Brooke. They’ll drag you all the way down with them if you try. Maybe Ross has to hit the bottom before he realizes he needs to come up for some air.”
“Yeah, and maybe he’ll drown first.”
Tyler wouldn’t mind seeing Ross drown, at least enough to get out of Brooke’s life once and for all. It’s not like he wanted to harm the guy or anything. In college, Tyler had easily and truthfully called Ross his best friend. But they weren’t in college anymore. Ever since graduation, Tyler had been headed in one direction and Ross had been headed in the other. Right now Brooke was treading water somewhere in the middle, but it’s like Tyler told her—if you don’t cut the ropes and let people like Ross go down on their own, they’ll drag you into the whirlpool right along with them.
Besides, Ross had started going down all on his own, long before Tylerman had come into the picture. In fact, Ross had been getting flaky before Brooke had even told Tyler about her big proposal idea. He always had been the paranoid type. All Tyler had done was nudge the paranoia along a little.
Even before Sarah, C.J., and Anna, Tyler had learned the value of keeping tabs on his friends. He had so many bogus identities and fake email accounts that he’d created a database to keep them all straight. When a handful of Ross’s Facebook “friends” had started flooding his timeline with posts about sticking it to the man and quitting your job—a dozen different cover versions of “Take This Job and Shove It,” the clip from Jerry Maguire where Dorothy Boyd walks off the job in front of the entire office—how was he supposed to know that Ross would take it literally? Tyler shook his head, still amazed at how the very next day Ross had walked into his office job and told his boss to go straight to hell.
As if reading his mind, Brooke said, “You know Ross still hasn’t found another job?”
It blipped into Tyler’s mind that maybe Brooke was spying on him, too—maybe she had her own superhero alter ego going on. Hell, maybe everyone was spying on everyone else. He laughed at the thought of a bunch of fake identities spying on a bunch of other fake identities. Or maybe he was getting just as paranoid as Ross.
“You think that’s funny, Tyler? That Ross is unemployed and probably almost completely out of money by now?”
“No, no, no. It’s not funny. Although you have to admit it’s hard not to laugh when you think of Ross giving his cubicle a karate kick and sending a piece of plasterboard crashing into the monthly ‘goal chart’ on his way out.”
“Not so funny when you add that his boss almost pressed charges. Do you know that after he quit, Ross applied for, like, literally a hundred different jobs? He didn’t even get a response from most of them, let alone an offer.”
“Well, who’s the one who told him to study something useful? What kind of job did he think he was going to get with a degree in urban planning, for christ’s sake?”
“Do you know that he even applied to the post office? He had to take this big ‘application exam.’ The results came back that he was disqualified for every job. Every single one! He couldn’t even get past the gate for a part-time mail sorter.”
“Yeah, but you know what else? You know how he answered the question, ‘What do you consider your greatest strength?’ He put ‘intellectual curiosity.’”
“I think that’s a fantastic strength, actually.”
“But not to get hired as a freakin’ mail sorter!”
“Why not? Can’t a mail sorter be as intellectual as a PR guru? Maybe even more so, if you think about it.”
“Come on, Brooke! You know I love Ross like a brother, but the guy doesn’t have a clue.” Tyler cursed himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He’d broken Rule #1 in the Player’s Handbook: never badmouth her ex, at least not directly. That’s what people like Sarah, C.J., and Anna were for.
Speaking of which, Tyler saw a new comment from Brooke appear on his pincushion post: “Hang in there, Sarah. Things sometimes have to get worse before they get better.”
Tyler went to his C.J. profile to post a reply. C.J. was a middle-aged black woman who liked reading, cats, and cooking. In her spare time she was a paranormal ghost hunter who believed in all things supernatural. Maybe because they were so different from each other, Brooke seemed to like C.J. the best out of her new friends. Even better yet, she seemed to trust her.
Tyler/C.J. typed, “You know, Brooke, I think you’re right. I’ve been getting all kinds of feelings and signs lately that good things are on the way soon.” He hit enter and laughed at how easy it was.
“Brooke, you still there?” he asked his phone.
“Yeah. Listen, Tyler, I’ve been thinking…”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I’ve been wanting to talk to someone for a long time about…about a lot of things, actually.”
“I’m always here for you, Brooke. Always have been, always will be. You know that.”
“I know. I totally know.”
Tyler decided to push it just a little further. “This probably sounds nuts, and you know me—you know I don’t go in for that new-agey shit like you do. But…ah, forget it. It is nuts.”
“No, what?”
“I don’t know. I just feel like something’s in the air lately. Like something big is going to happen soon. Something good. For both of us.” Tyler caught himself in time to verbally auto-correct that last part. “For all of us. Me, you, Ross. All of us. The Three Musketeers.”
“I think you’re right, Tyler. I hope you’re right.”
“That’s me, all right—Mr. Right. Listen, I’ve got a client waiting. I’ll catch you later.”
He hung up and stared at Sarah Lawrence’s pincushion post, waiting. Sure enough, within seconds a new comment appeared from Brooke: “C.J., you really must be psychic! Good things are on the way—fingers crossed they actually get here, LOL!”
Tyler checked a few more of his accounts and then came back to his own Facebook page. He clicked on his messages, but nothing yet.
“Come on, come on, come on,” he commanded the screen. All he needed was one sign, one open door from Brooke to get The Plan rolling forward. Hell, he’d even take a lousy crack in the door. He could kick it open himself from there.
Tyler closed his eyes and will
ed Brooke to message him. When he opened them, there it was: “You know how I said I’ve been wanting to talk? Come over to my place this Saturday, seven o’clock. XOXO, luv ya to death!”
The door hadn’t just opened, it had blown right off the goddamn hinges. Tyler went to the site of his favorite wine shop and reserved two of their most expensive bottles of pinot. Then he spent a half hour checking out the best flights to Singapore. A week—all he needed now was one week. He booked two first-class tickets on a flight exactly seven days from now. Then he leaned back in his chair and smiled.
“Tylerman strikes again,” he said, laughing. It was too easy—just too, too easy.
4
The girl couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old, maybe even younger. Her body was sprawled across the concrete, her neck at an angle impossible for the still living. A congealed pool of blood framed her head like a grisly halo. A green dumpster stood in silent witness to the spectacle, its resident swarm of flies already buzzing around their latest buffet.
Detective Monte Martinez waved them away—futile, but then again, what in life wasn’t when you got right down to it. “Looks like she went headfirst.”
His partner knelt down by the body. “Yeah, but the question is, who helped her along?”
Martinez swore under his breath. Cassie Shirdon was a good cop—a damn good cop. They’d been partners for almost seven years and Martinez knew he could always count on her. But when she got fixated on a case, nothing in the world could get her off it.
“Dammit, Cass, sometimes a broken railing is just a broken railing. Sometimes an accident is just an accident. The kid comes out on the porch to have a smoke or enjoy the nice view of the alleyway, she leans on the railing a little too hard, the screws are a little too loose—end of story.”
“Nobody smokes anymore but death-wish fatalists like you, Martinez.”
“Very funny. But what’s that saying about a pipe sometimes being just a pipe?”
“And sometimes it’s a pipe bomb. Anyway, here comes the building manager. Hopefully he can tell us more.”
“Just don’t start taking the case too personally.” Martinez had three kids of his own at home. Like a lot of cops, a dead kid or young person always got to him. But with Cassie it was something more; it was almost as if those kinds of victims were her own family.
He knew she had a sister who’d killed herself at a young age, but Cassie never talked about it. In fact, Martinez only knew about it because of that night at The Slammer, the cop bar on Fifth Street where half the precinct could be found on any given night. Some young assistant from the psych department had been perched on the stool next to him. After a few too many, the kid had slurred, “I know you—you’re Cassie Shirdon’s partner. Too bad about her sister—I had an uncle off himself, so I know how it is.”
Martinez should have stopped him right there. But he didn’t. He sat there and let the kid tell him all about how Shirdon’s file had a whole section about how her sister had committed suicide years ago while still in high school. When Shirdon had still been in uniform, she’d been involved in a robbery call that left two suspects dead. Shirdon had fired one of the bullets. It was department policy for cops to undergo a psych evaluation anytime deadly force was involved, and that’s where Shirdon’s file came from.
The kid was violating a shitload of department rules even thinking about spilling info like that, and Martinez was violating a lot of trust listening to it. But he listened just the same. He wasn’t proud of it, but there you go. At the time, he’d reasoned that he had a right to know something about the person who literally meant the difference between his life and death on any given day. But that didn’t keep him from feeling like a sneaky, dirty rotten son-of-a-bitch just the same.
The next day, Martinez pulled the assistant aside and tore him about ten new assholes. Getting fired had been the least of it—Martinez had thrown in lawsuits, possible criminal charges, the whole nine yards. He’d scared the kid so shitless the poor sucker still started sweating bullets whenever he saw Martinez coming. Which was a damn good thing, because Martinez was also covering his ass by making sure the kid never breathed a word of it to anyone.
Maybe that violation of trust is why Martinez respected his partner’s silences more than he usually would out of someone he spent more time with than his own wife and kids. Detective Cassie Shirdon might get personal about cases, but her own personal life was a different story altogether.
They both turned to watch a little man with a giant mustache and even more formidable mutton chops come bustling up the alleyway, already wringing his hands and shaking his head.
“Terrible trouble, terrible trouble. A terrible accident. That’s what you’re going to write it up as, right? An accident? Because we do regular maintenance checks, believe me. Liza’s apartment—that’s her name—or, well, that was her name, Liza Loney—weird name, huh? Liza Loney—I always wanted to call her Liza Lonely, or Liza Loner, even though I’d say she was anything but.”
Martinez reached for a cigarette, then stopped himself. Everyone was so fussy about the non-smoking thing these days, soon the only place left to light up would be his own living room. And maybe not even there if his wife had her way. “So you’d say she had a lot of visitors? A lot of friends coming over?”
“Oh, yes. I mean, no more than any other attractive young woman, is what I mean. And her apartment was just remodeled last year, if I recall right. No problems, believe me. In fact, we’ve never had any problems—well, except that one time with Mr. Gregor in apartment fifty-four, but that was—”
“Mister…Hayes, right?” Shirdon cut in. “Listen, Mr. Hayes, did Liza have any problems with other tenants?”
“Oh, well, nothing serious. Just the usual, you know, people living all packed together, and the world the way it is these days—”
“What’s ‘the usual’?” Martinez could see already this guy was a talker. On top of a dead young woman and an empty stomach from missing breakfast, that was the last thing he needed this afternoon.
“Oh, well, residents fight all the time over the laundry room. You know, ‘Who took my clothes out of the dryer too soon?’ or ‘Who left bleach in the washer and ruined all of my jeans?’ That sort of thing.” Hayes dropped his voice to a whisper. His mutton chops were practically quivering with excitement. “Do you think she was murdered?”
Martinez fought to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Mr. Hayes, we don’t think anything yet. That’s what we’re here trying to find out. So if you could tell us if she had any specific problems with any of her neighbors, that would be helpful.”
“Well, there was that issue with the garbage.”
Shirdon made sure she’d heard him correctly. “The garbage?”
“Well, yes. See, sometimes people on this side of the building throw garbage off their porches into the dumpster below. You know, when you have something really messy or smelly and you don’t want to come all the way downstairs to get rid of it. Oh, it’s strictly against the rules to throw refuse of any sort from an apartment. And the dumpster lid is always supposed to be closed anyway. But people are people, after all. And I’ll tell you, good manners are going the way of the dinosaurs these days! Why, just yesterday I was crossing Hawthorne Boulevard when—”
Martinez caught himself grinding his teeth. His wife always said he’d end up in dentures if he didn’t break that bad habit. One more to add to the list. “Who made the complaint and what eventually came of it?”
Hayes leaned toward the detectives as if all three of them were in a scene from a TV cop drama. “Well, that’s the thing. You see, no one actually made the complaint to me. To my face, I mean. Someone posted this anonymous ‘letter’ on the bulletin board. It’s in the foyer, a kind of ‘community communication’ place. Here at Park Tower we believe a happy home begins with community—”
“Mr. Hayes.” Even Shirdon was grinding her teeth over this guy.
“Yes, right. Well, anyw
ay, I know Ms. Loney had thrown garbage over her porch a few times. Not to be rude or anything, just sort of forgetful, you know how young people are. So I sent around a notice reminding residents of the rules—you know, close the dumpster lid, don’t throw things out of apartments. But what else can you do? People are people, and—”
“Do you still have the letter?” Martinez asked.
“Hmm, let me see. You know, I just might! I have a file for things like that, because you never know what will come back to haunt you in this lawsuit-crazy society of ours—” For the first time Hayes clamped his mouth shut, as if even the mention of the word “lawsuit” were a bad omen.
“Maybe you can get that letter for us,” Martinez said.
The three of them started back down the alleyway toward the lobby, but halfway there something above caught Shirdon’s eye—a flash, as if some kind of metal or glass had caught the sun. Seven stories up, in the apartment directly below Liza Loney’s place, a man—a young one, by the looks of him—was staring down from his porch. He was leaning on a scrollwork railing identical to the one that had given way and sent Liza to her premature death.
Shirdon shaded her eyes and peered up at him. Was he up there filming them? It wasn’t uncommon these days for people to stop and film any kind of tragedy or disaster they thought might make them a fifteen-second Internet sensation. But maybe this voyeur had a more personal interest in Liza Loney—like her hurling trash over the porch directly above his place.
“Hold up a sec,” Shirdon said, catching up with Hayes and Martinez, who were still headed toward the lobby. “See that guy up there?” She turned and pointed back to the porch, but the young man was gone. “The apartment below Liza Loney,” she tried again. “Who lives there?”
“Oh, that’s apartment seventy-seven. That one’s a bit of a recluse, I suppose you could say. He sometimes doesn’t leave his house for days at a time. I think he works in computers or something like that.”
