Blood Lies

by Daniel Kalla

  I pushed away from the computer and stared at the screen saver, a cyclist sprinting up the picturesque but grueling Peyresourde leg of the Tour de France’s time trials. I empathized with the rider, but I also felt my first glimmer of hope. I’d just unearthed a connection between the two victims and Philip Maglio. Emily and J.D. had both worked for Philip Maglio—a very dangerous man, according to my cousin. I realized the link might simply be coincidence, but as far as I was concerned, in the past week I’d already chewed through a lifetime’s worth of coincidences.

  I wheeled my chair back toward the desk and reached for the computer mouse. I clicked my way through the NorWesPac Web site until I found the CONTACT US section. Secure in the knowledge that my home phone number was unlisted, I reached for the phone and dialed the company’s main office number.

  “NorWesPac Properties.” The upbeat voice answered on the second ring. “This is Megan. How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Maglio, please.”

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  I hesitated a moment and then an idea struck me. “My name is J.D. Emily.”

  “Amilley?” she asked.

  “No, Emily. As in the poet, Emily Dickinson.”

  I wondered if the reference was wasted on the young-sounding receptionist, but she simply said, “Please hold a moment, Mr. Emily.”

  I only had to suffer through thirty seconds of canned hold music, before the line clicked. “Phil Maglio,” growled the cigarette-and-whisky-ravaged voice.

  “Mr. Maglio, I’m a friend of Emily Kenmore’s.”

  The line went quiet. “Emily Kenmore doesn’t work for NorWesPac any longer.”

  “Emily doesn’t breathe any longer,” I said provocatively. “What about Jason DiAngelo, AKA J.D.?”

  He cleared his throat loudly. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”

  I glanced at the monitor where Maglio’s photo still appeared. I could picture his jaw clenching even tighter and his gray eyes steaming. “He used to work for you.”

  “Not at NorWesPac.”

  “No, not at NorWesPac. I think he worked for you in a sector other than real estate.”

  Another pause. “Who is this?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Maglio grunted his disdain.

  I took a slow breath. “Phil, I want to know what happened to Emily and J.D.”

  “Me, too!”

  The line clicked dead.

  I cradled the receiver in my hand for several seconds. I considered phoning him back to try to set up a meeting, but aside from getting myself killed, I couldn’t see what it would accomplish. Still, a vague buzz enveloped me. For the first time in days, I didn’t feel like I was careening downhill in the backseat of a car without brakes.

  I put down the receiver and glanced at the computer’s clock: 5:45 P.M. I’d been snooping online for more than four hours. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten yet today. I stood up and stretched, then decided it was time to head downstairs and reward myself with a massive turkey breast sandwich and an icy beer. I was glad I had restocked my fridge and liquor cabinet earlier.

  As I walked past the curtained window, movement from the street caught my eye. I moved closer and peered out through the gap between the curtains.

  I jerked back instantly, as if shot at. My chest slammed. My palms dampened.

  The doorbell rang, and I shuddered.

  I stole another furtive glance between the curtains. I could see two police cruisers parked on the street, one of them blocking the driveway. Two uniformed policemen stood in front of Helen’s sedan.

  The doorbell rang again. I knew Helen and Rick were standing at my front door.

  For them to have arrived accompanied by backup meant only one thing: The blood on Emily’s wall officially matched my DNA.

  Chapter 13

  I forced saliva down my tightening throat. I took several slow breaths, willing the panic to subside. Drawing on years of Emergency Room experience in facing critical situations, I focused my thoughts away from the anxiety and onto the immediate next steps.

  If I go with them now, I thought, I might lose my only chance to clear my name.

  I peeked out the window again. Even if I could squeeze my Smart Car past the cruiser blocking the driveway, I couldn’t outrun the cops with an engine the size of a moped’s. Suddenly the allure of the car’s fuel efficiency evaporated.

  The doorbell rang a third, fourth, and fifth time in rapid succession. I knew that I didn’t have long before they broke through the door.

  Frantically stuffing my wallet and cell phone in my jeans, I threw on a sweatshirt. I grabbed my cycling shoes and hopped into each of them on my way out of the bedroom. I tore down the stairs. Without stopping at the main floor, I rounded the corner and ran to the basement.

  I opened the door to the attached garage. Stepping carefully on the concrete, I willed my bike cleats to silence. More out of reflex than reason, I slipped on my helmet, and then lifted my road bike off the rack. The gentle thud the tires made on contact with concrete sounded to me like a brick hitting the ground. I wheeled the bike to a strategic spot five feet from the garage door. I mounted the bike and clicked a foot into the pedal.

  I allowed myself three long breaths then reached for the garage door opener. Heart pounding, I pressed the button.

  The garage door clunked its way open. As soon as I judged the opening near bike level, I jumped onto the pedal. Ducking my head, I flew through the gap and gained speed with each pedal up the driveway. Reaching the top, I caught the bewildered expressions of the uniformed policemen as they scrambled to react.

  “Stop!” the female cop yelled.

  But stopping wasn’t an option. I didn’t even look back as I rode past. Instead, I stood on the pedals and pumped like I was sprinting for the finish line in the race of my life.

  At the T-intersection at the bottom of my street, I veered hard right and was almost clipped by a car cruising past with the right of way. The horn sounded angrily, but like a bike courier with a death wish, I cut across the street and rode into the oncoming lane half a block until my next left turn. Leaning into the corner, the wind whistled by my ears, and I heard the wail of sirens behind me.

  Adrenaline flooded into my system. My lungs burned as I raced along Woodlawn Avenue North, knowing my only hope of escape was Woodland Park. I hit the T-intersection at Woodlawn and Fifty-fifth, swerving to my right. I could see the park ahead of me, but the sirens were gaining. With a quick check over my shoulder, I saw the cruiser less than half a block behind.

  I reached the main thoroughfare of Green Lake Way. Ignoring the stop sign and the oncoming traffic, I raced across the intersection. Brakes screeched as I veered to avoid a speeding car. I almost toppled off my bike, but I managed to regain my balance just as I hopped the curb.

  I roared down the sidewalk against the pedestrian traffic. A couple walking in the opposite direction had to release hands and dive out of my way as I rode between them. I heard the man’s fading shout of “Watch it, asshole!” but I didn’t dare look back.

  I reached the entrance to the park and cut in. I screamed along the path beside the soccer pitch, heading desperately for the park’s thicker trees and paths that I hoped would offer some protection. I reached the parking lot in front of the tennis courts. Gasping for breath, more from anxiety than exhaustion, I raced on past the tennis players and around the courts until I arrived at the first footpath.

  As I rode deep into the park under the cover of the dense trees, I no longer heard the sirens, but the adrenaline wouldn’t let me slow down. I reached Aurora Avenue, the thoroughfare that divides the park, and I doubled back into the thicker woods.

  Slowing the bike, I checked behind me again. No one.

  I brought my bike to a stop by a tall maple tree. Pausing under its branches, I weighed my options. Police all over the city would be looking for a cyclist in jeans on a red bike. Reluctantly, I realized I had no choice but
to ditch the bike. I tucked it away in the most concealed spot I could find behind another tree, though I knew the effort was futile. If the bike weren’t stolen, the police would confiscate it. Either way, I would never see it again. After dropping my helmet behind the bike, I twisted the headlight off the handlebar and pocketed it. I took one last glance, as if saying good-bye to an old friend, and then hurried off on foot.

  Feeling the pressure of the bicycle cleats digging into the soles of my feet, I jogged through the woods, darting between trails on my way out to North Fiftieth Street. I stopped a hundred feet from the road, certain I would hear sirens or see flashing lights the moment I emerged from the cover of the foliage.

  I inched closer to the street until I had a glimpse of the road on either side that ran along the perimeter of the park.

  Nothing.

  I ducked back into the trail and wrestled with another choice: Either I could call a cab on my cell phone (and risk being traced by some high-tech GPS system), or I could stand on the busy street in bike cleats while trying to inconspicuously hail a passing cab. I decided to take my chances on the phone. I pulled it out of my jeans and dialed the number for the taxi company. I gave the dispatcher exact instructions on which side of the street to pick me up.

  Heart still hammering despite the rest, I moved close enough to the street to watch for the approaching cab. In the five-minute wait, which felt like five days, I second-guessed my decision to run from the police. If Helen had any doubt left as to my guilt, I suspected I had dispelled it by fleeing.

  The streak of yellow slowed to a stop at the side of the road. My cleats clicked like horses’ hooves as I ran along the pavement to the cab. I grabbed for the door handle and resisted the urge to dive into the backseat. I climbed in and slumped down in the seat as low as possible without looking overly suspicious.

  The young African-American driver eyed me indifferently in the mirror. “Where to?”

  “Emerson and Thirty-third, please,” I said, conjuring an address in the Magnolia Bluff neighborhood that was at least six blocks from Alex’s home.

  We drove in silence. Fighting the impulse to scan every window, I focused on the floor of the taxi where a tourist map of Seattle lay in a wadded ball. It struck me as metaphoric; to sort out this mess, I had to discard Seattle, too. I had an inkling of where I had to go, but I’d no idea how to get there.

  The driver dropped me off at the designated intersection. I wandered down Emerson but turned back as soon as his cab was out of sight. Hands in my pocket and head down, I struggled to slow my pace as I strode the three blocks to Discovery Park.

  Daylight had begun to dwindle by the time I reached the trails. Through my light sweatshirt, I felt a chill in the cooler evening air, but I wasn’t willing to venture out until dusk had fully given way to darkness.

  I found a bench in the woods and sat down. Now that the adrenaline had finally washed out of my system, I was able to consider the scope of my predicament. The whisperer’s prediction had panned out—my two-year-old DNA sample must have unequivocally matched the blood on Emily’s wall.

  It’s not my blood! I wanted to scream at the trees. Somebody is framing me. Someone with access to a perfect facsimile of my blood. And without any other plausible explanation, a belief began to take root that was as jarring to me as anything that had happened during the past week.

  Aaron is alive.

  Chapter 14

  Shivering, I switched on the portable bike headlight and checked my watch: 9:05 P.M. Night had fallen. I navigated my way out of Discovery Park with the light held low to the ground and turned on only when necessary.

  I emerged onto Emerson Street and hurried across the busy road, seeking the shelter of a quieter side street. Conscious of every streetlamp I walked under, I wove the nine blocks through the streets until I reached Alex’s green cedar-sided house on Thirty-fifth Avenue.

  I was relieved to see no sign of her husband Marcus’s black Mercedes in the long driveway. I circled the block twice to ensure that no one was watching. With one more confirmatory glance, I rushed up the stone walkway, rang the doorbell, but then ducked around the corner and hid behind a hedge. Peeking around the edge, I watched as the door opened. Hair loose around her shoulders and wearing jeans and a T-shirt, Alex stood at the doorstep, glancing irritably from side to side.

  “Kenny and Davy Paris!” she called out. “Don’t you make me call your parents again!”

  Before I could grab her attention, the door slammed shut. I slid out from behind the bush and walked up to the door. I rang the bell and stayed put this time.

  The door whooshed open. Hands on her hips, Alex’s scowl gave way to surprise. “Ben?”

  “Is Marcus home?”

  She shook her head.

  “Your dad?”

  “He’s gone back to Spokane. It’s just Talie and me, and she’s asleep.”

  I nodded my relief. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course.” She stepped out of the way to let me pass.

  As soon as I walked into the spacious foyer, I bent down and untied my shoes. It was too late. Alex spotted the cycling shoes. “Did you ride over?”

  Shoes off, I stood up. “Not exactly.”

  Alex leaned close enough to give me a whiff of mint-flavored toothpaste. “What’s going on, Ben?”

  “Can I trouble you for a beer?”

  Alex turned and headed for the kitchen. I followed her into the huge open kitchen with combined great room. She opened the Sub-Zero fridge and dug out a bottle of Dutch beer. “Marcus only drinks the imported stuff. Need a glass?”

  “This is fine.” I took the bottle from her, twisted off its cap, and took one long icy gulp.

  Concern darkened Alex’s brown eyes. “What’s going on?”

  I had another sip before putting the bottle down. “They came for me.”

  “The police?”

  “Yes.”

  Alex’s color drained. Her jaw dropped. “And you…ran?”

  I nodded, reaching for the bottle again.

  “Ben, have you lost your mind?” she said in a half whisper.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But I didn’t know what else to do. They must’ve matched my DNA to the blood on Emily’s wall.” I met her stare. “Alex, I didn’t do it.”

  “I thought you had a defense attorney to handle this.”

  “I’m not ready to trust my life to him yet.”

  Her mouth closed and her lips formed a stoic smile. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I have to get out of Seattle,” I sighed.

  “And then?”

  “Find Aaron.”

  “Aaron?” she gasped. “You think his body was dumped in Vancouver?”

  I sucked the last drop of beer from the bottle. “I’ve been over it a thousand times, Alex. If it’s not my blood on the wall, it has to be Aaron’s.”

  Alex sat down on a barstool. “Are you saying that your missing-and-presumed-dead brother murdered Emily?” she asked in a monotone.

  “No!” I shook my head vehemently. “Aaron wouldn’t have done that. He had—has—no violence in him,” I said, remembering the day he absorbed my punches without even trying to protect himself.

  “What then?”

  “I think someone either coerced his involvement or, possibly, got a hold of a sample of his blood and sprayed it on the wall.”

  “Blood that was over two years old?” Alex asked skeptically.

  “We both know you can’t keep blood that long without incredibly sophisticated equipment.”

  “Do you honestly think Aaron is still alive?”

  “Or he was up until very close to the night of Emily’s murder.”

  Alex’s eyes fell to the countertop. “What about the burned-out car with all his blood in the trunk. How do you explain that?”

  “Not easily,” I said. “The trunk was saturated in blood. Well over four liters, according to the CSI guys.”

  “Which would have been three quarters
of Aaron’s total blood supply. That’s not compatible with life.”

  “I know, but the trunk was burned with gasoline. There’s no way to know how much of that fluid was blood.”

  She arched an eyebrow in disbelief.

  “Alex, you know those old men that come into the ER bleeding from their prostate? Their urine is so red it could pass for blood, but we both know there’s usually not much blood in the pee. A couple of tablespoons are enough to turn the pee blood color.”

  She sighed. “You think someone deliberately diluted the blood found in that trunk?”

  “It might work.”

  “Work? To accomplish what?” She shook her head. “Fake his death?”

  I nodded.

  “Who would want do that?”

  “Maybe Aaron.”

  “Why?”

  “From what my cousin Kyle tells me, Aaron was involved with some scary people. Maybe faking his death was his only escape.” I pulled back the barstool beside Alex and plunked into the seat. “God, I know how this all must sound.”

  “It’s a bit of a stretch.” Then her face filled with resolve. “But I know you didn’t kill Emily. So there has to be another explanation.”

  Affection welled inside me, and the pressure eased off my chest. I smiled. “Thank you.”

  She snapped her fingers. “Maybe Aaron didn’t need to dilute his blood. He could have collected it a little at a time over months, if he’d frozen it!”

  “That would work, too.” Despite his lack of medical training, I knew Aaron would be capable of pulling off a ploy like that.

  Her expression turned businesslike. “So where do we go from here?”

  “We?” I shook my head. “I had no right to involve you even this far. I was just hoping to just buy a few hours here to regroup. And then I’m getting the hell out of your hair.”

  “And going where?”

  “Vancouver,” I said. “That’s where Aaron was living when he disappeared. I’m guessing that’s where the whispered Canadian phone calls originate. Somehow, it’s all tied in.”

  Alex viewed me with a trace of impatience. “And how do you plan to get across the border as a fugitive?”