And maybe his drug habit?
"What about drugs? Did your husband do drugs?"
She gasped. "How could you ask that? He was Elvis"
I rolled my eyes. "And the real Elvis did drugs. Your husband did want to be just like Elvis, right?"
She paused. I couldn't even hear her Hubba Bubba in the background. "He only did drugs on occasion and only then for recreational fun. He wasn't addicted or anything crazy like that."
No, never-because drugs were never, ever addicting. "What kind of drugs did he do?"
"Pot. Weed. Whatever the kids are calling it nowadays. Nothing major"
I'm sure the police couldn't agree less. "Who did he get his drugs from?"
"Beats me"
I hung up just as I pulled in front of Riley's law practice. The heavy, ornate wooden door opened a minute later, and Riley appeared, tugging at his sky blue tie. He climbed in the van and slammed the door.
"This isn't a good idea," he announced.
Hello to you too, Riley. "Then why are you coming? I didn't twist your arm.
He looked over and gave me a half grin. "Because I know you, Gabby St. Claire, and I knew you'd go with or without me"
I couldn't argue as I pulled away and took off toward Ocean View. I gave him a rundown of everything that had happened as I drove. He listened and nodded and held on for dear life until we pulled up to dear old Bob Bowling's house.
Once in the driveway, I hopped out, anxious to prove my theory.
"This place is a dump," Riley muttered behind me as I unlocked the door. Nothing got past him.
Inside, everything appeared just as Bob Bowling had said. I'd seen worse before-I'd cleaned worse before. Still, judging by the garbage left inside, drug users, maybe even dealers, had taken over the place at some point.
I visualized the crawl space of the house and the location where I'd found Elvis. Then I waded through broken furniture, old magazines, and broken beer bottles until I reached the back bedroom. I stepped through the crime-scene tape and stood in the dingy room with its upturned mattress and broken mirror. The police had been in here. Fingerprint dust bruised most of the visible surfaces.
A musty smell filled the room and reminded me of the stench from the crawl space.
"What now, boss?" Riley asked.
I liked the sound of that. And I loved the way his tie looked draped around his unbuttoned collar.
Focus, Gabby. "Over there" I pointed to some wrinkled carpet. "I think the police beat me to it"
Riley helped me shove a nasty mattress against the wall, and then we tugged at the carpet. The layers felt loose, like they'd been disturbed recently. Sure enough, a gaping hole opened in the subfloor.
Riley stepped back with his hands on his hips and stared at the opening in front of us. "What do you think?"
I pointed at the space. "I think this is how the killer got Elvis under the house. It's the only way that makes sense, given the cramped quarters in the crawl space. I don't care how strong a person is-it would be near impossible to drag a man's body under there"
"So someone pulled up the floorboards, dumped his body, and then nailed the floor back down?" With each explanation, Riley motioned with his hands to emphasize his points. I wondered if he learned the technique in law school. Maybe they had a class on Advanced Talking-with-YourHands Techniques 101.
"Yep. It's what any smart killer would have done"
And I had a feeling that smart killer's name was Rodger Maloney. Now I just needed to place him at the scene.
CHAD RAPPED at my door the next morning. We were going to the next job site together. I was still considering his proposal-job proposal, that is.
The offer tempted me. Working with Chad would open up possibilities. With his background at the funeral home, he had certifications that I didn't. He could teach me a thing or two, and I could show him a few tricks.
And when we got along, we had fun.
When we didn't get along, I wanted to smear crime-scene sludge across his smug little face.
We started down the road together, heading off toward a suicide cleanup in Chesapeake, Norfolk's neighboring city and an all-around thriving bedroom community. While neighborhoods and strip malls composed most of the city, a very rural part still existed as well. That's where we headed.
As I drove, Chad turned to me and in all seriousness said, "I think I've found a solution to our dilemma"
I gripped the steering wheel, wondering what important, life-changing choice I'd forgotten about. "Dilemma?"
"As to whether or not we should become partners"
Oh, that dilemma. I braced myself for whatever his solution might be. "Okay, and what is that?" I hoped that maybe he would add some interesting insight that would make my decision easier.
He propped his feet up on my dashboard. "Here's the deal, Gabby. I think we should like, thumb wrestle for it. If I win, we become partners. If you win, we don't."
I stared at the road, feeling dumbfounded. He could not be serious. Of all the bad ideas I've heard in my life, that one ranked up among the most outrageous. "That's the dumbest idea I've ever heard"
I glanced at him for just long enough to see a sparkle in his eyes.
"You're afraid you'll lose, aren't you?" he said.
"You're crazy."
"You're afraid"
"I'm not afraid."
"Then what are you waiting for?"
I sighed. "You don't make big decisions like that based on who wins a silly little child's game" I rolled my eyes and continued to watch the road. The nerve of some people. The nerve of Chad Davis. Who did he think he was? Were we in elementary school or something?
We arrived at the little farmhouse and worked mostly in silence, me still fuming over Chad's nerve and Chad probably trying to think of some other juvenile way to convince me to be his business partner. We opened the windows, though it was cold outside, in order to let the house air out. I also placed some AirScrubs around the room where the man had shot himself. They were loud. Good. That way I couldn't hear Chad if he tried to talk to me.
"What are you thinking about?" Chad shouted.
I glared at him, amazed at the strength of his voice. "I'm thinking it's loud in here"
"It's a good thing I'm loud too, huh?"
Yeah, just great.
I worked in silence for a while longer and then my mind drifted back to one of the first times I'd met Chad: when we found the dead mold man under the house. I wondered about the man, whose name I knew was Ryan Hoffman. I wondered how his death tied in with the first murder. I shuddered again, thinking that it could have been me.
"What are you thinking about now?" Chad yelled.
Why fight the inevitable? I should just talk to the man. "I'm thinking about the two men who were murdered."
"Do the police have any leads?"
I shrugged in my Tyvek suit. "I don't know."
"Maybe the question should be, do you have any leads?" Chad stopped scrubbing for long enough to get his question out.
I didn't miss a beat in my floor-cleaning routine. Time was money, right? "I do have a few, but I'm zeroing in on one man in particular."
"Do you have any evidence to back up your theory?"
"Nope, just suspicions and possible motives" I eyed his inactive hands. "You know it is possible to work and talk at the same time"
He scowled-I could see it beneath his mask-and got back to work.
I rocked back on my heels and looked at the progress we'd made. This job would take longer than I'd thought. I licked my lips and noticed that they were dry, probably because I'd been biting on them, deep in thought.
Against my better instincts, I asked Chad, "Do you have any ChapStick?"
He grabbed his book bag, pulled a tube out, and tossed it to me. Then he pulled his mask up, and I saw those sparkling eyes again. I knew I was in for trouble.
"You know what will happen if you use that ChapStick, don't you?"
"What?" Did he have a stra
nge lip disease that wasn't detectable to the human eye?
He grinned. "It will be just like kissing me."
I tossed the ChapStick back at him, a little too hard because he flinched when it hit him. "Grow up."
"You like it"
"Whatever, Chad"
As my eyes scanned the house, my stomach let out a rumble. Dinner sounded really good right about now. So did getting away from Chad Davis.
"You mind running down the street to get us something to eat?" I seemed to remember that we passed a Burger King on the way, in between some trees, a gas station, and a rundown farmhouse.
"Why don't we both take a break? It beats you staying at this place alone"
"Nah, I'll keep working until you get back. It's best if only one of us goes. Besides, I'm used to working alone. It's what I do best." I cringed at my own words. Truth was, I hated working alone and found tremendous comfort in Chad's presence.
He shrugged. "Fine. What do you want?"
I gave him my order, and a minute later, he left. Thank goodness.
Thumb wrestling? Sharing ChapStick like kissing? Who was this man? And did I really want him as a partner? Or would I kick myself if I said yes?
I pulled my mask back on and continued scrubbing the hardwood floor. The stuff on the floor rarely affected me anymore. I'd seen too much of it.
The other students in my class still balked when they saw crime-scene photos. Not me. I was used to them. At least I could use that to my advantage. I remembered the paper due in a couple of days, the one I kept putting off. I needed to get busy. I planned on writing it on-
Something whizzed past my head.
I froze mid-scrub. My internal alarms screamed as an acidic odor filled my nostrils.
Another whiz sizzled my hairs.
Get down!
I hit the ground.
But before I did, something white hot burned into my shoulder.
PAIN OOZED from my shoulder. On the hardwood floor beneath my crouched body, my blood blended with that of the man who'd committed suicide.
It's one thing to see someone else's blood on the floor. Seeing your own is an entirely different story.
As I saw the red liquid dripping from my shoulder, panic flashed through my mind. My heart pounded to the drumbeat from an imaginary approaching army.
An army from the opposing side.
Someone was trying to kill me.
Out of fear and pain, I gasped. I grabbed my throbbing shoulder and looked for an escape. The shooter could strike again. I had to hide.
But what if he came inside and found me? What would I do then? With my injury, I'd be no match against an opponent. I had to find a weapon, a way to protect myself.
I eyed my spray-bottle cleaners, wondering if one of them could work. I had a razor on my belt and a hammer in the tool box.
I'd work with what I had.
I had to move fast. The house's open windows seemed way too inviting, and I doubted that Chad had locked up on his way out. Just call me Sitting Duck.
Chad!
Had the shooter got him on his way out? The man obviously used a silencer. I hadn't heard any gunfire, just a whiz.
Lord, please let Chad be okay.
I glanced beyond the window to the driveway. The van was gone. Chad had to be safe. Now, I had to worry about me.
I had my cell phone with me. I could call for help.
I moved my hand from the wound and saw the blood again. My head floated, and I feared passing out.
Focus, Gabby. Be strong. Block out the pain.
I reached inside my hazmat suit and grabbed the phone. My bloody fingers felt sticky against the metal. My shoulder throbbed.
I couldn't pass out.
Wouldn't.
I dialed 911.
"9-1-1. What's your emergency?"
"I've been shot. I'm located at ..
I glanced at the window. I only saw trees. Where was I located? I had to remember the address. My pathetic life depended on it.
"I'm in Chesapeake, off of South Battlefield Boulevard. On a country lane down the street from Burger King" Good job, Gabby. Real detailed. How many Burger Kings were there in the area? Uncountable.
"Can you give me something more specific?"
My shoulder throbbed. How much more blood could I lose before I went into shock?
What was the name of this street? It had reminded me of something ... what was it?
The street name had made me think of the Beatles. But before the Beatles, I thought of water bugs because the street name was. . . "Waterloo Way! I'm on Waterloo Way. I've been shot by someone outside the house. I don't know if the shooter is still there or not" My words all crashed into one another as I rushed to get them out.
"Okay, ma'am, remain calm"
Wood splintered on the far wall. "Another shot has been fired!"
My mental soundtrack reached a frantic crescendo.
"We've got someone on the way there now."
I snapped my cell phone shut. I had to find shelter. If the shooter came inside, I'd be a goner for sure, out here in the middle of the floor. I had to hide.
I put my fingers back on the hole in my shoulder. Pain jolted through my body. I had to ignore it, to push ahead. I was too young to die. There were still more songs to memorize and torture people with. I still hadn't made it into Guinness World Records and ... and I never break a promise, which meant I had to go to church with Riley still. Funny how these things always come back to me when my life is on the line.
Shelter, Gabby. Shelter.
I grabbed the hammer and some disinfectant, then jerked open a closet. I could bunker there, between a vacuum and some bulky coats. The crowded space beat being out in the open with a madman outside.
Once wedged between a fake fur and an AC filter, I flipped my phone open again and found Chad's number. My heart pounded in my ears.
I didn't know how much longer I'd be conscious. I had to work quickly.
"You change your mind?" I could hear the smile in Chad's voice. "You want to use my ChapStick after all?"
"Chad, I've been shot"
"Are you kidding, because that's, like, not even funny"
"Do I sound like I'm kidding? Someone's firing at me. They hit my shoulder, and I'm bleeding-a lot"
"I'm turning around right now, Gabby."
"Be careful. The shooter's still out there"
"Stay put, Gabby. I'm on my way."
Blackness filled my world.
WAKING UP in hospital rooms was becoming a common occurrence for me.
I was pretty sure that wasn't a good thing.
But when I came to, doctors were bending over me like I was a strange, three-eyed being who'd dropped from the skies.
"Hello, young lady."
Great, a perky doctor who looked like Dick Van Dyke. Just what I needed.
"How's my shoulder?" I tried to sit up, but a terrible pain shot through my right side.
"You're going to be fine. The bullet did quite a number on you, but it's nothing you won't recover from. We're going to keep you overnight so we can keep an eye on you, though" He looked at me with the same big, friendly eyes as Dr. Mark Sloan on Diagnosis Murder. How appropriate.
I forced a semi-friendly smile. "Of course"
Staying overnight in a hospital is one of my favorite things to do, and I had been thinking about a vacation lately. What better location than Chesapeake General? Unlike a hotel, insurance covered this visit. While enjoying the lovely accommodations, I had nurses waiting on me hand and foot, hot meals served to me three times a day, and if I was lucky, I'd even get a sponge bath. What more could I ask for?
The doctors left me with my bandaged arm and groggy head.
I'd been shot.
It still seemed surreal.
You know what that meant, right? It meant I was getting close enough to finding the right answer that someone-the killer-had to get desperate.
A detective came in. Lately, I'd been getting to kn
ow detectives from all the area cities. How fortunate. I ran through my spiel, detail by detail, starting with finding Elvis dead.
When the detective snapped his pad of paper shut and left, Chad came in the room. I felt a little sorry for him. I mean, I assumed he found me bloody and passed out in a closet. It was my worst fear: finding someone I loved near death.
Not that Chad loved me or anything. But you know what I'm trying to say?
Chad looked pretty near death himself as he stood by my bed with pale skin and twinkleless eyes. Very un-Chad.
His hands went to his waist, like he was trying to be casual. He licked his lips, and I almost made a comment about him using some of that lip balm he'd offered me earlier. But the strain in his voice when he asked, "How are you?" made me keep quiet.
"Considering my cleaning scene has now become a crime scene ... I wonder if this means the homeowner's not going to pay me."
He looked at me in silence for a moment before chuckling slowly and shaking his head. "You're crazy, you know that?"
"I've been called worse" I glanced at the phone on the table beside my hospital bed. "Speaking of being called, I need to call my friend Sierra. Maybe she'll bring some clean clothes out for me"
"You must be on medication" Chad shook his head. "You were really reaching with that wordplay."
I scowled and started to reach for the phone but stopped as pain coursed through me. I winced and grabbed for my bandaged shoulder.
"Let me get that for you." Chad walked to the other side of the bed and picked up the receiver. "Tell me the number"
I did, and he handed me the phone. A moment later, I heard whales singing in the background and a perky little, "Hello?" That's Sierra for you. I wouldn't change a thing about her.
However, I did make the mistake of starting the conversation by trying to be friendly and asking what she'd been up to.
"I'm preparing for a big save-the-lobster demonstration I'm going to do Thursday down at the oceanfront. Did you know that-"
"Actually, Sierra, I'm in the hospital" This is why I liked to cut out those polite formalities that people seemed so fond of. "I wondered if you could bring me some stuff."
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