A Genuine Fix

by J. C. Kenney

  For the first time in ages, I reached across the table and gave my sister’s hand a comforting squeeze. We locked gazes for a few seconds, then she squeezed back. A ghost of a smile appeared as she did so. And then, like a cool breeze on a summer night, it was gone.

  No words were spoken, but it didn’t matter. It was another quiet breakthrough. We’d had a handful of them over the last year, and each one sent a charge through me. The massive wall we’d built between us growing up was tumbling to the ground, brick by brick, with each of these quiet moments.

  It gave me hope. Hope that if my sister and I could make things right between us, then anything was possible.

  “Sounds to me,” Luke said through a mouthful of nachos, “like things are good. Let me know when you get the kids’ game schedule. I don’t know diddly about soccer, but I’d love to watch ’em play.”

  “Same here.” I knew a little about soccer from my days at Indiana University. One of my roommates dated a guy on the men’s soccer team. The team was a national power, so it was fun going to the matches. Watching my niece and nephew would be way different, but I had no doubt seeing them run up and down the pitch would be a lot of fun.

  “Thanks, guys.” Her eyes misted over. “I’ll do that. We could have our own little Cobb family cheer block.”

  As she dipped a tortilla chip into some sour cream, she asked for a report on my chat with Jeanette and Tommy. I told them what I’d learned, while admitting I wasn’t proud of the way I’d learned it.

  “Yeah, but if Tommy’s the killer, you got some really valuable information.” Luke wiped a salsa-laden finger on his napkin.

  “And if he isn’t the killer, then you tricked a man into talking about a painful part of his past. Hope that doesn’t come back to bite you.”

  My sis was right. I’d never been one who believed the ends justified the means. I couldn’t start behaving that way now. I pledged to avoid using underhanded investigation tactics in the future and shifted the conversation by telling them my next step was to visit Lori.

  “She’s a nice girl.” Rachel’s phone buzzed. “I need to go. Don’t be a jerk to her, okay?” With her purse in one hand and her phone in the other, she made for the door, stopping only long enough to have a word with one of the staff.

  Luke popped a slice of jalapeño pepper into his mouth. “She doesn’t know about the insurance policy, does she?”

  I shook my head. “Haven’t had the chance to tell her.”

  “Yes.” He slapped the tabletop. “For once I know something Rachel doesn’t.”

  “Really?” I gave him the side eye. “I’m trying to catch a murderer, and you’re happy with knowing something our sister doesn’t? You’re horrible.” I threw a wadded-up napkin at him.

  “I know my place in the world. For example, you concentrate on finding Georgie’s killer, and I’ll concentrate on getting your park finished on time.” He pulled the plate of nachos from the center of the table to right in front of him. “Mind if I finish these?”

  * * * *

  My bike ride home from the pub wasn’t long, only five blocks, but as I cranked the pedals, I felt like I was taking a victory lap at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. I’d made progress on the case, helped Shirley win her dispute with Ozzy, and had another breakthrough moment with Rachel. All in all, it amounted to what Dad had called a red-letter day.

  With my bike over my shoulder, I scaled the flight of steps to my apartment with less discomfort than I expected. Maybe it was the endorphin release from the ride, but as I unlocked the door and rolled the bike to its designated parking spot, I promised Ursi we’d go for a walk after dinner.

  Normally, when I arrived home, my kitty wound her way through my legs and then trotted straight to her food bowl. This time, she did neither. Instead, her attention was focused on a card on the floor. She’d pushed it partway under a floor mat and was struggling to get it back out.

  I left her to her fun while I went to the bathroom to unload my goodies from Shirley and to wash my face and hands. Once word had gotten out that a literary agent was living in town, I’d started finding random items slipped through my mail slot two or three times a week. I’d received everything from business cards to ten-page writing samples.

  One time, a misguided soul managed to slip a three-hundred-page manuscript page by page through the gap between the floor and the door. It took me ten minutes to track down all the pages, which Ursi had playfully distributed throughout the entire apartment during the time between the delivery and my arrival home. That was a less than ideal afternoon.

  Evidently, some folks thought bypassing e-mail or regular mail would be a way to get my attention. They were right, but that attention consisted of annoyance more than anything. Ursi’s piece of mail could wait.

  By the time I got back to her, she was on her side with her front legs halfway under the mat.

  “What have you got this time, girl?” When I pushed the mat aside with my foot, she pounced on the piece of paper.

  Upon closer inspection, Ursi’s plaything wasn’t paper. It was a credit-card-shaped piece of plastic. I picked it up and ran my thumb across the blank surface. Curious at who would lay out the extra cash for a plastic business card, I turned it over.

  It took a few seconds to make sense of the printing and photograph. It wasn’t a business card. It was an ID card.

  “Holy samolie!” In shock, I let the card fall from my hands.

  It was Georgie Alonso’s Rushing Creek work ID.

  Chapter Eleven

  My hands were trembling as though I was caught in an earthquake. My eyes were cloudy from the panicky tears I was trying to blink away, with little success. My heart was racing as if I was sprinting down a dark alley with a mugger mere inches behind me.

  How did a dead man’s ID end up in my apartment? With the question repeating itself over and over, like a record with a scratch in it, I called Matt.

  “I’ll be there in five minutes. Don’t touch anything.” He cut the connection before I could ask him what his second sentence meant.

  To keep from hyperventilating, I closed my eyes and counted backward from one hundred in Spanish. The concentration needed to execute the task pushed other concerns out of my mind, so by the time Matt arrived, my heart rate had slowed from an all-out gallop to a trot.

  It jetted right back to a gallop when Tommy followed Matt into the apartment.

  The police chief guided me to the couch, while the officer unsnapped his gun holster. Once Matt had me seated, Tommy searched the apartment.

  “Nobody else is here except Ursi.” My voice was uneven, but at least my hands had stopped shaking.

  “Standard police procedure. We want to make sure you’re safe.” He sat next to me and took out his notebook. “Tell me what happened. Start from when you arrived back here.”

  I took a deep breath and recounted all I could remember. Since there wasn’t much to the story, it didn’t take long, and I finished at the same time Tommy joined us from his search.

  “Nothing, Chief. No signs of forced entry, either.” He slipped on a pair of exam gloves and deposited the ID card in a clear-plastic evidence bag.

  “Check across the hall and then downstairs. I want to know if anybody saw or heard anything unusual.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take custody of that while you talk to people. I have a few questions for Ms. Cobb.”

  When we were alone, Matt cleared his throat. “Not gonna lie. This doesn’t help you.”

  “Oh my God. Seriously?” I pounded my knees with my fists. “Earlier this afternoon you said I was in the clear, and now because of this stupid ID card you think I killed Georgie?”

  “No, I don’t. Please try to calm down so we—”

  “Calm down?” I let out a high-pitched laugh that was filled with alarm. “When has anyone ever, in the history of the civilized world, cal
med down when asked to calm down? It’s obvious someone’s trying to set me up.”

  “I understand you’re upset.” He scratched his chin. “Let’s think this through. Obviously, if you were the murderer, and I’m not saying you are, and you had Georgie’s ID, you wouldn’t tell anybody you had it. Especially the police.”

  With his words offering me reassurance, I unclenched my fists. “Do you want to search my apartment to make sure I don’t have anything else of his?”

  “No need, but thanks for the offer. We did an inventory of Georgie’s personal effects. His wallet, his driver’s license, all of those things were accounted for.” He scribbled down a note. “I’m going to ask around to find out where Georgie kept this. It’s possible someone found it and they’re playing a horrible practical joke on you.”

  “Or the killer took this from Georgie the night of the murder with the idea of planting it on whoever found the body.”

  “And since you found the body, you were put under suspicion. Let’s say when an arrest wasn’t made, the killer used this,” he tapped the evidence bag with his pencil, “to draw attention back to you. That doesn’t make sense, though. The only way for the ID’s whereabouts to become known would be for you to tell someone.”

  “Unless I was expected to try to hide it. Then someone could make an anonymous tip.” I swallowed. The picture forming in my mind wasn’t a pretty one. “That would have looked bad.”

  “Really bad.” Matt put his hand on my shoulder. “No offense.”

  “None taken. I know what you mean.” Boy, did I ever.

  To give myself time to think, I went to the kitchen to get us each a glass of water. While the second glass was filling, something important fell into place.

  “Trying to set me up was a bad move. Anybody who knows me knows I wouldn’t hide the ID. I’d call you.”

  Matt took a long drink of the water I gave him. “Good point. That tells us the perp doesn’t know you, or at least doesn’t know you well.”

  “That’s a lot of people in this town.” Including my main suspects. I took a sip of my drink. The cold water tasted as good as Matt’s affirmation of my conclusion felt. It was reassuring to know he was, beyond a doubt, on my side.

  “What do we do next, Chief?”

  “I check in with Tommy to see how his interviews are going. The way this town’s rumor mill turns, word is probably already out that you called this in, so I’m not expecting any anonymous tips.” He headed for the door.

  “What can I do?” I was in such a jumbled-up state, I needed to do something, anything, to contribute to the case. To let Matt know how much his belief in me meant.

  “Keep the lines of communication with me open. If this was part of the murderer’s plan, it backfired. It’s a mistake. My gut tells me he’ll make more.”

  Ursi was winding her way around my legs again, so I picked her up and scratched her back. I used the time to debate whether to bring up my suspicions about Tommy. When she licked my hand, I took it as a sign to go for it.

  “So, about Tommy.” Suddenly, I was tongue-tied.

  “What about him? Do you need to talk to him before we go?” He reached for his radio.

  “No. I was wondering if you guys were doing okay working this case together. You know, with this being such a high-pressure deal and the history you guys have.”

  God, talk about being a two-time loser. First, I was totally chickening out asking about Tommy. Then I was doing a horrible job of covering up for my lie. Sometimes, I could be so pathetic.

  Matt clenched his jaw and stared out the window as he took his sweet time opening a piece of gum. I held my breath as he chewed. “I suppose you were going to bring the subject up at some point. Tommy and I are fine. He’s a good cop. I trust him with my life. Any rumors you’ve heard about problems between him and me are flat-out wrong. Got it?”

  “Got it.” The forcefulness of his defense of Tommy pushed me back a step. I hope you’re right, Matt. “You know how vicious rumors can be.” I forced a laugh.

  “The same could be said for you.” He shook the bag containing Georgie’s ID. “Hang tough.”

  * * * *

  I like to think I’m good at a lot of things, but if there’s one thing I know beyond the shadow of a doubt I’m good at, it’s hanging tough. As I got out of bed the next morning, I picked up Ursi and gave her a little squeeze. Then I kissed her on her little orange-and-black nose.

  “We’ll get through this, girl. You and me. And then we’re going to finish building Dad and Thornwell’s park and have a grand opening celebration like this town’s never seen.”

  She looked at me. Her big, golden eyes seemed to see deep into my soul. Like she was assessing me to make sure I was telling the truth. Then she put a paw on my cheek and licked my chin.

  In my effort to not laugh at my kitty’s surprising display of affection, I loosened my grip on her, and she leapt from my arms, landed on the bed, and vaulted to the floor with the grace of an Olympic gymnast. As I wiped my chin, the last I saw of her was her tail, held majestically high in the air, as she turned the corner and sauntered to the kitchen for her morning meal.

  While I ate breakfast, I checked work e-mails. I was halfway through my bowl of oatmeal with raisins and walnuts when an e-mail from an editor stopped me mid-chew. It was an offer of publication for the first author I’d signed after moving to Rushing Creek. The novel was a mystery, set in England during World War I. I’d had high hopes for the story and took the offer as another sign the tide was turning in my favor.

  I called my client, crossing my fingers she’d pick up. The excitement rendered me speechless for a second when she answered. I gave her the good news, along with some details about the offer, the publishing house, and the editor who’d made the offer.

  After answering a few questions, I recommended she take a few days to think things over. In the interim, I’d inform the other editors who were considering the manuscript that we had an offer. If any of them wanted to make an offer, I needed to know within two days.

  She agreed to my suggestion, so after a few minutes, I ended the call with a light heart. My next task was to revise the spreadsheet I kept on each manuscript when it was out on query. I updated the spreadsheet, then sent e-mails to the editors who hadn’t yet responded to let them know we had an offer and what our response deadline was.

  Still in the full glow of the exhilaration an offer always brought, I gave Ursi an extra kitty treat and headed out the door. My first stop was downstairs to chat with Renee Gomez. I figured while we visited, I could be on the lookout for any new books I couldn’t live without.

  Stepping into Renee’s Gently Used Books was like crossing the threshold into another universe. Music from some obscure artist was always on the sound system. Most of the time, Renee played something on her turntable, as she was a vinyl aficionado. Other times, she played a rarity from the store’s massive used compact disc collection. The only time she resorted to the radio was when she could get the blues show broadcast by the public radio station out of Bloomington. Today, I recognized the musician. It was Chuck Mangione, the jazz performer who had had a top-ten pop hit back in the seventies.

  Renee greeted me by lifting a stoneware coffee mug inscribed with the letter R and saluting.

  “What’s the word, boss?” Boss was my affectionate nickname for Renee. I gave it to her when she handed me the list of things I’d have to do before she’d lease the apartment to me. It was also a nod to the fact that she lived in the apartment across from me and, to a certain degree, kept tabs on me.

  “Today’s word is interrogation.” She poured coffee into a ceramic mug with a purple capital A on it.

  I accepted it with a thank-you when she joined me by the front window.

  With her shoulder-length, jet-black hair, deep brown eyes, and six-foot height, Renee was striking. When you added th
e fact that she was dressed from head to toe in black, the image was borderline intimidating. It was a false image of the woman, though. She smiled easily, had a fabulously dry sense of humor, and loved to chat, especially about books.

  “How’d your conversation with Officer Abbott go?” There was no point in beating around the bush. Besides, I wanted to save my delicate approach for the next person I was visiting.

  “He was fine, even if he got a little abrasive at times. It’s the reason for his visit that has me concerned.” She took a sip of her coffee, her lime-green fingernails a stark contrast to her dark outfit. “I hate the thought of someone creeping around my building. It makes me so angry.”

  “Did you see anyone who seemed out of place yesterday?”

  “No. We had two tour bus groups come through. It was wall-to-wall customers most of the day.” She wandered toward the cash register, stationed near the entrance. “I was either ringing sales or answering questions.”

  I pointed to a small camera hanging above her. “What about that?”

  “The footage is saved to an SD memory card. I gave it to Officer Abbott. He’s not going to find anything helpful, I’m afraid. Whoever left that ID card probably walked in, dashed upstairs, and was back out the door in no time.”

  I took a long drink of the dark and aromatic coffee to give me time to mull over the situation. While I did so, Renee kept tapping on the counter with her index finger. Her nervous activity was worrying since, as the old saying went, she was the type of person who was normally as cool as the other side of the pillow.

  Then it hit me.

  “Your apartment wasn’t messed with, was it?” Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me somebody else might have been victimized.

  “Not that I know of. Officer Abbott looked around and told me to let him know if I noticed anything out of place. Thankfully, I didn’t have to call him.” She let out a long, ragged breath.