9 More Killer Thrillers

by Russell Blake

  He swallowed. There was no way around it. Andy had called the detective and told him Rich was coming. They were expecting him.

  In books and movies, killers got a twisted, delicious thrill out of interacting with the authorities who were investigating their crimes. Not him. Bile burned his throat, and his hands shook. He exhaled, slow and long. Then he picked up the manila envelope addressed to Detective Gilbert from the seat beside him and pushed open the driver’s door.

  As he closed it, his eyes fell on the other envelope, the one addressed to that lawyer lady, and his stomach tightened.

  He’d checked her out on Google to get her office address and had skimmed the page of hits. She was a former Prescott & Talbott attorney. As if that weren’t bad enough, according to some profile piece in the newspaper, she had singlehandedly prevented a plane crash and solved the murder of a judge—all within the past year. She was the last person he wanted to see with a copy of the pictures. He imagined someone like her could screw up his plans for Martine if she stuck her nose into things. He didn’t want that to happen, especially not after the Clarissa disaster.

  He shook his head. That wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t known she was pregnant. It had all worked out, though. Just not according to his plan. The final act, Martine, had to proceed flawlessly, though.

  He leaned in, grabbed the second envelope, and then pulled the door shut.

  As Rich walked through the parking lot and neared the building, his entire body flushed; he was hot, dizzy, and lightheaded. He mumbled his name and Gilbert’s to the uniformed woman at the front desk, struggling to stay on his feet and appear normal. His heart thudded in his chest as she called ahead to Gilbert to announce him.

  She returned the phone to its base and pointed Rich to an elevator bank, rattling off directions in a rapid monotone. He couldn’t make out what she said; his ears felt like they were full of water and his pounding pulse drowned out her words.

  He squinted at the bright overhead lights and tried to remember which floor she’d told him to go to. He couldn’t think through the ringing in his ears. He leaned against the wall and slowed his breathing. He could feel the woman at the desk watching him.

  The elevator bell dinged and the doors opened. A distinguished-looking black man stepped off the car and nodded toward him. Rich recognized him from the news footage.

  “You from Andy Pulaski’s office?” Detective Gilbert asked. His voice rumbled in his chest, serious and intense.

  “Yes,” Rich managed to squeak.

  The detective walked over. He had a long, fast stride.

  Before Rich had worked out what to say next, the detective was standing beside him.

  “We appreciate Mr. Pulaski’s assistance,” Gilbert said, staring at Rich’s forehead.

  Rich felt the droplets of sweat gathering in his hairline.

  “Warm in here, huh?” he said. He gave the detective a weak smile.

  Gilbert raised a silver eyebrow. “I hadn’t noticed. Are those the pictures?” He jerked his head toward the envelopes.

  Rich looked down at his hands and immediately regretted it, as the sweat started to trickle down toward his nose. He wondered if the detective could hear the roar of his heartbeat.

  “Uh, yeah. Here.”

  Rich thrust both envelopes into the other man’s large hands.

  “Thanks.”

  Gilbert flipped to the second envelope. “Hang on, I don’t think this one is mine. Says ‘Sasha McCandless’ on it.”

  “Oh, oops,” Rich said, “that’s a copy for Mr. Costopolous’s attorney. Boy, would Andy be mad if I’d left that with you.” He held out his hand and considered adding a nervous laugh. Given how jangly his nerves were, he knew it would sound genuine, but he didn’t want to overdo it. Better to let the detective come to the idea on his own.

  “His attorney?” The eyebrow arched up again. “Mr. Costopolous has retained counsel?”

  Rich winced. “Oh boy, now I’ve done it. I don’t know the details, Detective. Ms. McCandless called Andy this evening and said she represented Mr. Costopolous.” He shrugged.

  Gilbert looked down at the envelope and then at Rich’s outstretched hand. He was quiet for a moment, then he said, “Tell you what, son. I’ll see that Ms. McCandless gets this envelope.”

  Rich bit the inside of his cheek to stop the smile he felt starting. “Well, if you’re sure ...”

  “I’m positive. Thanks again for your assistance.” Burton tucked both envelopes under his left armpit and stuck out his right hand.

  Rich wiped his own clammy hand on his pants before taking the detective’s outstretched paw. He turned to leave, forcing himself not to run toward the door on his shaky legs.

  CHAPTER 29

  Sasha and Connelly stood shoulder to shoulder in her kitchen. Even though it had been almost eight o’clock by the time she’d gotten home, Leo had insisted on teaching her how to make her favorite dish.

  All the ingredients for his slow-cooked short ribs had been lined up on the island when she’d walked through the door. She hadn’t had the heart to tell him that once he left for the weekend, she’d go back to her standard dinner of a Greek yogurt, with a square of dark chocolate and a beer for dessert. Instead, she’d dropped her briefcase by the stairs and tied on her striped apron.

  “You want to cut the vegetables uniformly, so they’ll cook evenly,” he explained, trying to guide her hand.

  She jerked the chef’s knife away. “I can cut a carrot, Connelly.”

  He looked at her pile of unevenly sized carrot chunks but said nothing. He went back to trimming the short ribs.

  Sasha sighed and put down the knife. “I’m sorry. I just ... I’m stressed out about these murder cases. And even though I didn’t know Ellen or Clarissa that well, I worked with them, you know? It’s just all I can think about. But I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

  Leo put down his knife, too, and searched her face. “Maybe you’re also stressed out because your boyfriend is probably going to take a job out of state and has invited you to move there with him, but you haven’t answered? Do you think that might be part of it, too, Sasha?”

  She stared down at her pathetic carrots.

  “Maybe.”

  He tilted her chin up. “Come with me.”

  “Connelly—” she started, but he stopped her.

  “Wait. Let me do this right.”

  He reached into his pocket. At the same time, her cell phone rang.

  She grabbed it from the island and checked the display. She didn’t recognize the number.

  “Don’t take it,” Connelly said.

  Sasha had already reflexively picked up the call.

  As she said her name, she glanced over and saw a small black box in Connelly’s palm. Her mind began to spin.

  “Ms. McCandless,” said the voice on the other end, “this is Detective Burton Gilbert with the Pittsburgh Police Homicide Squad.”

  Sasha processed that fact while trying to determine if the box in Connelly’s hand was what she thought it was.

  The detective continued, “I apologize for calling so late, but it’s come to my attention that you represent Nicholas Costopolous.”

  He paused. Sasha knew he was waiting for her to confirm that information. Was that a ring box in Connelly’s hand?

  “Ms. McCandless?”

  “Sorry. Yes, I represent Mr. Costopolous.”

  The detective’s voice grew serious. “Does he know the police have been trying to contact him?”

  “I can’t discuss anything he and I have talked about, Detective, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

  Connelly placed the box on the counter and pantomimed hanging up. Sasha turned away from him and listened to Gilbert’s measured words.

  “As I understand it, Counselor, you’re not an experienced criminal defense attorney, so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt here. Your client was a person of interest, but now, thanks at least in part to his own behavior, he�
��s the prime suspect in the murder of his wife. The district attorney tells me we have sufficient evidence to arrest him. So, it’s your choice: he can turn himself in at headquarters within the next hour or we’ll get a warrant and issue an all-points bulletin on him. If you choose option B, I’ll also be seeking a warrant to charge you as an accomplice after the fact,” the detective said in a deep, serious voice.

  Her stomach dropped, but she told herself he was bluffing. She hoped. She cleared her mind and tried to think like Larry, like a criminal defense attorney: pragmatic, realistic. It was hard to think at all with that little velvet box staring at her and Connelly playing charades.

  “Give us ninety minutes. And I’m coming in with him,” she said.

  She hung up before he could respond.

  Connelly stared at her, then he said, “Tell me you’re not going out.”

  She untied the apron and folded it into a neat square.

  “I’m sorry, Connelly. Nick Costopolous has to turn himself in. I’m his lawyer.”

  “Can’t it wait until morning?”

  “No, it really can’t.” She decided not to mention the detective’s threat to charge her if she didn’t produce Nick. It would only serve to get Connelly in a lather.

  She headed up the stairs to the bathroom to wash her face and put on some fresh lipstick. Connelly followed.

  He stood in the doorway to the bathroom and watched her. After she’d made the necessary repairs and checked her reflection, he opened the ring box.

  “This isn’t how I wanted to do this, Sasha. But I guess I don’t have a choice. You know I love you. I want you to come to D.C. with me.”

  He took out a ring and pinched it between two fingers. The center stone shone brilliant red.

  “Is that an engagement ring?” she asked.

  “It is if you want it to be.”

  Sasha waited a beat before she answered.

  “Connelly, I can’t think about this now. I have a client accused of murdering his wife. Please tell me you understand.” She searched his eyes.

  Connelly nodded. “Sure. No problem.” His face was blank.

  “Connelly, please.” She reached out and took the ring, turning it between her fingers. “It’s stunning.”

  “Try it on,” he urged.

  “Let’s wait until we can talk, okay? We need to figure out what we’re doing first, don’t you think?” She handed the ring back to him, and he returned it to the box.

  He nodded again. “You’re right.” He snapped the box shut.

  “You know I love you, too, right?” she said.

  “I know.”

  She stretched on to her tiptoes and kissed him. He accepted the kiss, but Sasha could tell by the rigid way he stood that she’d hurt him. She felt a pang of guilt, but she couldn’t ignore her obligation to Nick.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she promised.

  They walked hand-in-hand down the stairs to the foyer. At the bottom of the stairs, he peeled off and headed for the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, as she wound a fringed scarf around her neck.

  Connelly looked up from the cutting board. “I’m going to finish making these short ribs. All you’ll have to do this weekend is reheat them. That way I won’t have to worry that you’re eating peanut butter straight from the jar.”

  “Once. I did that one time.”

  She’d returned from a double sparring session and a six-mile run and had felt woozy and faint. A quick hit of protein had perked her up, but, of course, she’d timed it to coincide with Connelly’s unannounced arrival.

  Even on her way out the door to tell Nick that he was likely going to spend the night in jail, and even with the ring and Connelly’s new job buzzing around in her brain, she laughed at the memory of the look of pure horror on Connelly’s face when he’d caught her with a jar of peanut butter in one hand and a spoon in her mouth.

  CHAPTER 30

  As she rushed to her car, Sasha tried Greg’s cell phone first. Five rings. No answer. Then, she tried Nick’s, even though she’d insisted that he keep it turned off. She was relieved when her call went straight to voicemail. She left no message.

  On the short drive to Greg’s house, she tried to reach Larry but wasn’t surprised when no one answered there, either. Larry and Bertie were up before the sun rose, but they retired not long after it set. It was well past their bedtime.

  She pulled up in front of the house and was pleased to see lights on in the living room but no sign of Nick’s truck. He must’ve had the sense to put it in the garage. She parked in the dead center of the driveway, effectively blocking the road, just in case her client got any ideas about fleeing.

  Sasha killed the engine and scrolled through her phone’s address book. She cleared her mind of everything not related to Nick Costopolous. She’d deal with her exploding personal life later. Right now, she needed to talk to someone who could explain the process of surrendering to the police. And fast.

  Will picked up on the first ring.

  “Hello, Sasha.”

  “Hi, Will. I’m sorry to bother you so late,” she said, even though she wasn’t sorry at all and they both knew it. Taking a business call at home late at night might not be fun, but it was part of being an attorney.

  “It’s no bother at all,” Will lied. “What can I do for you?”

  Sasha skipped the niceties. “I’m representing Nick Costopolous.”

  “Clarissa’s husband?”

  “Right.”

  “For what?” Will asked.

  “He’s about to be charged with her murder, Will.” Sasha tried hard to keep her impatience out of her voice.

  “I see.”

  “Will the firm post his bond?”

  “Oh. I don’t know ... I mean, I presume so. I’ll have to check with Cinco, though.”

  Sasha exhaled loud enough for him to hear. “Is Cinco the head of the criminal defense practice or are you?”

  “Now, you know that’s not how it works.”

  She did know. And she felt momentarily chastised for trying to goad him.

  “Can you find out, please? I have—” she paused to check the time, “—about an hour to show up at police headquarters with Nick. It’d be nice to know before we walk in.”

  “He’s turning himself in?” Will’s view of the wisdom of this decision was evident.

  “He doesn’t really have a choice. He pulled a disappearing act. They’ve been looking for him all day and someone told them I was his attorney.”

  “It wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re insinuating, as I had no earthly idea that you were representing him. And, as a friend, Sasha, I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I don’t mean to denigrate your ability in any way, but you’ve never handled a criminal matter before, and now you’ve taken on two high-profile murder defenses?”

  “I not only appreciate your concern, Will, I share it; that’s why I’ve asked Larry Steinfeld to assist me.”

  The relief in Will’s voice was palpable. “That’s an excellent idea. Larry’s a seasoned veteran and a very sharp man. Please give him my regards.”

  “I will. Will you call me on this number after you talk to Cinco?”

  “Of course.”

  “Please point out to him that this second gruesome murder actually supports his theory that someone is out to get Prescott.”

  The brief silence that followed made clear that Will understood Cinco’s strengths as a manager were balanced by some fairly significant shortcomings as a legal strategist. After a moment, he said, “Certainly.”

  “Thanks.”

  She depressed the button to end the call and stepped out of the car. The night air was cool, and gauzy clouds hung across the moon. She tossed the phone in her bag and hurried up the walkway to the porch.

  She pressed the doorbell and heard the long chimes echo through the house. She waited but didn’t hear footsteps approaching the door. She jabbed the bell again. Waited again. Still not
hing.

  She rapped hard on the door. Another moment passed.

  She had her fist raised to pound again, when she heard shuffling and murmuring on the other side.

  Greg’s pale face filled the glass in the top of the door. Sasha waved and smiled up at him. He didn’t smile back, but the deadbolt slid out of place, and the door swung inward.

  He stopped the door mid-swing. He didn’t invite her in, but stood in the doorway with his left arm braced against the doorframe, and a foot jammed against the door. In his right hand, he held one of his dirty tumblers, mostly full of what looked to be scotch. Over his shoulder, Sasha could see Nick leaning against the wall, his fingers wrapped loosely around the stem of a martini glass; he swayed, and the liquid inside sloshed from side to side as if he were on a boat.

  “Sasha,” Greg said, over-enunciating in his effort not to slur. “What are you doing here?”

  Great. They were drunk.

  Her first instinct was to push her way in and chew them out for getting plastered. But that course of action, as satisfying as it would be, was unlikely to result in her showing up at the police station in less than an hour with a reasonably cooperative Nick in tow. Instead, she pasted a concerned look on her face.

  “I just wanted to check on you guys,” she said, ducking under Greg’s arm and slipping into the house before he could object.

  He pushed the door closed behind her and rested his forehead against the heavy wood. Sasha walked over to Nick and swept the martini glass out of his hand.

  “Hey!” he protested, swinging his arms after her.

  She continued straight to the back of the house and surveyed the open kitchen. She poured the drink down the drain and set the glass in the sink.

  Greg and Nick trailed in, grumbling in loud boozy whispers. She ignored them and turned her attention to a single-serve Keurig coffee maker beside the sink. She selected two packets of the strongest option from the cloth-lined basket of various coffees that sat on the counter and popped one into the machine. As the liquid started to stream into a pastel blue mug, she dug through the silverware drawer and found a spoon.