9 More Killer Thrillers

by Russell Blake

  “Nick Costopolous?” she asked, holding out hope that it was some other Nick.

  “Yes. His social club has a weekly poker game, a big money game. The buy-in’s five grand.”

  “Where’d you get five thousand dollars, Greg?”

  He was silent.

  “Greg?”

  “I borrowed it from the safe in Ellen’s home office,” he finally mumbled.

  “You stole it, you mean,” Sasha said.

  “Well, she didn’t move the key. She knew I could access it ...” he started, but trailed off in the face of Sasha’s glare. “Fine, I took it without permission. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I’d lost my job, I’d lost my wife. I didn’t know how much longer Ellen was going to agree to let me stay at the house. And, Nick said it was a soft game. I figured I could make enough to get a place of my own. I planned to return Ellen’s money to the safe. She would never have to know.”

  What a blazingly stupid plan, Sasha thought.

  What she said was, “But you lost, didn’t you?”

  He nodded, a miserable, slow nod. “I did. And then I realized what a terrible thing I’d done and that Ellen was right, I do have a gambling problem.”

  He swallowed, a big lump visible in his throat, and sped up, with the words spilling out fast and jumbled.

  “I knocked on her door when I got home to tell her she was right and that I was going to go back to Gamblers Anonymous. And to tell her about the money. I planned to come clean to her and beg her for another chance. Instead, I ... found her.”

  Sasha really hoped he wouldn’t cry. She didn’t think she had it in her to comfort him.

  “Why would you keep this a secret, Greg? It gives you an alibi.”

  “Two reasons. First, how would it look? I stole five grand from my estranged wife the same night she was murdered in our home? Come on, they’d just say we’d argued over the money when I got home and I’d killed her then.”

  She had to agree that was a distinct possibility. “Okay. What’s the second reason?”

  “I didn’t want to involve Nick. Ellen and Clarissa were close friends. I knew if Clarissa heard about Nick taking me to a poker game it would cause huge problems for Nick.”

  “Do you think she did hear?”

  Greg’s alibi could be problematic for Nick if it gave him a motive to kill his wife. The Greg and Nick Show was growing tiresome.

  Greg shook his head. “No. None of her relatives were at the game.”

  “This is great, though,” Sasha said, suddenly energized. “We don’t need Nick. The other players can alibi you.”

  Greg made a face.

  “What?”

  “Maybe. I mean, I didn’t use my real name. Nick introduced me as Paul; he said I was an electrician he sometimes worked with. I was wearing a hat and sunglasses. It was dark in there. Yeah, maybe,” he shrugged.

  “You wore a disguise?”

  “No, no, that’s just my card-playing persona. You know, so no one can see my eyes.”

  “Why the alias?”

  “That was Nick’s idea. He doesn’t play in that game; he says it’s too rich for his blood, so he’s not real tight with that group. But he wanted to make sure it didn’t get back to Clarissa’s father or any of her brothers that he’d brought me. I know it sounds stupid now. I know.”

  “Actually, Greg, it sounds unbelievable. As in, not credible,” she said.

  “It’s the truth,” he insisted.

  “That doesn’t really matter; it sounds like a lie.”

  He clenched his jaw and was about to respond when Dickinson raised his arm and waved.

  “Ms. McCandless,” he called, “I’m about to open Mr. Costopolous’s toolbox. I’d like you to witness this, ma’am.”

  “Why’s he want you to watch?” Greg asked, as he followed Sasha down the stairs and across the flagstone path to the driveway.

  “Apparently, Officer Dickinson is smarter than he seems. He wants to head off any claim that he tampered with the contents by having me watch him open it.”

  They circled around to the pickup’s truck bed, and Dickinson lowered the gate and hopped down. He reached forward into the truck and pulled a long, steel box toward the edge of the gate; then he hefted it and lowered it to the ground slowly.

  “Heavy,” he breathed.

  He and Sasha crouched in the driveway, one on each side of the double-latched toolbox. Greg stood back.

  Sasha could make out the contours of the box in the light cast by the recessed porch lights and the two lanterns mounted on the sides of the garage bays, but Dickinson switched on his heavy flashlight and aimed the beam onto the box.

  “Wanna do the honors?” he asked.

  She flipped open the latches and pulled back the lid. The top tray was divided into several small compartments that held nails, screws, bolts, screwdrivers, and a pair of wire cutters.

  Dickinson reached over and removed the top tray. He shined the light down into the bottom of the box to reveal a level, a carpenter’s square, and some stubby pencils. No hammer. Just an empty hammer-sized slot.

  He looked up at her. Even in the shadows, his triumph was plain.

  Sasha’s stomach turned and she inhaled sharply.

  Beside her, Greg whispered, “What’s wrong?”

  Sasha shook her head, but it was Dickinson who answered.

  “It appears your pal, the master carpenter, doesn’t have a hammer,” he said, grinning up at them.

  Sasha forced herself not to respond. Greg reared his head back, stunned.

  Dickinson replaced the tray, and was closing the lid when Sasha put a hand on his forearm to stop him.

  “What’s that?” she said, leaning in to get a closer look at a square taped to the inside of the lid.

  Dickinson bathed it in light.

  It was a photograph of Clarissa, taken on her wedding day, judging by the veil that brushed her bare shoulders and the joy that filled her smile.

  CHAPTER 36

  Caroline rolled onto her left side and stared at the luminescent numbers on the alarm clock: 4:20. She sighed and flopped back to her right.

  She closed her eyes again. It was no use. She glanced over at Ken. He breathed evenly and deeply—fully asleep. Careful not to disturb him, she eased herself from the bed and slipped her feet into the slippers lined up waiting for her. She picked up her soft cotton robe from the chair. Cinching it tight against the night chill, she tiptoed out of the bedroom and down the stairs, careful to avoid the squeaky board on the fourth step from the top.

  She walked through dark rooms, confident in every step, with no need to turn on a light. When she reached the mudroom, she opened a drawer beside the utility sink and felt around until she located the slim orange flashlight. She flicked the switch forward with her thumb to test the light. Its beam was weak but adequate for the task.

  She plucked her car keys from the pegboard hanging by the door and stepped out into the night, picking her way across the wet grass. The shortest path to the car was to cut across the lawn.

  The flashlight illuminated about a foot of ground ahead. She kept her head down, looking for rocks or divots. The last thing she needed was to twist an ankle and have to explain to Ken why she was skulking around the backyard in her bathrobe in the middle of the night.

  She hurried to the car and fumbled with the valet key, unwilling to press the electronic opener for fear that the beep would echo through the still night.

  She reached into the passenger side and groped around under the seat to retrieve the files. After she’d locked the car door and closed it silently, she raced back to the house, suddenly feeling menaced by the darkness and the quiet.

  Caroline pulled the door shut behind and engaged the lock. She hugged the files close to her chest and leaned against the door, the glass in its window cold against her back, and caught her breath.

  Once her pulse slowed, she lowered the files and walked into the family room, where Ken had left a log in the fireplace, rea
dy to burn if she’d joined him on the couch after dinner. But she hadn’t, so the fire had gone unlit.

  She picked up the box of long wooden matches from the hearth and waited until her hands were steady to strike the match. She sat and watched the fire spark to life, waiting for it to grow, with the pile of documents resting in her lap.

  CHAPTER 37

  Sasha crept into her condo and eased the door shut with a soft click. She stepped out of her four-inch heels and padded up the stairs to the bedroom soundlessly.

  Although part of her wished Connelly would hear her and wake up, she realized four-thirty in the morning was the very definition of an uncivilized hour, so she endeavored to make no noise.

  She tiptoed through her darkened bedroom and into the bathroom. After closing the door, she patted the wall until she felt the light switch and turned it on. Harsh light flooded the bathroom, and she blinked.

  She’d nearly finished brushing her teeth before her exhausted brain processed the fact that her toothbrush had been the only one in the toothbrush holder. She pivoted to check the shower: Connelly’s shampoo and body wash were gone, too. At that point, she knew, but she rolled open the top vanity drawer, anyway: no razor, no shaving cream. She let the drawer slam shut with a bang.

  In the bedroom, her pulse twitching in her throat, she flicked the wall switch and bathed the empty room in light. No Connelly; no note; no sign that he’d spent the better part of a year sharing her bed.

  She raced down the stairs and tore through the kitchen, banging open drawers and cabinets. His rice cooker, slow cooker, and mandolin were all gone. The ramekins he used when he made mini-soufflés for her birthday dinner—also gone.

  She grabbed her phone from her bag and punched the speed dial. Connelly answered on the second ring, no sleep in his voice.

  “Hello, Sasha.”

  “Hello yourself. Where are you?”

  “When it became apparent you weren’t coming home, I decided to sleep at my place.”

  His place. His place was here, in her bed, not in an antiseptic, long-term corporate rental apartment in a business park near the airport.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

  “What am I doing? I’m not the one who ran out on our last dinner. I’m not the one who’s too emotionally stunted to discuss our relationship.”

  His words stung, but his tone was even.

  “Emotionally stunted?” she repeated.

  He sighed. “I don’t want to get into this with you. Not like this. Not now. I need to be on a plane in less than three hours.”

  “You can’t make an accusation like that and then shut down the conversation, Connelly. And, you aren’t being fair. You’re acting like I chose not to spend tonight with you.”

  “You did.”

  “We’ve been over this: I have responsibilities to my clients,” Sasha bit off each word, trying to quell her frustration.

  “Yes, you do. And to me. And to your family. But for some reason, your personal relationships are always expected to give in favor of your work. Why do you think that is?”

  “Because the law is a jealous mistress. It’s a saying for a reason, Connelly. It’s part of the deal—”

  He cut her off. “No, it’s a convenient excuse. You hide behind your work to keep people at a distance. You keep me at a distance.”

  The adrenaline that had flooded her when she’d realized he’d left drained away, and her exhaustion returned.

  “So, are you saying this is it? Eight hours ago you were asking me to uproot my life for you and now it’s over?”

  She walked over to the window and pressed her forehead against the glass, looking down at the street below, while she waited for his answer.

  “No. What I’m saying is, I’m moving. You’re welcome to join me, but I’m not going to ask you again. When you’re ready to talk about it, you know how to find me.”

  “So, an ultimatum, then?”

  “No, Sasha, a decision. I’ve made mine; you need to make yours,” he said in a gentle voice.

  She just wanted to go to sleep.

  “Can we table this discussion until next week, when you’re back in town?”

  “I’m not coming back.”

  “Of course you are. You can’t just quit the Department of Homeland Security without giving notice. Now you’re just overreacting.”

  “Listen, I wasn’t going to tell you this—and I don’t want you to jump to any conclusions—but my early retirement wasn’t entirely by choice. I’ve been tagged as someone who is not a team player,” he said in a raw, hurt voice.

  “That’s insane! Of course you’re a team player! You’re a top-notch investigator. You were instrumental in preventing Vivian and Irwin from crashing a second plane. And if you hadn’t helped me in Clear Brook County ...” she trailed off, her stomach sinking. “They’ve asked you to leave because of me, haven’t they? It’s because you helped me.”

  “This is why I didn’t want to tell you. It’s not that simple, but, suffice it to say, my judgment has been called into question.” He coughed out a bitter laugh. “And, considering your reaction to my gift tonight, I’d say my judgment is pretty questionable.”

  The ring. It had completely slipped her mind amidst all the criminal drama that had occupied her night.

  She struggled for the right words and finally gave up, saying simply, “I’m sorry.”

  “I know.”

  “I love you.”

  “I know that, too. And I love you, Sasha, but I’m tired. I need to catch a nap.”

  “Okay. Well, goodbye then.”

  “Goodbye. And Sasha?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I left you some simple recipes. They’re within your ability. Please feed yourself.”

  She smiled despite herself.

  “Goodnight, Connelly. Safe travels.”

  She depressed the button, ending the call, and stared at the phone in her hand for a long moment. Then, she stumbled around her kitchen on autopilot, setting up coffee, charging her Blackberry, making preparations for a morning that was going to come all too soon.

  She made her way back to the bedroom and collapsed face-down on top of her bedspread, still fully clothed. She was asleep within a minute.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Not quite two and a half hours later, she started awake, her heart hammering in her chest, convinced she’d overslept. She sprang up, pushed the hair out of her face, and blinked at the clock on her bedside table.

  It wasn’t yet seven o’clock.

  She sighed in relief and stretched. Her arms and legs were sore, tight with tension and tiredness. Her head was thick, clouded with fatigue and sadness.

  Coffee. A hot shower. More coffee.

  She’d feel better, and maybe the heaviness in her chest would vanish in the steam.

  CHAPTER 38

  Caroline focused hard on Mr. Prescott’s billing sheet. Although he’d spearheaded the firm’s purchase and installation of a cloud-based, computerized time entry system and made training in its use mandatory for all attorneys, he himself still recorded his own time in longhand on billing sheets that she had to special order from a stationery store.

  His penmanship was thin, with a pronounced slant, and tended to degrade over the length of each line. She didn’t mind the task of deciphering his scrawls and, today, she particularly welcomed the concentration it required. It distracted her from what she’d done and hadn’t done.

  She’d sat for nearly an hour, staring into the flames, but had been unable to burn the documents. They were back in her green bag. She had promised herself she’d shred them on her lunch break.

  For now, she tried to decide if Mr. Prescott had “met with Management Committee re: public relations” or if he’d “met with mediation counsel re: political repercussions.” Did the latter even make sense?

  She looked up as a brisk, business-like knock sounded at the exterior door and it swung open to reveal Samantha Davis.

  “M
rs. Masters,” Samantha said, giving her a curt nod in greeting. No smile.

  Caroline’s hands began to tremble and she dropped them to her lap. She smiled widely to hide her fear.

  “Is Mr. Prescott expecting you?” she asked.

  “Not exactly. But he’ll want to hear this,” Samantha said. She waved her small notebook.

  Caroline’s stomach lurched. Samantha knew. But how? She resisted the urge to scan the ceiling for a hidden camera. Or perhaps Samantha had a tap on her home phone. The woman was former FBI, after all. How could she have been so stupid to have called her at home?

  “Mrs. Masters, are you okay?”

  Samantha’s voice brought Caroline back from the edge of panic.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m suddenly feeling quite ill, actually.”

  It was true enough, Caroline thought. She felt as though she could vomit.

  Samantha appraised her. “You do look a little green around the gills. There’s a stomach bug going around downstairs; I hope you didn’t catch it.”

  Caroline smiled weakly and buzzed Mr. Prescott.

  “Yes?”

  “Ms. Davis is here to see you.”

  “Send her in,” Mr. Prescott instructed.

  “Right away. And, Mr. Prescott?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not feeling well. I may need to go home. I’ll arrange for Lettie Conrad to cover your phones and otherwise assist you.”

  Caroline chewed on her lower lip while she waited for his response. She’d never before asked to go home sick.

  “Oh, by all means,” he said in a voice tinged with concern.

  She knew the concern wasn’t for her. Mr. Prescott was something of a germaphobe. She suspected Lettie would spend the better part of her day disinfecting every surface in sight, lest Mr. Prescott find himself the victim of a contagion.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  She depressed the intercom button to end the conversation.

  Samantha, who was on her way into Mr. Prescott’s office, turned and said, “Take care of yourself, Mrs. Masters.”