Last Call

by Libby Kirsch

  “No,” she replied. She actually hated the sound of that. Her voice took on a wheedling tone. “What does he know about this crime that he can’t tell me?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Yeah.” She laughed humorlessly. “I guess.”

  Because she couldn’t think of a reason not to, she listed off all the names of the people she’d come into contact with since Ike’s murder, including Ollie’s family and roommates.

  When she finished, her dad said, “I’ll get back to you with anything that sticks out. You okay?”

  “Sure. I—well, I will be.”

  “Love you, Janet.”

  “I, ah . . . I love you, too, Dad.”

  “I know.” He disconnected without another word.

  She folded the itchy blanket over the back of the couch, then pulled on her clothes and shoes and stood, staring out the window.

  So Jason had secrets. But she didn’t think he was the only one. The more she thought about Finch’s visit, the less she liked it. Jason had managed to circumvent O’Dell’s computer grab in large part because Finch had warned them about the pending subpoena on Friday. Was that a lapse in judgment on Finch’s part, or something else?

  Now Finch was telling Janet the case was cold, and whoever was guilty likely wouldn’t be caught, even though O’Dell had just made a major move against Jason.

  What was Finch’s game?

  Sunlight flared off the back windshield of a black truck up the block as it pulled away from the curb and into traffic, and she scrunched her eyes shut against the glare, but the image burned into the back of her eyelids.

  Suddenly, her eyes flew open, and, squinting, she stared at the space where the truck had been.

  Surely not, it couldn’t be—

  “Shit!” She grabbed her keys and took off at a run through the small parking lot, then skidded to a stop at the empty spot a block away. She was at a drab, isolated stretch of street, usually littered with trash and bordered by nothing but the parking lot for the Spot; a run-down, abandoned house; and a city bus bench. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Parked less than two hundred feet from the back door of the bar, Elizabeth’s car was wedged behind a crappy camper trailer. It had been invisible from the office window until the huge black pickup truck that had obscured it from behind pulled away.

  The old, gray Chrysler Sebring was unremarkable, save for the aggressively pink rabbit’s foot hanging from the rearview mirror. It was Elizabeth’s car.

  She tried all the doors, but they were locked. She leaned in close to the trunk and gingerly sniffed, then sank against the car when she didn’t pick up any dead-body smells.

  She rifled through the handful of parking tickets that were shoved under the windshield wipers. The oldest one was dated the day that Janet found Ike’s body. Elizabeth’s car hadn’t moved since her last shift at the Spot. But where was Elizabeth? The question now seemed more important than ever.

  She hit the roof of the car in frustration. According to O’Dell, Finch had checked out Elizabeth’s place—and nothing had been amiss. Was that true?

  She shivered despite the heat. What if it wasn’t? Elizabeth’s car had been abandoned and no one had heard from her—including that nosy neighbor—since Ike was killed. She was the last person known to have the keys to Ike’s car, which was also missing.

  Janet hit the roof again, this time with more force. She’d let Elizabeth down so far, but it was time to correct that. She was going back to Elizabeth’s apartment, and she wouldn’t stop digging until she found her.

  She gulped. Hopefully there wouldn’t be any actual digging involved.

  The apartment manager, a slight, tanned, skinny man with shockingly white teeth named Dale, frowned. “It’s an unusual request,” he said, scratching his chin, “and I’m afraid it’s not allowed.”

  “I’m just really concerned about her, you understand. She hasn’t been to work in days.”

  “Well, it’s against the rules laid out in section one twenty-four of the lessee’s handbook.” Dale flipped through a three-ring binder he’d just pulled off the shelf behind his desk, then held out the book to Janet.

  “I know, and I know you just let the police in, but we still haven’t heard from her—”

  “Police? The police haven’t been on the property since Arty McMaster had a kegger that got out of control about five weeks ago—”

  “It’s not a secret,” she interrupted. “I know they didn’t find anything—but I’m still worried.” She shot Dale her most ingratiating smile. “I kind of thought, with your help, I could just poke around and see if anything looks out of place.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re the first person asking about Elizabeth,” he said, scratching his head.

  “Detective Finch from KPD wasn’t here?”

  “Nope, and I’d know—I’m the only one authorized to open doors without the lessee’s consent. It’s right here in the binder,” he said, pointing at the book again.

  She closed her eyes, glad she’d come, and then opened them wide, her friendliest smile imploring Dale to help. “I need to get into Elizabeth’s apartment to make sure she’s okay. You can be a hero today or a zero, Dale. It’s up to you.”

  Five minutes later, she skulked in the alcove by Elizabeth’s door. Who knew Dale would choose to be a zero? She’d have to work on that smile.

  Janet slipped her lock-picking set out of her pocket. With the tension wrench at the bottom of the keyhole, she raked her favorite pick across the top edge until she felt the final pin budge. She cranked the lock over and pushed the door open.

  The whole thing took less than thirty seconds, and she dropped her tools back in her pocket before walking into Elizabeth’s home.

  A burst of color hit her when she stepped over the threshold, and the furniture was unexpectedly floral. She guessed the couch and armchair had been her mother’s, because they were well-made pieces that didn’t match the other, self-assembled, Scandinavian items in the room. It was like midcentury modern had met a flowery explosion from 1996.

  Clothes and shoes littered the main room, as if Elizabeth left things right where she took them off without regard for a laundry basket or shoe rack. Well-traversed paths darkened the cream-colored carpeting between rooms. On the edge of one such path, a huge stain flowered out from under the dining room table.

  She hadn’t heard a sound since the slow creak of the door when she’d pushed it open. “Elizabeth?” she called out.

  There was no response.

  She walked through the main room into the dining room and tried again. “Elizabeth? Are you here? It’s Janet . . . from the Spot?”

  No one answered, and she crouched down to touch the edge of the large stain on the floor, only to snatch her fingers back. It was soaking wet. The wet spot spanned half the room. On the table above lay a broken bowl, a cutting board, and a hammer. It looked like some liquid had spilled out of the broken bowl and poured off the table. An oval-shaped section of the wood finish had bubbled up, ruined.

  “What is going on?” She breathed in a smoky smell and, with a mounting sense of unease, moved away from the wet spot and walked through the dining room into the kitchen. “Shit,” she muttered slowly. The microwave lay, broken, on the floor; black scorch marks feathered up the cabinet to the counter above. A smoky burnt-plastic smell filled her nostrils.

  It looked like one holy hell of a battle had gone down in Elizabeth’s home, but who’d been fighting?

  Perhaps more important, who had won?

  Janet backed out of the kitchen and stared, once again, at the wet spot under the table. Terrible thoughts raced through her mind. The hammer glinted menacingly in the sunlight from a nearby window. Had it been used as a weapon? What had happened to Elizabeth? Was she caught up in a murder? Was the wet area where someone had tried to clean blood? Each scenario she came up with was worse than the last.

  She sucked in a breath at a sudden noise from the hallwa
y outside. She had to get out before someone found her here. At the door, she saw both Finch’s and O’Dell’s business cards lying on the ground—they must have fallen when she’d walked in. She pressed her ear against the metal and started counting. When she got to thirty without hearing anything else, she carefully stepped back outside, then cringed when the door swung shut. The crack of noise echoed in the concrete walkway.

  Elizabeth’s old, crotchety neighbor’s dog barked and yipped up a storm at the sound. She turned and headed toward the parking lot but froze when she heard another door open. The dog’s yipping was now louder, a tiny, all-out roar.

  “You again?” Paul said when he spotted her. “What are you doing here?” The dog lunged toward her at the end of his lead, barking his heart out.

  She turned, her friendliest smile plastered back on. “I thought I’d try Elizabeth one more time, but she didn’t answer. You haven’t heard from her, have you?”

  “No, but I thought I heard a door.” He crossed his arms and raised one eyebrow.

  “Must have been a car in the lot,” Janet said.

  He frowned, and the dog lunged toward Janet again.

  She wiped what felt like a sheepish smile off her face and said, “Well. Let her know I’m looking for her, okay?”

  “You and the rest of the city,” Paul said.

  “Did you see a Detective Finch Saturday?” Janet asked.

  “Nope. Saturday was quiet. Just how I like it.” He stared pointedly from Janet to the parking lot with a sour expression.

  Instead of saying goodbye, she frowned back at Paul, then sidestepped the noisy pup and headed for her car, and home.

  She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel at a stoplight; the sound was like a hammer, pounding nails of worry into her brain. Something bad had happened at Elizabeth’s apartment—or something illegal—and Finch had clearly lied about checking on her well-being.

  Finding Elizabeth’s place in such disarray changed everything. Janet was the only “family” Elizabeth had, and now it was up to her to be there for the young woman. If it was already too late—if Janet’s worst fears about what had happened at Elizabeth’s apartment proved true—then it was up to her to find out who had done what to Elizabeth and why.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Hey!” Mel walked over to Janet’s car as soon as she pulled up to the curb in front of the house. “Is everything okay?”

  “Sure,” Janet answered. Mel raised her eyebrows and she blew out a sigh. “Well, no, everything’s not okay. My bartender’s missing, now presumed injured or dead; Jason ‘needs a break,’ whatever the hell that means; and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do—” She’d been about to say “without him,” but her throat constricted and she choked out a stuttered breath before saying, “No idea what to do about this whole situation.”

  When she looked up Mel was staring contemplatively at her own front door.

  “I’m sorry—you already have your hands full with a new baby to take care of. How is . . . Mabel. No, no . . . ah, Mazel?”

  “Hazel is great,” Mel said, with a smile that appeared and disappeared so fast Janet wasn’t sure she’d seen it.

  “Great?”

  “Well . . .” Mel ran a hand through her hair. “It’s just . . . exhausting, okay, it’s freaking exhausting. Kat’s got this maternal thing down, but I feel a little lost. And tired, did I say that already?”

  “Come on. We need drinks,” Janet said over her shoulder as she unlocked her door. “You tell me your problems, I’ll tell you mine.” She led Mel to the minibar. “What can I get you? I’m having a Bloody Mary.”

  “Make it two,” Mel answered, taking the knife away from Janet and hacking two wedges from the lime sitting on the counter.

  “Jesus, what did that lime do to you?”

  Mel shrugged and said, “Kat’s the cook, sorry.”

  Janet gathered the Tabasco and Worcestershire sauces, tomato juice, vodka, celery salt, and ice, and soon the women were sitting on the couch with drinks in hand.

  “So babies are hard work, huh?” Janet took a long, slow sip. “I guess that’s not a surprise, though, really?”

  Mel took a sip of her drink and blew out a breath. “Perfect. Just what I needed.” She leaned back against the cushion. “No, not a surprise, but knowing that it’s going to be difficult doesn’t make it any easier when you’re living it.”

  “Amen,” Janet said, and the women clinked glasses. “Any idea how long you’ll have her?”

  “The mother is making her way through the court system. The grandmother’s got her hands full with Hazel’s brothers and sister, she can’t take on a baby, too.” Janet clucked and Mel said, “Now all four, including Hazel, are effectively in the system. No telling how long it will be. Could be five more days, could be five more months.”

  “And then you’ll—you’ll just give her back? To this woman who seems incapable of making any good choices?”

  “Yeah,” Mel said, and a heavy silence fell over the room. When both of their glasses were empty, Janet stood. “Another?” she asked, already walking to the minibar. She froze at the halfway point, though, when she glanced into the kitchen.

  All of Jason’s computers had been seized the day before, yet there, on the “island” plank of wood, sat two monitors, a keyboard, and a hard drive. The monitors glowed in the dark room, and after a moment of shocked silence, she recognized the image on both screens as the back alley at the Spot.

  “What is this?” She set the glasses down and walked into the kitchen. “Did you see Jason today, Mel?” She pulled a bar stool close to the computer.

  Mel followed her into the construction zone. “Sure. The lights were on over here all night, and then he left . . . let’s see, I guess I was giving Hazel a bottle around eight this morning and he waved as he walked to his car. I think he said, ‘See you soon,’ and then drove away. You haven’t talked to him since last night?”

  “No . . .” Janet filled her in on what she’d found at Elizabeth’s apartment and her concern that something bad had happened to the bartender. “And now I get home and Jason’s not here, but his computer is.”

  “Where is this video taken from?” Mel asked, gesturing to the monitor.

  Janet squinted at the screen, wondering the same thing. It was the Spot, all right, but the camera was pointed at her bar from across two parking lots. “It must be . . . Wait . . .” She leaned in for a closer look. “This is taken from—”

  “Old Ben’s property?” Mel interrupted.

  Janet studied Mel for a moment. “How do you know Ben Corker? He sold the restaurant next door long before you came to town.”

  “It’s written down right here,” Mel answered, pushing a small pad of paper toward her. “It says, ‘Old Ben’s place, Wednesday to Thursday.’”

  Janet inspected Jason’s handwriting, then turned back to the screen. “Jason used to have a security contract with Old Ben,” she said slowly. “But when Ben was ready to retire, he couldn’t find a buyer for the building, so he shut it down and stopped paying taxes on the property. When the foreclosure notices started to appear, he moved to Florida without leaving a forwarding address.”

  “Was he still paying Jason?”

  “I don’t know. It looks like it, doesn’t it?”

  “And look at that angle.” Mel nodded appreciatively. “It shows the whole side lot of the Spot.”

  “It’s lucky, actually. There used to be two big oak trees between our parking lots, but one fell down in a massive hailstorm in the spring, and we had the other one taken out just last month. What a waste of money that was,” she grumbled, still incensed at the hefty price tag of that particular maintenance project.

  “Janet.”

  “What?”

  “Press play.”

  Janet snorted when she realized that Mel was right—she was stalling, feeling nervous about what they might see. Suddenly she was glad she wasn’t alone. She struck the space bar and the
still shot came to life.

  Mel’s finger snaked out and pressed the space bar again, and the video of leaves blowing across the parking lot froze. “Wait. Should we be watching this, or should we tell the police that we have it first?”

  Janet scowled at the mention of cops and turned back to the monitor without answering. She tapped the space bar. According to the time stamp in the corner of the screen, it was just after midnight, early Thursday morning. In less than twelve hours, Janet would find Ike’s body. Neither spoke—the gravity of what they were about to watch weighed heavily on them both.

  Old Ben’s property was up a slight hill from the Spot, so the angle from his security camera gave them a nice overview of her parking lot.

  She remembered Cindy Lou saying that it had been a quiet night, and she was right; the parking lot was unusually empty.

  A figure came stumbling out the door of the bar. “That must be Ike.” She frowned at the screen, “but where’s Frank?” The protocol was clear: a drunk customer was supposed to be deposited directly into the taxi by a staff member. On that night, Frank should have been outside with Ike, but he wasn’t.

  “Didn’t Frank tell you he walked Ike to the taxi?”

  “Yes,” Janet said, incensed that it had taken her so long to fire him. She should have listened to her gut and kicked him to the curb after his first week.

  On-screen, Ike stumbled around to the corner of the building by the alley.

  “Frank,” Janet muttered darkly, knowing her obnoxious bouncer had likely kicked Ike out early just to be rid of him. That move might have cost Ike his life. “Is he—”

  “Yup,” Mel said with a grimace, “he’s taking a leak.” They couldn’t be sure—the camera was far away and the image wasn’t crisp—but Ike stood facing the wall, his back to the camera, thankfully, for almost a minute without moving.

  Then, headlights swept over the scene.

  “Well, there’s his taxi,” Janet said, and they watched Ike move away from the building, “but why didn’t he take it?”