by K. J. Emrick
I’m pretty sure I smiled. That was Chris’s kill shot, and it struck home.
When I was explaining this part to Amelia, back at my safehouse when I was telling her to trust me and Chris, I told her we needed to check on her bodyguards’ finances, not her bodyguard’s finances. Makes all the difference in the world where you put that apostrophe. Yes, we checked Donnie’s bank records just to be sure there wasn’t some connection we were missing, but it was the other bodyguard I wanted the police to take a close look at. Because there wasn’t just one bodyguard protecting Amelia Falconi. Not just Donnie Sterling.
There were two.
Back when I saw her in the Shake Shack, I saw both of them. I was only focused on Donnie, because he was the one Amelia spent all her attention on. It had been obvious from the start that they were having some sort of relationship they wanted to keep secret. Well, obvious to me, anyway. None of her fans knew, but they’d done a really bad job of keeping it a secret from Melissa Thorne.
I figure Thorne confronted Amelia about the affair, and about the break from her career, too. Amelia probably tried to explain the whole situation to her just like she’d tried to explain it to me, about how her niece’s death had opened her eyes. I’m guessing Thorne took that very differently than I had.
When she knew what Amelia was up to, not just with her bodyguard but with her career, she knew she needed to find a solution.
For her, that solution was murder.
She couldn’t kill Amelia. If she did that, then Donnie Sterling would know who to point the finger at. She could have had both of them killed, I suppose, but she went a different way. Have Donnie killed, frame Amelia for it. Her agency gets rid of an expensive star client who isn’t bringing in any money at all anymore, but the agency also gets tons of free publicity as the murder trial unfolds. There would be news interviews and TV coverage in the courtroom and lots and lots of chances to capitalize on this terrible tragedy.
Maybe she even thought this would drive Amelia back to acting. If doing good got her in this much trouble, then why bother? Amelia’s words, but Thorne obviously believed them, too.
Of course, I missed all that the first time around. I’m smart, but I’m not as brilliant as I like to think. It wasn’t until Amelia came to my apartment after getting bailed out that I put those pieces together. I’d told Chris to check into both of the bodyguards’ finances, not sure what we’d find but dead certain that Lieutenant Baker hadn’t done it yet. It was when Amelia mentioned her “security detail” that I remembered. Two security guards. We’d been looking for someone who knew Amelia’s movements, and where she was staying, and when she’d be in the room. Someone she knew. He was right in front of our faces the whole time.
Lucas Rudalpho had been noticeably absent when Amelia woke up to find Donnie Sterling dead next to her. He hadn’t been around since as far as I’d seen. That made him either the absolute worst bodyguard ever, or an accomplice.
Of course, he was also the one who shot up my apartment. He was trying to kill Amelia, or just scare her, maybe. Once we came to interview Miss Thorne the first time and she realized we were putting everything together, Thorne decided not to take any chances. She sent her hired hitman-slash-bodyguard out to tie up loose ends. That would have included me, if it hadn’t been for Harry.
So before we came here, armed with those pages of financial evidence, Chris made two phone calls. One to Apollo to come and watch over Amelia, and the second to Lieutenant Baker telling him that Chris and I had cracked the case. Once Baker stopped yelling and started listening, he had the other bodyguard picked up.
And once that happened…
“We have this Lucas Rudalpho in custody,” Chris explained to Thorne. “He’s already told us everything in exchange for consideration at sentencing. He told us about you paying him to put the sedative in the champagne bottles that you bought. He told us about how you gave him a spare key to the room you booked Amelia to stay in. He told us how you instructed him to do the killing by strangulation, with the bedsheet, so it would look like Amelia could have done it herself. He even told us you gave him the zolpidem from a prescription you had filled for yourself. I couldn’t help but notice what a nervous personality you have. Trouble sleeping, I’m guessing? Well. The statement he gave was six pages long. Very detailed. Very specific.”
“You… you can’t prove any of this,” Thorne insists. “You’ve got nothing tying me to this. All you’ve got is the word of a confessed murderer who would do anything to save himself from a life behind bars. You said yourself that he gave the statement in exchange for considerations from the District Attorney’s office. You think a jury’s going to believe anything he says?”
Chris stood up, and leaned across the desk, and if Thorne could have pushed herself and her chair through that wall, she would have. Good. Serves her right to be that scared.
All Chris does, is tap the pages again.
“It would be just his word,” he points out, “if we didn’t have proof that you paid him all this money. Good luck explaining that one to a jury. Maybe next time, you should pay your hired killers in cash, and tell them to hide it under their mattress. Or better yet, just don’t try to kill anyone from now on. You’re no good at it.”
Thorne jumps up from her chair, and even though Chris doesn’t react to it I jump sideways to block the door. I was sure she was going to try to run even though the only exit was behind me and that meant she had to squeeze past both Chris and I to get to it. Would that be a stupid thing to do? Of course it would. Have I seen people do stupider things than that?
Of course I have.
Instead, she walks calmly back to her desk, and looks down at the papers Chris has been showing her. She can rip them up if she wants. She can crumple them into a ball and chew on it like bubble gum. It doesn’t matter. These are just copies. The originals are back in the case folder on Lieutenant Baker’s desk.
She doesn’t do any of that. She stares at the line of numbers showing the deposit she made into Lucas Rudalpho’s account—the killer’s account—and then she nods her head and reaches for the desk phone instead.
Through the speaker on the phone, I hear her secretary’s voice. “Yes, Miss Thorne?”
Looking up at me now, she says into the phone, “Ferguson, hold my appointments. I’m going to be a little busy.”
“Hold your appointments? For how long?”
“For the foreseeable future. And call my lawyer. I’m about to be arrested for murder.” Her eyes slide over to Chris. “That is the charge, isn’t it, detective?”
“Yes. Murder, and conspiracy to commit murder. You have the right to remain silent…”
Chapter Twelve
I went with Chris to the Seventh Precinct. Mostly because when Harry poofed me and Amelia to the safehouse I didn’t just leave behind my cellphone and my gun. My faithful car Roxy was still back in my parking spot, too. I was kind of stuck until I could get back home.
Not that I minded all that much. I wanted to see what happened next with this case. We caught both the killer, and the person who paid the killer. We proved Amelia was innocent. All of that’s great but it doesn’t mean the whole case is over. Next comes the part that they don’t show you on TV.
Paperwork. Lots and lots of boring paperwork.
I’ll let Detroit’s finest do that part, but I want to see what happens at the arraignment for Melissa Thorne. I’ve never been involved with a murder for hire. The paperwork might be a snooze fest, but the courtroom drama should be really interesting.
Especially judging by the ring of reporters that are lined up in the parking lot of the Seventh Precinct.
I counted at least a dozen people, carrying microphones or shoulder-mounted cameras, their heads bobbing all around like chickens looking to see where the action is. The patrol officers were just a few minutes behind us bringing in Melissa Thorne. Apollo knows not to bring Amelia Falconi here, but this is where the mastermind behind the murder is coming to
be formally charged. The news people will get their show then. Nobody was interested in Chris, or me. We aren’t famous… at least not yet. Not until the word about the shootout at my apartment gets around and they figure out how that links in with everything else.
Here’s hoping they never put that together. I like my anonymity. Unlike famous actresses like Amelia Falconi, private investigators don’t get more work by having their face spread all around the news. It’s going to be kind of hard for me to do surveillance work for people like Michelle Garrow if everyone in Detroit can recognize my face.
Which reminds me, Garrow still hasn’t called me back. If I’m going to find the next case to work so that I keep having money in the bank, then I’ll need to leave her another voicemail, I guess. The paycheck from Amelia is going to be nice but any amount of money only lasts for so long. You gotta be prepared for the future.
And I am still not interested in taking that case from Arnie Chen. Which reminds me, I still haven’t contacted him to let him know I’m turning him down. I doubt he’s the kind of guy who hears ‘no’ very often.
As of now, I’m out of work again.
“Oh, hey,” I say to Chris as we pull into the private parking area reserved for the police officers. “You can hire me on as a consultant again, right? This case is over, so now we can go back to business as usual? You can throw some work my way. You still need me to do surveillance, I’m your girl.”
“Sorry, Sid.”
“What do you mean, sorry? You can hire me again.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Sure, you can. Case closed. Murderer arrested. Bad guy going to prison.”
“Sidney Stone,” he says, mimicking my tone of voice, “still a witness.”
“Chris!”
“Sid, you know it’s true.” He puts the vehicle in park and pulls the keys, but then sits there watching me. “The case is over, as you say, but not really over. Next it goes to Grand Jury, and then to trial, and you’re going to be called as a witness in the whole mess. Until there’s a conviction, you’re a witness.”
“I’ve been a witness in stuff before,” I say, with a deep pout. “What’s different this time?”
“It’s never been a problem before, sure, but you’ve never been involved in something that’s going to be this sensational. This isn’t Hollywood, this is Detroit. We don’t deal with celebrity cases on a daily basis here. We can’t have you working for us while you’re the star witness in a case with Amelia Falconi in the center of it. This one’s different,” he adds with a shrug.
Crossing my arms, I glare daggers at him. Mostly because I know he’s right. This one is different. Now I’m not only out of work, I’ve basically painted myself into a corner.
Fantastic.
Upstairs, we went straight to the detective area without running into anyone except other officers. A few of them passed on congratulations to Chris, and to me too, and a sergeant who was juggling half an armload of file folders in the crook of one arm gave both of us a high-five. It was a nice feeling.
Over at Chris’s desk, we found someone sitting and waiting for us.
Chris clears his throat. When he does, Clancy Whitaker shoots up from the chair. He’s still wearing those grubby clothes. That matted blonde hair still hasn’t been washed. If anything, he looks more frantic than before.
I really do feel sorry for this guy. He needs help. Like, professional psychiatric help. I wonder what he’s here to confess to this time?
“Hi, Chris,” he says, a wide smile showing off yellow teeth. “Hi. I’m really glad you’re here. I have to confess something. It’s eating me up, Chris. It’s terrible. I done something terrible. This one’s really bad. Do you have a minute? I just don’t trust no one but you.”
Chris throws me a silent question with just a glance, and I nod my head. Of course I’ll wait while he takes care of this. Until Melissa Thorne shows up there’s not a whole lot for me to do, anyway.
“All right, Clancy.” With a wave of his hand, Chris motions for them both to sit down. I hang back, standing there watching. “I’ve got some time now. Let’s talk. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“See, it’s like this. I don’t like guns. I don’t like to be around them but somehow earlier today I found myself with one and I… I just… this is really hard, Chris.”
“I’m sure it is, Clancy, but you know I’ve always listened to you. This is a safe place, like they say. You can tell me whatever it is, okay?”
“I shot up a lady’s apartment, is what I did. I just took a gun and I… and I shot it right up. I could’ve killed someone. I don’t know what I would have done if I killed someone. I’m a tempted murderer.”
Attempted murderer, he means. Wait, is he talking about…?
“You need to lock me up, Chris,” he says. “I shot that lady’s apartment up real bad. You need to put me away for my own safety. Everybody’s else’s, too.”
It took me a moment to catch on, and when I did my jaw dropped. The shooting he was talking about is the one at my apartment. He was here, confessing to that when he had nothing to do with it. Oh, dear God, this man needs help.
But what could you do for a guy like Clancy Whitaker?
Chris did the only thing he could do, and probably more than I would have done. He listened to the whole story that Clancy told him, even though it was remarkably slim on details. It had to be. We both knew that he wasn’t there when it happened, but he insisted on confessing to it just the same. It seemed to relax the poor guy, just talking about it. I love to watch Chris work. There’s something about a guy being himself that just makes him look so… attractive.
Ahem. You know what I mean.
When they were done, and Chris had sketched out Clancy’s statement, they stood up together and shook hands. The guy looks a little disappointed that he wasn’t being dragged away in chains. It was like he was expecting to be convicted and hung right where he stood. Chris had done everything he could, but it wouldn’t be enough to keep Clancy from coming back and confessing to the next big crime in the city. Or the one after that.
Poor guy.
After he was gone, Chris pumps hand sanitizer into his palms and then rubs his hands together vigorously before offering the pump to me. I hadn’t touched Clancy but just being in his general area made me feel like I needed to clean up.
He smiles at me. I smile back.
The phone’s about to ring.
I sigh, and sure enough the phone on the corner of the desk rings. As soon as Chris picks it up I can hear Lieutenant Baker yelling from the other end. He has to hold the receiver out to keep from hurting his ear. It figures. Chris solves his case—with my help, mind you—and Baker’s still finding things to complain about.
“I know, sir,” Chris tries to say. “Yes, sir. I can explain that. Yeah, that too. I could come over to your office if you want… or you can keep yelling. Whichever works for you.”
It’s several minutes later when Chris looks up at me and cups his hand over the mouthpiece. “You might as well go home, Sid. I don’t think my dear lieutenant is going to run out of steam anytime soon. I’m about to hang up on him and go directly up to his office to, er, discuss this and you don’t want to be here for that. Trust me.”
I know what he means. Sometimes, there’s just no pleasing people.
A taxi ride back to my apartment building doesn’t cost me much, but until I get paid by Amelia, I’m counting every dime. The sound of my debit card sliding through the taxi driver’s handheld EFT machine was unnaturally loud in my ears as it subtracts ride-plus-tip from my account. Well. I never lived a very expensive life up to this point. I sure wasn’t going to start now. Whatever I had left in the bank would last me just fine.
It was when I got up on the second floor, almost to my apartment, that I remembered I didn’t have my keys.
So. Cellphone, gun, keys. Those things come with me the next time I tell Harry to send me somewhere. And Roxy. I want my car with me next time,
too. Although, maybe not the car. Having a mostly red 1968 Mustang just disappear from the parking lot downstairs might raise a few eyebrows
Me and Harry have a lot to talk about. Once I get inside.
Well, at least he always knows when I’m coming. He should be right here to let me in so if I just knock…
The sight of my apartment door is shocking, to say the least. Multiple bullet holes right across the middle. Sixteen… no, seventeen. And that’s not counting however many more holes were obliterated behind the large hole made by my birdshot grouping, the one shot I managed to get off. My door’s a complete loss. It’s closed, and it’s locked, and there’s a strip of yellow tape across it declaring this to be a crime scene, but I might not even need Harry to get inside. All I need to do is put my slender arm in through that birdshot hole and then feel over to the handle without getting an armpit full of splinters. That shouldn’t be a problem, right?
But then the door opens.
Perfect.
“My hero,” I say to Harry, ducking the police tape and closing the door behind me. “I didn’t have my keys. I guess I could’ve picked the lock if I had a couple of paperclips, but this is a whole lot easier. Did you see the holes in that door? I’m going to have to… replace it…”
Then I stopped in the hallway between my kitchen and my living room. No smell of coffee. No sound of him humming. No soap operas on the television.
And Arnie Chen, sitting on the couch.
“Hello, Miss Stone. I’ve been waiting for you.”
He’s been waiting for me. He’s been sitting here, right there on my couch, waiting for me to get home.
I should have seen that. I should have had a future flash of him sitting here, ambushing me, three seconds before I came through that door. But there was nothing. No warning at all.
That’s impossible. I see everything that’s going to happen to me. Everything. The only person my future-sense doesn’t work on is Harry. He’s a genie. He keeps me from seeing the future where it involves him because…
