Fatal Luck

by Dorothy Howell

  “Nothing at the strip mall,” he said.

  Leave it to Corporate to locate the office in a questionable neighborhood, then not make sure there was adequate security.

  “We got something from an office building across the street and down the block. It’s a side angle. No license plates visible. Too grainy to see a driver. But lots of small black cars, like the suspect vehicle,” Nick said. “What about the other people who work in the branch?”

  Even though all Mid-America employees were assigned to a specific branch, we often talked to each other on the phone, got acquainted at company meetings, and visited other branches occasionally. We got to know each other. And, of course, like every other company, there was always gossip. If something went down in one of the branch offices, the phone lines lit up.

  “Gloria Colton is the assistant manager. She’s been around forever, worked in a lot of different branches, but never got promoted past her position. I don’t know why. And Misty? She was hired just a month or so ago. She graduated from Eastside last spring.”

  Nick froze mid-swallow and cut his eyes to me at the mention of Eastside, the high school we’d both attended. We’d been there together for only one year—that fateful year with Katie Jo.

  “Eric Hunter went to Eastside,” Nick said.

  “You’re kidding,” I said. “I had no idea.”

  “He was a year ahead of me,” Nick said. “He graduated before you got there.”

  My thoughts rushed back a decade and I realized that Eric had been in the same graduating class as my older brother Rob. I wondered if they’d known each other.

  Then I realized something else. When I’d gone to the after-work birthday celebration for Eric, he’d claimed he was turning thirty, which didn’t add up. He must have somehow managed to graduate early—or he’d lied about his age.

  “Did you and Eric know each other?” I asked.

  “I knew of him,” Nick said. “We weren’t friends.”

  I didn’t ask if Nick had mentioned their high school history to Eric during his investigation at the Bonita branch this morning. Nick would never talk about anything personal under those circumstances.

  “Do you think Janine Ferris recognized the driver?” Nick asked.

  The question stunned me. I hadn’t considered it—which was why Nick was a detective and I wasn’t.

  “It might explain why she was over-the-top hysterical,” he said.

  “Why wouldn’t she have told you?” I asked.

  Nick shrugged. “It happens. Witnesses aren’t sure what they actually saw. They don’t want to wrongly accuse somebody.”

  I considered the possibility and replayed the image in my head of Janine standing by her car screaming in horror, then screaming in the breakroom. Maybe she had seen the driver, or maybe she routinely fell apart in a crisis. I didn’t know her well enough to say.

  “It’s possible,” I said.

  Nick stewed on that for a few seconds, then shook it off as if it were yet another theory that might—or might not—pan out.

  We sat in silence for a few minutes, then Nick looked at his watch.

  “Ronald’s late,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Your boyfriend,” Nick said, and the corner of his lip turned up in a sly smile.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten Ronald involved with my quest to keep Nick at arm’s length. Maybe I should have just made up an imaginary new boyfriend—at least a pretend-boyfriend wouldn’t be annoying or inconvenient or late.

  “He probably stopped to pick up ice cream,” I said. “He loves to surprise me.”

  Nick kept giving me that half smile and nodded.

  “I’d better get out of here and leave you two love birds to your ice cream,” he said, and rose from the sofa.

  I followed him into the kitchen. He put on his shoulder holster and sport coat, and I walked with him to the door.

  “Thanks for dinner,” I said.

  We stood there looking at each other for a long moment, then Nick left. I closed the door behind him.

  “Lock the door, Dana,” he called from outside.

  I looked out the peep hole as I turned the dead bolt. He waved—that dog, he knew I’d be watching. He headed down the steps.

  I’d had a thing for Nick since way back in high school. He was a senior when my best friend Katie Jo Miller and I were sophomores. Nick and Katie Jo had dated. She’d gotten pregnant. He’d made her have an abortion, then dumped her and left town.

  At least, that was the rumor. Katie Jo never told me anything about what happened. She’d stopped coming to school, stopped calling me, stopped hanging out. But everybody, including me, knew the rumor was true.

  Nick had finally moved back to Santa Flores not long ago and we’d gotten involved during a homicide investigation. Something sparked between us. But I couldn’t get past what Nick had done to Katie Jo, and when I’d finally gotten up the nerve to confront him, he’d told me it was none of my business.

  Just like that. None of my business.

  Technically, he was right. Nothing about the incident involved me, except that Katie Jo had been my best friend. It was years ago. We’d all grown up, become adults, gotten jobs, become responsible citizens—no longer high school kids.

  But I couldn’t let go of what Nick had done. I’d told him that. He refused to explain what had happened. Flat refused.

  High school was a long time ago. So why wouldn’t he tell me? Why keep it a big secret? Especially after I’d told him there could never be anything serious going on with us as long as that issue was between us.

  So here we were drawn to each other, suspended in this weird relationship where he was trying to wear me down and make me let go of something that was extremely important to me. And here I was determined to keep him away until he came clean about the whole thing.

  I switched off the lights and headed down the hallway.

  Maybe I should let it go.

  But if Nick kept something a secret that was this important to me and I let him get by with it, what would that mean for a long-term relationship? Would he always decide what he wanted to tell me and what he didn’t? Would I fall into the practice of always letting those things go?

  In the bathroom, I got my toothbrush from the medicine cabinet just as Seven Eleven jumped up onto the toilet lid.

  “It’s just you and me again tonight,” I said. “I didn’t need a fortune cookie to predict it.”

  I thought about how the evening might have turned out, then forced the thought from my mind.

  This was for the best, I decided.

  But was it good fortune?

  I wasn’t sure.

  Chapter 5

  “What’s wrong with Mom?”

  Nothing like a call from an older sibling first thing in the morning—especially one that didn’t start with a greeting or a pleasantry, just a demand. But that was my brother Rob. I’d gotten used to it.

  When I’d seen his name on my cell phone caller ID, I’d hesitated to answer, and not because I was driving, running a few minutes behind and didn’t want to be late for work. I was afraid he’d found out about our mom’s suspicion that Dad was having an affair, and it was way too early in the morning to discuss it.

  “Why?” I asked, as I swung into the Mid-America parking lot. “What happened?”

  “Nothing happened,” Rob said, as if that explained everything.

  “Something happened,” I said, as I whipped into a space and killed the engine. “You wouldn’t be calling me otherwise.”

  Rob had gotten married not long ago and he and his new wife lived up north, so he didn’t see the family often.

  “Mom hasn’t called,” he said. “She hasn’t emailed. She hasn’t texted. Nothing. Two days and I haven’t heard from her.”

  My mom wasn’t a nag or an overbearing mother, but she was always concerned about Rob and me. She worried about us, wanted to know if we were okay, if we needed something, if there were problems,
if there was anything she could do to help. So with two days gone and no word from her, I could see why Rob was worried.

  “She’s not sick, if that’s what you mean,” I said, as I gathered my things and got out of my Honda.

  “Then what’s wrong?” he asked.

  I could tell from Rob’s voice that he was genuinely concerned about Mom and I was tempted to tell him what was going on. But I knew he’d call Mom right away, and I wasn’t sure that having her repeat the whole upsetting story was a good idea. Of course, finding out that Mom suspected Dad was having an affair would be upsetting for Rob, too. I figured it was better to keep the news to myself until I’d found out exactly what was going on.

  “I saw her last night,” I said, as I crossed the parking lot. “She was in a semi-panic because she hasn’t come up with her Thanksgiving dinner theme yet.”

  “Oh. Okay,” Rob said, and I could hear the relief in his voice.

  “Are you and Denise coming down for Thanksgiving?” I asked, anxious to move the conversation to a different topic.

  “Sure. If Mom doesn’t cancel because she can’t come up with a theme,” he said, and chuckled. “Are you bringing a date this year?”

  Nick flashed in my mind. I pushed him out. Then Ronald appeared in his place. I pushed him out too.

  “You just want me to bring a date to distract Mom,” I said, “so she won’t start asking you and Denise when you’re going to give her a grandbaby.”

  I stopped outside Mid-America’s entrance. Traffic was heavy on Fifth Street as everybody hurried to get to work, stirring up a little breeze.

  “Want to hear something crazy?” I asked. “I met a guy you went to high school with. Eric Hunter. Remember him?”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember Eric.”

  “We work for the same company,” I said.

  “He’s not in jail?” Rob asked.

  I stepped away from the building and pressed my cell phone closer to my ear.

  “Eric was trouble back then?” I asked.

  “He had a psycho girlfriend who used to steal CDs from the store where Eric worked,” Rob said. “He looked the other way while she pocketed them.”

  I’d shoplifted a lipstick when I was in high school. Not one of my finer moments, but not exactly a felony either.

  “So it was just normal high school stuff?” I asked.

  “They sold the CDs at school. Made a fortune.” He was quiet for a few seconds. I imagined him sitting at his desk, gazing across the room, remembering his days at Eastside. “That girlfriend of his—what was her name? Nora. No, Nola. Nola Miles. She was a real piece of work. Completely psycho about Eric. It was crazy.”

  “She was a nut and he still dated her?” I asked.

  “Eric was just as psycho about her,” Rob said. He paused for another few seconds. “Guess it was just one of those high school things. Glad to hear it turned around for Eric. Listen, Dana, I’ve got to get to a meeting.”

  “We’ll talk later,” I said, and ended the call.

  I used my key to open the door—all the employees had a key since we had to work a half hour before and after our official hours of operation—and went inside. Everyone else was already shuffling papers or sipping breakroom coffee. Mr. Burrows, the branch manager, had the only private office in the place and his door was closed, as usual.

  Inez gave me stink-eye as I walked past her desk. She glanced from me to the wall clock, then jotted something on her calendar. I was sure she intended to check my timesheet at the end of the week and make sure I’d noted that I was four minutes late.

  Four minutes was no big deal, as I saw it. Being late at all was hardly the crime against humanity that Inez considered it. Yet employers were always harping on the importance of reporting to work on time. Personally, I believed that what I accomplished after I got here was the most important thing

  Manny was on the telephone as I passed his desk, already looking stressed and worn out. A tall stack of folders was at his elbow, and his computer monitor was surrounded by yellow sticky notes. He nodded, listening, and waved me over.

  “The DM wants you go work in the Bonita branch this afternoon,” Manny whispered, covering the receiver. “Janine is going to be out for a while”

  “Is the district manager going to cut me some slack when my own work gets behind?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” Manny said, and turned back to his telephone conversation.

  I dropped my handbag in my desk drawer and, as I sat down, Eric Hunter flew into my head. I’d been surprised by what Rob had told me about Eric’s high school days. Allowing his girlfriend to steal from the store where he worked, then joining her in selling the stolen items? That was far worse than the lipstick I’d shoplifted. Definitely not a typical high school move.

  But Eric had turned things around. Whatever had happened to him after leaving high school had been for the best—probably getting rid of the psycho girlfriend helped. He was a hard worker now, ambitious, anxious to move into Mid-America’s upper management, apparently.

  So was that the kind of man who arrived late for work? I didn’t think so. And was it a coincidence that Eric had been late on the morning of Jerry’s murder?

  I replayed that morning’s events in my head, calculating the timeline as best I could—hearing the roar of a car engine; Janine’s screams; rushing into the alley; getting her into the breakroom; the arrival of the police. All of that had happened before Eric showed up.

  A chill swept through me. By my own very unscientific method, it seemed to me that Eric—driving a car that he’d possibly stolen—had time to run Jerry down in the alley, speed away, jump into his own pre-positioned vehicle, and drive back.

  Could Eric have killed Jerry?

  I thought about how Eric had seemed when he’d arrived that morning. A myriad of emotions ran through my head. Was he stunned? Upset? Shocked? None of those seemed quite right. If anything, Eric had seemed angry. But angry at what?

  Of course, there was no motive—not one that I knew of. Plus, Eric hardly seemed the type, even after what Rob had told me about Eric’s high school antics. Selling stolen CDs was a long way from committing murder.

  “Attention! Attention in the branch!” Inez called from her desk.

  “Holy crap,” Manny grumbled.

  “Our weekly meeting will commence immediately,” Inez announced.

  “We’re having a meeting?” I asked and groaned.

  “Didn’t you read my memo, Dana?” Inez asked.

  I glanced down and saw a memo that Inez had written and distributed this morning. Seven people in our office—counting Inez—and she sent a memo. Good grief.

  “Please gather at my desk at this time,” Inez called.

  Manny and I exchanged a long suffering sigh, dragged ourselves and our chairs to Inez’s desk and plopped down. Jade, Dennis, and Carmen did the same.

  “We’re going to have to cut our meeting short this morning,” Inez said, “since Dana was late coming in today.”

  “Come in late on meeting day from now on,” Manny whispered to me.

  Inez slid on her glasses and consulted the agenda she’d typed.

  “First of all, I want to get an update from each of you on Mid-America’s Thanksgiving food drive,” Inez said. “How many donations have each of you received?”

  Everybody’s gaze wandered to the floor, the ceiling, out the door—everywhere but to Inez—mine included.

  Mid-America’s latest attempt to make itself look good at the expense of us employees was their Thanksgiving food drive. We’d received a memo from Corporate several weeks ago, which Inez had gleefully distributed and diligently followed up on, as per the memo’s accompanying instructions.

  Each employee was required to contact grocery stores and markets in the neighborhood, present the manager with a Mid-America flier explaining the program, and get food donations. Then, each branch was supposed to tally their results and transport everything to a food bank in Los Angeles for dis
tribution. The office collecting the largest number of items would receive national recognition in the company newsletter and a plaque to display in their breakroom.

  From the expression on everyone’s face, neither the write-up in the newsletter nor the plaque had motivated any of us to go out and ask for donations. It certainly hadn’t done it for me. After all, Mid-America was a major corporation that made huge profits and could have simply donated cash to the food bank without making the employees do all the legwork.

  Inez pulled out another corporate form and picked up a pen.

  “Dennis?” she asked. “How much have you collected?”

  “Uh, well, nothing yet,” he said. “But I’m on it.”

  “Carmen?” Inez asked.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Jade?”

  So far my morning was off to a less than stellar start. I was going to need some serious mojo improvement to get through the day.

  * * *

  After lunch, I shut down my computer, gathered my things and left the office. I also left much of my work undone, but since I’d been directed to help out in the Bonita branch for the afternoon, there was nothing I could do about it.

  I got in my car and pulled onto Fifth Street, then turned left onto Fleming Avenue. It would have been quicker to take the freeway that ringed Santa Flores but since I was on company time, I saw no need to rush.

  When driving, I usually turned on my favorite music, allowed my mind to wander, and got lost in the solitude. But instead, I kept thinking about my theory that Eric had run down Jerry in the alley, then returned to the office in his own car that he’d left nearby.

  Had the police looked for the suspect vehicle in the nearby neighborhood? Should I should call Nick and ask?

  The idea floated in my brain for a few minutes, then I disregarded it. Nick had most certainly done a neighborhood search. I was also sure he’d checked out body shops, including those known for their questionable ethics, to see if anyone had tried to get front-end repairs done. True, the vague description of a small black car wasn’t much to go on, but probably enough.

  I turned onto State Street and drove several blocks to the Bonita office. Parking in the employees’ lot behind the strip mall was out of the question—I didn’t want to look at the spot where Jerry had been killed—so I swung into the front parking lot and found a space near the deli.