Psychobyte

by Cat Connor

  He shook his head. All the smarm vanished. “I didn’t kill Phoebe,” he said with quiet resolve.

  “Good to know.”

  I waited to see if he’d elaborate on his reason for being outside Phoebe’s home the night before she died. He said nothing. I willed myself to maintain control.

  Kurt pulled up a chair next to me. I smiled at him, time for Kurt to ask a few questions. All I wanted to do was get out of the apartment and into some fresh air.

  “Talk to us, Locke. Tell us about Mallory Stevens and why you met her outside Phoebe’s home,” Kurt said.

  “I’ve been seeing her. We’re lovers.”

  “And she is a friend of your sister-in-law?”

  “Yeah, looks that way.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  He shook his head.

  “She asked you to meet her at Phoebe’s address and you never asked why?”

  That’s not what happened according to the messenger conversation I read. I waited to see if Locke would correct the story. He didn’t.

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  I touched my watch; Kurt nodded. He pulled his notebook from his pocket and pretended to find the appropriate page. A bit of subterfuge in order to get to the truth.

  With a charming smile, Kurt said, “Our information must be wrong. Because I could’ve sworn that Mallory Stevens told you she was meeting Phoebe at her place at seven on Thursday night and that you knew she was talking about your sister-in-law and arranged to meet her outside the house at ten.”

  Locke grimaced. “What do you want me to tell you?”

  “The truth,” Kurt replied. “That’s all we want. Then we’ll carry on our merry way.”

  “All right. I knew she was visiting Phoebe. It didn’t concern me. They’d been friends a long time.”

  “Did Phoebe know you were screwing Mallory Stevens?” Kurt asked.

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. If she did, she never said anything to me.”

  “Do you know the nature of Mallory Steven’s relationship with Phoebe Childs?”

  “Friends,” he said. “They were friends.”

  Kurt shook his head slowly. “Try again.”

  Confusion crowded Locke’s features. “Friends?”

  “They were more than that. Phoebe and Mallory were lovers.”

  “What? No. Phoebe had a girlfriend. A chick called Thelma, I remember thinking it was an old-fashioned name.”

  I looked at Kurt. He frowned. Mallory told us she and Phoebe weren’t public about their relationship. She never mentioned a Thelma. My head started to pound.

  “Did Mallory mention an argument with Phoebe that night or since?”

  “No. We didn’t talk much. I picked her up and we came back here.”

  I held up my hand. “Hang on. You picked her up. You didn’t just meet her?”

  “Yes. I picked her up. Drove her here.”

  “And her car was where?”

  Lines formed on his forehead as he gave my question due consideration.

  “I didn’t see her car. Never occurred to me to ask.” He shrugged. “I was more interested in taking her to bed than asking questions.”

  “How long did Ms. Stevens spend in your company?”

  “She left just after five-thirty in the morning. Her alarm went at five.”

  “And is that usual?”

  “She usually stays until eight.”

  “Sit tight,” I said to Locke and motioned for Kurt to follow me out of earshot. “Could the car have been in the garage?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “If Stevens went back for the car after leaving Locke …”

  Kurt wrote in his notebook. “I’ll get Sandra to check cab companies and see if she took a cab back to Phoebe’s.”

  We rejoined Locke.

  “Thank you for your help,” I said. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Kurt and I left Locke to his musings. Outside the door, I called Metro and gave them the address. Be much easier for us to stay in touch if Metro had him in custody.

  We waited outside the door for Metro to arrive and followed them down to the street with their prisoner.

  “Wonder if his pal Chief Cookson will help him out this time,” I said, watching Locke encouraged into the back of a police cruiser.

  “The smug look on his face tells me he thinks Cookson will help.” Something in Kurt’s tone made me look at him.

  “What do you know?”

  The police cruiser pulled away from the curb. I waved. Locke glared.

  “I sent a text to a friend in the District Attorney’s office that mentioned Locke and Chief Cookson had a relationship and that Cookson might be helping his buddies out.”

  We walked back to the office, it was a pleasant evening in D.C. I said goodnight to Kurt at the entrance to the Hoover building.

  Home was where I was headed.

  Thirty-Three

  Wild Horses

  Monday morning I arrived at the office early and got stuck in to trying to locate the elusive Thelma.

  “You okay?” Kurt stood in my doorway.

  I looked over my laptop screen and nodded. “Working.”

  “Anything you care to share?”

  “Not yet.” I typed another search parameter and willed the glass of water I’d been sipping for the last hour to stay down.

  “Intense,” Kurt said with a grin and sat in a chair in front of my desk.

  “I found mention of a Thelma in relation to Mallory Stevens.”

  “Tell.”

  “There’s something happening here. Something …” I sighed. Mallory Stevens had more in common with our victims than I first realized. She used two aliases that I’d uncovered. “Mallory Stevens was also Sharron Stevens and Thelma Gardner.”

  I’d found her on all the victims’ Facebook pages and other social media. When I delved further, large cash deposits had been made into her bank account the day of each murder, then disappeared from her account the next morning. The day we found two bodies, I found two payments. She’d notified the bank on each occasion saying there must’ve been a bank error.

  Fair enough once, maybe twice. But continual bank errors? Doubtful. Someone was putting money in there on purpose. But why? And why did she report it as an error? It didn’t look like she kept any of the money. Remorse?

  Nah.

  I looked at it from a different point of view. What if she’d been set up? Two aliases made me think otherwise.

  “Intense expression followed by a loud sigh,” Kurt said. “Want help?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Maybe Kurt could see what I couldn’t.

  “Brief me.”

  “Let’s walk.” I picked up my tablet and shoved it into my shoulder bag, closed my laptop and left it on my desk.

  “Where are we going?” he said, falling into step beside me.

  “Woodrow Plaza.”

  “That’s not random.”

  No, it’s far enough away that maybe the fresh air will help me feel better. Plus, it’s somewhere I liked to be, even though it was yet another place I’d been shot at in the city.

  “It’s a nice day. I like the plaza,” I replied. On such days, it bustled with life. I wanted to see happy people going about their day. Death was overshadowing the good and I didn’t like it much.

  At the stairwell door, he placed a hand firmly on my arm. “What’s up?”

  “There’s something fishy going on with this damn case.”

  “Conway?” His tone suggested there was more. While not wrong, it wasn’t case related.

  “That’s it.”

  We started down the stairs. A smell hit me. I couldn’t describe it but it was almost like musty feet mixed with public bathroom. The stairwell shouldn’t smell like that. Although, I conceded that closed fire doors on every floor, no windows, or ventilation to speak of, had to have some effect on the air quality.

  Before the next floor, Kurt stepped in front of me and
blocked my way. Mitch’s face danced across my internal screen. He called my name.

  “I know you. This isn’t about a case.”

  I tried ducking around him. He caught my arm.

  “Conway, stop.”

  “Kurt, it’s the case. I can’t figure out why or who repeatedly put money into Stevens’ account, even though she reported it every time as a bank error.” When I put it into words, it did sound pretty odd.

  “You’re right. It doesn’t make sense. Let’s have a chat with the bank manager?”

  “Yeah, good thinking.”

  “Let’s get a coffee,” he offered. “The bank will still be there in twenty minutes.”

  Let’s not.

  My mouth watered. So much saliva. I swallowed. My hand closed over the railing and I vomited. Mostly water and froth.

  Kurt stood beside me, holding back my hair. The retching finally stopped and he guided me down to a step. “Just sit for a minute or two, I’ll call the cleaners and then take you home.”

  “I’ll be fine in a minute. Just need some air. It’s so stuffy in here.” I wiped my mouth on my sleeve.

  Kurt’s fingers were on my other wrist while he looked at his watch. “You’re going home.”

  “Just let me get some air.”

  “Did you eat today?” Kurt looked at the foamy puddle on the steps below us.

  Food.

  Another bout of retching overwhelmed me. I managed to mumble, “Not really.”

  “Drink?”

  “Water.”

  My phone rang in my pocket. I dragged it out and saw Mitch’s icon. Mitch smiling from a snow-covered mountain. “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself. Lunch?”

  Food. God. No.

  I moved the phone just in time. A fresh bout of retching erupted. Kurt’s hand covered mine and he took the phone and glanced at the screen. “Hey, Mitch, Kurt Henderson here. Conway is unwell.”

  “How unwell?”

  “Possible stomach flu. I’m taking her home.”

  I knew by the way Kurt said stomach flu that he didn’t believe it for a second.

  “I’m okay,” I said, trying to take the phone back. “I’m okay.”

  He wouldn’t give me the phone. Instead, he spoke to Mitch again, “She’s going home.” Kurt listened. “Really? When was that?” He listened again.

  Dammit.

  He hung up, handed me the phone, which I pushed back into my pocket. Five minutes sailed by before I felt like moving.

  “This is not the first time, Conway. You’ve had a bad week when it comes to losing your breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Home,” Kurt said, taking my arm and helping me to my feet. “Take it easy. We’ll get to the elevator through the next landing door.”

  I shook my arm to dislodge his grip. Didn’t work. “I’m all right,” I said. “This is unnecessary.”

  “You’re not.”

  I missed a step through inattention and stumbled. Kurt grabbed me, then slipped an arm around my waist.

  “Stop,” I said. “Just stop. I can do this.”

  He held his hands up in surrender. “Okay. But one more misstep and I’m calling for an ambulance.” He paused. “This, Conway…” his arm waved at me. “…is not okay. You’re sick. It’s kinda my field. Let me help.”

  Words stumbled over my tongue. “It’ll pass.”

  Respondong to some kind of red flag, Kurt stopped in front of me. I could see the glowing green exit sign beyond his shoulder. So close.

  “Conway, how long have you been sick? Because Mitch said you’ve been off-color for a week or so.” He stopped. “You’ve been sick a few times that I know of.”

  “It’s been three or four days.”

  “That’s all?”

  Nah, Mitch had it. About a week.

  “The exit. Can we go?” I pointed past him.

  “Yeah. I think we better.”

  In the parking garage, I threw him my keys. “You’re driving.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Forty minutes later, Kurt pulled the car into my driveway and waited. The magic gate opened. He drove up the long driveway; as we neared the garage, the magic door opened. I sat in the car for a few minutes. I felt better. I hoped.

  My phone rang.

  Mitch.

  “I’m home, right behind you.”

  Kurt opened my door. I dropped my phone into my jacket pocket.

  “Mitch is here,” I said.

  Kurt nodded. “Does he need to be let in?” He keyed the code into the panel on the garage wall.

  “Really?”

  Idiot!

  “Sarcasm?”

  “Stupid question?”

  “You’re mean when you’re sick, Conway.”

  Whatever.

  I heard the buttons beep as I walked through the door and into the short hallway that leads to the main hallway. The whole house opened off the main hall.

  Tires crunched on the gravel by the front door. I didn’t wait. Instead, I hurried upstairs to my room and into the bathroom.

  Cleaning my teeth started the whole retching process again. There wasn’t any fluid left in my body to vomit up, not even bile. I wiped the foamy toothpaste from my face.

  Voices on the stairs came ever closer. The mirror showed me the color returning to my face.

  “Ellie?” Mitch called.

  “Be right there,” I replied, washing my face with cold water.

  “I got you some ginger ale and more Saltines.”

  Considerate.

  “Thanks.”

  I emerged from the bathroom to find Kurt, Mitch and a tall glass of flat brown liquid waiting. It smelled like the flat ginger ale Dad used to give us when we were sick as kids. Kurt’s bag sat on my bed.

  “You don’t need that,” I said, pointing to it.

  “Not even to give you an anti-nausea shot?”

  “I’m okay. I’m sure the ginger ale will help. Don’t need a shot.”

  Kurt’s lips twitched in the corner, a smile tweaked. “You look better, now. Drink the ginger ale. I’m going to make some calls downstairs.”

  “Okay, we’ll be down soon.”

  “I’ll be back. You …” He pointed at me. “Rest.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Kurt left. Mitch passed me the glass. I took a few sips and hoped it stayed down.

  “How’d you know to bring ginger ale?”

  “Mom. She swears by flat ginger ale. That and lemon ginger tea.”

  “Clever woman.”

  “You should rest. Kurt might know what he’s talking about.” Mitch grinned and indicated the bed. “Lie down.”

  I wanted to but the ginger ale wanted out. Heat rose. Saliva rushed into my mouth. Before I could move toward the bathroom, I’d puked into my hands.

  Lovely.

  Ginger ale ran through my fingers and onto the carpet. A towel appeared. Mitch cleaned my hands and sat me on the edge of the bed. “Maybe that shot would be a good idea.”

  “No.” I watched him mop up the frothy mess from the carpet.

  He put the towel in the laundry basket in the bathroom and came back with a cold, wet face cloth.

  “Here,” he said, wiping my brow and face. “How’s that?”

  “Nice. Thank you. I think I might lie down for a little bit.”

  “Good idea. Maybe try slower sips of ginger ale in a few minutes. I’ll fetch a bucket. Just in case.”

  “Thanks again.”

  Mitch grinned. “Don’t mention it. Be right back.”

  I knew he’d tell Kurt I’d vomited. I also knew I needed to drink but I couldn’t face it.

  I reached over the side of the bed and picked up the phone. Remembering Lee’s number took me a few attempts but I got it right eventually. He answered on the first ring.

  “It’s me. I’m home, sick. There’s something hinky about the case. Can you have another look at the financials of Mallory Stevens? She’s using two aliases. Sharron Stevens and Thelma Gardner. Phoebe supposedly live
d with someone called Thelma. Find out where. Also, get Sandra to set up a meeting with her bank manager for me … tomorrow’s good.”

  “Everything okay?” Lee asked.

  “Sure. See what you can find out.”

  “You were looking into her, yeah?”

  “Yeah, I was. Something doesn’t make sense. Need fresh eyes. You’re it. What’d you do with Rosanne?”

  “Interviewed her. My opinion is she meant to get the scoop on this story. Not liking the secretiveness regarding her son.”

  “And?”

  “Turned her loose. I’d hate to be her and have to face your father after what she did.”

  “That could be punishment enough,” I replied. “Not.”

  “Take it easy, Chicky.”

  Renewed vomiting pre-empted my next call; luckily I still had the washcloth. I cleaned up the mess and threw the cloth at the bathroom door. It was going so well.

  I tried again and got Sam on the phone. I let him know I wouldn’t be going back in and asked him to re-interview Mallory Stevens and find out where she left her car on Thursday night and to keep me informed. He filled me in on Charles Locke senior and told me a manager from O’Hare Security had dropped off an employment file. Locke had been employed as a surveillance technician and also installed some of the equipment on occasion. I asked Sam to get records of work carried out by O’Hare Security on any of our victim’s homes.

  Phone calls made. Work sorted.

  I put the phone back into its cradle and lay down. I don’t know what I expected; maybe that lying down would be an instant cure. Not. Nor was ginger ale.

  Mitch came in with a blue bucket. He placed it next to the bed. Within arm’s reach.

  “Can I get you anything?” he asked, sitting by me.

  “No. Thank you.” I leaned back on the pillows and tried not to think. Mitch entwined his fingers with mine. “Mitch?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m not sick.”

  “Honey, you really are,” he smiled.

  “Nah-uh. I’m not.”

  His eyes sought mine. “Ellie?”

  I swallowed saliva but couldn’t swallow fast enough. I let Mitch’s hand go and grabbed the bucket.

  Bye-bye ginger ale.

  “I’m not sick.”

  “This from the woman who can’t stop throwing up,” Mitch said. “You want to rethink that?”